Goodbye Sister Disco

by James Patrick Hunt

  “Yes, but what about my daughter?”

  “If everything is in order, we’ll release her in two hours.”

  “That’s not right. You told me—”

  “First things first, Gene. We can’t take chances.”

  “But you have to hold up your part of the agreement.”

  “We will. If you don’t comply with my instructions, you know what will happen. Is the stop coming up?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Leave it, Gene.”

  And the voice was gone.

  Gene Penmark felt very alone. He looked about the car, looked at faces that didn’t look back at him. Strangers. He stood up.

  * * *

  Hastings walked through cars, looking at faces. He didn’t see Penmark in the first four cars and he started to worry that Penmark might have gotten off at the Convention Center stop and taken another train west and was now in Illinois. But he kept going and then he was looking in the window of the second car from the front and he saw Gene Penmark sitting on the other side.

  The train was slowing.

  And Gene Penmark was standing up.

  Hastings stepped back and pulled out his two-way.

  “George?” Gabler said.

  “Yeah,” Hastings said, “he’s here. We’re coming up to the Union Station stop. It looks like he’s getting off.” Hastings looked at Penmark’s back and saw that he no longer had the money.

  Hastings said, “He’s dumped the ransom. If he gets off, I’m going to stay on to see if I can find who picks it up.”

  He hadn’t asked Gabler if that would be all right. He knew that Gabler didn’t know the right call any better than he did. Besides, Gabler wasn’t here.

  Gabler said, “Okay, George. I’m going to Union Station; I’ll find Penmark. Good luck.”

  Hastings put the two-way back in his jacket pocket and opened the door to the car and moved in. The train was slowing now, coming to a stop. Gene Penmark was walking toward the doors. Hastings stayed where he was, did not go to him. He prayed in that moment that Penmark would not turn around and see him, would not turn around and acknowledge recognition with his eyes. That could get them both killed, if Hastings’s instinct was correct. Hastings turned around, his back now to Penmark.

  When he turned and looked over his shoulder, Penmark was stepping off the train. The doors closed behind him and the bell sounded. And then all Hastings could do was glance through the window at Penmark as the train left the station. Hastings thought, If I’m right, I’ll know soon enough. He’d made a decision and he was stuck with it; Penmark was off the train and Hastings was still on it.

  Hastings took a seat near the door through which he had come in. He cast a casual eye on the place where Penmark had been sitting. The seats on the train were arranged like those on an airplane, so Hastings could not see what, if anything, Penmark had left on his seat. Or under it. Hastings didn’t know. And now Penmark was gone, so he couldn’t ask him. Penmark was gone but the money was probably still here, probably still on the train. Which meant that the man who wanted that money was on the train as well.

  But who? Which one of these people?

  There were between twenty and thirty other passengers on the car. Women, children, students, workers … shoppers holding bright-colored shopping bags from St. Louis Centre with Christmas gifts in them. Clothes, toys, DVDs, and video games. Too many people. Too goddamn many.

  Hastings unfolded his newspaper, thinking that if there was a man on this train to collect the money, he was probably looking out for someone like Hastings. Looking for a cop. Hastings was hunting for a man, but the quarry could turn around and shoot back if he was of a mind to. And if that quarry was here, he would no doubt be capable of doing it.

  The train was out of the tunnel now, above ground, and gray light was changing the complexion of the passenger compartment. The people in the car became easier to consider and discern. A young guy in a Chicago Bears jacket and wearing one of those young-guy goatees took a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on. Hastings began to pick up snatches of conversation. Weather, sports, the shopping season, children’s Christmas programs, work, family coming into town for the holidays, entertainment. Between cracking the pages of the newspaper, Hastings would look into the faces of the passengers and try to eliminate the ones who would be unlikely to pick up a bag stuffed with two million dollars. An old man wearing a homburg; a heavyset woman in her fifties wearing a jacket with Bugs Bunny on the back; a woman with two small children; two younger guys having an animated discussion about the point spreads on the upcoming college bowl games.

