Erika felt the hairs on her arms stand up. Tony was capable of that, alright.
“It’s to keep you accessible for us, Miss Newton,” the older guy said. “You’ll be in a special holding cell.”
“Okay,” she said. “Whatever I have to do.” After a pause, Erika asked, “Is there any news on the girl? The rodeo star?”
The cowboy nodded his head. “She’s going to make it. We heard about an hour ago.”
“It’ll be a really long rehab, but there’s no paralysis,” the rumpled detective added. “She’s lucky in that.”
“But her rodeo days are over,” Erika said, but there was a question in the lilt of her voice.
“Afraid so,” the cowboy confirmed.
Chapter 82
In spite of teeth so sore he could barely chew, the take-out ribs and curly fries from Earl’s were the best Buck had ever tasted. After the first bite, his stomach had lurched into action, growling for more. It took an eternity to chew each bite, so he didn’t have to worry about eating too fast. His body managed it well.
Between phone calls, Terrence was chowing down himself, although he remained hunched over his desk, working on the case.
A Dr. Merrill had come by earlier and examined Buck while they waited for the Earl’s delivery. It was going to take a long time to heal, and, unfortunately, the pinkie was gone forever. If they’d had it preserved, a re-attachment could have been attempted, no question, but too much time had passed.
He’d left Buck with pain pills that he guaranteed would not make him drowsy. “On the other hand, as soon as you’ve eaten, you’re going to be asleep within the hour,” Dr. Merrill had promised, “pills or no pills.” Buck had nodded but knew he had slipped into that awful place of being unable to function if he didn’t get some rest, but too pumped to shut his eyes.
Seeing Angie at the Police Station had tied him up in knots. In his muddled head, he tried to sort out the events. The detectives would have a hard time proving he had returned to the bank last night. Even if he had left some blood drops in Gordon’s office, some story could be concocted to cover that. Some accident, even a paper cut.
It allowed Buck a twisted kind of comfort that Twigs and her boys might be blamed for Gordon’s murder, even if they remained unidentified. Johnny hadn’t actually seen Buck, but the guard had to realize there were several people in Gordon’s office.
In spite of everything that had happened after he had shot Gordon, it was just possible he really wasn’t in any worse shape. Possibly even better. What motive could they come up with for him to kill Gordon? Unless they could prove the affair between him and Angie, there were too many loose ends for it to hold together.
The P.I.’s pictures from Gordon’s safe were gone now. Twigs wouldn’t use them. She wasn’t stupid. And he was willing to bet Gordon was enough of a control freak that he would have insisted on having all the physical evidence back from whatever detective he’d hired. Even if some P.I. came forward eventually, he or she would have their own credibility to prove.
He planned to play it dumb as to his carjackers. He had been hooded most of the time, and as long as he stuck to the stuff Jorge and Meatface had actually done to him, it would be up to the police to find out who they were. He just had to keep his stories straight, and he still might walk away from this with his freedom. He’d figure out how to handle the guilt later.
Chapter 83
Meatface had Buck’s football helmet on and was sitting in the SUV, finishing up the remains of a super-sized garbage pizza. They were outside a truck stop on 152 about 20 miles west of Oklahoma City. Meatface had filled up the vehicle with gas and joined Twigs and Jorge in a pizza place inside.
But after ten minutes Twigs had given him the rest of the pizza and told him to wait in the SUV. Then she and Jorge had disappeared into the Ladies room. As if Buck didn’t know Elvis was in there pounding her brains out. She always wanted it after a job.
He wondered what it would be like to do Twigs, all those thin, angular limbs. Probably like poking a board. Elvis could have her skinny ass. Not that Meatface was not ready for some action, and in just a couple of hours he was going to have all the money he needed. As soon as they delivered the payment to the boss’s ranch just thirty more miles west down the road, the three of them would turn back up north to party in Kansas City.
He loved the whorehouses there, full of gals in cheerleader and sailor outfits, sucking their fingers and stuff. Last time he’d found himself a sweet thing chewing on a wheat stalk, who was a milkmaid, her boobies bobbing under a pink neck bandana and her twat bare when she stooped over. Maybe she’d still be there and they’d play County Fair again.
