Lying on the bed, Erika had felt so nauseated she couldn’t get her bearings. Warm hands had pulled her underwear off and then begun massaging her legs with lotion. “This is French stuff,” Vivian was saying as she knelt on the floor in front of her. “Isn’t that creamy?”
“Where’s Tony?” Erika asked, trying to look around.
Dell knelt behind Vivian and put his hands up his wife’s skirt. “He’ll be back in a second. Just relax.”
Vivian moaned at what Dell was doing. “Oh yes. You are so bad.”
Erika thought she was talking to her. “No, I’m not. What are you—?”
“Not you, hon,” Dell said. “Me. Can you move just a little to the side, Viv? I want to see her better.”
Vivian shifted so Dell could get a better view. “Doesn’t she have the greatest little tits, Dell?”
“Sure does.”
“Wait a minute,” Erika slurred. “I need—”
Dell patted her thighs lightly. “Just relax, sugar girl. We’re gonna have some fun.”
“What are you…?” Erika could barely hold her head up. She couldn’t escape Vivian’s heavy musk perfume.
“It’s okay. Your boyfriend’s right outside. He doesn’t mind.”
Erika’s stomach heaved. “I don’t feel so good.”
Vivian started to moan. “Just enjoy it. Dell and I are going to make you feel so good.”
Chapter 34
Everyone in the SUV watched as the night watchman’s flashlight snapped off, leaving the bank building in darkness. Twigs turned to Buck in the backseat. “He done?”
It was an effort for Buck to string words together. “Yeah, he’s headed back …to…his cubbyhole…in basement.”
“Well, listen to him,” Twigs chuckled. “A full sentence. I think our boy’s coming around a little.” Then she looked to Jorge and Meatface. “Ready, boys?”
Meatface held his hand over his mouth like a mask and did his Blue Velvet breathing routine. “Oh yeah, it’s showtime.”
Twigs checked a .38 and slipped it in her jacket pocket. “Hair spray, Jorge?’
“Got it,” Jorge said.
Twigs turned to Buck in the back seat. “Just remember, Buck. You fuck this up, you’re dead.”
Jorge and Meatface each took one of Buck’s arms and half-walked, half-carried him to the side entrance. The smell of Friday night traffic still clung to the streets, oily and rancid. Buck felt more alert but still unsteady on his feet.
Jorge climbed on Meatface’s back to get close enough to the door’s surveillance camera to blur it with the hair spray.
Twigs followed close behind and inserted Buck’s entrance key from his keyring. “You ready with the code?” she asked, tipping his chin up so she could look him in the eye.
“Ready,” he answered. Buck realized with a start that not only was the bank’s entrance key on his key ring, but the one to Gordon’s office door was still there as well. Angie had slipped it out of Gordon’s home safe for Buck to use. Then he was supposed to mail it back to Angie, anonymously, just in case somebody got curious about it.
“Hey, snap to,” Twigs was saying sharply. “Are you ready with the code or not?”
Buck nodded.
“Alrighty then.” Twigs turned the key and the door opened. The entourage moved quickly inside. Ahead of them a blinking security alarm box started its countdown.
She motioned Buck to move to it.
Buck slowly punched in the security code. The red flashing light went off. A green one hummed in its place.
“Good boy,” Twigs whispered. “So far, so good. Now lead the way.”
Buck took them up the side stairway to the executive offices on the third floor. The exertion was hard for him, but he reminded himself that it would help the drugs wear off. If there came a chance to get away, he planned to be alert enough to carry it off.
When they got to his office, he showed Twigs which key to use. She quickly opened it and they went inside. Then all three of them turned on their thin flashlights.
Meatface was delighted. “Man, look at all this shit.” He was talking about the shrine-like look the entire office had. Autographed pictures of Buck with everyone from Barry Switzer to Bob Stoops covered the walls. Game footballs on special stands, his old helmet and number “43” jersey.
The bank board hadn’t just suggested Buck’s office be decorated this way, they’d made sure of it. Gordon had been clear that if he had to put up with jocks, he wanted the whole shebang.
