A quick call from a pay telephone in the nearby student union building to the state motor vehicle division told him that the car was registered to a Mr. Ramon Sosa Real.
He didn't return to his office. He didn't do anything for nearly fifteen minutes while he tried to calm down, tried to decide what to do next. If Negrete knew where his office was, then he would know almost everything else too. Where he lived. What kind of car he drove.
This last problem he settled by putting another quarter in the telephone and calling Lucinda Breman, a rangy, long-legged, high-hipped fellow professor whose office was just down the hall from his. He told her his car had had to be hauled to the shop, and he was without wheels for a couple of days. Could he borrow her second one? Lucinda's husband, Cliff, had recently run off with another woman, leaving her with her credit-card accounts run up to the limit, an apartment she couldn't afford on her salary alone, and his 1968 Volvo with a broken air conditioner.
She picked him up at a gas station a block from campus—he told her that's where his car had been towed from—and took him to her apartment. She had started talking about her "situation" on the way, and by the time they got there and he went up with her to get the keys, she was in tears, and astonished him by suddenly and without preamble beginning to undress, weeping and undressing, pleading with him to go to bed with her. He felt as if he were watching a movie, that it was happening to someone else. It was an odd experience, having intercourse with a sobbing woman who nevertheless managed to whip herself up to a surprising frenzy of passion that he wouldn't have expected of her in even the most ideal circumstances. Afterward, she conjured up another kind of passion, screaming for him to get out, standing naked on her bed, throwing his clothes at him, then staggering to a clothes chest and throwing Cliff's clothes at him, too. He dressed in the living room, tying his shoes as he listened to her bawling in the bedroom. Then he took the keys off the dining-room table and left.
The Volvo's gas tank was empty, of course. Cliff really was a bastard. He filled it at the self-serve pumps of an Exxon station, spilling some gasoline on his shoes, soaking one of them, but finally getting the little latch that kept the nozzle running to hold while he walked over to the pay telephone and called home. He told Melva he was going to be late, something about curriculum staff meetings. It didn'1 matter what he said. He lied to her all the time and she accepted everything.
The next thing he did was to try to get in touch with Bias Medrano. Cordero was gone, so that left only himself and Bias and Rubio. Since he had no idea where Bias was, the dead drop was the only means of communication. He needed to know if Bias knew anything about this latest development. Now he could see that he hac been wrong to think Haydon's knowledge of Rubio Arizpe's exis tence hadn't been important enough to relay to Bias through the deac drop. Now he had twice as much reason to use it. There had been i leak somewhere. He needed to know if Bias himself had been taken.
They had selected one of the parking garages on a quiet street in the area north of Hermann Park. On the northeast corner of the garage there was a landscaped area between the curb and the garage itself in which grew a cluster of palmettos. Next to the palmettos was a cement post, a hexagonal stele left over from the 1940s, which held the street sign, and which was girded with two metal bands to discourage cracking. If there was to be a message in the dead drop, a small piece of paper folded in a triangle would be placed in the higher of the two metal bands. The message itself would be on the second floor of the garage, wedged between the cement pillar and the wall of parking space 28.
Ferretis drove to the designated dead drop and circled the block the ratty Volvo interior filled with the heavy, resinous odor of gasoline from his soaked shoes. He saw nothing on the cement post, even after circling the block a second time and gazing down at the ground beneath the sign in case the paper triangle had accidentally fallen from its signal perch. But there was nothing. Okay. He then drove to Hermann Park and stopped the Volvo under the shade of a catalp tree. Looking around in the car he found a steno pad in the back sea and ripped out a sheet of paper. As he reached for the felt-tip pe he always carried in his guayabera, he realized with a jolt that he couldn't code the message. The code key was hidden in his garage a home. And he sure as hell couldn't risk going by there to get it. He hesitated. Shit! Well, it couldn't be helped. There wasn't that much time left. He had to take the chance. Christ. Everything was falling apart. He started scribbling the message to Bias.
