by Lou Berney
The dog leaped off the seat of the teeter-totter, and the girls scrambled, laughing, to catch him. He wriggled on his back and bit happily at the dead grass.
He’d not had a seizure, Charlotte realized, since they’d left Woodrow. The new medicine was working. She could see that he felt better and livelier and more like himself than he had in a long time.
Was it a permanent state? No. The vet had cautioned her that even under the best of circumstances it was likely the dog would still experience an occasional seizure. These setbacks would be milder, though, and less frequent. The dog would be more resilient, able to more quickly bounce back up each time life knocked him down.
And just like that, Charlotte’s mind was made up. She wasn’t going back to Oklahoma. She wasn’t going back to Dooley. Come what may. The car was a blow. Other blows were sure to follow. But she needn’t let that deter her. She would just choose, each time, to bounce back up.
She wasn’t sure how they’d make it to California, but Charlotte would find a way. And once they arrived? How would they manage to get by? Charlotte would find a way. And maybe Frank was right. Maybe the universe did owe her a favor.
A moment later here he came, Frank, strolling up the street as if she’d conjured him out of thin air. When he got closer, his smile disappeared and his face creased with concern. She knew that she must have looked like a mess, her mascara running.
“What’s the trouble?” he said. “And how can I help?”
18
Barone had the colored kid drive straight from the police station in Goodnight to Amarillo. Guidry would jump on 66 there. Barone would jump on it right behind him. First, though, he had to get rid of the Pontiac.
“Down there,” Barone said. An alley off Amarillo’s main drag. A couple of cheapskates, not wanting to pay the meter on the street, had parked there.
The kid squeezed the Pontiac in.
“Leave the keys in it,” Barone said. Here, kitty, kitty. With a little luck, some punk or vagrant would boost the Pontiac and drive it to Canada.
“Do what?” the kid said.
“Do what I say. Don’t ask questions.”
“We just gonna walk off?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Shoot.” But the kid didn’t give him any extra lip. More than Barone could say for most of the so-called professionals that he’d worked with over the years.
They caught a bus that ran to the highway. Walked up 66 a couple of blocks to a motel the exact same layout as the Bali Hai in Houston. The cinder-block L, the stairs in the crook of the L, just like the ones the sniper from San Francisco had tumbled down. This motel didn’t have a tropical theme, though, or any theme at all. It was just the Amarillo 66.
“’Bout time we stop,” the kid said. “Wake me up for breakfast.”
Barone was tired, too. Aching and hot. It was Monday, one o’clock in the afternoon, and he’d been awake for … he couldn’t remember how long. He could use some rest. He might end up having to check every motel between here and California. All right. It would take Seraphine a few hours to arrange a new car for him.
On the way into the motel, Barone studied each car in the lot. He didn’t see a ’57 or ’58 Dodge Coronet, blue over white.
He asked the clerk about Guidry. Described him. Barone explained that he was a private dick, looking for a guy who ran out on his wife and kids back home, didn’t know what name the guy was using. Barone doubted that Guidry would have stopped in Amarillo, but better make sure.
The clerk said no, sorry, nobody had registered since yesterday afternoon. He gave Barone and the kid two rooms next to each other. Barone told the kid to be ready to go in three hours, and then he went to find a phone booth.
“Well?” Seraphine said.
“No,” Barone said.
“No?”
“He talked his way out of it somehow.”
“Ah.” She didn’t sound too surprised.
“The sheriff said he’s headed west,” Barone said. “I have the make and the model, what he’s driving. I had to get a little rough.”
Barone waited for her to say something. Seraphine knew exactly the wrong way to rub him.
“I couldn’t have gotten there any faster,” he said.
“It’s not your fault, mon cher,” she said.
“I didn’t say it was.”
“At least we know where he’s going now. Las Vegas or Los Angeles.”
Las Vegas or Los Angeles? It didn’t sound to Barone like they knew where Guidry was going.