Twigs snapped her fingers at him. “Hey, perk up. Safe?”
“Right.” Buck moved as though he was underwater toward the trophy shelves, one of which he swung away from the wall to reveal his hidden safe behind it.
As Buck began work on the combination, Meatface came around the corner, spotlighting himself with his flashlight. He was wearing Buck’s football helmet and carrying one of the trophy footballs.
Jorge and Twigs spit laughter in spite of themselves.
Meatface kept his voice low, but couldn’t resist acting out a hike from center for them. “Hut, hut. Hut, two, three, four.”
“Okay,” Twigs said, “cut the crap. Let’s do this.”
“Hey.” Meatface got serious. “That side door leads to a fancy meeting room.” He leered at Buck. “That where you fuck over the customers, Bucko?” Then back to Twigs. “There’s a door on the other side of it to something else, but it’s locked.”
Buck tried not to react, but Twigs picked right up on it.
“Where’s that other side door go to?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Buck answered, trying to be casual. “Another office.”
“Whose?”
“The president’s.”
“Now we’re getting the real skinny,” Twigs said, delighted. “Where’s his safe?”
Buck stammered. “It’s just for bank papers. He’s told me he doesn’t keep any money in it. Just legal stuff and…”
Twigs shot him a knowing smile. “Methinks the jockstrap does protest too much.” She looked around for Jorge, who was going through Buck’s desk. “Hey,” she said, tossing the key ring at him, “go see if one of those keys unlocks the door to the president’s office.”
Buck’s worst possible scenario was about to happen. He couldn’t let them find Gordon. He had to try something.
As Jorge walked past him, he lunged at him, awkwardly tackling him to the ground.
Meatface sprang into action with surprising agility, his girth more than matching Buck’s strength, especially in his drugged state. Buck struggled against him until Meatface threw a couple of punches to stop him.
When Buck recovered, Jorge and Twigs both had guns trained on him.
“Listen—” Buck said.
“Shut up and open your safe.” Twigs’ whisper was vicious. She whipped her head around to Meatface and Jorge. “No more fucking around. Go check out the other office. I got this asshole.”
Chapter 35
The Mustang sat bathed in halogen spots, which cast a surreal light under the ragged night sky. The vehicle had been driven as far off the road as it would go and then abandoned under a giant catalpa tree, key still in the ignition.
Detective Harry “Horse” Douglas, in an ugly, rumpled brown suit, studied the car’s front grill as a crime scene tech collected blood and hair samples.
Horse glanced up as his partner Edgars arrived, and waved him over. In his 50’s, Horse’s beer belly now protruded beyond any possibility of a buttoned suitcoat. He noticed as Edgars moved their way that he was wearing yet another new cowboy hat.
In spite of his own slovenly habits, Horse mildly disapproved of the younger detective’s Stockyards City look. The carefully distressed Levi’s, western style suitcoats and boots screamed clotheshorse to him. For all he knew, the kid had never seen a ranch, whereas Horse’s own father had dressed as a cowboy every day of his life because he was one. And nothing had made Harry Sr. prouder than when his boy got a career where he wore a s
uit to work.
“Nice hat,” Horse said by way of greeting.
Edgars tipped the brim in response. He nodded to the tech, took out his iPhone, and started punching information into the keyboard. “I checked my odometer when I left. This is less than ten miles away from the crime scene. Somebody panicked pretty quick.”
“Yeah. Looks like we got hair and blood on the grill. Probably mixes of the girl and the horse.” Then, referring to the forensics officer. “He’s almost done, and we can get a look inside the car. But we won’t need that to identify the owner.”
“Yeah? What, you psychic now?”
“Take a look at this,” Horse said, nodding with his head to follow him.
When they were in the rear of the car, Horse pointed to the Mustang’s license plate. QRTBACK.
“It’s custom. Should be an easy look-up,” Edgars said.
“Yeah,” Horse said, “except we won’t need to.”
“Why not?”
