Randall realized a phone call wasn't going to do the trick. This hustle was going to require Stacy, and unfortunately Stacy would require a visit. This was going to be easy.
As he pulled up the shell driveway, he eyed Stacy's ramshackle, rambling house. It one long series of additions, and far enough from the coast to survive the storm despite it's rundown appearence. Like Stacy's life itself, its add-ons sprawled across the property in fits and starts, that meandered everywhere but at the same time nowhere at all. From the outside it looked a do-it-yourselfer mess, but the inside was a different story.
She had learned to not show her ill-gotted gains ostentatiously from Randall, her beat up pick up truck parked on the grass with it's lifetime of miles was testament to that, and so too was the house. However, just because she didn't show them didn't mean she didn't have them. The first room to the house, a kind of trailer park family room that was the white trash mess of shag carpeting it should be was for prying eyes. The dogs barking like mad that rushed the chain linked fence around the back of the house took care of the other windows.
Most people hide their mess in the back of the house and greet their guests in a formal room that represents a way of living nobody lives. Stacy's did the opposite. One door led to the rest of the house and it was always closed. But opening it led to a tacky luxury of lottery winner from West Virginia. Only a few people saw past that first room. And those did were suprised by marble floors, Italian statues of woodland nymphs cavorting in the nude, a center fountain, and woven tapestries everywhere. It was Stacy's best guess of what a rich person's house should look like.
Stacy was the inverse of house in one way as all her upgrades were on the outside. And only in the inside were the vestiges of the white-trash cocktail waitress Randall had picked up all those years ago. But her outside was malleable and like the calculated messiness of her greeting room, she give her face and posture the polish of society dame or take on the baring of a butch lesbian. Randall always thought if he needed her to play a man she could pull it off even if she had to piss on a fence with their targets. Her body was her palette and her looks were always a perfect representation of who she was playing.
When she opened the screen-door, the recogntion of Randall was instant, her icy blue-gray eyes burned into him. Today, she looked like a hot housewife. A really hot housewife.
"I didn't expect to..." she started. Then she stiffened, "No, no, no."
"You haven't heard me yet," Randall said. "You don't know."
"I do know. Just like I knew in Reno. Just like I knew in Tunica. Just like I knew the last time in Pensacola, I know." Randall couldn't help but notice Stacy's ample chest as she shouted at him, she had gone up a size, she was pushing not be able to pull off classy. His eyes lingered as his mind forgot the hustle for a second. He always liked a fiery girl. He always liked Stacy. He liked Stacy a lot.
She was still protesting, "I don't do this anymore... What are you looking.... Get your fuckin' eyes up! You gave up your looking privileges a long time ago, Randall."
Randall nodded like a sheepish school boy then couldn't help himself and muttered "You don't wear that shirt if you don't want 'em looked at."
"Randall get the fuck out of here."
He smiled, it always used to melt her. It didn't.
"Alright, I'm not looking.... but, yes, you can do this."
"No I was serious when I told you the last time we were done," she spitted it out.
"We ARE done everything. Done working. Done everything. I can't this time or any time"
"You always can," Randall said, "It's what you do. And you are the best," a little flattery, she always likes flattery. But it was true. She was the best.
"No. I got... I got my son."
"Oh," Randall frowned for a second, "Call his dad."
"No. Not call his dad. Get the fuck out here." She pushed on the screen door and leaned into him.
Randall held up one finger, "You won't be saying that in 3o seconds. Call his dad."
She tilted her head exasperated, "His dad's dead. My son lives here now."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that," Randall lowered his head, "Well.... call his babysitter."
"Jack is 15."
"How old?" She couldn't possibly have a 15 year old. Were they that old?
"He's 15. He doesn't need a babysitter."
"Good." Randall smiled, "Let's get going we've got a lot to talk about."
"We do have a lot to talk about. . . but I have a feeling that's not what you want to discuss. Look, I can't do this anymore. I have to be here. I swore I'd never let you in my life again and now I don't even have to think about it. My first obligation is to Jack. Randall please leave."
"This one's different..." Randall kept her from closing the screen door.
"There's not a thing you can say Randall. The answer is... No!"
"It's LuAnne Dubois."
"..."
"I know..."
"But you'd need a..."
"Lazy Eddie been at the Belle for six months..."
"He's dying..." Then it hit her. "You motherfucker! Of course. Of fucking course."
"So... let's go."
"LuAnne Dubois?"
"Yeah."
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