by John Lutz
Palmer Stone knew breeding and quality when he saw it. Maria Sanchez qualified.
“I’ll phone and discuss things rationally with her,” he said. “Don’t worry, Victor, I can calm her down.”
Victor thought about the surest way to quiet the nutcase new Madeline Scott, a way he’d relish and she wouldn’t. But he said nothing and with effort turned his mind away from possibilities already stirring in the core of him. The new Victor would think about the new Madeline Scott later, but he wouldn’t act on his imaginings. Not in any way involving her. It wouldn’t be worth the risk. She was business and would stay business.
He knew this was the kind of situation that called for bullshit, and nobody was better at it than Palmer Stone. He was built of the stuff.
Victor stood up from the sofa, stretched, and nodded.
“Whatever you say, Palmer.”
Jill could see that Tony was getting tired of it. And maybe a little puzzled.
He’d dropped in unexpectedly this evening, and two minutes later Jewel had turned up at the door. Jewel the pest and barrier to the bed. Jewel was talky, and downright pushy sometimes. She didn’t take a hint and she didn’t scare away. Tony and Jill were stuck with her. Jill played it that way, raising her eyebrows and making a what-are-you-gonna-do face at Tony when Jewel wasn’t looking.
Jill had been barefoot tonight when Tony arrived. As soon as Jewel showed up, on had gone the shoes. Obviously, Tony saw that as a bad sign.
“Let’s go out someplace and grab a bite to eat,” he suggested, standing up from where he’d been sitting on the sofa.
“Great idea!” Jewel said.
Tony glanced at Jill. “I mean’t—”
“The three of us,” Jill interrupted.
He stared at her, not even caring now if Jewel saw the look he was giving her. Why did you say that? What the hell’s the matter with you?
No doubt Jill saw Jewel as a friend as well as a pest and didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Not that Jewel seemed to have any.
Tony bet she could be made to feel. He found himself looking at her from time to time, sizing her up. Small woman with a great body, if she’d quit trying to conceal it. Slender waist, big boobs and ass. Sometimes he wondered what she’d look like nude. Jill had caught him looking at Jewel like that, and he had to think fast and make it all seem innocent. Jill wasn’t difficult to deceive. Tony didn’t think many women were. They only thought they were clever, which made them all the easier to fool.
“We can go back to that pizza place,” Jewel said. The three of them had eaten several times at a pizza joint down the block.
“Sounds great.” Jill looked at Tony.
“Sounds good,” was all he could muster.
The three of them started toward the door. Jill hung back and let Jewel go out first.
In the hall, when Jewel was half a dozen steps ahead of them, Jill raised her head and whispered in Tony’s ear, “She’s my friend. I don’t want to be rude to her.”
She could feel the tension in Tony, hear it in his breathing. How long could this charade last without him becoming suspicious? And if he did suspect, what would he do? She was beginning to think this might be the evening when she was going to find out.
Then his face broke into his beautiful smile. Easygoing Tony. The Tony she knew.
He bent over as they approached the elevator and whispered back to her, still smiling, “Hey, I understand. What’re you gonna do?” He kissed her ear.
Despite herself, she felt something in her melt.
He’s a killer.
Sometimes it was so hard to remember that.
He reached over and squeezed her hand gently, lovingly, assuring her he did indeed understand her predicament with Jewel.
“Don’t worry, darling,” he said patiently. “We’ll be alone sooner or later. Just the two of us. I’ll see to it.”
Something with a thousand legs walked up JiIl’s spine.
54
Tom Coulter stationed himself at the small wooden table where he’d sat drinking last night in Rodney’s Roadhouse. The mingled odors of stale beer and stale sweat were in the air, along with tobacco smoke. Nobody in Rodney’s was afraid to inhale.
The place was narrow but long, with a bar to the right of the entrance, tables to the left, a few of them back beyond the bar where the light wasn’t so good. Most of the light was provided by illuminated signs advertising beer: a hunter holding up a bottle, label out, posed near a dead buck; a girl in a skimpy bikini casually sipping brew while water-skiing; a famous baseball player, retired and free of contractual constraints, regarding a half-empty frosty mug and grinning with a foam mustache. Mixed in with the beer signs were a few advertising cigarettes. Like Rodney’s itself, most of the ads seemed to date back about twenty years.
Coulter’s table had old initials carved in it, worn almost smooth with the grain. It was the farthest table from the bar, near a short hall leading to the back exit, which was a screen door poked full of holes. From where he sat he could sip his beer and observe everything going on in Rodney’s, and at the same time get out in a hurry if it became necessary. Beyond the back entrance was the swamp, where Coulter had lost himself before and could again. City boy that he was, he had come to regard the swamp as a reliable friend on call to lend him shelter.
Rodney himself, a guy about fifty, built like a potato sack with a lumpy face to match, wandered back now and then to see that Coulter had enough beer in his bottle. It wasn’t the kind of place that furnished glasses. It took two of those trips before Coulter noticed that Rodney had an artificial right eye that didn’t match his left. Or was it the other way around?
