by Ben Sanders
“I did.”
Wayne just sitting there calmly, and Frazer must have wondered what other madness he’d witnessed for this to seem normal.
Wayne said, “Like I told you. Conflict of interest. If you’d contacted me six months ago things might have played differently. But I guess you’ve missed your chance.”
“You’re working for him?”
“On retainer, more or less.”
Ding, ding, ding, ding—
“So now what happens?”
Resignation in his tone like he knew there was just the one outcome.
Wayne said, “It’s binary. Either you die or I die.” He smiled. “And then we go our separate ways.”
“Jesus.”
“He wasn’t much help to Chino. So I doubt he’ll be helping you.”
“Please. There are other ways.”
Lines he’d heard before. Wayne said, “You carry a gun, you keep an armed bodyguard. You must have envisioned a violent end.”
Frazer didn’t answer.
Wayne said, “Don’t worry. This isn’t some wild departure from likelihood. You were always going to end up here, more or less.” He gestured with his free hand. “The specifics are irrelevant. This car. Chino. Me.”
Frazer didn’t answer. His lips parted, a rope of spit strung between them.
Wayne said, “Anyway. My point is that we have brought to fruition a scenario made inevitable a long time ago. You live this life, sooner or later you get clipped. It’s not difficult.”
Frazer didn’t answer. Wayne could see his pulse leaping.
“Last words?”
No reply. His eyes were closed. Strange to waive the chance to shape the final moments. Although silence was, of course, a choice.
Wayne lifted the gun. Smell of cordite in the car. Dust and Chino’s T-shirt lifting weakly as a breeze came through. He pulled the trigger.
* * *
Heading back east on the 40, he felt calm despite the blood flecks on his shirt from the blowback and the faint smell of cordite on his hands. He listened to an FM station as he drove. It helped mask the ringing in his ears.
Western limits of the city and I-40 became the Coronado Freeway. He stopped at the first gas station he saw and pulled in beside the car wash bay and used the hose to rinse off the rental. Safer than the drive-thru and being filmed paying. He stood there as if mesmerized as water off the roof fell in clean rivulets through the dusted windows. Evidence of his morning disintegrating, top down.
A mess of brown water at his feet. He used the hose and chased the murk to the drain until the eddies ran clear and then he turned off the water and coiled the hose neatly and set it on its cradle. Back into traffic and a twenty-minute run east to his motel just south of the freeway. A tan and low-rise neighborhood and in the east the indigo form of the Sandia Mountains, low and contoured beyond the city.
He parked in front of his room and got out, retrieved the gun bag from the trunk, and went inside. He locked the door behind him. Cool from the air-conditioning. A breeze from somewhere rolling fold-to-fold in the blind. He set the bag on the single bed below the window. He always found the transition strange. One moment fraught with bloodshed. The next tranquil, returned to normal life and its harmless trivia: sound of children in the pool outside. TV Guide. Nearby restaurant menus. Please check out by ten A.M. The ease with which he moved from one world to the other.
From the gun bag he removed a plastic trash liner and took it through to the bathroom. He undressed and balled his socks and bloodied garments and deposited them with his shoes in the liner and knotted the top. Then he showered and toweled dry and dressed in fresh clothes he’d left in the room and sat on the bed below the window. From the gun bag he took the SIG and slipped it in the belt holster and clipped it on his hip beneath his shirt, and then he found his blue phone and dialed a number.
Three rings and then the pickup. “How was Mr. Frazer?”
Wayne ran a hand through his hair, still damp with shower water. “Fine. Not quite so good now, but you’re right, he was trying to get in on the New York market. He wanted help with reducing competition.”
“I see.”
“Obviously he named you as a rival.”
“Code, or my actual name?”
“He used the term ‘Patriarch.’”
“Right. And I take it he was proposing something fairly aggressive?”
“Yeah.”
“How many hits?”
“Well. As many as it takes to stop what you’re doing.”
“And he wanted you to do it?”
“Yes.”
“Has he approached anyone else?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“No.”
“Okay. Where is he now?”
“Same place I met him, but dead. He had a bodyguard named Chino.”
“You killed both of them?”
“Yes.”
“Good, excellent. Obviously, I appreciate the loyalty.”
“No, that’s okay.” Wayne laughed quietly. “Clearly there was a conflict of interest.”
“Yeah. Did he give you any other information? What exactly did he have?”
“Most of it was vague. He said you were young and that you’re operating things electronically.”
“Okay. That’s interesting. Were they carrying anything? Flash drives, that kind of thing?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Computers?”
“No. Just some signal-jamming gear. It fucked with my GPS. No storage or hard disks or anything.”
“Okay. Well, if people are operating this aggressively, then that’s a concern.”
Wayne didn’t answer.
“What’re your movements over the next few days? Are you able to stay local?”
Wayne said, “Sure.”
“Okay, great. Yeah, I think if you could keep in the area for say the next week that would be helpful. If people are taking steps to try and push me out, I need to react pretty firmly.”
“Frazer won’t be having another go.”
“No. Probably not. But I think it might be good just to see what plays out and respond accordingly.”
“Sure.”
