Shares

by A. W. Gray

  Charley Reasor showed a hurtful look as his gaze followed the big blond man. “Somebody you know, darlin’?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, just this guy that stayed in the same motel with me, back in Dallas. Thinks he’s Mr. God.” She tore off a page and handed it over. “You won’t forget me now. And if something happens, I can’t get in touch with you the next couple of days, can I find you in Houston?”

  He showed some panic. “Reasor Oil, that’s easy. It’s in the book. But listen, you wouldn’t call me at home…”

  She teasingly placed her forefinger over his lips. “I’m smarter than that, Charley. Give me some credit, okay? Just don’t forget where you met me.”

  He looked relieved. “You can count on it, darlin’.”

  The window-seat woman leaned forward to glare at Darla. “Couldn’t you two continue this in the terminal? My goodness.”

  Darla’s brows lifted in surprise. “Oh, you want out? Sure.” She stood, reached under the seat in front of her, and pulled a cosmetics case on rollers out into the aisle. She said to the woman, “You’ll have to excuse me,” then winked at Charley and said, “I’ve got this nasty habit of tying people up sometimes.”

  She strolled through the terminal, dragging her case by the strap, men halting and doing double takes as she went by, her L.A. Eyeworks jauntily on top of her head. There was an escalator leading to the lower level, with a gift and magazine shop to the right. Darla went into the shop. She looked through the shelves, selected a teddy bear, and waited in line at the register. When it was Darla’s turn, the clerk scanned the price tag and watched as the register lit up. “It’s six-eighteen,” the clerk said.

  Darla fished in her purse and pulled out a ten. “It’s for my friend’s little boy. I’ll need a cash receipt.”

  The clerk said, “Sure thing.” tore off the register tape, and dropped it in the bag along with the teddy bear.

  Darla fished the receipt out and squinted at the figures. “The date and time are on here, right?”

  The clerk pointed at some numbers on the lower portion. “Sure, right there.”

  Darla smiled in apology as she handed the receipt back over the counter. “Gee, I hate to ask this,” she said, “but my friend’s a real chinch about reimbursements sometimes. Just sign your name to verify that I paid you in cash, okay?”

  22

  Joe Breen kept a fancy pen set on his desk. There was a gilt cylinder mounted on the base, and a glowing digital clock set into the cylinder above the inscription, “Joseph Breen, U.S. Probation Officer, June I2, I988, Twenty Years.” It was common knowledge among his co-workers that the government would never spring for such an expensive trinket, so Breen’s story for office consumption was that his wife had presented him with the gift on his twentieth anniversary of service with Uncle Sam. Which wasn’t true. Breen, in fact, had told his wife that the office pool had ponied up the money in appreciation for the sterling job Breen had done. Which was an even bigger bunch of bullshit than the story he’d told his co-workers, since none of the people in the probation department liked each other very much, and none of them would dream of buying a fellow employee so much as a cup of coffee. The truth was that Breen had ordered and paid for the pen set out of his own pocket, and ever since had taken pains to make sure that his wife and his co-workers didn’t get together and compare notes. That would be embarrassing as hell.

  Normally Breen gazed on his trophy with a sense of pride. But now he scowled. “Seven minutes after six already. I’ve got to be getting out of here.”

  Basil Gershwin sank deeper into the visitor’s chair and twisted his features like a scolded puppy. “Hey, I’m keeping you? I got this list of job interviews I’ve been having.” He unfolded a square of yellow paper. The sheet was legal-sized, and covered with handwriting in blue ballpoint.

  “I stay late Wednesdays, every week,” Breen said. “Four to six, that’s for my people that have job conflicts or something, so they can make their report dates. But six o’clock is the limit. If you can’t get your business done by then, you’ve got to make other arrangements, to get off work or something.”

  “How I’m supposed to know that?” Gershwin said. “I never reported to you before.”

  Breen frowned, raising the corner of a stack of folders and thumbing through them. “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Gershwin. Basil Albert.”

  “I got no Gershwin. You sure you’re reporting to the right guy?”

  “I’m reporting temporary. My man in California, Mr. Lawrence, he said he was sending my file. Gave me your name.”

  Breen had a closer look at the guy, wide forehead and flaring nostrils, tufts of hair poking out from underneath a blue baseball cap. The hat’s crown displayed a replica of the Shock Wave roller coaster underneath the heading, “Six Flags Over Texas.” Christ, Breen thought, this is the guy I got the call about. Raped some women while he was robbing a bank. His parole officer thinks he killed some Bureau of Prisons employees. Christ, how they let these guys walk around. Breen felt a twinge of fear as he reached in his lower drawer to extract the notes he’d made during the phone call. “I remember now,” Breen said. “Your file hasn’t caught up with you yet. Why do you want to move to Dallas, Mr. Gershwin?”

  The toothy grin seemed friendly enough. “I’ll tell you about that. I been in and around L.A. all my life. It’s where my troubles began, you know? I thought maybe a new location, a different climate. Guys I knew in prison are always calling me in L.A. I don’t need those kind of associations.”

  “You’re wanting a fresh start.” Breen said. Maybe a new spot to rob some banks, he thought.

  “Yeah, in fact I got me a game plan. Goes deeper than just relocating. It’s the times I work, too.”

  “You feel that there are certain times of day when you’re more apt to slip up,” Breen said, “if you aren’t on a job.”

  “Sure, nights, that’s when all the whiskey drinking goes on. I get a few pops in me, you know?”

  “Makes you act irrationally”

  “This bank I did. Long time ago, but it was me, I was drunker’n Cooter Brown. Walked up to the teller’s window, I could barely see the lady in there.”

  The guy seemed earnest, Breen had to admit. “I guess this means you’re looking for night work.”

