“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Damn right I’m right.” And with that, Tony turned and ran after Erika, who had almost disappeared from view in the darkness.
He knew she could still hear him. “Erika, wait up.”
“Go away.”
“Come on,” he said hustling to catch up to her.
“Come on? What just happened back there, huh?”
“What do you mean?” Tony tried to figure how to play this.
“I woke up half naked, Tony. And those people…” Erika broke down and started crying.
“You did look like you might be in a blackout or something.” It was lame, he knew, but it was all he had.
She stopped walking and turned to him. “And you left me with them.”
Even through the cloud of drunkenness hanging over her, Erika stared at him with scorching scrutiny. “Is any of you real? Do you even care about me at all?”
“Honest, Erika, I’m so sorry.”
“You know what, Tony?” she said, her voice tired and raw. “I don’t believe you.”
He watched her walk away, her swaying figure silhouetted by the red VACANCY sign at the entrance to the park.
Chapter 38
Buck dialed the last number of his safe combination and clicked it open. After his clumsy attempt to tackle Jorge on his way to Gordon’s office, they had flex-tied Buck’s hands again in front. And his nose was bleeding from a shot Meatface had landed. Now it hurt even to breathe in short spurts.
Twigs, holding her gun on him, motioned to his desk chair. “Go sit down. And no more heroics.”
When he was safely seated, she looked inside Buck’s safe and whistled. “Oh, here we go.” She started dumping the wrapped bills out of the recyclable brown bag Buck had brought them in.
After a minute, Jorge popped his head in from around the corner, eyeing Buck curiously. “Twigs, you gotta see this.”
Buck dropped his head. All hope of a miracle officially vanished.
“What? I’m in the middle of this,” Twigs snapped.
“No, trust me, you want to see it,” Jorge said.
Twigs stopped and signaled with her gun for Buck to walk ahead of them. When they opened the door to Gordon’s office, Meatface was standing behind the desk, mimicking a ringmaster’s presentation of the big act.
He extended one hand toward Gordon’s body and gave a “Ta-da!”
Twigs glanced over at Buck, grinning like she was actually impressed with him. Then she walked around the desk, studying the dead body. “No wonder our star quarterback was so nervous.”
“You think he did it?” Meatface giggled.
“If he didn’t, I bet he knows who did.” Then she looked sharply at her boys. “You touch anything?”
Both thugs showed her their latexed hands, like “of course not.” All three of them looked at Buck with a new awareness, even respect.
Twigs’ laugh was dark. “Boys, the vocabulary word for the day is ‘serendipity.’ Find his safe.”
Buck could only stare at Gordon’s body lying across his desk. In the moment when it had taken everything Buck could muster to pull the trigger, he had been in the grip of his hatred for the man. Gordon had known how to push Buck’s buttons and did it regularly, laughing aloud when Buck was slow or reacted like a hurt kid. Gordon always had an uncanny sense of how to undercut Buck when he least suspected it. And Gordon had thrived on his little game.
Now, with impossible irony, Gordon was doing it to Buck again. Seeing the blood drained to the front of Gordon’s face as he lay there, the mottled white of his sagging skin, Buck remembered the first time he had killed a rabbit. It had been so important to prove himself to his hunter father and brothers. But afterwards, holding the innocent, limp body, blood dripping from its ears, he had not been able to hold back his little boy tears. He had never lived down the humiliation. No family get together was complete without retelling the story with relish.
That same wave of sensations push through him again. Tears welled in his dark, swollen eyes, and he cried silently, unnoticed by Twigs and the boys, who had gotten a drill out of Jorge’s workbag and were going at Gordon’s safe.
Of all the things Buck had figured on, the least of them was the possibility that Gordon Wesner was just another man. In his death, he was the dead rabbit from his childhood. Even his hands, with their caramel colored liver spots, looked fragile and harmless in the moonlight.
Buck looked out at the shadows of tree branches lightly scraping the windows. He couldn’t imagine how the sun would ever rise again.
