Serial Uncut - J. A. Konrath [24]
Taylor wiped some gravy off his mouth with a paper napkin. “So that’s where we stand? Whipping out our dicks and seeing whose is bigger?”
“I’ve been at this a very long time.” Donaldson belched again. “Probably since before you were born. I’ve read a lot about others like us; I love those true crime audiobooks. They help pass the time on long trips. I collect regular books, too. Movies. Newspaper articles. If you’ve done the same research I have, then you know none of our American peers can prove more than forty-eight. That’s the key. Prove. Some boast high numbers, but there isn’t proof to back it up.”
“So are you asking me how many I’ve done, or how many I can prove?”
“Both.”
Taylor shrugged. “I lost count after forty-eight. Once I had one in every state, it became less about quantity and more about quality.”
“You’re lying,” Donaldson said. “You’re too young for that many.”
“One in every state in the lower forty-eight, old man.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I kept driver’s licenses, those that had them. Probably don’t have more than twenty, though. Not many whores carry ID.”
“No pictures? Trophies? Souvenirs?”
Taylor wasn’t going to share something that personal with a stranger. He pretended to sneer. “Taking a trophy is like asking to get caught. I don’t plan on getting caught.”
“True. But it is nice to relive the moment. Traveling is lonely, and memories unfortunately fade. If it wasn’t so dangerous, I’d love to videotape a few.”
That would be nice, Taylor thought, finishing the last bit of meatloaf. But my trophy box will have to suffice.
“So how many are you up to, Grandpa?”
“A hundred twenty-seven.”
Taylor snorted. “Bullshit.”
“I agree with you about the danger of keeping souvenirs, but I have Polaroids from a lot of my early ones.”
“Dangerous to carry those around with you.”
“I’ve got them well hidden.” Donaldson stared at him, his eyes twinkling. “Would you be interested in seeing them?”
“What do you mean? One of those I’ll show you mine if you show me yours deals?”
“No. Well, not exactly. I’m not interested in seeing your driver’s license collection. But I would be interested in paying a little visit to your current guest.”
Taylor frowned. “I’m not big on sharing. Or sloppy seconds.”
Donaldson slowly spread out his hands. “I understand. It’s just that… you know how it is, when you get all worked up, and then they quit on you.”
Taylor nodded. Having a victim die too soon felt like having something precious stolen from him.
“You don’t seem like the shy type,” Donaldson continued. “I thought, perhaps, you wouldn’t mind doing your thing when someone else was there to watch.”
Taylor smiled. “Aren’t you the dirty old man.”
Donaldson smiled back. “A dirty old man who doesn’t have the same distaste of sloppy seconds as you apparently have. I see no problem in going second. As long as there’s something left for me to enjoy myself with.”
“I leave all the major parts intact.”
“Then perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
“Perhaps we can.”
Donaldson’s smile suddenly slipped off his face. He’d noticed the same thing Taylor had.
A cop had walked into the restaurant.
Woman, forties, well built, a gold star clipped to her hip. But even without the badge, she had that swagger, had that look, that Taylor had spent a lifetime learning to spot.
“Here comes trouble,” Donaldson said.
And, as luck would have it, trouble sat down right next to them.
4
After filling my gas tank and emptying my bladder, I went in search of food.
The diner was surprisingly full this late at night. Truckers mostly. And though I hadn’t worked Vice in well over a decade, I was pretty sure the only women in the place were earning their living illegally.
Not that I judged, or even cared. One of the reasons I switched from Vice to Homicide was because I had no problems with what consenting adults did to themselves or each other. I’d done a few drugs in my day, and as a woman I felt I should be able to do whatever I wanted with my body. So the scene in the diner was nothing more to me than local color. I just wanted some