They’re the first words Michael’s spoken in over an hour and Craig is visibly surprised. To his credit, he doesn’t ask him to repeat the question.
“A God-fearing Christian would say yes,” says Craig. “God asked Cain about Abel and Cain said Am I my brother’s keeper? The correct answer to that rather impertinent question was yes. Yes, every man is his brother’s keeper. That’s the impetus behind missionary work, saving the lost.”
“And the damned?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Our God is a merciful loving God. Everyone’s got some good in them.”
Michael thinks he sees faces in the distant mountains. They stare at him with dark lifeless eyes. He does not see forgiveness in those eyes, or judgment. What he sees when he looks, is the recognition of terrible reality. Craig would say he was the worst kind of sinner for not helping Esmerelda, but he sees now the cowardice was not in her death, but in his trying to forget her. It was all she had, and he’d left it. He’d watched her die and in remembering it now, he recalls the excitement of being there. There was a thrill, a joy—an essential energy in that moment. That is why he ran. Not that he was afraid of death, but because he loved it.
Reno Medical Technology is housed in a modern building of glass and steel. It exudes competence, modernity and wealth. The office manager admits she’s talked to dozens of investigators about the missing machine, but she seems not to be put out to do it again. Michael suspects talking to them is better than what she’d be doing otherwise. He imagines her sitting at a lonely desk in a small, private, modular office staring into the depths of a computer monitor where, if she’s diligent and lucky, she might make the figures line up in a way that pleases her superiors who will reward her months of tedium with a “dress-down Friday” and catered donuts. Showing them the facilities gets her away from that.
“You build the lasers here?” asks Craig.
“Oh no. We house them for shipment. They’re built overseas, but we assemble enough of it here to get a Made in the USA label.”
The lasers are big; about the size of a refrigerator on its side. The shipping crate is bigger, nearly twice the size with padding.
“Tell me more about the reward,” she says.”
Michael winces. He wishes Craig hadn’t mentioned that. The look he gives his new junior partner makes the point.
“It’s not a reward,” Craig says. “More like a bonus.” He’s not good at lying.
Michael says, “You contacted Ross Shipping on the Monday before the pick-up, right?”
“Yes. Pretty late in the afternoon. We usually go through another shipper but they couldn’t come for nearly a week. It was just luck that Ross had a truck in the area. Mr. Lowe picked it up the next day; Tuesday.”
“Did he seem nervous?” asks Craig.
“No. He seemed happy to get a job. He said he’d been waiting around for days.”
“Did he know how much the machine was worth?” asks Michael.
“He knew it was insured.”
“Did he know what the laser was used for?”
“No. Not at all. I tried to tell him a little about it, but he really didn’t care. He was more interested in finding a dark, Italian restaurant.”
“A what?” asks Craig.
“A dark, Italian restaurant,” repeats the manager.
“Did he find one?” asks Michael.
“I told him about Fig’s—Figaro’s, on Tenth Street.”
“Good food?” asks Michael. “Cheap?”
“Inexpensive,” she says to stress the distinction. “I really like it. Try the Alfredo. It’s the best in the city.”
“Sounds good. I could use a bite. What do you say, Craig?”
Craig smirks like he understands, but Michael is sure he doesn’t. He’s proven right in the car.
“Mafia,” Craig says. “It’s clear. Lowe was in the mob.”
“You are too much, McCallister,” Michael says. “You’ve watched too many movies.”
“It’s a well-known fact that gambling in Nevada is controlled by organized crime. It makes sense.”
“Once upon a time the mob may have run the casinos, but it’s all corporations now. Robbing on a whole new level.”
“Think outside the box,” he says.
“You and boxes.”
Figaro is far enough from the Reno strip to make it a locals’ hangout. The prices are reasonable and seating comfortable. The lights are dim. Michael would consider it the kind of place a man would take his mistress to avoid being caught.
“So why are we here?” says Craig after they’re seated. He’s sulking. It’s a strange attitude on the muscle-bound physique.
“I’m hungry.”
“These prices aren’t bad, but aren’t they still outside your price range?”
“So you’re paying.”
Michael orders the Alfredo and Craig quizzes the waitress for a low-carb plate and has to settle on a Caesar salad with everything on the side. His fussiness doesn’t allow Michael a chance to question the waitress until she brings a plate of calamari appetizers.
“Do you remember a trucker in here about a month ago?” Michael produces a picture from his pocket he got from Craig’s file, but before he can show it to her, she shakes her head.
“I’ve only been here a week,” she says. “I don’t even recognize the regulars yet.”
“How about your supervisor?”
“I’ll ask her,” she says. “Wine would go well with the calamari.”
“Okay,” Michael says.
Craig shakes his head sullenly.
“One glass.”
“What gives?” Craig says when she’s out of earshot. “You’re taking advantage of my Christian kindness.”
“Would Jesus refuse me wine? I don’t think so. I believe there’s precedent.”
Craig stares at him.
“I’m playing a hunch,” Michael says. “Another woman.”
“Isaac Lowe is a married man. A loving father. A Christian.”
“Seriously? Christian fathers don’t have libidos?”