It was getting to be evening, and the roadhouse regulars were filtering in. Half a dozen guys who looked like construction laborers were at the bar. Two homely women in jeans and sleeveless T-shirts perched on the last two stools at the end of the bar near the entrance. Coulter had figured it out on the first night that they were whores working the place. One of them, Cathy Lee, chunky and obviously proud of her generous cleavage, had approached him. She had a tangle of blond hair, wore way too much rose-scented perfume, and had a sweet twenty-year-old’s face with forty-year-old eyes. He’d bought her a drink and strung her along, but not so much that she hadn’t deserted him for a more likely prospect.
Cathy Lee sensed he was watching her and turned her head and nodded, smiling. She wasn’t coming over, though. She figured sooner or later they’d get together. Coulter thought that under ordinary circumstances she’d be right. Cathy Lee might have been his going-away present to himself, only there wasn’t the time. He had other ideas for tonight.
About half the tables had people sitting at them now. The air wasn’t good. It was humid from the swamp, as well as heavy with the unpleasant smells trying to crowd one another out. Conversation and laughter were getting louder, and speakers mounted high on the walls were playing a lament by some country singer about a man who’d shot at his wife’s lover and accidentally killed the wife. A guy with my kind of luck, Coulter thought.
He was particularly interested in two rough-looking guys at one of the tables. One was about Coulter’s height but even skinnier and had a scraggly red beard, though the hair on his head was brown. The other guy was short but broad and had his head shaved. Had—guess what—a strand of barbed wire tattooed around both oversized biceps.
Swamp turkeys, Coulter thought. Every once in a while someone would approach the two men. What looked like money would change hands; backs would be slapped; high fives would be given; smiles would be exchanged. Coulter eared in and made out that the tall skinny guy’s name was Joe Ray. The short, broad one was called Juan, though he didn’t look as if he had a drop of Latin blood in him.
Coulter figured they were dealing drugs, most likely meth. He’d fallen behind lately on the news, but he knew this part of Looziana was meth country. There’d been an explosion that had killed two guys cooking the stuff in a house trailer not far down the state
road, and the sheriff had promised action in shutting down meth labs. Coulter smiled. A sheriff. Wild West. And the hayseeds don’t know the biggest desperado in the country’s sitting right here among them drinking draft Bud.
They’d crap in their drawers if they did know, and that I’m sitting here with a plan.
Coulter hadn’t been lounging around wasting time in Rodney’s. He’d been watching and waiting, figuring things out.
He knew he wouldn’t be safe around here much longer. He couldn’t afford to stay anywhere very long. He’d stashed the big F-150 truck back in the swamp and had been more or less living out of it. He knew he shouldn’t move it around much. Its description and plate number must have been broadcast all over the country.
Joe Ray and Juan, the meth guys, had a truck. A beat-to-shit old Dodge pickup nobody’d look twice at in swamp country, mostly rust and dents, but with a legal license. And they were bound to have drug money stashed wherever they lived.
Coulter had the F-150 out in the gravel parking lot tonight, parked way back near the trees. Black swamp mud was artfully packed on its license plate so you couldn’t read most of the numbers and letters, in case anyone got curious. This model of truck, being so popular, was one of several F-150s on the lot, so Coulter felt pretty safe about leaving it there.
When the meth guys left Rodney’s tonight, he’d follow them to wherever it was they slept, hold them up at gunpoint, and trade trucks with them. He’d have to explain to the dumb jerkoffs how things worked. They wouldn’t report their truck being stolen, because if caught with it, Coulter would blow the whistle on their illegal meth operation. The F-100 they could paint, and then maybe arrange for a junkyard title and drive it as long as they wanted. Guys like them had the connections. Yokels were into trucks.
Coulter figured that when the two meth guys thought about it, they’d be glad for the deal. Sure they’d lose some cash, but they’d be gaining an expensive new truck in exchange for their rolling piece of crap. Some trading up.
The other thing about his plan, before he drove away in their junker and with all their cash, was that he would be sure to let them know they’d been held up by the most wanted fugitive in the country. Couple of hicks, it’d probably be the biggest thing in their lives. But they wouldn’t tell anyone. They couldn’t. They’d have an interest in him not being caught. Not with their rust-bucket truck, anyway. Also, they’d probably secretly be on his side. Underdogs stuck together tight, just like the smelly swamp mud around this place.
Pleased with himself, Coulter sipped his beer and through half-closed eyes observed money changing hands.
Money that would soon be in his hands.
55
She had to do something!
Had to move!
Maria Sanchez decided to walk off some of the energy that was building up in her like a nuclear device about to reach critical mass.
She left her shit-hole apartment, and when she got outside the building took a deep breath and turned right. The evening air was cooler than the heat of the day, but not by much. The city’s concrete still radiated heat from today’s bright sun.
She strode along the sidewalk almost at a run, but after a few blocks, when she realized how hard she was breathing, she slowed down.
Maria hadn’t set off with any particular destination in mind, but since she was walking toward Columbus Circle she decided to go there. If the scream that was like an itch in her throat had gone away by then, she’d walk back to the apartment and see if she could make it a while longer before going out and taking the risk of trying to make a buy.
Columbus Circle, then back. Then, if the need returned…
At least she had a plan.
