The Mercy of the Night

by David Corbett

  “Yeah, I’m so consoled. Who—”

  “Don’t be mad at her.”

  Her, she thought. “That’ll depend.”

  “Mattie. The older—”

  “I know who she is.”

  Rudolfo, apparently mollified, turned the TV to a soccer match and notched the sound back up—screaming crowd, breathless announcer with a voice like a gong.

  “If you’re going to get mad,” Tierney said, “get mad at me.”

  Yeah, she thought, you’d like that. “Sure, fine, sit down, whatever.”

  37

  He shouldered out of his coat, nudged it into the corner and slid in across from her, nodding at her plate. “Smells good,” he said. “Go ahead and eat.”

  She looked down at the grilled pupusas with the shredded pork inside, the steamy pool of puréed black beans plopped with sour cream, the toasted chunks of yucca—how, she wondered, can I be this hungry and still feel like I’m gonna hurl?

  “By the way—you may find this interesting—know what Mattie’s real name is?”

  Granny Snitch McCumglutton? “No. Tell me.”

  “Buttonwillow Hazeltine.”

  He looked pleased with himself, explaining how he’d dug it up on the Internet, court records. Yeah, she thought, you must love that, digging stuff up. “You coulda been some twisted slasher dipwad, wants to cut me open.”

  “But I’m not. She got that. I think you do too.”

  Oh go take a jump. She unwrapped her fork and knife from their paper napkin. The plate seemed big as the table. “You want some of this? I don’t think I can eat it all.”

  “You should try,” he said. Then, pointing. “I’ll take one of those.” He reached over, plucked a slice of fried yucca off her plate.

  “What you should try is some pupusa.” She cut off a corner, speared it with her fork, passed it to him. “It’s pretty yummy.”

  He took the fork, hesitated.

  “I’m not worried about your cooties,” she said. “If you’re worried about mine, I haven’t used the fork yet.”

  He blushed and smiled and plucked the morsel daintily off its tines, using his lips, not just his teeth. Oh, how bold.

  “Wow,” he said. “What’s that flavor?”

  “It’s called loroco.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, get it out of her face. “It’s, like, this little flower pod.” She cut off a bite of pupusa for herself, shmoodged it around in the black beans and sour cream. “So old Mattie handed me up.”

  “Don’t take it out on her.” He’d moved on to the yucca, holding the toasted wedge like a magic coin. “I think the old girl’s got a soft spot for you, to be honest.”

  “Like you. Two of you got something in common. Maybe you should hook up.”

  “I’ve got that base covered, thanks.”

  “Not from what I saw.” She remembered the lanky redhead, the nurse, bolting the cafeteria.

  Ever so slightly, his face colored again. “Point is, if I can find you this easily, anybody can.”

  “So you get why I’m pissed at Old Mattie.”

  “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing, being found. If it’s up to you how you’re seen. And by who.”

  She looked at him, chewing. “Wow. That’s, like, deep.”

  Don’t be such a snot, she thought, digging into her food some more. The curtido tasted crisp and vinegary but not sour. Behind the bar, an ecstatic buzzing cry from the TV crowd, the announcer dragging it out: “Gooooooooooooooooal!”

  “I wasn’t being philosophical,” he said. “Mattie told me there were some other men, two in particular, who came around, asking if she’d seen you. They had a picture.”

  Jacqi glanced up, gripping her fork a bit tighter, feeling the pulse in her throat. Ben and Hector, Navarette’s hammerheads. “She give them the same info she gave you?”

  “I don’t think so. She said she didn’t.”

  “She just, what, liked your face?”

  “Like I said, I think she realized I wasn’t out to hurt you. But it might be wise not to stay here too long.”

  As though on cue the door opened again with the usual rattle and clang. In unison Jacqi glanced up, Tierney spun around.