Chapter 39
As she made her way home, Erika’s head slowly began to clear. Getting a grip on the night’s events, however, was like chasing storm clouds. Nothing, then bits and pieces would pop up with such intensity that she had to stop and rub her face to believe it was all real.
Normally, walking by the side of the road in the middle of the night would be too unsafe to consider, but it didn’t matter much to her now. She sensed Tony trailing her at a distance, which made her keep pace ahead of him, determined to somehow get home.
At some point it hit her that it was after the truck stop soda when she’d started feeling woozy. Then she got it. Vivian had somehow slipped her something. Probably Rohypnol.
Erika had to get back to her apartment and get her bearings. She was supposed to work her usual early Saturday breakfast shift in only a couple of hours. And she still hadn’t slept.
A farm pickup pulled over to the shoulder close to her.
“What are you doin’ out here on the highway by yourself, young lady?” It was a female voice, older and kindly.
Erika looked into the eyes of a farm woman and her husband, who were checking her out. “I’m kind of lost,” Erika said, which was true enough.
“Are you hurt?” the man asked.
Their kindness started Erika bawling so hard, that the woman got out and put her arms around her. “There, there, you’re safe now.”
“I’m sorry,” Erika said in gulps.
“It’s okay,” the woman said. “My husband and I are headed to Farmer’s Market in the city. We’ll give you a ride.”
Erika looked carefully in their eyes and saw no deception there. These were good, rural folks. She nodded and gratefully took a seat between the two of them. The front seat smelled like hay and fresh bread.
Within ten minutes, Erika was asleep.
Chapter 40
A hundred yards back, Tony watched stone-faced as Erika got in the pickup ahead. A part of him wanted to apologize for the disaster last night. But she wasn’t speaking to him anyway.
The thing he wondered now was if she would talk. There was a time he could have been sure about her, but not any more.
Strangely, one of the things that had drawn him to her was that she had a conscience, and it was interesting being around someone who thought like that. It was actually surprising, because she’d had a crappy childhood herself. She had never known her father, and when her mother died Erika was still young. He couldn’t remember exactly how old. But she had to figure it out in foster homes, and he knew how some of them could fuck kids up.
But the point now was, don’t blow the big stuff. His weekly meet with his sad sack parole officer was scheduled for later this morning. He had to make that. No debate. He couldn’t get violated. P.O.’s never bought “shit happens.”
And sooner rather than later, he’d have to have a talk with Erika. He was pretty sure he could bring her back around.
Chapter 41
The discovery of Gordon Wesner’s 36-year old Remy Martin premium cognac, which usually went for $90 a shot in fancy bars, had slowed things down considerably. They had foregone his crystal brandy snifters for fear of leaving DNA. But they were gloved up and not leery of taking shots straight from the bottle and wiping it down. Even Twigs had relaxed a little. And Meatface was having a heyday looting Gordon’s desk.
Still wearing Buck’s football helmet, he was riflin
g through the drawers when he noticed Gordon’s Rolex still on his wrist. Bingo! He started singing a whispery rendition of the Sooner fight song as he freed the watch from the dead man’s arm. “Rah Oklahoma, Rah Oklahoma, Rah Oklahomaaaaaaah…”
He slipped it free on cue and held it up like a trophy as he brought the song home. “Rah, Oklahomaaaa, O. K. U.”
Twigs cautioned him, “Enough with the mugging,” but she was enjoying herself, too. She had brought the money from Buck’s safe into the president’s office and was counting it to see if there was any left over for them.
Meatface spit on the bloody face of the watch and wiped it clean. Then he modeled it for Buck. “Some dried blood specks,” he said proudly, “no big deal.”
The only one not having a good time was Jorge, who’d nearly stopped talking altogether because it was taking forever to drill out Gordon’s safe. He blamed it on not having heavy duty enough tools with him, but Buck figured it was more likely the Lortabs Jorge had popped just before they left for the bank.
