Truck Stop Jesus
Page 7
She filled the Olds with regular.
In the station mini-mart, Paradise headed past the greasy food-on-a-stick section and the hot dogs spinning on metal rollers toward the “Restrooms for Customers Only” sign. Once inside, she checked herself in the mirror and decided to keep the sunglasses and scarf on for safety. No need to tempt fate. In no hurry—and not yet decided on where she was going anyway—she roamed the aisles. The air conditioner hummed. In fact, the whole place hummed. Bleary-eyed from the road, travelers wandered, grabbing up trail mix, candy bars, and huge sodas. The line for coffee stood five truckers and one soccer mom deep. Paradise side-stepped as a traveling baseball team—their flat brimmed hats having something to do with sharks—swam by. One of them gave her an acne-faced smile as he passed. What would that be like? To belong to someone? To be part of a team?
She picked a few things up. Coke in a bottle, a Greek yogurt, and an apple. In the back of the store, from the top shelf of an aisle that sported religious paraphernalia, a bobble-head Jesus smiled down at her with a benevolently mellow, all’s-right-with-the-world surfer grin. Perfect for the Olds. She picked him up and added him to her take.
A stand next to the cash register held a stack of the latest Rand McNally road atlases. She picked one up and dropped it on the counter between Jesus and the yogurt.
Veronica Lake with Greta Garbo sunglasses and a Doris Day attitude.
The man ringing her up wore camouflage cargo shorts that hung past his knees. His red polyester shirt wasn’t buttoned, and the tobacco stain that stopped at the end of his beard picked up again on the front of his used-to-be-white V-neck undershirt. He looked Paradise up and down with Burt eyes. Her skin crawled as she dropped cash on the counter. Not waiting for change, she scooped up her booty and headed out. The acne-faced ballplayer held the door for her, blushing bright pink when she smiled at him.
Back in the Olds, she stuck Jesus on the dash with the supplied Velcro strip and gave his head a wiggle. A thought came to her. She opened the Rand McNally and scanned the index. It took awhile to find the town, but when she did, she placed a finger on it and looked up.
“What do you think?”
Jesus smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.
She smiled back.
“All righty, then.” She removed her finger and circled the town with a red pen.
Paradise, Arizona.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Little Long in the Tooth for the Cage
Hollister Finch lifted a hand to fend off the sudden blinding stab of light that attacked him like a pit bull. Forty-five minutes in the dim interior waiting room had ill-prepared him for the California sun filling Dr. Burt Simmons’ third-story, glass-walled corner office. Psychiatrists had sure come a long way since Bob Newhart’s day. At least, these Beverly Hills yahoos.
Dr. Simmons didn’t rise but indicated a chair in front of an ebony desk that could have had its own zip code. Hollister sunk into the soft leather—a position that forced him to look up at the doctor.
I guess the yahoo knows his stuff.
Simmons clasped his hands on the desk in front of him and leaned forward with a practiced I’m-a-doctor look. “So good to see you, Hollister. It’s been too long. Tell me, how is Crystal?”
Hollister crossed and uncrossed his legs, searching for a comfortable position. A spasm of pain shot across his lower back and through his right hip and thigh. “Fine. What can I do for you, Dr. Simmons?”
“She still fighting? MMA and all that?”
Really? We can’t dump the small talk?
“Yeah … I don’t know … kind of. More sparring than actual fights. She’s getting a little long in the tooth for the cage.”
“Aren’t we all?”
Hollister tried to focus, but his mind wandered to the bottle of Demerol in the glove box of his Camaro. Man, this chair killed. “I’m in a little bit of a rush today, Dr. Simmons. Why did you need to see me? What’s so important?”
Burt Simmons leaned back and looked at the ceiling, lacing his fingers behind his head.
Open body language. Must teach that in medical school—or on YouTube.
“I’d like to think I’ve been helpful to you, Hollister. To both you and Crystal. I hope our counseling sessions together were beneficial. We all need a little push in the communication department now and then.”
“Uh huh.” Get to the point.
