Virgil shakes himself out of his nod, swallows hard. “I’m just tired.”
“Well, straighten your ass up and come with me to check on Amy.”
This is Olivia’s thing and all, but her bossy tone makes Virgil’s balls ache. He heaves himself off the couch and lurches into the kitchen, where he stands at the sink and scrubs his face with cold water. “Huh,” he grunts. “Huh, huh, huh.” He dries off with a sour-smelling dish towel and does a set of jumping jacks to get his heart going. By the time he heads up the stairs, he’s feeling steadier on his feet.
Olivia is waiting in the hall, her ear pressed to the door of Eton’s grandma’s room. She’s carrying both of the Glocks, hands him one. Amy is looking right at them when they push into the room. She’s tied hand and foot to the bed.
“How are we?” Olivia says.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Amy replies.
“You just went a couple hours ago.”
Amy shrugs, like, What do you want me to do?
“Cut her loose,” Olivia says to Virgil.
Virgil sets the Glock on the dresser and takes out his pocketknife. This is the third time the chick’s had to go today. He steps to the bed and slices through the pantyhose securing her to the frame, then moves down to free her ankles. He notices her tits again. Nice ones. Big ones.
“Everything’s going good,” Olivia says as Virgil helps Amy sit on the edge of the bed. “You’ll be home by tomorrow afternoon.”
Amy doesn’t reply, just reaches her bound hands down to rub the red welts on her ankles. Being ignored like that infuriates Olivia. She walks over and jerks the woman up off the bed, shoves her toward the door.
“Cop an attitude with me, and you’ll be pissing in that bed,” Olivia says.
Amy walks out into the hall with Olivia and the Glock right behind her, and Virgil sits on the bed to await their return. The room spins in slow circles. It’d be great to lie down for a few minutes, but Olivia would shit if she caught him. He pops to his feet and slaps himself in the face a couple times. They’re going to need more pantyhose to replace the ones he cut. He steps to the dresser and grabs another pair. After this he’s going to hit Eton’s stash again, this time for something that will wake his ass up.
WHEN BOONE TELLS him it’s something serious, Carl has him meet him at the Burger King on Venice instead of at the condo, because Diana is home sick from work today. Boone arrives at the restaurant before Carl does, buys a Coke, and sits in one of the booths. He watches a fly stagger across a poster advertising something called the Bacon Double Homestyle Melt. Two goth teenagers at the next table feed each other french fries. The girl has a zit on her chin that weeps through her thick makeup.
Carl strides in slow and easy, radiating calm. He points to acknowledge Boone before stopping at the counter for coffee. He’s wearing a pink Polo, khakis, and some kind of loafers. Boone almost smiles. The guy has always dressed like a frat boy. Boone used to tease him about it, tell him he was the lamest brother he’d ever met.
Boone stands when Carl approaches the booth, a weirdly formal gesture that he chalks up to nervousness.
“What, you want to change tables?” Carl asks.
“No, we’re cool, we’re cool,” Boone says as he sits again.
Carl slides in across from him.
“What’s on your mind?” he says.
“I need your help,” Boone replies.
“You got it.”
“I wouldn’t sign up so quickly.”
Carl leans back and looks Boone over for the first time since his arrival. “Somebody been beating on you again?” he asks.
“Amy’s been kidnapped,” Boon replies.
“Come on, man.”
“Some fucking psychos I got mixed up with snatched her.”
“Jesus,” Carl exclaims. “What kind of shit have you got yourself in now?”
Boone explains the situation in a rush, going all the way back to his and Robo’s meeting with Oscar’s grandfather. He tells Carl how he tracked Taggert to the ranch, what happened there and afterward, and how that led to this, him being forced to rob Taggert in order to free Amy.
Carl whistles at the conclusion of the tale and shakes his head. “This is deep, Jimmy.”
“I know, man, I know,” Boone says. “That’s why I’m coming to you. I need you to ride out there with me and help me do this. It’ll be me, you, and Robo. They’re promising me twenty grand, which you and Robo can split for your trouble.”
“This Robo cat, he solid?” Carl asks.
