Free The Up-Down by Barry Gifford Page A

about as good as one could get.
    By the time Pace arrived at Marnie’s late Thursday afternoon, he was exhausted both mentally and physically. He had stopped on the way only to sleep, eat and get gas, keeping conversation with anyone, such as the motel clerk, waitress or station attendant to a minimum. As soon as he had parked his Pathfinder on Orleans Street, two houses down from Marnie’s, Pace fell asleep in the driver’s seat and did not wake up until Ms. Kowalski herself knocked on the front passenger side window.
    â€œPace Ripley! Here I am, darlin’, the one you can’t live without.”
    Pace opened his eyes and saw his old friend standing on the sidewalk grinning at him through the glass. The sun had gone down and Marnie’s short blonde hair glowed in the gray-green light of the New Orleans evening. He got out of the car and embraced her.
    â€œIt’s true,” Pace said. “Other than the unlikely event of Sailor and Lula bein’ resurrected, there ain’t nobody on the planet other than you whose company I believe I could tolerate.”
    Marnie laughed and said, “That either don’t speak so highly of the human race or of you, Mr. Ripley, sir. Which is it?”
    â€œI’m tryin’ to decide.”
    Pace picked up the few belongings he’d brought with him and followed Marnie into her house. Milk and Honey barked furiously at the sight of him, so Marnie put them out into the yard.
    â€œWhat about Bigger, or Digger, or whatever his name is?”
    â€œDigger’s on his fifth tour of duty in Afghanistan. I don’t expect him back for another six months. That’s if he makes it back, of course.”
    â€œA lot can happen in six months, Marn.”
    â€œSure as shit,” she said.
    Marnie removed two Abita Ambers from her refrigerator, opened them, and handed one to Pace. They clinked bottles.
    Marnie took a swig, grinned and said, “And I’m hopin’ somethin’ will.”
    Pace swallowed half the contents of his bottle and smiled back.
    â€œDid the thought ever occur to you, fine progeny of Sailor Ripley and Lula Fortune, that everybody’s dodgin’ bullets one way or another whether they know it or not?”
    â€œIt’s a good thing for us then that most folks can’t shoot straight.”
    Marnie sidled up to Pace, kissed him softly on the lips, and said, “Think you could give me a straight shot where I need it the most?”
    â€œRight now?”
    â€œRat now, as my Grandmama Elsie Buell in Nacogdoches used to say, bless her heart. I do believe history is still made at night.”
    As Pace followed Marnie up the stairs to her bedroom, he recalled his daddy telling him that once when he was in high school following a girl up a flight of stairs like this Sailor reached up, put a hand between her legs and the girl turned and said, “Oh, what a bad boy you are.”
    Pace put his right hand between Marnie’s legs and without stopping she cooed, “I never could get enough of you bad boys.”
    In her bedroom Marnie pulled down the shade over the window facing Orleans Street, then threw her arms around Pace’s neck.
    â€œTell me, darlin’,” Marnie said, “don’t it feel like home?”

 
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    It was two o’clock in the morning and Pace was lying in Marnie’s bed listening to Etta Jones sing “Don’t Go to Strangers” on the radio. “When you need more than company,” she suggested, “don’t go to strangers, come on to me.” Pace had always loved this song and Etta’s tangy delivery, the way she let it curl gently into the night air. He also dug Skeeter Best’s dignified guitar solo, not subtle but unobtrusive, just right, which was the way Pace felt this very moment. It was the first time he’d been able to relax since the insane series of events occasioned by his dealings with the Pasternak