C fled to Mexico. Police know A is involved and looking for him. Negrete's men broke into my office and looking for me. Cannot go home. Has there been a leak? Need to know. Be careful. Am floating until I hear from you. F.
It took him only moments to write the message. The sweat from his hands smeared some of the ink as he fumbled with the paper, folding it, but it was perfectly legible. He was so slick with perspiration he began to smell a dank odor overriding that of the gasoline. It was not the stench of body odor—for some reason, chemical he guessed, he had never had that problem—but something like the smell of damp wool.
He jerked his eyes up from the paper. Jesus Christ, he thought suddenly. What a ludicrous idea. Wool was a neglected commodity in Houston, certainly in July. There wasn't any smell besides the gasoline. What in the hell was the matter with him? Was this the way it started, reality and hallucination jumping back and forth across their boundaries, short-circuiting? Was he loosing his grip on this? Could he trust himself? Jesus. He couldn't start thinking like that now. He wouldn't let himself.
Looking down at the paper again, he tried to think if there was anything else he should have said in the message. He decided not. Anything more would have sounded unprofessional. He tore another sheet of paper from Cliff's notebook and folded it into a triangle, reminding him at this moment, but never before, of those little hats his older brother used to make for him out of folded newspapers. Closing the car door, which he had opened to dissipate his collection of odors and, he hoped, to catch a stray wisp of air, he started the car and drove back to the garage. He circled the block clockwise this time, so he would be in the lane next to the landscaping. He stopped and got out, leaving the Volvo running as he stood on his toes and jammed the paper triangle into the metal band.
The only drawback to having a dead drop in a parking garage was that it cost you a minimum of $1.25 every time you delivered or picked up a message. He took his ticket from the machine, waited for the arm to rise, and drove up to the second floor. A car was parked in space 28, so he stopped, left the Volvo idling again, and slipped the folded note behind the pillar, making sure it couldn't be seen from the aisle, making sure it was wedged tightly and wouldn't fall out. When he got back into the car he drove up to the top floor and found an empty parking space facing downtown. He had paid for an hour anyway, and he had nowhere to go. In fact, it was best if he stayed "hidden."
The top floor was almost empty, and he found a parking space with empty spaces on either side so he could open the front doors on the Volvo once again. He stared across the tops of the trees to the stalagmites of downtown. He needed to take stock. What the hell had happened? All of a sudden everything was falling apart. What did he really think were his odds of coming out of this unscathed? Always before, when he had imagined the aftermath of the assassination, he had pictured himself opening the newspaper the next morning and reading about it. Of all the city's inhabitants, only he would know the truth. Smugly, he would follow the investigation in the newspapers and on television, knowing the heady feeling of true, anonymous power. The man behind the scenes. The highest position of real authority.
But now he could more easily imagine something else. Constant fear. Unceasing tension. Sleepless nights. Unrelenting insecurity. Six months ago he had had no doubts that he would get away with it, but now, when he might be only hours away from accomplishing what he had planned, thought about, and desired for so long, it seemed to him that his connection to the affair might be the news on the front page instead of the assas
sination.
He was ashamed at his sudden pessimism, his—so obvious-fear. It seemed now, at the first sign of trouble, he was turning into a whimperer.
The next question: How much time would he have, after the assassination? That was easy to answer: He would have no way of knowing. Perhaps he had planned it wrong all along. Perhaps he was naive to think he could continue to live as he had always lived, the brains behind the perfect political assassination. It seemed obvious now that he should leave with Bias and Rubio. Only a fool woul stay behind. It was smart, cunning, to leave. Strike, and then flight. Isn't that what they were doing? Of course.
Then he thought of the obvious once again. If he had to get touch with Bias, why leave a note? Why not wait in person? He could talk with Bias when he came to make the pickup. It was stupid send messages when he could simply talk to him.
He slammed the doors of the Volvo, started the car, and roared to the down ramp, descending to the second level. Finding a spot with a clear view of the dead drop, he backed in—just in case—and cut the motor. He wasn't near the outside here, there was no breeze, and it was gloomy, but he felt safer. He would feel a lot safer after talking to Bias.
