“You ain’t killed nobody, have you?”
“No, sir.”
The old man tapped his lips with a finger and looked John up and down. “You’ll have to ride in the bed. I don’t want to get my seats wet.”
“Thank you.”
John lay on his back in the bed of the truck and rested his head on his folded arms. He was safe now. The old man was a wild card. No one could expect it or plan for it, just like Molly fighting back. Who knew that she was more afraid of being raped than murdered? If she had acted the way it appeared she was going to act, she would have passively gone to her death. And he probably would have joined her. But her boyfriend Chad—was he a wild card, or was he a fuck-up she should have had under control? He’d probably never know now. What he did know was that he couldn’t make any more mistakes. Good thing they hadn’t taken his shoes. The two one-hundred-dollar bills under the left insole would have to carry him until he could get to his escape packet.
Robertson, looking gray and old, sat at a card table in the back room of Wanda’s Whiskey Drop. Cases of beer were stacked against one wall. By the back door, a janitor’s mop and bucket leaned up against the side of the electrical box. Spanish Mike sat across from Robertson, two fingers of whiskey in the glass in front of him.
Frankie, the guy who shot Molly, stood facing them.
“So that’s your story?”
“Spanish, I’m telling you. I don’t know how it happened. But he went into the water with his hands cuffed behind his back. We searched all over. He’s got to be dead.”
“I see a body; I’ll believe he’s dead. Get on it.”
Frankie opened his mouth to object, thought better of it, and left.
Spanish Mike looked at Robertson. “You can go home now. Your problem is cleaned up. The guy who went in the river?”
Robertson nodded.
“He’s a professional grifter. So there had to be more to it than that little money run they tried to pull on you. He had to be working a play. And if he was working a play on you, that means he was working a play on me.” Spanish Mike shook his head slowly. “I thought you were a careful guy.”
“I am careful, Spanish. I never met this guy. I only ever saw the girl, and she didn’t know anything. I promise—”
Spanish Mike pointed at Robertson’s chest. “I’m not interested in your promises. You got to own your mistake.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then. I’m giving you a pass this time. Nobody gets more than one pass. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“Get out of here. Give my regards to the missus.”
Roberson’s chair scraped the floor as he got to his feet. He put his hands into his pockets so that Spanish Mike wouldn’t be able to see that they were trembling. What had he done? He’d let his dick get the best of him. He thought no one knew about his relationship with Spanish Mike, but that was obviously wrong if a con man had been after him. He was going to have to lower his profile, stay away from nightclubs and waitresses—at least for the time being. Molly had done this to him—gotten him in trouble with Spanish, put his livelihood at risk—but somehow he still felt sorry for her. He hoped she hadn’t suffered. He pushed through the back door and crunched across the gravel parking lot to his car. The darkness seemed like horror-movie darkness, full of terrible possibilities. He wondered if he would ever feel safe again.
John stood at the Plexiglas-protected counter of the Sunrise Motel, his clothes muddy and torn, his face scratched, his wrist bandaged. Behind him, two worn-out prostitutes were in negotiations with a tight-fisted truck driver. The big black guy behind the counter eyed him over his gold-framed reading glasses. “Only paying customers here.”
John pushed a wet one-hundred-dollar bill through the slot in the Plexiglas. “Need a room.” He glanced over his shoulder at the prostitutes. “A quiet room as far from the playground as possible.”
The receptionist nodded. “Sure you don’t need any refreshment?”
“Already had enough.”
“I’m putting you down at the end, away from the ice machine.” He pushed the key through the slot. “Checkout is eleven a.m.” He counted out two twenties, folded them in half, and slid them through the slot. John picked up his change and the key. The receptionist pointed to the right. John pushed through the smudged glass door out into the parking lot. Two longhaired white guys were selling drugs out of a blue Ford Focus. Another prostitute—white knee-high boots and a skirt not really long enough to hide anything—was leaning into the driver’s door of a silver Camry that didn’t belong in this neighborhood.
John adjusted his expectations downward with every step he took until he was in his room. Faded drapes smelling heavily of cigarette smoke; a bed with a deep depression in the middle; a stained blanket; towels worn almost a thin as the sheets. He picked up the phone, pressed for an outside line, and called a number he had memorized.
“Terry? I need something in the hundred-dollar range for the complete kit.”
“Okey-dokey. Where you at?”
“Sunrise Motel. Room 98.”
“You’re kidding, right? It’s a joke.”
“I’m waiting on you. And hurry up. I want to get some sleep before morning.”
John sat down on the chair by the door and waited. About thirty minutes later there was a knock. “Yeah?”
“It’s me.”
John opened the door. A skinny white guy with a missing tooth and bad skin, the pupils of his eyes as big as saucers, was standing in the doorway. “Terry. Great to see you.”
John shut the door behind him. Terry went over to the bed and shook a Smith & Wesson revolver out of a wrinkled paper sack. John looked at it hard. “Is it clean?”
“Oh, yeah. Can’t claim it’s never killed anyone, but it’s been wiped, and the numbers have been filed off.”
“Looks like a piece of shit.”