  Two young jornaleros entered, their hair wet and the shoulders of their jackets dark with rain. They nodded shyly and dropped into the first booth as, from the back, over the TV, Ilena crooned, “Momen-TI-to!”

  38

  Jacqi relaxed back into her seat, only then realizing she was gripping her fork like a weapon. Tierney turned back around, offered a buck-up smile, and leaned closer across the table.

  “Getting back to what happened this morning,” he said. “I’m guessing that derails your plans about leaving.”

  Jacqi cut off another morsel of pupusa. Her hand trembled. “Nope.”

  “It should.”

  She affected a shrug. “None of your business, to be honest.”

  “You asked me for money.”

  “And you said no way. Change your mind?”

  She glanced up. That face, she thought. He should rent it out for funerals.

  “Not exactly,” he said. “But I’ve been thinking about something else you said, about staying at my place.”

  Jacqi stopped chewing and locked her eyes on his. He didn’t seem to be making a play, given the kind of come-on she was used to. Still . . .

  “The house I shared with my wife is largely empty. I stay at my girlfriend’s house most of the time now.”

  “The nurse,” she said, thinking: Most of the time. Not all.

  “Her name is Cass. I just go over to the old place to pick up mail, get a change of clothes if I need it. I can make sure the pilot for the water heater’s on, crank up the furnace. You’ll be safe there, or as safe as anywhere else, while you figure out a plan—”

  “I don’t need a plan. I have a plan. I told you—”

  “You’re a material witness in a major homicide.”

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “That’s called a finding of fact, to be determined at trial. They’ll be looking for you everywhere.”

  “Not where I’m going.”

  “You don’t have the money, you told me that, what, an hour ago? Think. There’s a hundred-thousand-dollar reward out there now. You don’t step forward then your whereabouts become an issue and anyone who hands you up has a legitimate claim to part of that pot. Besides which, the headlines in this thing? No lawyer on either side can afford to phone it in, and you can bet, on top of everything else, somebody’s going to sue somebody else for negligence or wrongful death, the wife especially, loss of financial support, loss of consortium—which is a joke, given what I know about this guy—but the numbers at stake will be huge. If there’s even a hint of gang involvement, the city and county may try using asset forfeiture to cover their own exposure. Long story short, ten years from now they’ll still be litigating this thing, which means it’ll be worth someone’s while to track you down no matter how far you run.”

  She pictured it again, Playa Ventura, saw in her mind’s eye the narrow, hoof-marked, sand-drifted streets, the ramshackle hotels along the volcanic beach, the relentless surf. No way they’d find her there—how would they even know to look?

  Then she remembered—Skellenger said they’d be cloning her cell. They could track her web search history, all those Lonely Planet hits.

  It was enough to make her weep. Where’s a guy like Victor Cope when you need him? He’d know how to make her disappear.

  “Know what? I’m sick of saving people. I saved this city, remember? Testified against the monster. Look how fabulous that turned out. Now seems like they want me to do it again. Whole new monster. Well, fuck them. Fuck you. I can’t give you whatever it is you want. Just leave me alone.”

  “If I thought that was your best option
,” he said, “I would.”

  He had the whole sincerity thing nailed, had to grant him that. “So what makes me safe at your place?”

  Tierney glanced briefly at Rudolfo, then over his shoulder at the two workmen, nodding thoughtfully as he came back around, as though gearing up for a long story.

  “This goes back before you were born, but I assume you’ve heard of the O. J. Simpson case.”

  That one came outta left field. “I’m not stupid.”

  “I didn’t say you were. There was a friend of Simpson’s named Al Cowlings.”

  “The white Bronco guy.”

  “Exactly.” He seemed modestly impressed. “Nickname was AC. He was with Simpson during the drama on the freeway—kind of like you in the car with Verrazzo. That entire situation gave ‘media circus’ a whole new meaning, and the trial was even worse. But Cowlings never got formally charged and he never testified at trial. Hardly anyone knows who his lawyer was. Because he wasn’t out to milk his client for publicity or cash in on the back end. His name was Don Re. The one lawyer in that whole mess who seemed to understand what his job was. I know a few guys in the city like that—Tony Tamburello, for one. I’d trust my life with Tony.”

