by Brad Smith
“Cherry,” Parson repeated, confused.
Virgil left them to their conversation, went walking along the row of cars toward the coupe in the corner. Parson saw him, but his mind was too wrapped up in what he was hearing to care.
“And so,” Parson said to Dusty, “you planted the coke in Cherry’s car.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dusty said.
“You’re full of shit.” Parson shook his head, and the businessman slowly returned. “Why didn’t you just shoot him and bring me the coke?”
“You are unbelievable,” Dusty told him.
When Virgil reached the coupe in the corner, he pulled back the plastic for a better look. A few inches behind the passenger-side window there was a bullet hole. Virgil put his finger in the hole, as he’d done roughly a year earlier. It looked as if the car hadn’t been touched since he’d seen it then. He left the plastic pulled back and walked back to the front of the shop.
“If the cops have the coke, then I guess that’s the end of it,” Dusty said. “I’m going to have to believe you when you say you didn’t send Cherry to kill me. But now we’re finished, Parson. You and I are square. I need to hear you say that.”
“I’m not so sure we’re finished, Dusty,” he said. He watched Virgil returning before turning his eyes on her. “Tell me about your son.”
She was ready for him. “What about him?”
“You do have a son?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me about him.”
Virgil stopped a few feet away now, watching her. She had to be a jangle of nerves inside, but she was cool as could be where it mattered.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Dusty said. “He’s a kid. He likes Superman and Iron Man. And baseball. If I let him, he’d brush his teeth once a month.” She paused before dropping the lie. “He turns four next Saturday. I’m taking him to Six Flags.”
“He’s four?” Parson asked.
“Almost.”
Parson nodded slowly, shifting his gaze to Virgil. “You’re his father?”
“That’s right,” Virgil said. “I don’t know what business that is of yours.”
“You want to get on my bad side, asshole?” Parson asked.
“I couldn’t care less what side of you I’m on,” Virgil said, seeing the chance to shift the topic from the boy. “Look at you. I’ve got one arm and you still won’t get out of that chair. A minute ago you were asking Dusty why she didn’t kill your pal Cherry for you. You always need somebody else to do your dirty work for you.”
“For you, I might make an exception,” Parson said, glaring at Virgil, the veins in his neck bulging.
“Fine,” Virgil said. “Right this minute works for me. When we’re done, you’re going to pay that old farmer the money you owe him for that coupe over there.”
“I got no idea what you’re babbling about,” Parson said.
“No?” Virgil said. “The old boy he told me that it was a big colored guy who stole his car. That might not be politically correct, but a thief is a thief. The only reason you were able to steal the car is that he took you for a straight shooter, same as him. So you’re either going to pay him his ten grand or give him the car back. I’m going to make sure you do. I’ve never called the cops on anybody in my life.” Virgil smiled. “But for you, I might make an exception.”
Now Parson’s mouth was open, but he seemed unable to make a sound. He glanced from Virgil to Dusty, and finally looked away from both, choosing instead to focus on his row of beloved cars. “Get the fuck out of here, both of you,” he said. “I never want to see either of you again. Just … go.”
Virgil drove Dusty across town, back to her apartment. When he pulled up out front he reached under his seat and brought up the rotor from her truck.
“You asshole,” she said.
“Yup.”
She took the rotor and put it in her pocket, then sat quietly for a time, looking out the windshield. “I have no idea what to say, Virgil.”
“Go get your son.”
“I will.”
“Is it really his birthday next week?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to Six Flags?”
“Yeah. You want to come along?”
Virgil thought for a brief moment and he nodded. “Maybe I’ll get him some neatsfoot oil.”
“He would like that.” She opened the door to go. “Where are you going now?”
“Home. I got animals to tend to.” He looked at her. “Then I have to find out where Hoffman lived.”
“Why?”
“Apparently my boat is in his garage.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to the usual suspects at Simon & Schuster Canada and at Scribner in the United States. To Jen Barclay—thank you for your early read and your enduring friendship.
And gracias to my agent, Victoria Skurnick. With a k.
© LORRAINE SOMMERFELD
BRAD SMITH was born and raised in southern Ontario. He has worked as a farmer, signalman, insulator, truck driver, bartender, schoolteacher, maintenance mechanic, roofer, and carpenter. He lives in an eighty-year-old farmhouse near the north shore of Lake Erie. Red Means Run, the first novel in his Virgil Cain series, was named among the Year’s Best Crime Novels by Booklist.
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COVER DESIGN BY MARLYN DANTES • COVER PHOTOGRAPH BY ZENA HOLLOWAY/GETTY
Also by Brad Smith
Red Means Run
All Hat
Big Man Coming Down the Road
Busted Flush
One-Eyed Jacks
Rises a Moral Man
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2012015809
ISBN: 978-1-4516-7853-6
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