Just thinking about her made him want to find someplace more private, but then he heard Twigs’ sharp stiletto clicks heading toward the SUV. She didn’t say anything, just hopped in with Jorge.
Meatface watched Jorge toss back a couple more prescription painkillers while Twigs, seemingly oblivious, refreshed her lipstick in the passenger side mirror. Meatface just shook his head. Jorge’s eyes were already practically glazed over.
“Okay, boys, let’s go do this,” Twigs said, all business again.
“Bada bing, bada boom,” Meatface said in his best mafioso accent. Then he grinned at Twigs, kept it casual. “Why don’t you let me drive? Huh? Jorge don’t look like he’s feeling so good, I think.”
“Fuck you,” Jorge shot back over his shoulder.
Twigs sighed like she was dealing with two unruly children. “If he’d go to the damn dentist and take care of himself.”
“I told you, I’ll find one in Kansas City. Tell them it’s an emergency,” Jorge said.
“It is a fucking emergency,” Meatface laughed. “I mean, look at your face, man. It’s swoll up big time.”
“I can damn well drive,” Jorge said, indignation building to ugly.
“Oh, for Christ sake, okay. But no more pills or I’ll drive myself,” Twigs said with finality.
“Okay,” Meatface said, like, it’s your funeral. “We’re only carrying a boatload of money, huh?”
Twigs motioned him down, then tried to soften the tension. “It’ll be alright. Jorge could drive a getaway car with both hands tied behind his back, huh?”
Jorge jumped on this. “Fuckin’ A I can.”
“How come the boss lives way out in the country anyway?” Meatface asked.
“To stay away from the great unwashed,” Twigs answered. As they got in, she looked back at Meatface. “For cryin’ out loud, are you going to wear that fucking helmet all day?”
Meatface thumped the top of it. “With him driving? Fuckin’ A.”
Chapter 84
Tony was too tired to push the stolen Kawasaki another inch. At first he had tried to ride it lightly, but that was impossible. The back tire was already riding on the rim. Pushing a dead bike was worse than lifting weights, so Tony knew he couldn’t do that. Finally, he’d gotten off but left the engine running to help maneuver it.
His back had gotten hurt, too, when the bitch shot out the tire. Now every step he took caused pain to shoot up his spine. He was afraid he couldn’t go much farther. But he still refused to drop the Kawasaki by the side of the road and start hitchhiking. That would mean giving up forever the possibility of getting the old perverts.
What was impossible for him to realize, given the amount of drugs he’d ingested, was that the unrelenting night, no sleep, and then the adrenalin-charged chase with the Walkers had left him spent, completely done in. Anything unusual could send his mind to other worlds.
Then, as he rounded what he was afraid would be his last uphill curve, a mechanic’s garage appeared, an undulating haze misting around it. He squinted to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating and could just make out the sign in front: Pop & Billy’s Garage. Tony could smell the engine oil wafting toward the road. And there was a pile of used tires for sale right in front. A break, at last.
The green fields and gravel sky looked overly co
lor-saturated to Tony’s hollow, oily eyes. Even the up close controls on the Ninja moved in and out of focus as he strained the last thirty feet to the driveway.
Then Tony saw an even bigger miracle. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The guy walking out to greet him was Chuckles. Tony knew the walk right away, the surprisingly effortless amble for such a big guy. And the long hair, maybe not as red as it used to be, always oily though, that hadn’t changed. Some new tats showing beneath the pushed up sleeves of his sweatshirt.
Chuckles, actually Charles Leroy Buchanan, was the man who had saved Tony’s ass after he had been stitched back together by a team of doctors in the city. Tony always figured Chuckles was a happy guy because he knew he was too enormous for the other prisoners to mess with. Easy for him to always be joking, given the power of the man’s presence. The other prisoners always gave him space.
