by John Hart
X tried to conceal his emotions, but the old prisoner knew better. A smile split his face as he said, “There’s one other thing,” then drew back a chair, and sat as if he owned the place. “There was a girl in the car, a brunette…”
* * *
When Willamette was finished and gone, X paced the empty hall, debating the pros and cons of the bargain he’d made. He didn’t care about the brunette in the car, or the girlish inmate on cellblock C—let Willamette have his fun. But some time ago X had given Jason certain assurances—promises, actually—and while most people mattered little to X, Jason was not most people. That made the debate more like a war of attrition.
A full hour, pacing.
One more staring at a stain on the ceiling.
In the end, though, X knew exactly what he’d known at the moment of Willamette’s proposal: there could be no real debate.
“Guard!” He raised his voice, suddenly impatient. “I want Reece, and I want him here now.”
* * *
Reece lived on the other side of Charlotte. His arrival took time. When it finally happened, the same guard led him down the corridor. “Your appellate lawyer is here.”
X had no appellate lawyer—he’d never leave prison alive—but he did enjoy the small fictions. “Wait upstairs.”
The guard turned and left. Behind him, Reece appeared as he always had: narrow-shouldered and thin, with a wisp of beard on a face that could be forty-five or sixty-five. Deep lines cut the corners of his mouth, and his skin had a chalky cast that X associated with a great-grandfather he’d known as a boy. That’s where any impression of agedness ended. Reece was as vicious and quick as any predator X could imagine. Over seventeen years, he’d earned enough money from X to buy mansions and fund a dozen retirements. There was no affection between them, but X knew what Reece could do, the things he liked to do. Of every fixer X had on the outside, Reece was the one he trusted most. Even so, X could not hide his frustration. “It’s not like you to be late.”
“I was out when the call came in. I left as soon as I got the message.”
“What time is it now?”
“Three a.m. I’m sorry. I truly would have been here sooner.”
“It’s fine. I’ve been impatient.” X accepted the excuse, nodding. “Any problems out there that I should know about?”
“Smooth as glass.” Reece slid his palm across an imaginary pane. He meant payoffs, threats, the parolee whose car they’d burned as a reminder to keep his mouth shut. “What do you need from me now?”
X told Reece what he’d learned from Willamette: the prison bus, the car, the people in the car.
“You’re sure it was Jason French?”
“Willamette was convincing.”
“You want me to find him?”
“Finding Jason is only the start.” X explained what else he wanted. He offered specifics, and Reece took a few moments to play it out in his mind. “Why does Willamette care about this girl?”
“Why does anyone care?”
“She’s brunette?”
“Young. Attractive.”
“I’m glad you called me for this.”
“I thought of no one but you.” That was true. Reece had certain desires that made him predictable. Supporting those desires made him dependable in a way that money alone never could.
“How soon?” Reece asked.
“As soon as possible.”
Reece removed a pen and pad, all business. “Can you confirm the plate number for me?”
X gave him the number again. “Sixty-six Mustang, maroon with whitewall tires and minor rust on two fenders.”
Reece jotted down the license number. “Give me her full description.”
X described the brunette as Willamette had. Facial features. Skin tone. Height and build. “He puts her age at twenty-seven.”
“What about the blonde?”
“Just the brunette.”
Reece looked at his watch, and frowned. “The sun will be up in a few hours. Give me a couple days.”
“Today,” X said. “Today would be better.”
* * *
Reece found the car easily enough—with X’s resources at his disposal, there was never a question—but it didn’t belong to the girl. The kid who owned it was a good-looking kid, but that was no surprise, either. He looked like Jason French. Following him from one place to another made Reece sick to his stomach: the hair and the suntan, the strong arm, hooked in the open window. Reece had no illusions about his hatred of people like Jason and his little brother. The world came to people like that, and Reece had to take what he wanted. In high school, he’d heard every insult.
Hey, little man …
Hey, pencil-dick …
The pencil-dick thing had been tough.
