“Did Bigfoot say who they were meeting?”
“Why are we still talking about this?”
“Damn it, because I say so! Or would you rather get out and walk home?”
Smiling coyly, Marin opened her door.
“Wait,” said Nick, resigned.
Marin shut her door. “Say you’re sorry.”
Nick waited until she turned toward him before reaching out to grab her cheeks between the thumb and fingers of his right hand. He squeezed, bringing his face inches away from hers.
“Say you’re sorry.”
“You’re hurting me! Alright, I’m sorry.”
Nick squeezed once more for good measure and pushed her face away. “What was the man’s name? The one in the diner they were going to see.”
“It was Dale somebody-or-other,” she said. Her eyes smoldered, but it was from lust, not anger. She liked it when he took charge, and Nick knew it.
“Admit it,” he said. “That turned you on.”
Marin bit her lower lip. “Are you going to take me out or aren’t you?”
“We’ll go out, just let me talk to this guy. Five minutes, I promise.”
Johnson’s ridiculous camper van was gone when they made it back around the block. In its place was a white panel van that Nick didn’t recognize, although he could see that one of its sides was freshly crumpled as if it had been in a recent collision.
Relieved that he wouldn’t have to find somewhere out of sight to hide and wait for the big detective and the others to leave, Nick parked directly across the street and killed the engine.
“Wait here,” he said.
Marin’s eyes were glued to her phone. “Don’t take all night. Stefan just posted that he and Greg are making appletinis. Anybody who’s anybody is already there. I’ll just die if I have to sit here any longer.”
XXXII: THE RINGER
Johnson waited until he heard the door to the spare bedroom close before opening his eyes. He swiveled silently back up into a sitting position and poured himself another drink. His third, the one he did his best thinking on.
He hadn’t been entirely truthful with his new “friends.” As lies went, telling them he’d been hired by Reagan’s parents wasn’t such a big deal, and the fact it had backfired made him feel more or less absolved. He would have thought that telling Reagan the truth—that he was digging up full-custody dirt for Garrett Lindsay’s ex-wife—would have been worse. Obviously, he’d guessed wrong. In any event, it was too late to tell the truth now.
He disliked alimony cases, but he also disliked not eating, and sometimes you just had to bite the bullet. Or the rifle stock, as the case might be. He’d stumbled upon Nick’s blackmail plans while trying to unravel the convoluted threads of Garrett’s life with Marin. He’d only pursued it because his curiosity had gotten the better of him. He’d should have known not to. He’d done it in the Corps, and he was doing it again here, putting his life on the line for somebody else’s problems. He could write off the putz, Garrett, without losing sleep, but he’d feel bad if anything happened to the woman, Reagan.
And besides, there was no guarantee that the man with the glasses—Harlan Lang—didn’t consider Johnson’s own not-inconsiderable person among the loose ends he had been brought in to make go away. A death sentence hanging over his head made for considerable incentive.
He didn’t have a plan. Planning seldom got you where you needed to go because the one universal constant about plans was that, inevitably, they changed. Adapting to change required improvisation—taking a simple idea and running with it—and the key to great improvisation was a good tool kit.
But sometimes stirring the pot was the best way to find what idea to run with in the first place.
Information was one of the tools in his toolkit, and it was why he’d taken the calculated risk of going to see Two Trees instead of coming straight home. Now they knew where the man with the glasses lived. They could stay away from there at least, but they still didn’t know for sure that Lang was working for Cafferty Wade at all. It only felt right in Johnson’s gut. Just like it felt right that there was something more going on between Wade and Michelle Lyon. The Carpet Czar had a thing for her; you could see it in the way he stood, and Johnson could swear it was even visible in his eyes behind the binoculars, although that was impossible.
A man with a reputation to protect was dangerous, but a man in love was a wild animal.
Johnson figured it was safe to assume Wade didn’t want Lyon to know how he felt about her. Whether it was his motivation for killing the screenwriter, Silverman, and trying to silence anybody else who’d seen the photos, Johnson couldn’t say. But he liked the idea of getting Wade and Lyon together in the same room, he just had no idea how he might go about making it happen. Having to explain things to the object of his affection might derail Wade long enough to buy them some time, and time was another tool, perhaps the most coveted one of all.
Because, with time, new opportunities had a way of presenting themselves.
As if the universe were reading his mind, the upstairs door opened.
“I don’t have her cell number,” said Garrett from the landing above, “but I just remembered that she has mine.”
Johnson was annoyed. “Your number? Congratulations, now all we have to do is wait for her to call us, which she will do never.”
“No, she has my cell phone.”
“Most people just give somebody their number, but no, not you. You had to give her the whole phone.”
“I left it behind as a ringer when I took Bill Silverman’s.”
“A ringer? The phone? Tell me you didn’t just say that.”
There was an embarrassed pause, then, “Do you have a piece of paper?”
Johnson gestured with his glass toward the kitchen. “Counter,” he said.
Garrett went and found a to-do pad and a pen and came back. He wrote his cell number down and then tore off the top sheet and handed it to Johnson.