“It is a piece of shit.” He took a baggie of loose ammunition out of his pocket and tossed it down next to the gun.
“I think I’m being taken advantage of.”
“It’s the middle of the fucking night. If you can wait or you can pay more, it gets better. Afraid it won’t shoot? Let’s go back in the alley, and you can pop one off.” Terry took two throwaway latex gloves out of his pocket and handed them to John. “That’s everything.”
John handed him a hundred-dollar bill. “Sorry to be so grouchy. It’s been a tough day.”
“Looks like it.”
“Thanks for taking the time.”
“You bet. You need anything else, you know where to call.”
John locked the door, put on the latex gloves, and loaded the .38. Then he took off the gloves, taking care not to tear them, and used them to handle the gun. He went into the bathroom, laid the gun on the toilet tank, and took a shower. After he toweled off, he looked in the mirror. His chest and back were dotted with bruises and scratches. He was lucky he hadn’t lost an eye. He hung his damp clothes over the shower curtain rod, wrapped the extra towel around his waist, and took the .38 back to the bed. He lay down on the bed with the gun laying on the other pillow, hoped there were no bedbugs, and tried to sleep. Spanish Mike’s people would be after him as soon as they figured out he wasn’t dead. He was a loose end, and from what he’d heard, Spanish Mike didn’t like loose ends.
5
Running
The next morning, Friday, John rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up. Seven-thirty a.m. His lower back ached, his left shoulder was sore, and he had a throbbing pain behind his left eye. He glanced at the .38 still sitting on the pillow. It all flooded back. Spanish Mike’s people would be looking for his body. When they got tired of looking—if they hadn’t already given up—they’d start looking for him. It was time to change things up. He’d been one step behind all day yesterday. Today he intended to get way out ahead and stay there. He got dressed in his dirty clothes and drank a glass of water before he
walked across the deserted parking lot to the motel office. The only evidence of the previous evening was the party trash drifting across the pavement and the empty liquor bottles lying against the curb. A new man sat behind the counter in the office, a goateed Latino who could have played linebacker before he went to fat.
“Hey,” John said. “I’m down in room 98.”
The receptionist turned from the computer, but he didn’t stand up.
“Can I get a razor and some shaving cream?”
“Five dollars.”
John took the money out of his pocket. The receptionist stood up, reached under the counter, and produced a disposable razor and a sample-size shaving cream. Then he sat back down and turned back to the computer screen.
“Thanks,” John said.
John went back to his room, pulled his shirt off, and looked in the bathroom mirror. The bruises looked worse than they had last night. His rubbed his beard. It wasn’t long, but it was thick. He splashed water onto it, rubbed in the shaving cream, and made the first pass over his face with the razor, rinsing the hair out of the razor after every inch or so. Then he rinsed his face and lathered up again. This time it was more like normal shaving, and even though the blade was dull, he only nicked himself twice. If Spanish Mike’s men were looking for a bearded guy, they weren’t going to find him.
He put his shirt back on and put the gun in his pants pocket. Then he called a cab to meet him on the street two blocks away. The morning air felt good. His headache had gone away, and his body began to loosen up as he moved. It turned out that the address he’d given to the cab company was an Asian grocery that wasn’t open yet. He stood there, hunched over in his torn clothes, his hands in his pockets until the cab arrived. The cab driver, an elderly black man, lowered his window. “How I know you can pay for the ride?” he asked.
John held up a twenty-dollar bill.
“Get in,” the cabbie said.
The cab dropped him at the Mail N More, which anchored a discount store strip mall near the downtown. The young man behind the counter, busy taping a box, barely noticed him. He went straight to his rented locker and collected his escape packet: driver’s license, credit cards, $5,000 in cash. Just looking at the manila envelope made him feel more optimistic. This day was shaping up. He left the Mail N More and turned into the strip mall. The Goodwill was just opening up. He bought a new set of clothes: khaki pants, green golf shirt, dark blue jacket. He changed clothes in the bathroom of a MacDonald’s, ate a sausage and egg biscuit, drank a cup of coffee. Now he was a completely different man.
He took another cab to an Enterprise car rental, used his new ID and credit card—he was Bryan Samson now—and left in a white Kia Rio. It was smaller than he liked to drive, but a lot less conspicuous. Time to find out just how bad his situation was. He drove across town to his apartment. A rusty, red Ford Bronco was parked in the lot across from his Cadillac. One of the men from last night sat in the driver’s seat, smoking a cigarette, not even trying to hide.
John drove to another strip mall where he knew there was a Verizon store. He bought a new smart phone. He sat in the Rio in the Verizon parking lot and opened the web browser on the phone. He needed to warn Nicole, but he didn’t know her phone number, and he knew that the phone number for Denison’s beach house was unlisted. He surfed the web for contacts that might be helpful and found a phone number for Samantha Bartel on LinkedIn. She was exactly the kind of person who could find out Denison’s phone number, and she owed him a favor.
Samantha answered her phone on the third ring. “Sam? Joe Campbell. How’s life?”
“Surprised to hear from you.”
“I bet.”
“It’s been a few years.”
“That long?”