  It was helping, but he couldn’t eliminate everyone. And as Hastings discarded the obvious and impossible, he became more and more convinced that his man was on the train. He could not see the money, could not see the bag, but he knew he had seen Penmark step off the train without it. He had a sense of where Penmark had been sitting, where he could have left the money. There was no one sitting there now. Hastings knew he could confirm it for himself just by getting up and walking over there. But if he did that, he would expose himself to the other man—the man who was there to take the money. Maybe the man would shoot him then. Or maybe the man would just quietly get off the train and make a telephone call that would end the life of Cordelia Penmark. It was a tough thing, having to sit there quietly looking for someone who could be looking for him.

  The train was bending around a turn now, and Hastings could see the car ahead angle into view, passengers on that one too. They were almost at the Grand Boulevard station. People were starting to gather their things and get ready to get off. And then some of them were on their feet, shuffling to the doors.

  And that was when Hastings saw it. A man in a black raincoat, moving down the aisle, so casually, so nonchanlantly, so normally, that Hastings would later wonder if the man had been on some sort of sedative or had once been in the theater, and the man stopped and reached under the seat and picked up a blue backpack and then was carrying it as if he had owned it since childhood. Not a trace of guilt or embarrassment colored his expression. For a second, even Hastings thought the man in the raincoat owned the bag.

  Hastings followed him off the train and into the station, Hastings falling in behind him. The man in the black raincoat neither slowing nor hurrying when he walked past the newspaper stand and Dr Pepper concession booth, and then that was behind them as the man in the black raincoat went into the men’s room.

  Hastings hesitated before entering the bathroom. Conscious of the two-way radio in his jacket pocket, but telling himself then, right then, that the man in the raincoat could be aware that he was being tailed and could be setting up a machine-gun turret if Hastings hesitated too long, so Hastings kept going, acting on gut instinct, wondering then if the man in the black raincoat was going to transfer the money from the bookbag to another container because that was what Hastings would have done in his place, and Hastings pushed the door open and then he was inside.

  It was like most bathrooms at a metropolitan train station. Dirty white tile, beige doors on the stalls that had seen their share of kicks, the sort of metallike mirrors that are difficult to smash.

  The man in the black raincoat was standing in front of one of the stalls, looking directly at Hastings. Not smiling, not frowning. Not looking surprised or alarmed either …

  Which meant, shit, he had been expecting this.

  And Hastings turned almost before he heard the door behind him crash open and then the big Indian was rushing him with a knife, quickly and silently, and there was no time for Hastings to reach for his gun because the Indian was right fucking on him, driving, and Hastings had to put both hands out to grab the guy’s wrists, which he succeeded in doing, but the Indian was bigger and stronger and younger and faster and the bathroom was not a large one and Hastings anticipated being slammed back into the wall, but somehow he managed to turn and twist so that both he and his attacker smashed up against the wall, but Hastin
gs taking most of the force, the Indian still quiet and determined to kill, and Hastings could see the man in the black raincoat smiling at him, as he placed the blue backpack and its contents into another, black backpack that he would sling over his shoulder. The man in the black raincoat walked out of the bathroom then, feeling it was over, tipping his brow at the dipshit cop who was about to be gutted.

  Maybe the man was supposed to hang around until it was finished. Because the Indian sort of looked up, perhaps surprised himself at the other’s cowardice, and Hastings shifted his weight again as a smaller man must do, and the Indian thrust forward at the right time, but Hastings had moved, pressing himself back to the side as the Indian pushed the knife into the sink. It didn’t knock it out of his hand, but it loosened his grip, and in that moment Hastings took the Indian’s hands and smashed them back onto the sink again.

  This time, the Indian did drop the knife. It clattered to the ground, but right away the Indian grabbed Hastings by his jacket and hurled him back against the wall. Hastings felt his head bounce off the tiled wall and it did more than hurt. He was disoriented, seeing stars, as he slumped to the ground and watched with blurred vision as the Indian went to the ground to pick up his knife, which gave Hastings just enough time to draw his revolver and shoot the man three times.