“If she hasn’t destroyed it yet, there’s a good chance she’ll get a text message if we send one. She can read it without unlocking the phone.”
Johnson took the paper and used it as a coaster for his empty glass.
“What are you going to do, what’s the plan?”
“If you’re staying, you’re drinking,” said Johnson curtly.
“Fine. Come get me if anything comes up.”
“Unless you’re planning to help me out with my morning wood, I doubt anything will.”
A disgusted sound came from the balcony, and a moment later the door to the spare bedroom shut once again.
Johnson chuckled silently to himself. For an actor, the other man was about as cosmopolitan as domestic beer, with all the sense of humor of a sodden log. But he had heart, Johnson had to give him that much.
He contemplated a fourth glass of bourbon, but decided he wouldn’t properly enjoy it. Instead, he pondered.
Turning over Silverman’s photographs to either the authorities or the media would do nothing to ensure their safety. Cafferty Wade was a big fish. A big fish with teeth. But when you couldn’t outrun a big fish, and you couldn’t outfight a big fish, you could still muddy the water.
Johnson took out his cell phone. He put it on the table and stared at it thoughtfully. Ideas could start sounding like good ideas at this time of night, he reminded himself. Sleeping on it, that was another useful tool. But the possibility of stirring the pot was too much to resist.
He wrote out a text, attached the photo of Lyon that Reagan had forwarded, and hit send.
His phone beeped in reply almost immediately.
Who the hell is this.
That she didn’t use a question mark amused him. Not that being less demanding would had done her any good. Once you shook the tree, you stood back to see where the apples would fall and didn’t get in the way.
Settling back down, he rested the phone on his chest and folded his hands over it, satisfied. Sleep overtook him in
no time at all.
XXXIII: VEGETARIAN BISCUITS
The diner was deserted save for a man just coming out of the kitchen as Nick entered. Letting the door shut behind him, Nick scoped out the place to be sure they were alone before addressing the only other occupant.
“There a guy here named Dale?”
The man nodded. He wore the kind of glasses Nick remembered science geeks wearing back when he was a kid. On second glance, he was a good deal older than Nick had first thought, maybe in his fifties or even sixties, but with stylish clothes and a boyish face that made it impossible to tell.
The man slid into one of the booths, wincing as he did so and favoring his midsection. He sat straight-backed and stiff, with clothes that were straight and stiff in their own right. If the man were to die right then and there, thought Nick, the clothes would probably keep him upright for who-knew-how-long after. He’d just rot there in place until someone noticed.
“Are you Dale?”
The man shook his head.
“What’s the matter, you don’t talk?”
The smell of frying meat came from the kitchen. Nick’s stomach rumbled.
The man said, “What do you want with Dale Two Trees?”
“So you do talk.”
“When I have something to say.”
Nick snorted. Nothing was going his way tonight, not a single goddamn thing.
“I’m starting to think that maybe you are him, that maybe you’re the kind of guy who thinks he’s being funny when he’s not.”
The man smiled. It was emotionless, that smile was, and a little crazy, and Nick found himself thinking that it had everything in it that you should never, ever see in a smile. It made him uncomfortable, and being uncomfortable invariably made him angry.
“Is Dale here, or not?”
The man took out a long, slender brass nail from his pocket and used it to scratch his ear, sticking it so deep into the canal that it made Nick cringe.
“Two Trees is in the back,” he said, pointing with the nail toward the kitchen. “Maybe you should go look for him.”
Nick stared at the man. In the back, the meat was starting to burn. The smell of it was getting unpleasant but Nick stayed right where he was.
“Somebody should tell the cook to flip his burgers,” he said.
“Go ahead,” prompted the man.
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I like you telling me what to do.”
There it was again, that smile. Nick felt his stomach tighten. People didn’t smile like that—not if they were sane.
At that moment the door behind him opened. Two policemen came through, brushing past Nick where he stood still partially blocking the entrance. The shorter of the officers had a pasty white head and a pasty white face with features that reminded Nick of still-wet playdough. Outside it had started to rain, and there were water droplets beading the man’s bald dome. The man’s partner, wavy-haired and with the build of a quarterback, grinned a grin that had probably gotten him more pussy in high school than the other officer had had his entire life.
Nick hated them on sight.
The man with the glasses didn’t get up from his booth. His hands were flat on the table and he stared straight ahead, averting his eyes with the prickliness of habitual distrust for the law. Nick had seen it before. Druggies and dealers had it, petty criminals who fancied they were a big enough deal that the five-o would know them on sight, ex-hippies and some vets too, anybody who’d sooner spit than toss a Pig a rope if both their lives depended on it. Not that Nick felt much different; motorcycle cops had been harassing his drivers for years.
“They got these biscuits here,” the quarterback-looking one was saying, “you got to try them.”
“I don’t have to try anything,” said his partner.
“You know what I mean.”
“Then don’t say I have to do it.”
“Alright, I recommend you try the biscuits. And you got to try them with a pat of butter and some honey drizzled over each side. No other way to eat a biscuit, period.”