“You were lucky to catch me. We’re on our way out.”
“We? Has your life changed for the better?”
“Yeah, well.”
“Good for you. Listen, I won’t keep you. I just called because I need a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“You still a boss over at Leapfrog Technologies?”
“I’m listening.”
“I need to reach Tess. I’ve lost my phone, so I don’t have her number, but I know where she is. That number’s unlisted. Can you call there and give her my number?”
“Find an unlisted number and call Tess? That’s all?”
“Yeah.”
“This is for real?”
“Just give her my number. And tell her to get a new phone. If someone else answers, ask for Nicole.”
“Nicole?”
“Yeah, that’s what she goes by now. Could you get it done today? It’s kind of important.”
“I’ll get it done in the next few hours.”
John gave her the address of Denison’s beach house. “This makes us even.”
“Then I’ll get it done even sooner.”
John slipped his phone into his pants pocket. There was nothing else he could do here. He wanted to see Robertson on his knees; he wanted to hear him beg, but with Spanish Mike’s people after him, revenge was going to have to wait. He couldn’t chance the airport. They would certainly be waiting there. He had a full day of driving ahead of him. He pulled out of the lot and drove for the nearest freeway.
Later that afternoon, at the beach house, Nicole stood at the counter in the kitchen, cutting cauliflower into bite-size pieces and arranging them on a platter with carrots, celery, and a dish of dill dip. The phone rang. She yelled out to the den, “I got it.” She rinsed her hands, dried them on the kitchen towel, and picked up the receiver. “Denisons.”
“Could I speak with Nicole, please?”
“This is she.”
“Nicole? Samantha Bartel.”
“Sam, is that really you? It’s been a long time.” She looked through from the kitchen into the den, where Bell and Denison were watching a baseball game on the TV. “How have you been?”
“I’m well. I was made permanent director of new development just after you left.”
“We heard you had. It’s what you always wanted.”
“It has its challenges, but life is good.”
“Great. What’s up?”
“Joe called. He wanted me to give you his new phone number.”
“He lose his phone?”
“I guess. And he wants you to get a new phone.”
“He didn’t say why?”
“No.”
“That’s for the best.” Nicole found a pad of paper and a pencil in a drawer. “Okay. I’m ready for the number.”
Sam gave her the phone number.
“Got it. Thanks for giving me the message. Keep the new number, just in case.”
Nicole set down the receiver, took out her smartphone and turned it off before she carried the snack tray through to the den. Denison and Bell were side-by-side on the love seat that faced the flat-screen TV. Nicole set the tray down on the bamboo table in front of them.
“Thanks,” Bell said. She reached for a piece of celery.
Denison glanced up at Nicole. “Sit down, honey. The game is just heating up.”
“Baseball’s not my thing,” Nicole said. “I’m going into town. Need anything?”
“Where you going?”
“I’m going to buy a new phone.”
“Right now?”
“The urge just came over me. Want to come along?”
“Looking for something new or just an upgrade?”
“Upgrade.”
“I’d really rather watch the game.” He reached for a baby carrot and dipped it in the dill dip. “Thanks for making the snack. Take the Explorer. The keys are in it.”
Nicole drove down the sandy asphalt of their neighborhood and out onto the palm-tree-lined Lighthouse Boulevard, which followed the shore. Traffic was stop-and-go. The public parking for the beaches was full. Cars were even parked on the shoulder of the road. It seemed like there were festivals, markets, or sporting events every weekend of t
he summer, and this one was no exception. The Toyota RAV4 in front of her pulled over for no apparent reason. She tapped her horn and swerved around it.
How much trouble was John in? He had to be on the run. New phone and new number meant the old phone, and every phone associated with it, was compromised. She had wanted to call John’s new number from the kitchen phone, just to be sure he was all right, but until she knew that the new phone was completely clean, she couldn’t chance putting Denison’s home phone—and Denison—at risk.
The Verizon store was on an access road next to a Burrito Boys across the boulevard from the beach in the new commercial area. There were only two cars parked in front. The greeter didn’t even bother to take her name; he just waved her over to the counter. In thirty minutes, she had a new smartphone with a new number and her address book loaded. Then she drove around to the side of the building, facing out so that she could watch the entry, and called John’s new number.
“John?”
“Hey, honey, how are you?” he asked.
“Better than you, I take it. Reaching out to Sam.”
“She’s far enough in the background to be safe.”
“What happened?”
John told her everything, beginning with the appearance of Molly’s boyfriend.
“Christ, honey, this is what happens when you work with amateurs. You know better.”
“You can’t help rubbing it in, can you? It was a simple little deal. I didn’t think it would be a problem.”
“Evidently. I’ll be out on the next flight.”
“No. I just called to give you the heads up. My name’s Bryan Samson now. I’m already on the road. I’ll let you know my new location when I’m sure I’ve lost them.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Meanwhile, back at the beach house, Denison and Bell were still watching the baseball game. It was in the eighth inning, and it was all too clear that the San Francisco Giants were going to lose. Denison made a face and turned off the TV. “They can’t catch a break this year.”
The Kidnap Victim Page 7