The counseling had been Crystal’s idea, and she’d dragged Hollister along kicking and screaming, sometimes literally.
“So you’re sharing your feelings more, and the fights have settled down?”
“Sure. I guess.”
True enough. At least a little power had gone out of Crystal’s right hook, although that might be the Xanax. Miracles of modern medicine.
“Hollister, I’m going to level with you. I need help. In particular, I need someone with your … uh … shall we say … special skills. Yours and Crystal’s.”
“You making a movie? Need a stunt man? I’m retired. Young man’s game.”
Dr. Simmons spoke with slow deliberation as if to a child. “No, your other work. As a—how do you put it—investigator?”
Hollister clenched and unclenched his fists, fighting with effort the urge to toss Dr. Burt Simmons through the glass wall of his office and let him drop three stories to the Beverly Hills street below.
“You okay, Hollister?” Simmons asked.
Hollister’s temper, never shy to show itself, threatened to breach the dam.
“At the moment, Dr. Simmons, I’m practicing my anger management. You taught me that, remember? I’m not an idiot, so stop talking to me like one. My back feels like it’s got a shovel stuck in it, and I just spent forty-five minutes reading Golf Digest in your waiting room. Know what? I hate golf. You get the picture? Get on with it. What do you want?”
Dr. Simmons’ eyes widened, and he put his hands up, palms forward. More body language skills at work. “Hey now, Hollister. We’re old friends here. I didn’t mean to offend. I simply need a little help, and I thought you’d be the man to talk to. Like I said, I need an investigator.”
“I’m not an investigator. I’m a solver. I don’t investigate. I solve. I don’t hunt. I find.”
“Even better.”
An odd pair, the two of them. Simmons impeccable in his designer suit and Hollister with his shaved and tattooed head and muscles bulging through his black T-shirt. A young man’s body at forty-nine. Why do I feel so old?
“Let’s hear it,” Hollister said.
“My stinking tramp of a stepdaughter … You might have seen it on the news. Channel six did a big story.”
“Don’t watch it.”
“Paper?”
“Nope.”
“Anyway, she made a pass at me. In my own pool house. Can you imagine? My wife was asleep on the couch. Right inside! I mean the girl was all over me. It was crazy. I shut her down, of course. She got angry—she’s always struggled with anger. You’d understand that. Classic delusional disorder too. She thinks she lives in the ’40s. Clothes, hair, the whole enchilada. But hey, she’s my wife’s daughter. I’ve always tried to do the right thing. I’m a patient man.”
“So she got mad and left. So what?”
“Oh, she didn’t just leave. First, the little lunatic launched my Porsche off a cliff, then she left.”
Now here was a bright spot. Hollister struggled not to smile. Not for a minute did he believe the daughter had been the one to make the sexual advance, but hey, didn’t hurt to listen. A job’s a job.
“And now she’s running, and you need someone to bring her back to the party,” Hollister said.
Something shone in the doctor’s eyes. Not just anger. Hate? Lust, maybe?
“Yes. I want her back. I own her, do you understand? I pay for everything she does and everything she has. The police aren’t any help. At least, not the kind of help I need. So I called you. I want you and Crystal to find her and bring her back.”
&n
bsp; “Dead or alive?”
“Oh no. Very much alive.”
Definitely lust.
“I was joking,” Hollister said.
Simmons grinned. “Hollister, I know what side of the law you dance on. You’re no Boy Scout. You’ve hurt people … Maybe even killed people?”
“No comment. But I don’t touch women.”
“Crystal does, though. That’s why you make such a good team.”
“But you don’t want the girl hurt, right?”
“I didn’t say that. I said I want her alive. If she’s got a few bruises upon delivery, I promise not to complain about damaged goods.”
Hollister clenched and unclenched again. Feel him out. “So you want her, but you want it under the radar? That can be expensive.”
“What’s expensive?”
Hollister really didn’t feel like chasing down Simmons’ dirty little secrets. He wanted a Demerol, a cold beer, and his chair in front of his big flat screen.
Shoot high, discourage the guy. “Forty thousand now and another forty when we deliver her,” he said.