“What about with gravy?”
Quarterback rested his hands on either side of his tight-fitting gun belt, a gesture that Nick found pretentious.
“Now why would you suggest that when you know I’m a vegetarian?”
“You’re not a vegetarian,” said Pasty-face.
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw you eat a burger just the other day.”
“Wasn’t any meat on it, they made it for me without the patty.”
“What’s the point of that? I mean, it’s not a burger anymore, then, is it?”
Quarterback said, “What do you care, you won’t even try the damn biscuits. Where’s Kemosabe? He’s always here this time of night.”
“Who’s Kemosabe?” asked Pasty-Face.
“The waiter.”
“Would his name be Dale something-or-other?”
Quarterback and his partner took notice of Nick for the first time.
“How should I know what his name is?” Quarterback looked at Nick. “Why are you suddenly so interested?”
They were interrupted before he could answer. Dale Two Trees chose that moment to come stumbling out of the back room, holding his head.
Nick, the man with the glasses, and the two policemen stood frozen, like figures in a tableaux, then suddenly everybody moved.
From his vantage point underneath the booth closest to the door, Nick watched it all play out (although afterward he would tell Marin that he had been standing in the very thick of things instead of cowering on the floor).
What happened was this:
INT. DINER
DALE TWO TREES
(gasping)
Help me.
OFFICER PASTY-FACE
(eyes wild)
Gun!
OFFICER PASTY-FACE’S hand drops to the butt of his own sidearm but the MAN WITH THE GLASSES shoots him in the chest before he can draw it.
DALE TWO TREES staggers across to the booth, half-tackles, half-falls on the MAN WITH THE GLASSES, preventing the latter from gunning down the remaining policeman and in turn making return fire impossible.
The MAN WITH THE GLASSES turns his gun around and begins shooting TWO TREES repeatedly in the back, but TWO TREES is sprawled atop him, dead weight and THE MAN WITH THE GLASSES is momentarily pinned down.
(CONT’D)
(CONTINUED:)
Seeing TWO TREES now riddled with bullets, OFFICER QUARTERBACK risks taking aim and fires. He hits the MAN WITH THE GLASSES in the shoulder, causing the gun to fall from his hand. OFFICER QUARTERBACK’S own hands are steady, but he seems disconnected, numb and barely aware of his actions.
NICK watches while another man, THE CUBAN, his left hand a blackened mess where, we assume, it has been barbecued to a crisp while resting on something hot (probably the grill) appears from the kitchen.
THE CUBAN
(screaming)
Aaiyiyaeee! Mimano! Mimano!
AyúdameJesús! Ayúdame Virgen
María, a madre de Dios!
OFFICER QUARTERBACK spins and fires purely on instinct, placing two shots center mass in THE CUBAN’S chest. THE CUBAN sinks to the ground, his screams replaced by a horrid gurgling. Terrible realization sinks into OFFICER QUARTERBACK at what he has done.
The MAN WITH THE GLASSES struggles out from under the unmoving form of TWO TREES and makes his escape through the front door, not bothering to retrieve his silenced weapon before he exits.
NICK hesitates. He is plainly scared, but just as plainly doesn’t want to spend the
(CONT’D)
(CONTINUED:)
rest of the night answering questions and trying (unsuccessfully) to explain his presence at the diner. His desire to flee wins out and he follows the MAN WITH THE GLASSES outside.
OFFICER QUARTERBACK, still staring at THE CUBAN, doesn’t appear to notice his departure.
CUT TO:
EXT. DINER
The white van with its damaged side was already driving off as Nick stumbled across the street. With shaking hands he opened the door to his Mercedes. Behind him he heard a shout, but it only served to galvanize him further. He jammed his key into the ignition and stepped on the gas before remembering to close his door.
Marin was staring at him. “What?” he said, giving her a nasty look. Slowly his cool began to return. “Text Actor Douchebag,” he told her. “Then use my phone to text Reagan. Tell them we have to meet—” he thought for a minute, “—tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. Tell them we have something that will guarantee their safety. One of them will go for it and that’s all we need.”
“What do we have?”
“We don’t have anything,” he shouted. There was no small amount of fear mixed in with the anger in his voice, but he didn’t care if she heard it. Everything had changed. This was no longer about profit, this was about survival, plain and simple. “This guy who’s after the photographs, he’s the fucking devil incarnate, alright? We’re never gonna be safe, not until he gets what he wants and has somebody to pin it on.”
“Okay, fine. Whatever.”
“You’re not texting.”
“Okay, fuck. What do you want me to say?”
A block later a white van with its headlights off pulled in behind them, but they were both too preoccupied to notice.
XXXIV: CREAMER IS FOR CUNTS
At precisely four minutes past three in the morning, Michelle Lyon pressed the buzzer to Cafferty Wade’s penthouse door. Anybody arriving by elevator was carefully screened, but the four penthouses shared an atrium and any of the residents could approach any of the of the other three doors at will. Persons with the necessary means to live there, the architects had reasoned, weren’t likely to be among the undesirables that security measures had been put in place to keep out.
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