Plan or go mad!
Maybe, once she made it back, she wouldn’t go out again at all tonight. She could drink some booze—not at all her drug of choice—and watch some crummy TV on the lousy little set in the corner of the living room until she was tired enough to sleep. She knew Palmer Stone was right, that the smart thing, the only thing that made sense, was for her to bide her time and keep a low profile.
But Palmer Stone wasn’t the one with the scream caught in his throat.
What the hell was she up to?
Nancy Weaver, who’d been watching the new Madeline’s apartment building from across the street, saw her leave the building, dressed casually in brown slacks, white joggers, and a red tunic gathered at the waist by a thick brown belt with an oversized buckle. On the opposite side of the street, Weaver began to shadow her.
After only a few strides she knew it wasn’t going to be easy. The woman was damned near running.
Weaver was the shorter of the two women and was wearing clunky black cop’s shoes instead of joggers. Every once in a while she’d have to take a few skips to keep pace with Madeline; otherwise she’d have to break into a jog. She wasn’t dressed for jogging, what with the leather shoes and the skirt and blazer. She’d attract a lot of attention. Some of it might be Madeline’s.
Finally, on Broadway, Madeline slowed down.
Weaver stayed well back, huffing and puffing and wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. She didn’t want to screw up this temporary assignment. Quinn believed in her, and he was about the only one left. She knew if things went right he’d put in a word for her. He was a tough guy and a real cop, and he recognized her talent for being a detective. And he had pull. He could get her back in plain clothes permanently. She could take it from there. Sure, she’d been dumb before and gotten herself all jammed up and back in uniform. It wouldn’t happen again, though. She’d make sure of that.
Madeline had slowed down even more and was kind of ambling. It was almost as if she’d been trying to get away from something and had finally found some relief. Working off tension. Weaver had been there herself and understood. She just wished Madeline didn’t have those long legs. Wished she had those long legs. A cop with legs like that could get herself promoted.
Following Madeline became progressively easier at this slower pace. Weaver fell into the other woman’s rhythm. It was almost as if she were inside Madeline’s mind and knew ahead of time what she was going to do, where she was going.
They were almost to Columbus Circle.
Gloria hadn’t had much trouble keeping up with Maria Sanchez, a.k.a. Madeline Scott. She was glad, though, that the bitch had finally slowed down. They were almost at Columbus Circle. That would be good. Plenty of traffic. Rush hour. Everybody in a hurry. Careless.
Gloria had shoved the first Madeline off the subway platform just as the train was roaring in. Even if someone in the crowd edging toward the train had noticed, it would have seemed only a slight, accidental nudge. They wouldn’t have guessed the technique and power in it.
Not a subway this time, Gloria had decided. A street vehicle. Preferably a cab, but an ordinary car or truck would do. A bus might work well. She was confident Maria Sanchez’s stay on this earth was fast coming to an end.
If Gloria didn’t have the opportunity this time, she’d wait for another chance. It would come. She had patience. God would provide.
After Victor had related to her his conversation with Palmer about Maria’s phone call, Gloria knew something had to be done, and she had to be the one to do it. Victor and Palmer would agree that Maria had to be deleted, she was sure, only not soon enough. They were men, and this bitch knew how to string men along. For the safety of all of them, for the company, Maria had to go soon, before she did damage they couldn’t control.
Watching the woman striding ahead of her—the erect posture; long legs; slender hips; and tight, round ass—Gloria momentarily considered doing things the slow way. But she soon reconsidered. This was business and nothing to play with, however enjoyable it might be. It needed to be fast, and look like an accident.
No problem. Gloria smiled, remembering not only the first Madeline, who’d been too breathless and shocked to scream, disappearing beneath the speeding subway train, but also the many hits s
he’d made for a long-ago insurance scam. She could make this work. Bringing about other people’s accidental deaths used to be her specialty, and it was a skill you never forgot.
Weaver saw Madeline slow down near the traffic circus of Columbus Circle. Cars, trucks, buses coming fast and from odd angles as traffic lights signaled in the dying light. A person had to be careful crossing the street here, but even with care, things happened.
Madeline stopped at the curb among a knot of about a dozen people waiting for the light to change. Several more pedestrians joined the crowd, edging in tight, closer to each other. Some of them leaned slightly forward, as if the traffic light would signal the beginning of a race.
Weaver slowed her pace. She didn’t want to reach the intersection too soon. Better to keep some distance between herself and Madeline.
She felt a tingling pain in her right calf, and her left foot was sore from her shoe being a little too tight. All that high-speed walking had taken its toll. And apparently it had all been for nothing. It wasn’t as if Madeline was late for an appointment. Weaver felt a twinge of aggravation with this woman who was taller, more attractive, and irritatingly blond. And with those legs.
The light changed, and waiting parallel traffic roared and sprang forward. The charge was led by a gleaming white stretch limo. Pedestrians could cross now in the direction of the flowing traffic, but they had to wait for right-turning vehicles to give them a break. This being New York, right-turning vehicles didn’t.
Gloria was standing directly behind Maria Sanchez when the signal changed. She could smell her shampoo and perspiration, feel the heat emanating from her lean body.