“I think so. I hope so. How can you know?”
“And we’re talking about leaving today?”
“Soon as we can.”
“But we don’t know where we’re going or when this thing is going off?”
“Fucking ridiculous,” Boone says.
“There’s no ice,” a guy in a hard hat and an orange vest standing in front of the drink dispenser yells at the people behind the counter. “Hey, no ice!”
Carl lays his hand over the top of his cup so that the steam from his coffee is trapped beneath it, then turns the hand sideways, releasing the steam all at once, in a puff, like he’s sending smoke signals.
“Know what I did last night?” he says.
Boone wonders why the hell he wants to talk about this now. “Took Di to Red Lobster?” he jokes.
“This dude Chemo —’cause he had cancer when he was a kid — hired me and those two you met at my place to round up some poor motherfucker who burned him in a Mickey Mouse dope deal,” Carl says. “We swarmed the guy at a titty bar downtown, bounced him around in the bathroom, and told him that Chemo was waiting for him, and we’d be happy to give him a ride over to straighten things out.
“This brother was afraid of Chemo, but he was even more afraid of the linoleum knife that Armenian kid, Aram, was waving around. We drove him to an old rail yard down by the river, where Chemo was waiting. The deal was, we’d hold the guy but wouldn’t hit him. Any heavy shit was on Chemo.
“Now, Chemo, man, he’s an ugly bastard, looks like he’s still got cancer, like a skeleton. He stepped out of the dark, and homeboy from the strip club was crying even before he hit him the first time. He kept yelling he didn’t have any money, but five minutes and a few busted teeth later, he pulls a roll of bills out of his sock. Didn’t make any sense to me to take a beating like that, but, you know, man, I’ve given up trying to figure people out.
“Chemo skimmed five hundred off the roll and handed it to me, then told us our work was done. We left him stomping on that poor bastard’s head. Didn’t look like he was gonna make it through the night.”
Carl frowns and sips his coffee.
“That’s fucked up,” Boone says.
“What I’m saying,” Carl continues, “is that if you squint, we’re the good guys in this thing of yours, and it’s been a long time since I felt like a good guy.”
“Seems like I’ve been doing a lot of squinting lately,” Boone says.
“There’s no other way to get Amy back?” Carl says.
“Not that I can see,” Boone replies.
Carl extends his hand across the table for Boone to shake. “Well, then, what can we do but what we got to do?” he says.
23
OLIVIA PULLS OUT FROM BEHIND A SEMI IN THE SLOW LANE and presses the accelerator to the floor. The battered Econoline has no guts though. Olivia creeps up beside the big rig, bouncing in her seat as if that’ll make the van go faster, but then the engine starts whining, so she takes her foot off the gas. No sense risking a breakdown in the middle of the desert.
The first thing she did when Taggert answered the phone earlier was apologize for shooting up his truck and running off, but he wasn’t having any of it. He cussed her every which way and said he couldn’t believe she’d pull that kind of stunt with this deal coming up, that she’d humiliated him in front of Spiller and T.K., and that he’d tried his best with her even though he knew damn well that you can’t
turn a whore into a housewife.
The whore part made her bite the inside of her cheek, but she waited until his rage had burned itself out, then laid on the sob story she’d worked up: she and Virgil had returned to Eton’s house and grabbed his stash with the intention of selling it, but then, while she slept in their motel room, Virgil had skipped out with the dope and all her money.
“Oh, baby,” she said. “What the fuck have I gone and done?” She never should have left the ranch, never should have let her anger get the best of her. As soon as she’d driven away, she’d known it was a mistake. It was awful being apart and scary how much she missed him. Didn’t he feel it too, that this thing between them was so much stronger than anything either of them had ever had before?
Of course he did. He was all alone in the middle of nowhere, all alone in the world, and his secret weakness, Olivia knew, was that he needed someone to care about and someone who cared about him in order to feel human. Without that, every time he looked in the mirror he saw an animal staring back at him, a low and vicious beast, and despised himself for his savagery.
“Let me come home,” she said. “You can deal with me however you see fit, but let me come home to you.”