“Cause I know who this belongs to. Seen it around a million times. It’s one of my heroes.”
“Who?”
“Buck Dearmore.”
“No fucking way,” Edgars answered, shocked. “For real?” Horse nodded. “Maybe somebody stole it,” Edgars suggested.
“I ran it through,” Horse said. “Nobody’s reported it.”
The tech nodded his head at them. “Okay, I’m finished enough you can go ahead and take a look inside.”
Horse and Edgars snapped on latex. After nothing jumped out inside the car, they opened the glove box.
“You got his phone, so you can check his calls,” the tech said. “The car itself is pretty clean. Looks like somebody wiped it down, but I lifted some partials. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Horse checked out the fancy screen and was relieved he knew enough to pull up the phone’s history. The last two missed calls were from two different unknown numbers, at 6:20 and again at 9:02. He decided to wait until they got back to the station to run a trace on them. There wasn’t much more to do here.
Horse still couldn’t believe it. Hell, he’d met Buck Dearmore, shook his hand. The man had been a cottage industry in this state at one time. If the ex-Sooner was a lush, Horse had never heard about it, and that kind of celebrity gossip usually blew through the police station like an airborne virus.
The whole deal was like discovering some coach played with little boys. This just wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with All-Americans.
Chapter 36
Angie sat in a holding cell with an assortment of prostitutes, drunks, and bruised faces. She’d sobered up just enough that it hurt to move her head, even a quarter of an inch. They’d bandaged her cut hand, but were unwilling to dispense any pain pills. Some bullshit about liability.
At least her throbbing head might keep her alert, she thought. And with the women in here, she’d better be. They’d been ogling her silk outfit. Several had already wise-cracked about her expensive bleach job.
“Angie Wesner?” The female cop was opening the cell door, which caused a cacophony of voices from the rest of the women, asking where their help was. Where their phone call was.
“Why’s this bitch gittin’ out when I cain’t?” one of them demanded as Angie moved to the door.
“That’s me,” Angie told the officer.
“Come with me.” She handcuffed Angie in front and led her to a meeting cubicle. “I guess you know you’re one of the lucky ones,” the cop said as she ushered her inside.
Indigo Fisher, Gordon’s bold and black lawyer, sporting a headful of braids and beads, was waiting for her. There had never been any real fondness between them, but Indigo looked genuinely concerned for her now. “My God, you look terrible. How are you holding up?”
“This was all so stupid.” Then Angie asked, “Does Gordon know yet?”
Indigo shook her head. “I was hoping you could tell me where he is. I can’t get him at home, at his office, or on his cell. That’s not like him.”
After a moment, with no explanation coming from Angie, she asked, “What happened to your hand?”
“I cut it. It’s not as bad as it looks. Mainly my head is killing me.”
“I might have some Ibuprofen,” Indigo offered, going for her purse.
“They wouldn’t give me anything when they bandaged my hand,” Angie said. “I haven’t heard from Gordon either.” She paused. “Gordon and me had a fight.”
“That’s none of my concern. I just wanted to make sure he was alright. It’s not like him not to check in.”
Angie gave an I-don’t-know shrug.
Indigo moved on to business. “Now, I went outside my usual area as your husband’s personal attorney and spoke with the bar owner. He’ll settle for damages if he sees a little additional sweetener for the pot. Which is no problem.”
“How about the asshole?” Angie asked.
“I just finished with him. He’s still hot and bothered, but he’ll come around when he sobers up and sees green.”
“Fine,” Angie said. “When can I go?”
Chapter 37
Outside the motorhome, Tony listened for anything from inside. But it was soundproof, other than a polite hum from the dual 50-amp feeds snaking into the monster. He didn’t really want to stick around. It would just mean Erika giving him hell.
But he couldn’t keep his eyes off Dell’s Porsche. It looked like it was solid gold in the light from a nearby security lamp. As noiselessly as possible, Tony opened the driver door with the keys he’d snagged from the R.V.