Gym class, communal showers …
One girl, in particular, had teased Reece mercilessly. Jessica Bruce. She’d been his first.
The memory was fond enough to stir a host of others.
Jessica …
Allison …
That Asian girl at McDonald’s …
The cashier who’d rolled her eyes when Reece asked for her number …
It helped time pass, but the boy didn’t make Reece’s job any easier. He went to school, hung out with some other kid. He bought candy, played pinball, did normal stuff that did not involve a five-foot-three, pale-breasted brunette, aged approximately twenty-seven. A moment’s interest rose around dusk when the kid drove into the city, and parked where expensive condos met an immaculate street. Reece watched him approach a door, hesitate, and then leave before ringing the bell. The moment felt significant, but Reece wasn’t convinced until he followed the kid home, then returned alone. Nothing about the condo said teenage kid. Too much money. Too much style. Curtains were drawn inside, but Reece waited as people came home from work, and streetlights snapped on. For three hours, he watched the cars, the foot traffic, the condominium.
He smoked a cigarette.
He was used to waiting.
At midnight, a van rolled up, and a tall, broad-shouldered hippie got out on the other side, flipping long hair as he walked to the passenger door. Reece wanted to hurt him on principle, but what mattered was the girl who spilled out when the hippie opened her door. She stumbled, laughing. The hippie caught her, and held her against the van, kissing her with one hand on a breast and the other up her skirt. She pushed him away, but didn’t mean it. He kissed her again, and groped her again, then half-carried her up the steps, where they fumbled with keys and each other, but managed the door, and went inside. Reece frowned, but was happy.
The girl was five-three, brunette, and every bit of twenty-seven years.
She was also very pretty.
That was a bonus.
9
Tyra slept late, woke to the sound of rain, and used both hands to hold her skull together. Curtains made a gray square in the dimness, and she imagined cool, wet rain, the patter of it on her face. It didn’t help. Curling into a ball, Tyra tried to stitch together the pieces of her night. She’d argued with Sara—nothing new—then stormed out, angry. That was early. Then what? Happy hour at the Tiki Lounge? That seemed right. Then pizza at Shakey’s, down the block, and ladies’ night at some club downtown. She remembered an empty dance floor, a seriously hot bartender, and some old guy making a play from the stool beside her. She had visions of cab rides and other dance floors and other bars. Eventually, she remembered the dude.
“Oh shit, the dude…”
That’s what she’d called him. He had a name, but it was something vanilla like Alex or Winston or Brad. He’d introduced himself with a name and a drink, and she’d said, Thanks, dude. He’d been tall—she remembered that—a tall guy with Jesus hair, a silk shirt, and something like a bearskin rug on his chest. After four tequila shots, Tyra had run fingers through that rug, and said, Dude … Later, there’d been dancing and kissing, a blur of streetlights from a van with shag carpet on the dash. It was a dude’s
van. She remembered saying it. Dude, this is a dude’s van. She’d said the same word when he pumped up Jimi Hendrix, and when he lit a joint, and when he ran off the road trying to make the turn for Dairy Queen. It seemed the word had been her language last night. She’d laughed it, and said it soft, and panted it twice when he went downtown, her fingers curled in all that hair. Dude, dude …
But the dude was gone, and Tyra wasn’t sad about it. Out of bed, she drew the curtain and looked out at gray rain, a gray sky. She already wanted a drink.
No, she decided. Not today.
Pulling clothes from a pile on the floor, Tyra crept from the room. Her favorite diner was only two blocks down, but it felt like miles. Even after coffee, eggs, and cheese grits, she still felt less than human. But the rain had dwindled. The sun was trying.
She still couldn’t handle Sara.
A movie made better sense. That was another six blocks, but she made it in time for the early show, stopping at the posters to consider the choices.