“I’ve read this guy’s file.”
“His file? You have a description from three co-workers who see him every other month, and a wife who’s scared out of her mind with worry. You have no file. One minute you’re accusing him of grand theft, the next he’s a monk. Men can stray. The road can be a lonely place.”
“This coming from experience?”
“You bet,” he says.
“Why does everything have to be about sex?”
“Did I hit a nerve?”
“You didn’t.”
Michael doesn’t believe him.
“Lowe had dinner here,” he says. “Let’s find out if he was alone.”
“Everything isn’t always about sex,” Craig mutters.
“Sex isn’t even always about sex.”
The waitress brings a glass of red wine and waits for Michael to taste it.
“Bene!” he says with flourish.
“Eat some squid,” Michael tells Craig. “You’ll feel better.”
“Hog anuses,” he says. “Really. It was in the paper. Calamari is hard to get so people have been selling hog anuses as a fake replacement. People can’t tell the difference.”
“Remind me to buy you a hot-dog.” Michael drops his fork and sips his wine instead.
Craig smiles and chases a croûton across his plate.
When they’re nearly finished, the waitress’s supervisor visits them. Michael offers her Isaac Lowe’s photo.
“This taken from a driver’s license?” she asks.
“Yes. He was a commercial truck driver. I know it’s a long shot, but we think he had dinner here about a month ago. He might not have been alone.”
“He wasn’t alone.”
“You remember him?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Was he with a woman?”
“He came in with a woman but they met up with a couple of guys half way through.
They turned into a foursome.”
“This was over a month ago,” says Craig. “Are you sure?”
The supervisor looks at Craig’s salad plate and then briefly at him before turning back to Michael. “These two guys were drinking pretty hard,” she said. “They’d won big at the Peppermill. They sent a bottle of wine to every table.”
“This wine?”
“No, the cheaper house wine.”
“You have a cheaper house wine?” says Craig.
“And you saw this man?” Michael points to the photo.
“Uh-huh. He was with a girl. I don’t think it was a date.”
“A girl or a woman?”
She thinks for a moment. “Woman, but young. Old enough to drink.”
“Why not a date?”
“Didn’t seem that way. More like friends. Father-daughter maybe except they looked nothing alike.”
“And these two guys bought them a bottle?”
“Yeah. They got to talking and then they sat together.”
“Were the two guys a couple?” asks Michael.
Craig looks scandalized.
“Queer? No.”
“Just following leads.”
“So you’re cops?”
“We didn’t say that.”
“Well, all I can tell you is he ate here with some friends.”
“Okay,” Michael says. “Good Alfredo.”
“Best in Reno and that’s saying something with all the Italians here.”
“Mob?” says Craig.
“Oh yes,” she says and touches the side of her nose knowingly.
Craig smirks.
“Did the guys pay with check or credit card?”
“Cash,” she says. “Good tip.”
“Don’t suppose you remember any names? Or have video?”
She shakes her head.
“Did they all leave together?”
“At the same time, but not together. The two guys were going back to the Peppermill. The guy in the picture said he had to get back to Ely. The girl said she’d sleep on the way.”
“Wait. She was traveling with him?”
“Sounded like it.”
Chapter Eight
“They have a casino, nightclub, restaurants and acts. Sorry, Craig. No rides.”
The Peppermill is awash in people. There’s a convention going on; a multi-level marketing greed-fest thick with motivational speakers, strawberry snack trays and free coffee. A late meeting breaks up and Michael slips into a conference room and helps himself to coffee and berries. The berries are sweet. He takes a handful.
“Lowe didn’t come here,” Craig says taking a strawberry and looking very guilty when he does. “What do we expect to find? We can’t watch video. We don’t know what those two guys look like. Or the girl. Are you just looking for more free food?”
Craig isn’t over having to pay for dinner. The wine cost as much as his meal and he hadn’t even tasted it. Michael doesn’t care. Craig has money. More than I have, he thinks remembering the girl from the MGM. Jessica. He knows he’s crazy to think it, but when he visualizes the girl seen with Isaac Lowe, she looks like her. He has no reason to make this connection. The restaurant manager’s description was vague and unhelpful. She had eyes for the men with money, not the woman. The men she could describe down to their sports coats and loafers, the truck driver had blond hair, lighter than Michael’s. But the girl, all she could say was that she looked young enough to get carded.
The supervisor said too that the men offered to get Isaac and the woman rooms at the Peppermill, promising they’d be comped, so great were their winnings. They’d refused, saying they had an appointment in the morning. Michael doesn’t know what to make of the supervisor’s opinion that the men were just being friendly. Even after her description of their generosity—no, especially after her description, Michael suspects ulterior motives.
“What are we looking for Oswald?” Craig asks.
“That.” Michael points to a directory of casino amenities.
“What? You need a spa treatment?” He laughs at his own joke.
“Look at that list of restaurants. There’re a bunch. Two Italian. That one, Ramanza, has won awards and I don’t mean “voted best Alfredo by people too poor to eat at the casinos” in the local free weekly. If those two guys were up enough to get comped rooms, they’d have gotten a meal.”
“So they were lying?”
“Everyone lies.”