“Done.”
Had he heard right?
Simmons pulled out a checkbook and wrote a check. He slid it across the desk along with a picture of a girl. “Her name is Paradise Jones. She’s hard to miss. Could be the easiest eighty thousand dollars you’ve ever made.”
She was pretty in an un-Hollywood-Boulevard-club-dancer sort of way. She had class, this one.
“She looks like one of those stars from the classic movie channel.”
“Like I mentioned previously, she’s delusional,” Simmons said.
Hollister went fishing. “Pretty. I can see why you want her back.”
Simmons didn’t bite. “It was an expensive car. Worth more than your fee, as a matter of fact. A lot more.”
“Should’ve asked for more dough.”
“Yes, but you didn’t.”
“No, I don’t guess I did.” Hollister stood. He couldn’t mask the grimace as pain shot down his sciatic nerve all the way to his foot.
Simmons scribbled on a piece of paper, wadded it up and tossed it to Hollister. “A little gift from me to you, my friend. Consider it a bonus.”
Hollister smoothed it. A prescription for Demerol. He stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans and turned to leave.
“Hollister?” Simmons called.
“Yeah?”
“Be sure to take Crystal.”
“That’s the plan.”
“And tell her not to worry about a few bruises.”
“I heard you the first time.” Hollister made no effort to keep the door from slamming as he left.
CHAPTER NINE
Coke in a Bottle and Loud Vampires
Hollister watched Crystal rummage through Paradise Jones’ dresser. Her biceps rippled as she pulled drawers, dumping them on the floor after she molested them. MMA cage-fighting days behind her, Crystal filled the gap by focusing on her semi-professional bodybuilding career. Pie-in-the-sky stuff, if you asked Hollister. No money in it. Total waste of time.
Plus she always smelled like a gym locker.
“So you couldn’t find it in your heart to take a shower?” Hollister said.
Crystal straightened and checked herself in the mirror. “Shut up. I was in a hurry.”
Always quick with the witty comeback.
“You always in a hurry? ’Cause I’m wracking my brain, and I can’t remember the last one you took.”
“I said, shut up. Eighty grand is eighty grand.” She raised her tattooed-on eyebrows at her reflection then turned her face up and examined the inside of her nose. The head tilt gave her voice a strained sound. “And all we gotta do is chase down Dr. Simmons’ little princess. Do I have a booger?”
“Who cares?” Hollister considered his wife. Sixteen years since they’d stood in front of the judge for the piece of paper making it legal. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Was I drinking? Nah. It had been blind love—the worst kind. Crystal’s tie-dye tank stretched across her muscular back above her salt-crusted, spandex workout shorts. A tattoo on the back of her neck showed itself beneath her black Mohawk. GAME OVER in green block letters. Scribbled with all the artistic talent of an average third grader. Hey, you get what you pay for. Crystal was into ink. Quality was an afterthought. Or no thought at all.
“I never liked Simmons. Another cocky rich guy,” Hollister said.
“You’ll like his money.”
“Whatever. His story’s bogus, too. The girl never came on to him. Simmons rubs me the wrong way. Got perv written all over him.”
Crystal drilled him with a stare. Her eyes were too close together. Way too close. Practically in the same socket. Funny how it had never bothered him until recently.
“I don’t care if he’s Ted Bundy,” she said. “Or Al Bundy. We’re talking eighty grand. Know what, Hollister? You’re getting old. When did that happen? You used to be tough.”
Hollister shrugged. “Maybe I am. You’re no spring chicken, either.”
“I’m thirty-seven.”
“Forty.”
“Moron.”
“I’m just saying it ain’t young.”
Crystal continued to stare. Did the woman ever blink? Then she showed him her shark-toothed grin. “I thought I told you to shut up, sweetie.”
He sighed and walked into the living room. His back ached, and now his head throbbed, thanks to Crystal. He rubbed a knot in his neck, then shook a Demerol out of the bottle from his pocket. He swallowed it without water and grimaced.
“Look at all this pink,” Crystal called from the bedroom. She sounded almost happy. “It’s gonna be fun slapping little Miss Princess around.”