“Where did you meet them?”
Wayne said, “Out west by that Navajo reservation.”
“Okay.”
“At a glance, it might look like Frazer drilled his bodyguard and then topped himself.”
“Right. I imagine it won’t take long to see past that. Sounds a bit incongruous.”
Wayne said, “Possibly.”
“And what about that other job? Have you checked the motel yet?”
“I went out last night. It sounds like it was Marshall. I showed the desk guy the photo and he was certain it was him.”
“Did they let you see the register?”
“Yeah. He must’ve bribed someone. He checked in as John Adams, but there’re literally no other details, no address or license plate or anything. Guy reckoned he stayed two, maybe three nights. But you know what he’s like, probably said fuck-all, paid cash, so there’s nothing to go on.”
“Right. Well, they reckon the apartment’s been getting calls maybe once a month, so hopefully when he tries again you’ll be close enough to follow up.”
“Sure. I’ll need to be down here for the Frazer thing anyway.”
“I appreciate it. There’re other people I can put on Marshall, but I need to be sure it’s done right. I just don’t want him to stay in the wind like this, it’s a real issue. I’ll keep in touch, might have some more errands for you.”
“Let me know.”
Wayne ended the call. Sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows to knees. Sweat from his forehead dotting the carpet between his feet. What he hadn’t said: Frazer had pictures of dead men. Men shot and men chainsawed, a whole garish ream of prints. He didn’t want to go there. This whole catalogue of misery he’d be forced to describe. Too cold a prospect, eve
n for Wayne. He found his red phone and dialed another number.
She always knew it was him. “Daddy.”
“Hello, sweetheart.”
“Where are you?”
“Just somewhere.”
“That’s not a place.”
“I’m sitting on a bed.”
She laughed. “No. That’s not a place.”
“Yes it is. You asked where I am and I said I’m sitting on a bed.”
“Are you coming home soon?”
“Pretty soon.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No. Not tomorrow. But not too long.”
“Do you miss me?”
Wayne said, “Yes. I miss you so much.”
She didn’t answer.
He said, “What did you do today?”
“Painted a picture. What did you do today?”
“I had to go to a meeting.”
“Have you had your lunch?”
“No. It’s too early for lunch. It’s only ten o’clock. I’ve had my breakfast, though.”
“Is it a different time there?”
“Yes. It’s a different time here.”
She didn’t answer. He said, “What did you paint a picture of?”
“Mommy.”
It was too much for him. He clamped a hand across his mouth as his eyes welled. Quiet a long time.
“Daddy?”
He drew breath between fingers, eyes squeezed shut. He laid the phone on the bed beside him so she wouldn’t hear. She was saying something, tinny and distant, another world. A ragged breath and he calmed himself. Composure could be fleeting, not long before he’d topple back. He picked up the phone.
“I’ll be home soon, sweetheart. You be good.”
She was saying something, but he ended the call and she was gone midsentence. He thought of Chino, departing midstep.
He lowered himself to the floor and sat with his back to the bed. Children in the pool outside. Please check out by ten A.M. The ease with which he stepped from one world to the other: his calm and his misery. The latter just a phone call away. He reached behind him to the bag and felt blindly and found the photographs. A4 sheets, glossed by laser print. Blood and the victims headless, armless, legless. He looked at the ceiling and tore the pages one by one.
FIVE
Marshall
He drove back north on I-25 to Santa Fe and went east on San Francisco Street through the center of town. Low-rise adobe, lots of Spanish detailing, the Saint Francis Cathedral framed neatly at road’s end. He liked that sense of heritage. Oldest capital city in America and here he was, a chance player in a thousand-year lineage.
Marshall parked just beyond the plaza and checked his phone. Two missed calls from that blocked number, still awaiting action. Make them wait. Let them think his terms were the only ones that mattered.
He didn’t want to use his cell to call the house, but he did.
“Hombre.”
Marshall had hoped he’d be gone. He opened his door for some air and said, “I told you to pack a bag and go.”
“You said thirty minutes.”
“It’s been thirty minutes. It’s about fifty now.”
“What sort of people you got coming round?”
“I don’t know exactly. But I don’t want you to be the one who finds out.”
“Case they’re unpleasant or something.”
“I know they’re unpleasant. It’s all just a question of degrees.”
“Like things could get pretty hot.”
“Yes. Things could get hot.”
“Well, I’m moving then.”
Marshall said, “Hang on, wait. How much rent are you behind?”
“Don’t know. You’d have to tell me.”
“Right. I thought so. You got the car there?”
“You mean my car?”
Marshall said, “Yes. Your car.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah. It’s here.”
“Are there many cars parked out on the street?”
“Hang on. Uh. Yeah. There’s some. I don’t know, five.”
Passersby on the sidewalk, tourists mainly. Marshall closed the door again lest he be overheard. He said, “Anyone in them?”
“Don’t think so. No.”
Marshall said, “Okay. Pack a bag, get in the car, drive up the street where you can see the house, and just sit there and watch. If you can do that for me, we’ll call everything square.”
“My car?”
“Yes, your car. You’re not taking mine.”