THE GODFATHER
DELIVERANCE
She went for the second because Burt Reynolds looked good. When it was over, she bought candy and a Coke, and watched the other movie, too. It was cool inside. It was dark. Even so, it took two drinks at a local bistro before she was ready to try again with Sara. She was being so unfair! Tyra was trying to make her life a better thing.
Almost no drugs …
Less drinking, kind of …
She’d even considered calling the cops about the parked cars she’d hit. How many was it? Five? Six? Hell, she could have hit fifty. She could have killed someone.
Shit …
She dropped money on the bar.
Sara was right to be angry.
Telling herself that she was ready at last, Tyra aimed for the condo, but ended up walking four or five times around her own block, unready to go inside. It was dusk when she finally stopped and looked up at the light in Sara’s window. The shade was drawn, but she was there.
“Okay,” she said. “One more try.”
She kept her nerve all the way to Sara’s door. “Sara? Sweetheart? I know you’re in there.”
“Go away, Tyra.”
She knocked harder for a full minute. Eventually, she beat on the door. “For God’s sake, Sara, I’m trying to apologize. Open the door. Come on…” She stopped pounding, and spread her fingers on the wood. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
Not everyone would understand her need, but Sara was the gauge by which Tyra measured all the ways she’d screwed up in life: the bad boyfriends, the failed jobs. A silent treatment like this had only happened once before, when Tyra went beyond doing drugs, and tried to make a living selling them. She remembered the arguments, the screaming.
Your parents are rich. Ask them for the money!
But how could Tyra explain the debts? The kinds of people she owed? Her father owned his own business; he was a deacon of the church. Bad enough she’d dropped out of college …
“Do I need to beg, Sara? Is that what you want? I’ll beg. I swear I will.”
“You wouldn’t beg me if your life depended on it. You’re too proud and stubborn and spoiled.”
Tyra covered her mouth, choking down an unexpected sob as the dead bolt turned, and a crack appeared with Sara’s face behind it.
“You could have killed someone, you know.”
“I do know that, sweetheart. I promise I do.”
Sara opened the door all the way. She wore pajamas, an old robe. “Are you sober now?”
“Of course I am. I mean, two glasses of wine…” Tyra held her thumb and finger an inch apart. She wanted a smile, a hint of a smile. A smile meant forgiveness. Forgiveness meant she wouldn’t lose her only friend.
“I’ve seen you do some stupid shit, Tyra…”
“I know you have.”
“That biker last year. Kiting those checks. The heroin…”
“All in the past. I swear.” Tyra held up a hand and crossed her heart. Sara softened, but looked tired. That was on Tyra, too. “I’m a bad roommate, I know. I spend too much. I party. I keep you up.”
“You’re not bad,” Sara said. “It’s just that you have horrible judgment, no limits, and no consideration for others.”
“Let me make it up to you.”
“How?”
“Doughnuts. Krispy Kreme.”
“Well, if it’s Krispy Kreme…”
The smile appeared at last, and Tyra clapped with joy. “Yes! It’s a plan! We can stay up late, watch TV, whatever you want.”
“No drinking, though.”
“Cross my heart.” Tyra made another X on her chest. “Twenty minutes, yeah? I need to shower. I’m gross.”
“I’ll make tea.”
Tyra skipped to her room, and thought she might cry a little. She showered, then pulled on the flared jeans, the T-shirt with no bra. In the kitchen, Sara gave her a hug, and made it a good, tight one. “You know I love you. You just make bad choices.”
“Not after today. Hand to God. A new start.” A tear slipped out; Tyra didn’t fight it. “I’ll be right back with doughnuts.”
“Bring a dozen,” Sara said.
“A dozen. Check.”
“And get some for yourself.”
Sara blew a kiss, and Tyra left with the lightest step she’d had in days. In the night air, she actually laughed. “Get some for yourself…”
Fumbling with the keys, Tyra made it to the driveway. The Mercedes was too wrecked to be an option, so she slid behind the wheel of Sara’s Beetle, a little Volkswagen with pale cream paint and red, vinyl seats. Tyra locked the door and started the car, then saw the joint when she turned on the lights. It was only half a joint, maybe a third, the end of it blackened where Sara had crushed it against the bottom of the ashtray sometime days or weeks before. Tyra peered guiltily through the glass.