It was a long drive either way. Barone thought about the move Guidry had made in Houston. How he’d tried to fool Seraphine, doubling back and not taking the first flight out of Municipal.
“Put your people on it in Vegas and L.A.,” Barone said, “but maybe he’ll stop for the night along the way. Maybe for a few nights. Hoping we’ll hop right over him.”
She was quiet again. This time because she realized that Barone might be right. “Perhaps,” she said. “Yes.”
“How quick can you get me a car?” he said. “And a new piece.”
“I’ll make a call right now.”
He gave her the name of the motel and hung up and went back to his room. The fever pounded away at him. Upper cut, jab, cold, hot. He didn’t worry. The flu never lasted too long, not the worst of it. A shower would help. But Barone couldn’t sit up, the world spinning so fast it kept him pinned to the bed. He didn’t remember lying down. He tried to unbutton his shirt. Next thing he knew, he was kneeling on the tile floor of the bathroom, the hot water from the shower steaming up the mirror.
And then he was standing on the shore of a mountain lake, the lake from one of the paintings on the wall of the police station. But the lake was on fire now, and the heat from it turned him to cinders. Barone could feel his skin bubble and pop. He knew it was just a dream. But when dreams are more real than life, what difference does it make?
An icy breeze blew him free. He was running now. The colored kid running next to him. Theodore, don’t call me Ted. Theodore, don’t call me Teddy. The kid was hollering. Hurry up! What were he and the kid running from? What were they running toward? Barone didn’t have anything against the Germans. The scream of the shells as they dropped from the sky. Jump! the kid hollered at Barone. Now? Jump!
A room. A red mohair sofa. A woman with her feet up on the bolster. Barone five or six years old again. The woman smiling at him. Her bare thighs under the robe. She cocked her head at a door. It’s in there, she said. What is? She wouldn’t tell him. Go see for yourself. Don’t be afraid.
When Barone woke up, he was back in bed, the motel in Amarillo, under the covers. A bald man with a round face and round wire-frame glasses sat in a chair next to the bed, picking at his teeth with the corner of a matchbook.
“Hello, Mr. Roberts,” the man said. “And how are we feeling this morning?”
Barone couldn’t see the man’s eyes because of the way the light from the window flashed off the lenses. “Who are you?” Barone said.
“We are looking significantly more vigorous, I would say.”
He handed Barone a glass of water. Barone could barely lift his head. He had to hold the glass with both hands. But he felt better. Just a little hot, a little dizzy. The water tasted good. He drank every drop.
“Who the hell are you?” Barone said.
“I,” the man said, “am the doctor who saved your life. Lest you think I exaggerate, I assure you I do not. Boy!”
The colored kid popped out from behind the doctor and took the empty glass from Barone and carried it into the bathroom. Barone heard the water running.
“Your hand was badly infected,” the doctor said. “You had a fever of one hundred and four when I first arrived.”
Barone drank the second glass of water. The room no longer pitched and heaved.
“Your boy here had the good sense to badger the hotel manager until he called me. I would be honored to meet the trained capuchin monkey who put
those sutures in your hand, by the way. He neglected to clean the wound first, it appears, but it’s the most accomplished suturing work by a trained capuchin monkey I’ve ever observed.”
“You was on the floor.” The kid kept a wary distance, like he was afraid Barone might be mad. “All laid out, tangled up with your undershirt up over your head. Door was open. I thought you was dead.”
“What time is it?” Barone said.
“Eleven o’clock in the morning,” the doctor said. “Open your mouth, please, Mr. Roberts.”
The doctor stuck a thermometer under Barone’s tongue. Eleven o’clock in the morning. That couldn’t be right. They’d reached Amarillo at one o’clock in the afternoon. Time never rolled backward, no matter how much you might want it to.
“Very good,” the doctor said, inspecting the thermometer. “Just a hair over one hundred degrees. We’re making progress, Mr. Roberts.”
“What day is it?” Barone said.
“Tuesday.”
“No. It’s Monday.”