Chuckles had a lot more than being huge going for him. He’d found Jesus while he was inside. For real. The man openly carried a Bible and the last time Tony saw him before he got released, Chuckles was in line waiting for the chapel doors to open for a service.
It did puzzle Tony how Chuckles could be out so soon. He thought he had another four years. Sixteen years ago, Chuckles had put his slutty wife’s lover in a wheelchair, from which the man would never stand or walk again.
After he found Jesus, Chuckles had never forgiven himself for that brutality and now constantly prayed for his victim, which Tony didn’t get, since the creep was exactly where Chuckles wanted him. Crippled and no way to fuck his wife. Chuckles asked for forgiveness for himself as well, but he told Tony that his own forgiveness wasn’t as important as praying for the gimp on a daily basis.
The reformed inmate despised the horrendous rapes that Tony had endured. Chuckles would talk to him out in the yard. “Man, you are never going to make your time if you don’t wise up. You ain’t big enough or mean enough for that lip of yours.”
Tony had shrugged him off as a Jesus nut, but after a couple of close calls with punks trying to push a shiv in his guts, Tony had sidled up to Chuckles’ wisdom.
Tony even went with him to Chapel, although he didn’t believe in that shit at all. But after a year, Chuckles was the only one that Tony let in, not just emotionally, but literally. They became lovers, cellmates, although Tony never told a soul on the outside about it. He wasn’t an idiot. “Normies” didn’t get the prison sex thing. But he had loved Chuckles, enough that it hurt bad when Tony had to say goodbye.
Tony was floating as he got closer to the garage. Wiping his hands on a grease rag, Chuckles took a few more steps into the driveway. “Looks like you ran into some trouble there,” he said.
“I’ll say,” Tony grinned. “Good to see you.”
“I bet it is,” Chuckles said, eyeing the Ninja’s back tire. Then he hollered back toward the garage. “Pop, we got a tire fit this?” He grinned at Tony as they waited, motioned to the tire pile. “Pop’s only one knows what all’s in there.”
“Didn’t know you had a pop,” Tony said.
Chuckles laughed out loud. At least it sounded a lot like his laugh. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“You’ve changed,” Tony said, wondering just how much was Chuckles acting different on the outside, and how much was Tony remembering him different.
“Huh?” Chuckles said, then immediately turned to watch his dad limp out from the garage. The old man didn’t have Chuckles’ girth, but he was broad set, low center of gravity, be a bitch to knock him over. Shoulder length white hair, beard down to his chest on him. Tony didn’t get how people could let themselves go like that.
Pop squinted to size up the shredded wheel. “That’s a seventeen-one-ten. Should have one in there. That kid from California left one. ‘Member him?” He walked to the pile and started to lift a tire out of the way.
“I’ll do that, Pop,” Chuckles said. “Just point to it.”
As they worked, Tony realized his throat felt like sandpaper. “Hey, you got a soda machine?”
“Yeah, in the office,” Chuckles said, pointing to it.
“Great.” Tony ambled inside, watching Chuckles as he went, thinking he had smaller arms than the last time he saw him.
Inside, Tony found enough change to buy a plastic bottle of something orange, the only choice that wasn’t “empty” in the vending machine. He watched through the office window to make sure both the men were busy before moving to the desk.
Man, it was sloppy. Greasy receipts and bills, take-out bags that gave off a smell like rotten chili dogs. And a coffee-stained newspaper. Tony picked it up to see if there was a picture of him. He smiled. That dumb hump Buck Dearmore was plastered on the front page. He couldn’t read the article, of course, except for “Wanted,” a word he’d put to memory early in his life.
At the top of an official looking pad he searched for Chuckles’ name. He’d seen it written and knew what it looked like. The garage sign said “Billy” or something like that, and printed at the top of a pad was a name that didn’t have a Charles or Chuckles in it anywhere.
Tony decided Chuckles must have changed his name. He had to hand it to him. Tony had not heard about the breakout, but apparently Chuckles had somehow escaped and was holed up here. Now Tony wondered if the Jesus thing had been a ruse all along.