  “It’s not your life we’re talking about, though, is it.”

  “You can rely on him.”

  “To do what?”

  “He’ll probably have you surrender, make bail if they decide to charge you—”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “I’ve explained this to you. You violated a court order when you left Winchinchala House. You didn’t remain at the scene to give a statement. As for what was going on in the car—”

  “Nothing went on.” We didn’t get that far, she thought.

  “Regardless, he’ll probably have you take the Fifth unless they promise immunity. Even if they do, Tony can make it so both sides realize they’ve got more to lose than gain by putting you on the stand. I assume that’s what you want, given your attitude.”

  “What attitude?”

  “You haven’t stepped up and told what you saw, despite a reward.”

  “Rewards are a joke.”

  “Have it your way. My point is, Tony’s smart. He’ll protect you.”

  Meaning you’ll protect me, she thought, finally beginning to see his angle. “And who’s gonna pay for all this?”

  “Knowing Tony, he might take it pro bono. If not, I can help out.”

  “Get real, he’s gonna want something, right?”

  “I can’t speak for him, but—”

  “So you’ll pay for that but not front me two thousand so I can just disappear.”

  He sat back, sagging a little. “You won’t disappear, that’s the point. Not for long. And it’s not about the money.”

  “What’s it about then—Eastwood?”

  That stopped him for a second. “It was wrong to push you like that. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Especially now.”

  “Got that right.” Inside her head, a sound that wasn’t a sound—a screechy howling silence—raked across the darkness. She wanted to let it out. She didn’t dare. “So I stay at your place instead.”

  “Until Tony gets up to speed, yeah.”

  “Know what?” She leaned forward, squared herself, took a second to lock in. “I spent a couple days at some guy’s place before. Not for long. Waiting for him to get up to speed, so to speak. See where I’m going with this?”

  It was like she’d pulled a plug. The color drained from his face and he sat back, started to say something, checked himself. She could almost hear the gears turning inside his skull.

  “I can protect myself,” she said.

  “Not by running.”

  “What is it with you? You’re my tutor for the goddamn GED, for chrissake. No, wait, you’re some hotshot lawyer with, like, connections, except you’re also tracking me all over town like some skeevy bounty hunter for Lonnie the Liar. God knows what else. Your nurse girlfriend storms out when you come over to talk to me, what the hell is that about? But ‘Hey, crash at my place, it’s cool.’ I’m supposed to trust you?”

  I’d like to, she thought. If you’d just stop trying so hard. Christ, back off and I’d kiss you. Shoving her plate away, she said, “You’re making my head hurt.”

  He had that look, so strong, so soulful. So full of shit.

  “Sorry,” he said, sounding like a drunk trying to donate blood.

  39

  Tierney, feeling spent to the bone, doubted he’d ever worked so hard to such humbling effect. And yet the girl seemed somewhat ragged as well. Maybe, he thought, we’re actually getting somewhere.

  She sat across the table, staring at her plate as though hoping to move it through telepathy. Fussing with her hair. Nodding.

  “So you’re really not interested in hearing about Eastwood anymore?”

  Tierney chuckled to hide his surprise. You had to hand it to her, the girl had a major-league curve.

  “I said I don’t need to hear about it, not now. You’ve got more immediate worries.”

  She glanced up. “It’s not what you think.”

  “I’m not sure I think much of anything. I mean, except that it’s important somehow, given how everybody’s acting.”

  She began picking at a protruding edge on the strip of ridged aluminum rimming the laminated table.