“It’s Tuesday, November twenty-sixth, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and sixty-three,” the doctor said. “I administered antibiotics yesterday, and earlier this morning. I cleaned your wound and changed the dressing.”
“What else you want me to do?” the kid said. He still hung back but had gone from wary to defensive. “I thought you was dead till I poked at you. You ’bout tried to kill me before you gone down all in a heap again.”
“In my medical opinion, the sutures need to be removed and the wound thoroughly irrigated and drained forthwith,” the doctor said. “Culture the drainage and immobilize the hand. Fresh sutures and a cast forthwith. If you come to my office tomorrow morning, I will assist.”
“Get out,” Barone said.
“Adequate rest is paramount. Plenty of fluids, though of course you should avoid any fluids of the alcoholic nature. And it’s absolutely essential that you take these for the next two weeks. Do you see?”
The doctor showed Barone a bottle of pills, rattled it, and then set it back on the bedside table. He picked up a second bottle and rattled it.
“Take these if you experience any pain,” the doctor said. “They’re quite potent, so moderation is advised. May I ask how you came by your injury?”
“He cut it shaving his palms,” the kid said.
The doctor chuckled. “Wonderful.”
“Come here,” Barone told the kid. “Help me up.”
The kid helped Barone hobble to the bathroom. Barone had to grip the kid’s shoulder while he took a piss. He felt like his bones had been put in a pot and boiled until they were soft. By the time he flopped back into the bed, he was out of breath.
The doctor picked at his teeth with the corner of the matchbook.
“Get out,” Barone said.
“With alacrity, Mr. Roberts. There’s just the small matter of payment.”
After the doctor got his money and left, Barone told the kid to help him out of bed again.
“You suppose to rest,” the kid said. “Doctor just said so.”
“Come here,” Barone said.
Once Barone was dressed, he sent the kid off to find him cigarettes, whiskey, and a 5th Avenue candy bar. Barone walked to the door. He counted to ten, catching his breath, before he opened it and stepped outside.
Parking lot. A Ford Fairlane sat in the corner, off by itself. In the glove box, there was a Police Positive .38, like the one that Fisk had been carrying but this one with a worn wooden grip.
Barone made it back to the room. Just barely. The kid returned with the cigarettes and the candy bars but no whiskey. Barone was too weak to cuss him out about the whiskey. Barone could barely crawl into bed again.
“Told you to rest,” the kid said. “Didn’t I?”
“Shuuhhh,” was all Barone could say.
“Didn’t I tell you? Here. Take your pill.”
The kid ran a washrag under the cold water and laid it across Barone’s forehead. Barone ate half of the 5th Avenue candy bar and took two of the pain pills. He went to sleep. The kid woke him up in the night and made him take another one of the other pills, made him drink a glass of water.
When Barone woke up again, it was morning. A quarter past nine.
“What day is it?” Barone said.
“Wednesday,” the kid said. “Day before Thanksgiving.”
Wednesday. Barone had pissed away almost two full days.
Barone sat up. Gingerly. Put his feet on the floor. He shaved and showered. The kid buzzed around, griping that Barone needed to keep resting, doctor said so, doctor said so.
“Nothing yet,” Barone said when Seraphine answered. “You?”
“No,” she said. Her voice flat.
“What’s wrong.”
“‘A little rough.’”
“What?”
“That’s what you said about Texas,” Seraphine said. “That you had to get ‘a little rough.’”
So she’d heard about the police station in Goodnight. She was right to be mad. Barone was mad at himself. He blamed the fever. He shouldn’t have lost his temper. Wait for the sheriff to leave the station and follow him home. Get the number on Guidry just as quickly, a lot more quietly.
But fuck Seraphine. In her comfortable office, her comfortable life, having cocktails before dinner every evening, strolling through the park. Barone was the one who had to do all the heavy lifting. Who risked his life for Carlos. Seraphine had to worry about chipping her nail polish on the adding machine.
“So?” he said.
“I’m not sure you appreciate the urgency,” she said. “I’ve been assured that the authorities won’t rest until the responsible party is found.”