“Okay. Yeah. All right. What am I watching for?”
“Anything.”
“Like people coming?”
Marshall said, “Especially like people coming.”
“All right. For how long?”
“Not long. I’ll be back in about an hour.”
“What if I see something?”
“If you see something you call me. But do not go back into the house. Is that clear? Do not go back into the house.”
“Uh-huh. House off-limits.”
“I’ll be round in an hour or two. You need to get out of there in the next five minutes.”
He ended the call and just sat there quietly, coming down off the tension of it. Then he got out and locked the car and walked back up the street. On his right the plaza was still green coming into summer, tourists with cameras out in force, buskers and the odd junkie looking for change. An old guy in a huge feathered hat was sitting on a bench, watching traffic slip by.
Marshall walked another block and made a left into the Starbucks on San Francisco Street. Lucas Cohen was seated at the table facing the window, reading The New York Times. Marshall ordered coffee and brought it over and sat down beside him, on the far side so he could put his back to the wall, keep the door in view.
Cohen said, “All the places in town we coulda met, you pick this.” Running the words together in his Texas drawl, all part of being a smooth lawman. He closed the newspaper and held it at the centerfold so it fell together.
“What’s wrong with Starbucks?”
Cohen raised his eyebrows, inoffensive. “Nothing. But there’re parks, museums, got the cathedral just there. I don’t know, some nice options.”
Marshall tried some coffee. He said, “Did you want it like one of those spy movies, meet on a bench in the plaza, talk out the corner of your mouth?”
Cohen nodded. “Yeah, something like that. Both of us looking different ways. Maybe next time.”
Marshall didn’t answer. Cohen was wearing a yellow polo shirt tucked into tan trousers, razor-sharp down the creases. Folded sunglasses hanging in the neck of the shirt.
Marshall said, “I get you on your day off or something?”
Cohen set his coffee on the newspaper, looked down at his attire. “No. We got some Nazi wacko, skipped a court appearance for firearms in Dallas, had a tip-off he’s working as a golf caddy down Sandia Heights.”
Marshall said, “So you’re going in undercover?”
Cohen nodded. “Yeah, swap my putter for a shotgun, that sort of thing. Trying to think of some good golf puns for the ride home.” He smiled. “Actually picked him up once before, working at a course just up the 77. Coupla years back now. Funny how people have these instincts, you know? This guy, gets a bit of trouble, comes down here and does some caddying.” He had a mouthful of coffee. “Anyway, should be good. Got along okay with him last time, he’s a Texas man, I’m a Texas man, so we kinda bonded over that. But we’ll see.”
Marshall said, “Why do you keep calling me?”
Cohen glanced behind him, just regular coffee shop bustle. People lining up for caffeine, peering at cell phones while they waited. He said, “If you ever answered the phone I wouldn’t have to.” He unfolded the shades and slipped them on, the street getting pretty bright this time of morning. “But it’s like asset management, good to check our witness protection folks aren’t getting murdered.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
Co
hen tipped his cup high, getting the last mouthful. “If this tenant of yours was removed from the equation, I might be disinclined to doubt you.” He liked a long-winded phrase every so often, take it slow, really play up the accent.
Marshall said, “It’s extra security. Have him in the WITSEC house, keep myself somewhere else.”
“Yeah. Thing is, when I drove past just now and ran his plates, they didn’t actually match his car.”
“How’d you know it was his?”
“It was parked in your driveway, so I put two and two together.”
Marshall was quiet a second. He said, “So, what?”
“So, it tells me he’s not exactly the most scrupulous individual. And the idea of being in federal protection is you try not to attract any attention.” He leaned forward on folded arms and smiled out at the view. “Whereas people like whatshisname, Felix, can sometimes undermine that.”
Marshall didn’t answer.
They sat there a while, not talking. Cohen watched the window, oddly engrossed, like the street was careful theater. He said, “Looking forward to a bit of Albuquerque, actually. Might drop in at Tim’s Place, grab a burger.” He clucked his tongue. “Risky though. Mrs. Cohen gets sorta riled if I don’t leave room for dinner.”
Marshall said, “I think Felix is an acceptable risk.”
Cohen looked at him. “Yeah? What exactly do you know about him?”
“Not much. But I’m a good judge of character.”
Cohen kept watching him, Marshall just sitting there quietly, drinking his coffee. Traffic gliding by slowly on the narrow road, pedestrians chatting mutely beyond the glass.
Cohen said, “Problem is, if you’re driving a car with swapped plates, chances are you’ve broken a law at some stage. Now if you want a tenant, I guess that’s your prerogative, strange as it is. But bottom line is, you’re going to have to find someone a little less. I don’t know.”
“Dubious?”
Cohen nodded. He tipped his cup back and forth, probably watching the last bead of fluid circle the base. He said, “Yeah. Dubious. Or even if it’s just in the interests of irony. Like, bad PR if someone finds out we’ve got a wanted felon in a safe house, you know what I mean?”
“Right. So why’d we have to talk about this face-to-face?”
Cohen blew air through his teeth, a very faint whistle. “Because I wanted to make sure you’ll do it.”