Only the doughnuts …
That lasted to the store and halfway back. The break came at a red light where pavement made a cross on the face of the city. It would be nice, she thought.
Get high …
Eat some doughnuts …
The light turned green, but there was no traffic, so Tyra kept her foot on the clutch, thinking about it.
It’s just a joint, right, not even a whole one …
The light turned again before she lit it.
“Ah … shit, yes.”
Smoke rolled out, and her head went back. She took another toke and drove with the windows down, finishing the joint in six blocks, then stopping at a gas station for chewing gum and eye drops. The cashier rang her up but did it slowly, his eyes on her face, her chest. “Anything else?”
“Camel Straights.”
“That’s it?”
Tyra paid the man, then made a peace sign, and pushed the door with her ass, liking how he watched, liking the buzz. From there, the drive was groovy. She didn’t care about Jason French—the fucker—her job, or her parents. Traffic thickened, but the music was good, and warm air brushed her face. By the time she reached the neighborhood, she was tapping the wheel and singing with the radio. On the final block, she slowed, too high and happy to notice the parked car or the men inside it. In the driveway, she got out of the Volkswagen, already practicing.
Am I high? Of course I’m not high …
Come on, Sara. Don’t be silly …
“Excuse me, miss?” A man’s voice broke Tyra’s concentration. He stood to the side of the driveway, looking apologetic in khakis, a button-down, and a bow tie. He said, “I’m sorry to bother you.” And Tyra thought: Sweet old man, somebody’s husband.
“Yes?”
He stepped onto the driveway. “Would you be good enough to look at a photograph for me?”
“I don’t understand.”
“It will take but a moment.”
The situation was strange, but the weed had been pretty strong. She thought, Okay, whatever … The photograph he showed her was small, but the streetlamp was close and bright enoug
h.
“That’s Jason French.” Her mouth hardened into lines of sudden suspicion. “Did he send you? You can tell that son of a bitch he had his chance. Tell him he’s an asshole and he can go fuck himself. You can tell him that from me.”
“And you are…?”
“Tyra. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
The small man nodded once, ignoring the anger, pocketing the photo. “Earlier, I saw a blond woman enter your condominium. Is she your roommate?”
Tyra squinted, confused by the questions and the fuzz in her head. “I don’t understand. What…?”
“Five-seven. Slender.”
Tyra started to nod, but something was off with the old man and his moment, and not because of the pot. His eyes didn’t match the clothing—they were too knowing—and he wasn’t that old, either, just seamed at the eyes, the corners of his mouth. “I’m going inside, now. My friend is waiting.”
“Sara, yes. She’s lovely. Really, truly … lovely.”
“How do you know her name?”
He shrugged, and Tyra stepped back, suddenly afraid. “Don’t come near me.”
“I won’t take a step.”
“Mister, I will scream.”
Showing small teeth, the man gestured with his right hand. “If you will look behind you.”
Tyra turned, and saw a second man, a giant with a wide face and shaggy hair. Behind him, the street was empty, and he knew it, too. The grin. The bright eyes. She thought, Mistake, misunderstanding.
The smaller man nodded as if sympathetic. “It’s best if you don’t fight.”
Tyra glanced at Sara’s window, so close. She wanted to run, but her feet were heavy. Like a dream, she thought; but the night was no dream. The big man said, “Hey, lady,” then hit her so fast and hard she went down on the concrete, a pain in her head as if something inside had broken. She tried to crawl, but hands caught her, and lifted her, and pushed her into the back seat of Sara’s car, down onto the floorboards. Even then, she could see the same window. It was Sara’s bedroom, the pretty one with pink walls and views into the park across the street. She stretched out a hand as someone outside said, “Follow me. Keep it slow. And here, you’ll need this.”