“Then they won’t get any rest, will they?”
“How far along are you?”
Barone shouldn’t have stopped in Amarillo. He blamed the fever. He hadn’t planned to stop in Amarillo for more than a few hours.
“Albuquerque,” he said. He didn’t know if she’d be able to tell he was lying.
“Good,” she said. “Though you’ll still need to be cautious. And don’t return to Texas for any reason. I hope I don’t have to remind you. The sooner you find our friend, the better for everyone.”
Back in the room, the kid was in his stockinged feet, watching TV. Barone kicked his shoes over to him.
“We’re leaving,” Barone said.
“Now?” the kid said. “What about breakfast? And you got to take your pill first. Doctor said—”
“Right now.”
19
Thanksgiving Day. As Guidry wheeled onto the highway, he gave thanks that he was finished forever with Santa Maria, New Mexico, and on the move again.
“Away we go,” he told his audience. Charlotte in the passenger seat next to him, her daughters and their dog in the backseat.
The grease monkey had balked at first, when Guidry offered him fifty dollars to tell the woman her car was dead. He’d claimed that he could never do such an underhanded thing, not to such a nice lady and her daughters. Like hell. He just wanted to drive up the price. Guidry, bent over the barrel, had no choice. In the good old days, he never had to dicker. Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir. Give Mr. Marcello my regards, sir.
Look on the bright side, though. If Big Ed Zingel kept his word, Guidry wouldn’t have to worry about money once he got to Las Vegas. And if Ed didn’t keep his word? Guidry wouldn’t have to worry about money then either, except for the penny he’d have to pay Charon to cross the river Styx into the land of the dead.
The grease monkey held up his end of the bargain. Charlotte walked out of the garage like she’d been hit by a bus.
Guidry timed his swoop down from the skies just right. “How can I help?”
She told him about the car. He listened sympathetically. Guidry had to hand it to her. She might have been crying a minute ago, but she wasn’t now. She seemed to be taking the punch like a champ: Her voice didn’t break, her gaze didn’t falter.
“Well, Charlotte,” he said, “it’s a good thing that you have a backup plan.”
She managed a smile. “Well, Frank, I’m not sure that I do.”
“I’m going to Los Angeles, too, aren’t I?” he said. “There’s plenty of room in my car. And you’ve seen my way with dogs.”
She studied him. Her expression more surprised than wary, but for a second there Guidry was sure she could see right through him.
“You’re very kind,” she said, “but I couldn’t possibly—”
“Let’s discuss the reasons why not. You go first.”
“Because …”
“The bus will take you three days,” he said. “It stops at every town between here and the Pacific Ocean. And it won’t be cheap, three people and a dog.”
Guidry watched her work out the next part for herself. How much would the bus cost? Would the driver even allow the dog on the bus?
He rubbed his jaw, inspiration striking. “You’ll need a car in Los Angeles, won’t you? Listen to this. I have a pal in Las Vegas. He’s right on our way to Los Angeles. Ed owns a couple of businesses out there. One of them, as it happens, is a car dealership.”
“I don’t have nearly enough money to buy a car,” Charlotte said.
“You have more than enough to borrow one,” Guidry said. “Ed’s the original Good Samaritan. He’s got daughters of his own.”
Guidry didn’t know if Big Ed had children or not. Well, he had them now. He had daughters and a car dealership and a soft, giving heart.
“But I couldn’t possibly …” she said. Trying to talk herself into it. Trying to talk herself out of it.
He almost had her. Now ease off and let her go. A woman’s first yes needed to be an easy one. Get her in the habit of saying it.
“I apologize,” Guidry said. “I promised I wouldn’t try to sell you anything, didn’t I? How about this? I’m not leaving until tomorrow. Will you at least think it over before you decide? Sleep on it?”
Still she hesitated. Guidry couldn’t tell if he’d blown it or not. Had she seen through him, right down into the depths of his dark, duplicitous soul?