Chapter 40
CISSY FARRELL sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed in Cappy's Cash Motel off the Gulf Freeway, picking at a fever blister at the corner of her mouth with trembling fingers which also held a freshly lighted Salem. Her eyes were puffy from crying and too much beer, and her bleached hair was stiff and sticking out on one side where she had nervously run her sweaty hands through it maybe a thousand times. She wore blue jeans, and one of Donny's plaid western shirts with snap buttons. Staring at a rerun on the black-and-white TV set, she watched Angel trying to lay a scam on Jim Rockford—she guessed, she didn't know because the sound was off. She reached down between her legs and lifted a Coors Light. Draining the last of the warm brew, she tossed the can off the edge of the bed with the others. An advertisement for an anniversary special of Country and Western's Greatest Hits came on after a Rockford fade-out and Cissy thought for a second she was going to throw up. She waited to see if she was and when she didn't she went back to picking the fever blister. Then she started crying again.
She fell back on the bed, unfolding her legs and letting them dangle over the end, her arms flopping out and scattering cigarette ashes. Scared and dead-ass drunk on the Coors, the same damn Coors she had gone to get in Donny's pickup and had come back with when she saw the two cars at Tucky and Ruby's. She didn't know what had made her suspicious, maybe because there was two of them, but she had stopped and sat there and looked at them and just had this feeling. So she turned around and drove back up McCarty. She didn't know what to do but she wanted to look at the cars again to make sure. She drove down Clinton to Mississippi, and got up on the East Loop North and drove in the goddamned traffic in the sun and looked across the sand fields and dried grass at Tucky and Ruby's. A bag of ice melted on the front seat beside her next to the sack of six-packs and she could still see the two cars from the Loop, too. So she kept driving.
Worrying about it all the way to Market, she got off the Loop there and drove to Wayside, where she stopped at a U-totem store. She tried to think whether it would be good or bad to call but after a minute decided what the shit she had to know and called. Nobody answered. It rang nine times before she hung up. Scared now. But she didn't know if it was the police or the Mexicans and she didn't know what to do either way because it just wasn't something she had figured on happening while she was out to get some beer.
She drove back to McCarty and passed by Stang at a good clip, looking down the street as she went by. The two cars were still there. During the next two hours she must of done that a dozen times. She drove out to her and Donny's place in Pasadena but didn't stop even though she didn't see any strange cars around. Maybe the place was staked out or somebody was waiting inside and her by herself she didn't want to get arrested or raped whichever way it was going to be.
After a while she had to pull over at a Texaco and get some gas because the goddam truck only got about ten miles to the gallon the way Donny had it rigged out. She paid for the gas and bought three packages of barbecue-flavored Doritos and crawled back in the truck. She popped the tab on one of the beers and tore into a bag of chips as she headed back to make another pass by Tucky's.
The cars were gone this time, so she turned in and went down to the house. She wished to God she'd of kept on driving. God Almighty damn.
Oh, God Almighty.
She ran outside slamming the door behind her and threw up at the pickup but she was so scared she grabbed at the door handle before she was through with it but couldn't get it opened and then did and jumped in and peeled out of there and threw up in her lap while she was driving. She was so crazy she didn't even start crying until she was nearly to Lyons, right at the East Freeway, and when she did start crying it sounded funny like it was a sort of hoot that didn't bring tears for a long time and she thought she wasn't going to be able to get sane again or hold the pickup on the freeway. She got on the Loop and drove around the entire city of Houston trying to get hold of herself and put her mind in gear. She didn't know what else to do and the driving helped keep her mind off the godawful horror back there.
She drove and drove in the late-day heat until the seat of her blue jeans was all soaked through from the melted ice and she might of even peed her jeans she didn't know and then she thought of checking into Cappy's Cash Motel. She did and paid in advance not even minding that she was still crying and that she had to turn her back on the guy at the desk who was a little leery of her anyway and walk out with him seeing her wet butt. It didn't matter, she just wanted get the hell in that room and lock the door and lie down and drink until she passed out because she didn't want to think about Tucky a Ruby and . . . She took all the beer and chips and turned on the TV and watched whatever was on and after a while they kept slipping no matter what she was watching so she turned the sound off and tried to read the lips, concentrating on them so hard her mind didn't have time for the other at all.