Taggert was silent for a long time, then finally growled, “Do whatever the hell you want,” and ended the call.
He’s not going to kill me, Olivia assures herself. Anybody else, maybe, but not me. If she’s misread him, though, she’s dead. Simple as that. He’ll cut off her head and hands and scatter her bones. But that’s the risk you run when you try to steal the monster’s treasure.
She reaches up to pull down the visor. The sun’s right in her eyes. The van’s air conditioner makes lots of noise, but no cold air. When she rolls down the window, seeking a little relief, the blast of gritty wind just makes her hotter. The sand outside glows white. The top floors of the Indian casino look like they’re about to burst into flame.
For a second Olivia wishes she was headed there instead of the ranch. She imagines checking into a room, eating a nice dinner, and playing blackjack, like in the commercials. Thing is, she only has forty dollars to her name.
She could go ahead and stop, but dinner will be McDonald’s, and she’ll lose all her cash in the first hour and spend the rest of the night hustling drinks and video poker money from the truck drivers and retirees there for the seafood buffet. One of them will ask if she’s working, and if she’s drunk and desperate enough, she’ll turn a trick, then pass out in the van until she wakes up sweaty and hungover to a sun so bright it shows every secret.
Not again, she thinks as she rattles past the casino. Never again. This time tomorrow, she’ll be a whole new person, someone with money and choices, someone who has and keeps things. A bug hits the windshield and explodes red and yellow like a skyrocket. She drifts into the next lane trying to turn on the wipers, and a car behind her honks. She sure wishes the radio worked.
BOONE DRIVES BACK to Hollywood. The wind is picking up. Jumpy as hell, he slams on his brakes to avoid a cardboard box skittering across Franklin like a wounded animal; almost gets rear-ended. The giant inflatable tooth perched on the roof of the dental clinic strains at its tethers. He parks in front of Cyberplace. Three different gutter punks ask for change while he’s feeding the meter.
A computer search for the Mojave Preserve turns up a map. It’s out past Baker, nestled between the 15 and 40 freeways, a million and a half acres of desert, hundreds of miles of road, a dozen ghost towns. He and Robo and Carl will head out toward the preserve and hope that Olivia’s call comes somewhere along the way. If not, they’ll gas up in Baker and wait there to hear from her.
After printing out the information Boone walks down the boulevard to the army surplus store to pick up ski masks. “Knocking over a bank?” the burly guy behind the counter jokes.
“Liquor store,” Boone replies.
“Careful of those security cameras.”
His next stop is Food For Less. He pulls into the parking lot and chases down a cart. The little plastic flags strung between the light poles snap like firecrackers in the wind.
The music is too loud in the store, some kind of happy-dappy smooth jazz, and the air conditioner is cranked all the way up. Boone hurries down the aisles, grabbing jugs of water and Gatorade, a loaf of bread, packets of ham and bologna, a jar of mustard, and a couple bags of ice.
Back at the bungalow, he pulls his sleeping bag off his bed and brings in a cooler from the shed. He dumps some ice in the cooler, along with the food that needs to be kept cold, sets the cooler by the door. He adds a hoodie to the pile, and the flashlight he keeps under the kitchen sink. And a machete. Always good to have a machete. Joto follows him around like he knows Boone’s leaving soon.
Carl insisted they take his Xterra to the desert because he doesn’t trust the Olds to make the trip. “I don’t want to be making a call to the Auto Club with a load of guns and counterfeit money,” he said, and Boone couldn’t argue with that. Carl arrives at two. His knock startles Boone, makes him bite his tongue.
“You’re not fucking around, are you?” Boone says when he opens the door and sees Carl’s desert cammies.
“Are you?” Carl replies, clearly displeased by the grin on Boone’s face.
“Absolutely not,” Boone says, gesturing at the gear and supplies he’s collected. “I’m ready to do this thing.”
“What’s all that?” Carl asks.
“Food,” Boone says. “Water.”
“Come on, man,” Carl scoffs. “You’re a Marine, not a Boy Scout. Grab the water and your sleeping bag. I’ve got enough MREs for all of us.”