As Buck’s painkillers started wearing off, his missing finger throbbed as though it were still attached. To take his mind off it, he tried to think who might be on watch duty tonight. Sometimes Johnny, the talky security guard, pulled a double and came back in for the midnight to eight shift. The rest of the night watch group were so old they would be no match for Twigs’ boys.
The possibility that his captors might be blamed for Gordon’s death had not escaped Buck’s attention—if the police ruled out suicide. But even as it flashed through his mind, he watched a drop of his own blood fall from his bandaged hand onto the rich Turkish carpet. It made him realize there were just too many loose ends he couldn’t wrap his head around.
The grind of the drill stopped and it whirred effortlessly for a moment before going silent. Everyone turned toward Jorge, who whooshed out his breath and nodded it was done. “It’s set free time, amigos.”
Twigs did the honors, swinging the safe door open. The three took it in with smiles.
“Bucko,” she announced, “turns out you’re small potatoes. Look at all this.”
Inside were even thick stacks of bundled bills, files of legal looking stuff, manila envelopes, and a prominent cigar box marked: Havana Whiffs.
“Okay, boys, pack her up. We hit the Mother Lode.” Twigs was fairly dancing through the office now. Then she checked her watch. “Put a move on. We got to get out of here.”
Meatface was looking around for something to put the unexpected loot in. “Hey, Bucko, where you keep the trash bags?”
“In the conference room,” Buck said.
“Show me.” Meatface grabbed him by the arm and Buck showed him where the black bags were in the closet.
As they came back in Gordon’s office, Twigs said, “Okay, complete silence now. We’re cutting it close.”
Chapter 42
Hot water had never felt so good. Angie slid into the corner against the jet sprays and let the showerhead run over her until her fingers were shriveled as prunes. She never did that. She always took short, coolish showers because of the damage the heat did to her hair and skin, but this morning she needed everything she could throw at this hangover, including a hair of the dog.
The second she had arrived, she downed a couple of ice cold Stoli shots and felt better almost immediately.
Indigo had dropped her at the house before dawn and Angie didn’t argue. She would rather have brought her car from the Cowtown public parking lot, but Indigo said the last thing she needed to risk was driving in her condition.
She put on a pot of coffee while she dried her hair and found some jeans and a sweater. She would have to get her car. She’d call a cab to do that.
Angie was supposed to report Gordon missing early Saturday morning, saying that after getting up, she’d realized he hadn’t come home. The fact that she had been arrested for drunk and disorderly the night before complicated the picture, but then she thought perhaps she could use it to her advantage. She would say she was so upset when her husband didn’t come home, she’d gone out and tried to drink her troubles away. She needed to call Gordon’s office as well. The records had to show she kept trying to get in touch with him.
Right now, however, Angie was ravenous. She poured a cup of coffee and opened the refrigerator. Something on her stomach would settle her down. There sat a sumptuous Greek yogurt with caramel at the bottom. She never allowed herself that many calories for breakfast, but this was an exception. Today she needed fortitude.
Chapter 43
This truck driver was giving Tony a headache. Clearly, he had no one to jawbone with on a regular basis.
“Now take the goddamn Department of Agriculture,” the enormous, overalled man was saying. “I bet you don’t know shit about what they do.”
“Not really,” Tony answered, and waited to hear a repeat of the guy’s thoughts on national policy. He had been working his way through American government for half an hour now. And whatever he was hauling in back stank to high heaven.
Tony was relieved to see an Oklahoma City Limits sign on the right.
“Those fuckers are looking to help the farmers, so they say. Which doesn’t sound all bad, ‘cept these farmers are getting subsidized out the ass already, whether they plant or not. Food prices go up, they still get payments. Food prices go down, the payments go up even more. It’s a goddamn racket is what it is.”
“Why don’t you become a farmer?” Tony asked, just to seem interested.