Lying on her back, her sunken stomach rolling between sharp hipbones because she was a skinny lady, Cissy thought sure was going to throw up again or maybe have diarrhea. She didn't want to because it was nothing but Coors and Doritos which was all had had since then and it tasted like hell.
Goddamned how many hours now and how many beers? It been night hours and hours and some of the channels had test patterns. Then she opened her eyes and looked at the square light shade on the ceiling and a dark spot in its middle which was dead bug in a pile. Well it wasn't the police, so it must of been the Mexicans and if it was the Mexicans they would know Donny's truck and they would find her. She made a face to cry but couldn't she was so weak and dried-out but her body shook like she was.
Then she opened her eyes again because the idea of the gun behind the pickup seat popped into her head. Limp as a washrag she rolled over and hit the floor her face flat down smelling the dirt rug and feeling her top lip turned wrong side out against it. She thought she had bit her tongue too. Pulling her arms up to her shoulders she pushed herself up got her top half off the rug and looked at the pickup keys by the telephone on the little table by the bed and looking at them she tasted blood and felt the sting on the side tongue. Her arms folded and she hit the floor again but she didn't a thing it was as soft as a bed.
If she was lucky she would pass out and they could get her then because it wasn't going to be any good without Donny anyway. Goddam their souls. Despite everything she saw Ruby and Tuck again, like figures in the wax museum at Western World looking pretty real but not real enough because who could look real the way they were it was just too hard to believe. And then she saw Donny who didn't look wax at all but just dead which grieved her and she cried with her nose mashed into the shag rug and the taste of blood on her tongue where she had bit it good. Like the gun the thought of her momma popped into her head and she wasn't sure but she thought she had h
er hand up in the air going for the telephone, making great big sweeps at it trying to snag it off the table.
Chapter 41
WHAT do you think?" Bias asked. They sat back a good way from the railroad crossing on St. Regis Place, a short street that lay parallel and next to the railroad track on its western side. He simply had wanted to look at the crossing awhile, watch cars go over it, which were few and far between this hour of the night.
"It looks good," Rubio said. "But I hope we don't have to wait too long."
Bias nodded in the darkness of the car, and they both stared at the crossing. He wondered what Rubio was thinking. He wondered if, when the time came, now or in the far future, the Indian would have prescience of his own death. If fate had chosen it to be during this operation, had Rubio already glimpsed the finality of that decision? How did such a thing happen?
"Let's get some coffee and go over the maps," Bias said.
He started the rental car, drove to San Felipe, and turned left. Passing under the West Loop, he braked a block from Post Oak Boulevard and pulled into a small Steak 'N Egg Kitchen. The place was empty, and they chose a booth with a window that looked out onto the lighted skyscrapers thick as a mountain range toward the Galleria. After the waitress brought their coffee, they both took out their enlarged copies of the Key Map pages of River Oaks and the Post Oak area. They each took the caps off fine-point felt-tip pens, and Bias began calling the street names followed by a second name. They wrote the second name over the original, renaming each street within the immediate vicinity of the railroad crossing. According to Bias' strategy, Rubio would begin watching Gamboa's movements early in the morning. He would stay with him all day while Bias hovered in the area around the San Felipe crossing. They would not communicate over their radios unless Gamboa entered an area within a certain number of blocks within the vicinity of the crossing. If it looked as if Gamboa might be heading for the crossing, Rubio would begin transmitting one-word coordinates beginning with the direction opposite that in which the limousine was actually moving. That is, if Gamboa was going west on San Felipe and was at Claremont heading toward Larchmont, then Timberlane, then Weslayan; Rubio would say: "East-Smith-Jones . . . Bailey . . . Glenn . . . Sayle," calling out the code name of each cross street as the limousine approached it.
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