He eased into the sand-colored leather seats, and admired the dashboard that looked like a plane’s cockpit. He glanced again at the R.V. then carefully inserted the car keys into the ignition.
Tony entertained the possibilities. Dell could come out shooting as he drove off. If he got stopped, the cops wouldn’t waste ten seconds on him before hauling him in. But there was the lush smell of the leather, the sensuous stretch of his legs toward the accelerator. And he wanted to see that world class dashboard lit up.
Without thinking it through any further, Tony turned the ignition key.
Instead of roaring to life, there was only a dull click.
He frowned and tried again. Click.
A moment later, the door to the R.V. opened. Dell stood there, bare chested but in his pants, with a 9mm in one hand and a beeping remote in the other. He smiled and shook his head, as though to a mischievous child. “Come on, kid. Did you really think I’d park a car like this outside without a kill switch?”
“And a silent alarm,” Tony grimaced. “You prick.”
“You weren’t going to leave your girlfriend, surely.”
Tony’s body constricted with anger at being caught. Growing up, he’d watched the rich boys do the same shit as him, but with their high dollar lawyers always showing up and making it go away. All he’d ever got was another beating when he got home and the threat of something worse the next time.
The last time it happened his dad had been drunk enough to belittle and shame him, but too drunk to administer the required whipping. When his father had lunged for him, something snapped inside Tony. He had grabbed his father’s belt away from him and, as the cops later described it, “cut the old man to pieces with it,” with his mother screaming and crying at him from the corner. It left him feeling disgusted and betrayed. He couldn’t remember any tears from her during Tony’s years of daily beatings.
At the age of fifteen, he had been sent up for fifteen years for killing his dad, who’d never received so much as a misdemeanor for pounding on his family every day of his rotten life.
Tony stared up at Dell with hate-filled eyes. This fat cat wouldn’t last two minutes in his shoes. Tony thought he might be able to get out of the Porsche and go for his .38 before Dell could react. He was seriously considering it when he heard Vivian scream from inside the motorhome.
“Motherfucker,” she yelped and appeared at the door a second later. She had Erika, half-naked and wild-ey
ed, by the arm. “Look at what she did,” Vivian said, pointing to her naked torso, stained with vomit. “I’m going to gag.” She turned back inside, and a second later dry heaves were heard.
Dell took Erika’s wrist and pulled her out onto the porch. He reached inside and threw her purse and clothes through the door at her. He spoke inside to Vivian without taking his eyes off Tony. “It’s okay, hon. They’re leaving.”
By this time, Tony had jumped out of the car and was indignant. “What’d you do to her?”
Dell almost laughed. “Do you believe the balls on this guy? You’re a piece of work.”
“I’ll turn your perverted ass in,” Tony threatened, his hand edging toward his gun at the back of his waistband.
“You’re not thinking of going for that, are you?” Dell asked. Tony slowly dropped his arm to his side in response.
“Good,” Dell continued. “I don’t want to kill anybody tonight, not even in self defense.”
Erika, who was stumbling, pulled on the rest of her clothes and grabbed Tony’s sleeve. “Let’s just go, Tony.”
But he couldn’t let go of it. He stood there, trying to find another angle, a different play.
Dell stayed on guard, as though he knew how volatile the kid was. “Just listen to your girlfriend. You don’t want to fuck with a lawyer.” He motioned toward his weapon. “You’d have better luck taking on this nine mil, buddy.”
Tony was trembling with rage but had no comeback.
Erika, now more sober, took a step back. “Let’s go. Now. Tony.”
“It’s the smart thing to do,” Dell added, looking weary and ready for the whole episode to be over.
“I know that,” Tony spit back at him. “Maybe I don’t feel like being smart.”
This was too much for Erika. She started walking away. “I’m gone.”
Dell and Tony glared at one another for another moment. Then Tony relented and backed away, not taking his eyes off Dell. “You’re gonna get yours.”
“That I am, kid,” Dell said, giving him something to walk away with.
“Someday,” Tony said, “you’ll get yours.”
Here Comes the Night Page 6