“Who the fuck can afford the land? Don’t get me started. I spent everything on my trucker’s license. But now the Department of Transportation—you think those assholes are going to help us out? Hell, gas can nearly double overnight and ‘fore I can blink, I’ve lost my whole load. You think we’re gonna get subsidized?” He turned in his seat, expecting a response.
“I doubt it,” Tony complied.
“You are correct, boy. We’re the last ones on the government tit. They’re just hangin’ us out to dry. It sucks so bad my wife isn’t even talking to me. Kid needs fucking shin guards so he can play after-fucking-school baseball. Daughter needs some kind of fancy goddamn angel wings so she can be in the school play.”
The truck was heading right into Cowtown. At least that was a stroke of luck.
“Where was it you was headed now?” the trucker asked.
“Anywhere around the stockyards is fine.”
“I’m delivering to the stockyards,” he said.
“That’s perfect,” Tony said. “What are you hauling anyway?”
“Oh, I’m picking up manure from around the show rings. How about that for a gig?” He laughed. “In a few minutes I can honestly say I’m full of shit.”
Chapter 44
Taking the last swig of Gordon’s cognac, Twigs sat studying Buck as Meatface and Jorge loaded the entire contents of Gordon’s safe into the trash bags. Everything was at a whisper now, preparing to get out of there.
“See, what I don’t get from you, Buck,” she said low into his ear, “is the lack of stunned surprise about your boss being dead. I mean, most people would be all aghast, or sad, or at least a little freaked out, don’t you think?”
Buck’s finger was throbbing and his lip was so swollen he could barely talk. “I’m freaked out, for sure,” Buck managed.
“Poor baby.” Twigs brushed back some of the hair that had fallen over his forehead. “It has been quite a night, huh? Still, something is way off here.” She held up Buck’s key ring and shook it. “Like how come you’ve got the key to the big boy’s private office? You guys that tight?”
Buck just shook his head.
“Oops. Hey, don’t worry. I mean, even if you killed him, you didn’t take his money,” Twigs whispered. “That’s on us.”
“What are you saying?”
Twigs sighed, as though repeating something to a slow child. “We both have our reasons for keeping our mouths shut. Agreed?”
“Yeah,” Buck assured her.
“Good,” she said, patting him on the shoulder as she moved back to the safe. “Chop chop, guys.”
Meatface hoisted a bag over his shoulder. “We’re done.”
Jorge was loaded up as well, and they were ready to walk out when the sound of someone whistling came from down the hallway.
Twigs halted everyone with a hand gesture and put a firm finger to her lips. They all turned off their mini-flashlights. Soundlessly, Twigs closed the side door to the conference room. They all stood frozen in Gordon’s office, only a blue-green slice of moonlight marbling their faces.
Buck recognized Johnny’s whistle. The guards were supposed to stay silent during the room checks, Johnny had told Buck once, but he always forgot. Moments passed, the whistle coming nearer and nearer.
Now Johnny had entered the secretarial common area and was headed toward the front door of Gordon’s office.
No one breathed. Across the room, Gordon’s doorknob clicked as Johnny wiggled it. Locked. Everyone’s shoulders dropped a little with relief, waiting for him to move on.
Then Gordon’s desk phone rang.
Stunned, Jorge jumped and dropped one of his cash bags.
It made a light thump as it hit the carpeted floor.
Everyone froze again. And waited in the thick silence.
Then back at the front door, Johnny’s familiar voice. “Somebody in there?” A moment. “Mr. Wesner?”
They could hear him walking down the hall back toward Buck’s office door. They heard a tap on Buck’s door. “Mr. Wesner? Mr. Dearmore?”
After a moment, the metal clicks of Buck’s office door being unlocked by a key. It swished open, and Johnny’s voice grew closer and clearer.
“Oh, shit,” they heard Johnny say. Then the sound of his holster being unsnapped.
A two-way cackled on and Johnny spoke into it: “This is Zero-5. I got a possible 52. Over.”
A female squawk came back at him. “Roger that, Zero-5.”
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