  The echoes of gunfire boomed out in that small room and the smoke seemed pungent to Hastings, who was trying to remain conscious. But the smoke cleared and he saw the Indian on the ground now, looking quite dead, though Hastings eventually crawled over to make sure. Yeah, dead.

  Hastings reached for his two-way to call Gabler and let him know about the man in the black raincoat. He said Gabler’s name once, then twice, then slumped over on the floor and passed out.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Mickey Seften did not slow his walk when he heard the shots echoing from the bathroom in the station. Rounds cracking out and people looking at one another with faces asking, Is that what I think it is? Yeah, shots fired in a toilet. Maybe by Toby, maybe by the cop who’d gotten the upper hand.

  Mickey kept going.

  If Toby had gotten killed, that was all right with him. He had never liked Toby all that much anyway. He wondered now why Terrill had sent Toby along to watch him. Mickey could have killed that cop himself. If he had had a gun, he could have. But Terrill had said he didn’t want Mickey carrying a gun on this trip. He’d said he wanted Mickey clean in case anyone stopped and searched him before he picked up the money. So Mickey had gone unarmed and Toby had brought along his big Buck knife. Toby liked knives. He had met up with them when they were in Canada for a few months. Toby was exploiting his heritage even then, stepping in and out of it when the time was convenient. Toby used to kayak down backwoods rivers, smuggling marijuana across the border. Toby was getting by, until he got into a wage dispute with one of his dealer bosses and Toby stabbed him to death. Toby left Canada then and migrated south with the rest of the jackal bins.

  Mickey kept his reservations about Toby to himself. He had never believed that Toby had bought into their mission. He believed that Toby was too independent, not one to be beholden to much of anything. Not even his own culture. Yet Maggie and Terrill were quick to interpret any criticism of any culture apart from the Judeo-Christian one as deep-seated white supremacy. And maybe this discomfort with Toby stemmed from that. Mickey Seften was from Shaker Heights, Ohio, the son of upper-middle-class parents. His father was a successful patent lawyer, his mother a judge. He had not seen them in years. He couldn’t remember ever having liked them. His mother had been remote and cool. His father shaking his head a lot, more than once muttering, “Loser.” Both of them relieved when he left home.

  Mickey had to stand at the intersection of Grand and Laclede for only a moment before Terrill pulled up in a Toyota Camry. Mickey got in.

  Terrill said, “Where’s Toby?”

  “He’s still there. I heard shots.” Mickey paused. “I think a cop may have killed him.”

  Terrill had pulled away from the curb. He was driving west now on Laclede. He slowed to make a left turn onto Spring Avenue. Terrill was looking at him as they coasted down the hill.

  They stopped at the traffic light at Spring and Forest Park Avenue. Sirens then, distant at first, then getting closer. They stayed at the light as two police cars and an ambulance raced by them, heading to the Grand Boulevard railway station, and Terrill knew Mickey was telling the truth.

  Terrill said, “How did it happen?”

  Mickey hesitated. Shrugged, and said, “The cop followed me into the bathroom and Toby just went crazy. Jumped him with a knife.”

  “What did you do?” Terrill said.

  “I left him,” Mickey said. He turned to Terrill, not wanting to hide his expressions now. He said, “Look, it’s not my fault Toby didn’t keep his cool. I had no weapon so there wasn’t much I could do to help. Besides, you yourself told me the important thing was to bring the money back.”

  “Yeah, I told you that.”

  “It’s not about the individual,” Mickey said, repeating something else Maggie and Terrill had taught him.

  “I know,” Terrill said. He continued south on Spring Avenue until they got to I-64. He turned onto that and drove back east. Soon they were rising on the highway as the places they had used unfolded on their left: Union Station, downtown St. Louis. Then the Arch was in view and then behind them as they crossed over the Mississippi River and they were in Illinois.

  It was when the city was behind them that Mickey felt the emotion. Two million dollars on them, two million fucking dollars, right there in the car with them. He had seen it in the bathroom, had touched it, had put his hands on it. It was there.