Boone opens a couple of cans of food for Joto, then he and Carl toss his stuff into the Xterra and drive out to the valley. Boone calls to let Robo know they’re on their way.
When they arrive, Robo is sweating on the curb, a cooler, a propane stove, and firewood heaped on the sidewalk behind him.
“It’s only one night,” Boone says.
“One long-ass night,” Robo replies.
Boone introduces Robo to Carl while they sort through Robo’s piles, picking out the essentials. The two men shake hands.
“Good to meet you,” Carl says.
“You too,” Robo replies.
When they’ve loaded the truck, Robo lifts a last duffel bag and unzips it just enough that Boone catches a glimpse of black steel and plastic and smells gun oil.
“The cuetes,” Robo says. “Two M-16s, a 12-gauge, and a couple nines for backup.”
“I’m covered there,” Carl says and pats his favorite Smith & Wesson .45, which is nestled in a shoulder rig under his cammies.
“Daddy!”
The men turn to watch Robo’s son Junior stagger toward them, struggling to carry a shovel twice his size.
“Do you need this for your hunting?” he asks.
Robo takes the shovel and kneels in front of the boy.
“I don’t think we’re going to be digging any holes, mijo,” he says.
“Uh-huh, to hide in,” Junior says.
“They got bushes and stuff for that,” Robo replies.
Boone watches as he scoops up the kid and carries him to the duplex. If anything happens to him tomorrow, or to Carl — Boone doesn’t want to, can’t let himself, think about that.
It’s purely for show that he asked them to come along anyway, a couple of big guys with big guns. During the actual robbery, he’ll be the one to step out while they remain under cover. Before Taggert and the others even figure out what’s going on, he, Robo, and Carl will be safely on their way.
Robo stands in the doorway, kissing his wife and babies, then breaks free and lumbers out to the Xterra.
“Vámonos,” he says. “They act like I’m leaving for a year.”
Boone takes the passenger seat, and Robo squeezes his bulk in back, with the weapons and some of the gear. Carl drives to the 101, gets on heading south. There’s a rattle in the cargo bay, and Robo reaches back and rearranges the loa
d until it stops.
“You guys like tamales?” he says when he’s finished. “ ’Cause my old lady made me bring a shitload of them.”
THE SUN IS still high when Olivia reaches the turnoff to the ranch, and the surrounding hills are being scoured by the wind. Fear catches up to Olivia, the sudden taste of it sour on her tongue, as she drives the dirt road through the scrub. She tops the last rise, and the ranch comes into view. The heat bears down on it like a boot heel. She hates this place, always has.
The compound looks deserted. No movement at all except for what the wind’s got hold of. Taggert’s old truck sits in the yard, and the bullet-riddled corpse of his new one. T.K.’s Explorer is up at the bunkhouse. Olivia’s heart judders behind her ribs when the road spits her onto the property. She kills the engine and steps out with her arms crossed protectively over her chest.
The dogs are raising hell over at the barn. Olivia approaches the house slowly. “Bill?” she calls out, hating the quaver in her voice but knowing it’s something Taggert will be listening for. The man doesn’t miss much.
“I’m here,” he says.
She can barely make him out, slumped there on the car seat under the awning, a beer in his hand. She moves toward him, unsure what to do now, what to say. Before she can come up with something, her legs give way, and she sinks to the ground in front of him. He doesn’t stir when she rests her cheek on his thigh and begins to cry. The tears are mostly from fear, but he doesn’t know that. Olivia lets them come. They’re a good addition to her act.
“I’m sorry,” she sobs.
Something brushes the back of her head, and she tenses up. She doesn’t want to die. Not here. Not now. Not on her knees in front of this man, any man. It’s only Taggert’s fingers, though, lightly stroking her hair.
“I never told you I had a son,” he says.
“No,” Olivia replies. “You didn’t.”
“Bill Junior. Billy. By my first wife, Clara, the girl I married right after graduation, back in Kentucky.”
Olivia sniffs and reaches up to wipe her nose. She can see the sky from here, full of dust, no color she can name.
Richard Lange Page 29