Hollister sighed. He squinted at the bottle and thought about taking another, then stuck it back in his jeans. “No violence. Dr. Simmons wants her back unharmed. He was very clear about that.”
He took in the apartment. Not fancy but not a slum either. Not too neat but not messy.
Normal.
Lots of old stuff. Forties and fifties. Matched the clothes in the closet. Pictures of movie stars all over the walls. Simmons said she was into that. Retro chick. LA was full of them these days. Hollister made a mental note. You never knew what might help during a missing-person search.
Except Paradise Jones wasn’t really missing. She was a runner, and most likely running for good reason. The thought of the good doctor’s Porsche sailing over a cliff made Hollister chuckle. Loud in the quiet room. Good for her. Still, Crystal was right, no matter what she smelled like. Eighty grand was eighty grand.
A tiled counter separated the living room from the kitchen.
Open floor plan. Good for entertaining. Man, he was getting old.
Hollister opened the refrigerator. Yogurt, eggs, cheese. In the meat drawer, he found some sliced deli chicken. She ate healthy. He pulled out the chicken and cheese. Why let it go to waste? Lots of Cokes, too. Old school. The kind in a glass bottle. No cans or plastic. He grabbed one, then looked around for a bottle opener.
Nothing visible.
He shrugged and pried the cap off with his teeth. Once he’d known a Russian who could pop one off with his eye socket. Great bar trick.
Hollister wrapped some cheese in a slice of chicken and took a bite, washing it down with a swig of Coke. He’d skipped lunch. He pulled open a drawer. Plastic wrap, aluminum foil, sandwich bags, a couple dishtowels—pink, of course. The next drawer held cooking utensils, the one after that, silverware. Fourth—the inevitable junk drawer.
Bingo.
Pens, paperclips, movie ticket stubs, a Swiss Army knife. Piles of receipts—these he stuffed in his pocket—and a small notepad. The top page displayed a scribbled note.
R and S Coins—15 to 25.
Fifteen to twenty-five what? Minutes? Dollars? Hundred dollars? Thousand? On a hunch, he pulled the receipts from his pocket and rifled through them. On a yellow sheet folded in quarters, he found what he was looking for.
Thirty-two thousand? Looks like they had underestimated over the phone. Or Paradise Jones drove a hard bargain. Either way, it meant the girl made out. If she’d sold it, she wouldn’t be short of cash. It made the job that much harder.
“What’s that?” Crystal said.
“Geez, Crystal … Let me peel myself off the ceiling. What’re you, a vampire? Why do you have to sneak up on me like that?”
Crystal blinked her too-close-together eyes. “Ghosts are quiet, not vampires.”
Hollister stared at her, then said, “I think vampires are pretty quiet, too.”
“They have loud shoes. Like boots with heels or something.”
“Who cares? The point is they sneak up on people. Suck their blood and all that.”
“You’re an idiot. That’s only in the movies.”
“What are you talking about? As opposed to the vampires not in the movies? Just quit sneaking up on me.” Hollister started to say more but fought his temper down. His head throbbed already and getting clocked by his crazy wife was the last thing he needed.
Crystal jerked her chin at the paper in Hollister’s hand. “I asked what you had.”
“Nothing. Just a receipt.” He started to stick it in his pocket, but Crystal grabbed it.
“Thirty-two thousand? You call this nothing?”
“C’mon. We were hired to do a job. Let’s just get on with it—get it over with.”
Crystal’s lips curled up, but her eyes didn’t shed the hard edge. She scrolled her smartphone. “This little miss is running with either a gold coin or over thirty grand. That sounds to me like a nice little bonus we can rattle out of her. I say we make a stop at R and S Coins and get some details. Here it is, in the Valley. Thirty minutes, tops.”
Hollister leaned back against the counter and took a long drink from the Coke bottle. Simmons … Hollister remembered his own stepdad. “You know what? Let’s just bag this one. We’re not hurting for cash. Let the girl run. Maybe she’ll get lucky and get clear of Dr. Freak Show for good.”