  “Eastwood,” she said, “was this friend of my brother’s, that much is right. He was four years older than me and he used to come over to the house to visit Richie and I kinda, I dunno, had a crush on him. Schoolgirl stuff, embarrassing really, looking back at it, I mean. I was really into Smallville, the TV show? He was, too, and we’d talk about what we liked, what we hated. He hung out at this gas station where there was a plum tree around back and he’d bring over these bags of plums.”

  Her nodding became a little more earnest, as though the memory had convinced her of something.

  “Honestly, that’s all there is to it. But when I was outta my mind scared with Cope, I must’ve said something—I’d seen on TV where it’s harder for a killer to follow through if he can see his victims as human beings. And so I just started talking this one time and he must’ve taken it, you know, like Eastwood and me had some kinda thing going on. But that’s just sewage from Cope’s sick head. It’s got nothing to do with me or my brother. I need you to hear me on that, okay?”

  Her voice cracked a little at the end and her eyes seemed uneasy, like she was expecting an argument. Tierney said, “If that’s all it is, your brother’s reaction seems, well, rather extreme.”

  “Nobody in the family wants Victor Cope back in our lives.”

  “Of course, but—”

  “He gets wind anybody takes him serious, about this or anything else, he’ll find himself a jailhouse lawyer and file some goddamn motion and next thing you know—”

  “I understand,” Tierney said, thinking there was more, maybe a lot more, still left unsaid, but before he could think of a way to get there the girl stiffened, her eyes turning hard as she looked past him toward the door.

  Turning, he saw the familiar black Mercedes convertible pulling to a stop out front. Navarette’s men, Little Monster and the Moose. Ben Escalada, Hector Mancinas. Apparently ol’ Buttonwillow had told them after all.

  Jacqi slid quickly out of the booth. Tierney reached for her hand. “Wait—”

  She yanked the hand back, eyes flashing, but then seemed to calm down and nodded toward her plate. “Pull that over to your side, like it’s yours. Tell them you came to find me too but I wasn’t here, you decided to grab some chow.” She backed away, eyes on the door. “I’m gonna go hide in the ladies’. Let Ilena know when they’ve left and she’ll come get me.”

  She hurried down the hallway beyond the bar toward the restrooms, ducked her head into the ki
tchen, caught Ilena’s eye. “Mi amigo pagará mi comida.” She pointed toward the rear of the restaurant. “Afuera?”

  Ilena, using tongs to arrange shredded curtido on two plates, glanced up wearily, then nodded.

  Beyond a clutter of mops and brooms and hanging coats, Jacqi spotted the door leading out. She headed straight for it, threw the bolt, shouldered it open, felt the damp cool air on her skin.

  A narrow alley with a high brick wall, stitched with vines, ran in both directions. She gathered her bearings, pulled up her hood and headed west, toward Bettye’s.

  Digging into her pocket, she took out her phone and finally turned it off, realizing that wasn’t how Escalada and Mancinas had tracked her down but understanding now, better than ever, how easily she could get found.

  She hit the side street and pictured Tierney still sitting at the table, left to deal with the situation alone, like some chump she’d tricked into taking her to the prom so she could hang with the guy she actually liked. She felt bad. Not terrible, but bad. The man was jinxed. Rotten luck followed him around. Very rotten luck.

  Next time you see him, she thought, apologize. Till then, remember: you’re the girl who gets away.

  40

  Tierney sat there toying with the cold plate of food, detecting a faint soap-like scent he ultimately traced to the cilantro. He’d gotten up and taken the girl’s place once she trundled off, wanting to face the door when it opened.

  He’d considered priming his cell to 911, ready to thumb the call button, but he thought better of involving the police just yet, seeing the wisdom of first wrangling up a lawyer for the girl. Hearing the car doors slam out front, he turned and caught the barman’s eye, saying matter-of-factly, “There could be trouble,” then the front door swung open with a rattle of blinds and the chime of its small tin bell.

  Tierney pretended to eat until the two of them reached the table and stopped, the small one walking point, the hulk watching his six. Glancing up, he offered a smile.