  Mickey said, “Jesus, I can’t believe we did it. Two million dollars. Can you believe it?”

  “Yeah, it’s a lot of money.”

  “You were right, Terrill. It wasn’t that hard. They’re not that bright.”

  “No, they’re not. Hey, who was the cop that was in the bathroom?”

  “What? Oh, I don’t know. Just some guy in slacks and a jacket. He had dark hair.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Yeah, I guess I would.”

  Terrill said, “So you saw him long enough for that?”

  Mickey shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Jan said, “Maggie said only Terrill’s supposed to bring her her food.”

  Ray said, “Maggie’s upstairs.” She was probably sleeping. Or getting baked.

  “But Maggie said—”

  “She’s not here now.” Ray looked at Jan and made a gesture. Like, Are we supposed to check everything with Terrill and Maggie? Ray said, “They should be back soon. If it goes well, he’s not going to want to worry about whether or not the bitch has been fed.”

  Lee was standing behind them in the kitchen. She said, “I can bring it to her.”

  Jan and Ray had almost forgotten she was there. Lee was saying less and less these days.

  Before Jan could say anything, Ray handed her the paper plate with the sandwiches. “Good,” Ray said. “Do it.”

  After Lee left, Jan said, “They’re not going to like it.”

  “Fuck ’em,” Ray said. “I’m not a child.”

  Jan did not argue with him. She went to the kitchen sink and turned on the taps, adjusting the hot and cold. She said, “Do we know if they got it?” She was talking about the money.

  Ray said, “They haven’t told us. They’ll tell us when they feel like telling us.”

  “So much money,” Jan said. “What if they actually do it? Did you ever think we’d actually be able to do it?”

  After a moment, Ray said, “I don’t know.”

  He had had doubts. But they had told him that doubts were not allowed. They were to think only in terms of winning. They had been told not to think about bad outcomes. Negative thinking was not permitted. If you spoke of your co
ncerns, of any reservations, they threatened to put you in the circle. They had said that you were either on the bus or you were off the bus. If you wanted to get off the bus, get off it now.

  Ray Muller thought that he might have heard that bus thing somewhere else before. He couldn’t quite remember where. But he thought Maggie had taken it from someone else. Maggie had said there was no place for bullshit people here. But what did it mean to get off the bus? Could you quit? Could you get an honorable discharge? Or did it mean that Terrill put a bullet in your brain?

  Ray Muller was conscious now of being alone with Jan. He had brought her into this. He felt no guilt over that. Jan seemed as much a true believer as anyone. In fact, he sometimes thought she’d bought into it more than he had. She had not questioned Terrill or Maggie or the movement or anything they did. And even now, she was worrying about whether she was being insubordinate in having Lee take food to the girl.

  Why was it not all right for the bitch to see Lee? What difference did it make? They had not spoken of it, but Ray knew they were going to kill the bitch. What was Terrill trying to sell them? They all knew. Why couldn’t they all acknowledge it?

  Was it a fear that not all of them would go along with it? That didn’t make sense. Mickey, the little cocksucker, he’d do anything Terrill wanted him to do. He’d shoot the bitch himself if Terrill ordered him to. If Terrill asked him to.

  Lee? Yeah, Lee too. If not for her, Terrill would still be in jail. She’d known what she was getting into. And she hadn’t batted an eye after Terrill plugged the bitch’s boyfriend. Besides, she was so tweaked up these days … always pulling imaginary bits of lint from her shirt … checking for unseen parasites, always touching herself … twitching on uppers. She could probably shoot the girl herself. Even if Terrill didn’t ask her to do it. And if Terrill did ask her, that would be that. Of course, Maggie would probably believe that Lee would be uneasy about it. To Maggie, Lee was still the dipshit Ivy League girl. The English major. Maggie believed that everything Maggie said was true. Was the way it was. She had such conviction, she made you think she had to be right. But more and more, Ray was wondering, What is it she actually does? What does Maggie do? What does she have that makes her so sure all the time?