“Give me a straight answer once in a while, will you?”
“There’s something fishy about it. If this place had been a dive, I’d think differently.”
“And the girl? You still think that was about sex?”
“I don’t know.”
“So what now?”
“Let’s get a room.”
“Another crap motel? Seriously Oswald, the places you like to stay aren’t much better than the back seat of your car.”
Michael can’t credit his protégé with an abundance of observational acumen. Michael spends most nights in the back seat of his car. It’s his home. Motels are the exception. And even when he can afford them, he doesn’t like them. At first he thought he was frugal, but then he realized he liked being on the road. Even though it cramped his legs and twisted his back and was often cold, he liked waking up inside a vehicle, ready to move on.
“You want to stay somewhere else?” says Michael. “Do it. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
“No, don’t be like that. We’re partners,” says Craig.
“How about this place?” says Michael. “Would this be okay?”
“I’m not paying for it.”
“My treat. Stay here. I’ll be back.”
Michael chews a strawberry and slides back into the room where he got them. He finds a brochure dropped on the floor with an inserted schedule. He reads over the list of presenters and sees two cancellations. He puts the names to memory. On his way out, he takes more strawberries and a packet of sugar. He eats them all before he arrives at the desk.
“Mr. Clayton,” he says. “I have a reservation with New Life.”
The woman behind the counter clatters on a keyboard.
“We show a cancel.”
“No, that was for Dorsey. I’m here. Clayton.”
She looks pained. He lets her.
“We don’t have your suite. There’s been some mix-up.”
“What do you have?” he says coolly, putting an edge in his voice.
“A deluxe king?”
He rolls his eyes. “A double queen?”
“Yes,” she says and types away.
“Do you still have the credit card on file?”
“New Life?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Yes.”
“Well then it’s all okay.”
“Sorry about the mix up.”
“Not your fault.” He smiles at her and she smiles back.
“I’m really beat. Can I have my key?”
She slides over an envelope with two keycards and asks if he has luggage.
“I’ll manage,” he says.
He’s done the canceled guest ploy twice before. The first time in an Indian Casino in Temecula and was nearly arrested. The second time, in Lincoln City, he’d been comped a room, dinner and a comedy show. The first time had been a dare with Carla. The second had been a test of himself after Carla left him. He hadn’t given himself wholly to the lie the first time, Carla snickering and blushing in the lobby. The second time, he went all-in. He’d kept to his story in the face of emailed verification of the cancellation and a misspelled and mispronounced name. It’s human nature to want to believe. Brazen dishonesty short-circuits the mind.
The room trick is the kind of petty larceny he was supposed to have grown out of in the Dormitory. He’d been put there for shoplifting. What was it? Candy of some kind. No. Sugar. He remembers a bag of Hawaiian sugar, his fingers sticky and sweet in his mouth. He’d locked himself in the bathr
oom to eat it while his foster parents screamed at him through the door. Then the Dormitory. No. Wait. There’s something missing. There was more to it than that, but he can’t remember what.
Riding up the elevator with Craig, Michael wonders why he tried the trick again. A Navajo hotel in the middle of nowhere was one thing, but in Reno he was risking real trouble. Why’d he do it? To impress Craig? To shut him up? He wishes that was why but he knows he did it because he enjoyed the deceit. He got a rush out of it, like the sugar in his veins. He’d craved it.
“This is more like it,” says Craig throwing open the drapes to survey the city’s neon. “The city that never sleeps.”
Michael doesn’t feel like correcting his city slogan mix-up. “I’m beat,” he says. “I’m not feeling myself. I’m turning in.”
“Yeah, lots of driving.”
Michael is in bed first, but Craig is first asleep. Hours go by and Michael stares at the ceiling weaving shadows into thoughts.
It was the sweet strawberry that made him steal this room. It’d been a big one, plump and juicy, red as blood. He bit it and poured two packets of sugar into its recesses and ate it like communion. The sweetness was divine, made doubly sweet in the knowledge that it was stolen.
He’d stolen that fateful bag of sugar from a convenience store thirty years ago. Maybe longer. He can put no date to it, only the knowledge that it occurred before the Dormitory, and that it was the cause of the Dormitory. And the Dormitory is where his clear memories begin.
The Dormitory had had its share of shadows on the ceiling. He remembers them confusing him then as they do now. He recalls what it was that finally quieted them. It was when he started to behave as he was expected to, when his “moral compass” was set and “properly aligned.” Only then did the shadows no longer menace him and he was allowed to rejoin the other children.
Michael does not like this hotel room. It has one door. One escape. The window won’t open and if it did, it’s eleven floors down to the street. He is trapped. He fidgets and sweats, and worries his clean sheets into a taught, knotted cord.
Craig sleeps.
Michael listens to him breathe, measures his heavy contented intake of breath and the later steady release. It is a soothing rhythm and Michael concentrates on the sound. Soon his tired mind relaxes. The shadows fold and fade. He closes his eyes and listens. The tempo becomes a lullaby and Michael slides off to sleep. The last thing he remembers before fading away is imagining what the breathing would sound like if it were suddenly to stop.
What Immortal Hand Page 7