Chuckles had said something strange to him just before Tony was released. He had said, real quiet like, “Kid, when you need me, I’m gonna be there. I’ll be there for you. Understand? Just think on me.” Then Chuckles had hugged him hard and gotten back in line for Chapel. It had choked Tony up so much that a brusque goodbye was all he could manage.
The old man’s voice startled Tony. “Just about gotcha fixed up, boy,” he said, sitting down and clearing off some of the pig sty on the desk.
“That’s great. I’m in kind of a hurry.”
“Who ya chasin’?”
It took Tony a second to realize the old man was kidding with him. “If I catch her, she’ll be hot to trot, I’ll tell you that,” Tony grinned.
His back now screaming with pain, Tony reached into his pocket and was stunned to find it empty. Both his stash bottle and his money, nearly ninety bucks, gone. Fuck. He must have somehow lost them when he went down with the bike. Goddamn cows probably eating them right now.
The old man finished adding up his bill with a pencil. “It’ll be thirty dollars. You’re lucky I had one with a rim. That one of yours was a goner.”
Tony weighed what to do. He could pull his .38 and put one through the old man’s head, but he hated to do that since he was related to Chuckles.
Then he realized, of course. “Listen, I think I lost my money back there during the wreck. I’ll ride back and find it, then come back here and settle up.”
The old man turned in his chair and looked hard at him. When he spoke, Tony could see his bad teeth, the years of coffee stains. “Boy, do I look like I just fell off the watermelon truck?”
Tony shrugged and grinned. “No.”
“Then what the hell makes you think I’m gonna believe that shit?”
Tony nodded, finally realizing the old man hadn’t properly met him yet. “I get it. It’s okay. Just talk to Chuckles. He’ll vouch for me.”
The old man rose and got close enough that Tony could smell his breath. “Who the fuck is Chuckles?”
Chapter 85
For the first time in hours, Angie was feeling no pain. Her body was riding above the seat of the BMW, the car flying so fast that the cloudless, charcoal sky formed an endless tunnel around her. The radio blared southern rockabilly.
“I was born to love you. And you were born to tear my soul apart.” She screamed along with it.
This was how she had released when the pretenses of keeping up in the entitled-class-world got to her. When no matter how she pumped herself up, she still felt ugly, insufficient, a see-through imposter. Always just a swoop away from being outed.
The first time she’d raced off like this was after she had emb
arrassed herself at a dinner she and Gordon gave for some ritzy types. It was at that point in the marriage when they still got along well, when she served pretty much as Social Chairman.
The table had been filled with Gordon’s good-old-boy business associates, whose skills at feigning sincerity and amusement were world class. They would ruthlessly screw each other over during business hours, but at night it was always I’m the funniest, tightest pal you got. And the women. All pinched faces, silk blouses and ugly broaches. She wanted to tell them, “Hey, bitches, it’s the new millenium.”
It had happened without warning, following the usual hokey laughter at someone else’s expense. There had been talk of a greasy city councilman, “whose daughter’s back should never see the light of day.” Some old Johnny Carson joke. On cue came the raucous laughter.
Bored and drifting off, Angie had been thinking about how quickly she might be able to start the dessert and coffee when one of the wives broadsided her with, “So where’s your family from, Mrs. Wesner?” It had been a seemingly neutral question, yet Angie’s hands started to tremble. Her throat constricted, and tears, too quick to check, slid out from behind her eyes.
After an awkward moment, the table hushed, everyone stiff and embarrassed. Angie could not utter a word for fear she’d burst out bawling.
The lady who had asked tried to salvage the moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
Gordon had looked over sympathetically at Angie, but was unsure himself what to say. It was as though something unpredictably real and awkward had happened during their manufactured evening, and no one knew their part.
Finally, somehow, Angie had found the strength to stand and managed to whisper, “Sorry,” before rushing from the table. She didn’t remember the rest of the evening, just that horrible feeling of the caged bird, stared at with pity by everyone.
Even later, when Gordon tried to console her, she had pushed him away. “Let me handle it my own way,” she had finally insisted.
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