  “Ten until six a.m., if I can get it. Ten o’clock’s early enough— I won’t get started drinking before. Six in the morning’s late enough, almost all the shit’s over with by then.”

  “I don’t see anything wrong with your reasoning.” Breen looked at his pen-set clock. “Look, it is getting pretty late.” Especially, he thought, when I ‘m probably alone in the building with this guy.

  “What I was thinking,” Gershwin said, offering the piece of yellow paper once more, “I think you’re supposed to fill out a report to my officer in L.A.”

  “It’s part of the procedure.” Breen took the paper and looked down the list, fast-food restaurants, a couple of 7-Elevens, one freight loading dock “You have to interview these people at night?”

  “Most of ‘em. Sometimes I got to talk to the manager and he works days only, but usually there’s a night guy in charge. I’ve listed everybody I’m seeing on there, so you can let Mr. Lawrence know I’m not down here in Texas screwing around.”

  “No one said, no one’s accusing you,” Breen said. “Thing is, you’ve got these dates written down. The last one’s today. You already talked to all these people you got down here?”

  “No, now, one thing I won’t do, I won’t lie to you. The last three I’m seeing tonight. But I was hoping you could help me out with this problem I’ve got.”

  “If I can,” Breen said. “And as long as it doesn’t violate rules.”

  “Actually, according to what I told California, I should be reporting to you tomorrow. But I’m going to be up nearly all night
, interviewing people, and I got another interview way the hell out in Garland tomorrow at two. I thought maybe I could include those I’m going to see tonight, so your report on my week would have everything in it I did.”

  “The ones you’ve already talked to, yeah. But ones you haven’t seen yet…”

  “The report’s got to include the interviews I do tonight,” Basil Gershwin said. “That’s Mr. Lawrence, that’s what he insisted, that he know everything I’ve done up to date. If you don’t include tonight’s stuff he’s going to call up wanting to know what’s going on.”

  Breen didn’t care to talk to the guy from California, Hagood Lawrence, again; he might tie Breen up on the phone forever. “How do I know you’re really going to see these people?” Breen tapped the yellow paper.

  Gershwin spread his hands, his eyes wide. “Hey, if you’d like to ride along with me.”

  Breen mentally winced. Christ, riding around after dark with this guy. He pictured the scene, the guy pretending to be going to an interview, driving up an alley, pulling a gun, and saying, Down on your knees, motherfucker, something like that. “That won’t be necessary,” Breen said. “I’ve got your word you’re going to see these folks tonight?”

  Gershwin raised two fingers. “Scout’s honor, Mr. Breen. I just can’t do all this and report tomorrow, too. If you don’t have a form into Mr. Lawrence by tomorrow I’m going to be hurting.”

  Breen pretended to study the list. The rules were the rules, but—Christ!—if he followed the rules to the letter, Breen was supposed to verify every job interview the guy had had, and wasn’t supposed to list anything he couldn’t verify. But Christ, with everything else Joe Breen had to do. And if he didn’t include tonight’s interviews, Breen would have to spend time with this ugly bastard tomorrow as well.

  Breen laid the yellow page aside. “I’m going to cut you some slack, Mr. Gershwin. Yeah, I’m going to include tonight’s stuff in my report. I’m depending on you to see that nothing comes back on me, okay? You help me, I’ll be glad to help you. Now, can I count on you?”

  Gershwin’s grin was ear to ear. “Like death and taxes, Mr. Breen,” he said.

  Basil arrived at the house by the lake at a quarter past seven, leaving the blacktop road, crunching over the gravel drive for a hundred yards or so, parking the rented Avis Honda in front of the carport alongside the Ford Randolph Money was using. Basil liked the view, sundown rays glinting from the water, faraway bluish thunderheads low on the horizon. On the lake’s northwest shore, maybe two hundred yards away, pointed condo roofs stood up. The roofs marked a cluster of two-story zero-lot-line homes with a community swimming pool and private dock. At the moment two boats swung from moorings at the dock, both with topside cabins, one with Sassy Seaman painted on its hull and the other named Li’l Sis. Basil didn’t know shit from Shinola about boats, but liked the names pretty well, picturing himself in a captain’s hat and deck outfit, lounging around while this fine-looking woman brought him a beer. In Basil’s fantasy the woman was always the broad now caged inside the house. She’d be wearing a bikini, or maybe these cute jean shorts, white canvas shoes and a mesh top, and after she’d served him the beer she’d massage his neck for him.

  Basil had spent part of his daylight hours keeping an eye on the condo subdivision across the way. He’d seen a few people coming and going, no one paying any mind to the house where, unbeknownst to the condo squarejohns, some pretty smart guys from California were about to make a killing in the kidnap business. Which made things just perfect, to Basil’s way of thinking. He still thought that Randolph Money was somebody who needed watching, but had to admit the guy had figured things out pretty well.

  He went up on the redwood porch and used the secret knock, rap, rap, rap-rap-rap, which Basil thought was unnecessary. Who the fuck else would come knocking? After a few seconds the peephole opened, then closed, and Randolph Money clicked the latch and pulled the door inward. Money was dressed in a maroon shirt and white pants, and a ski mask was rolled up into a cap on top of his head. Behind him, the house’s interior was dark. “You report?” Money said. “How’d it go?” He came out tugging off surgical gloves.

  “Just like you said. The guy’s sending in a form says I’m out doing interviews tonight. I don’t know why I need no alibi, tell you the truth.”

  “You need an alibi,” Money said, “because you never know when one will be necessary. Cover every base you can, then hold on to your ass. Trust me, I’ve seen it work.”

  “How did it work,” Basil said, “the time they sent you to the joint, huh?” He was carrying a paper shopping bag by its handles, and now shifted the bag around slightly behind him.

  Money looked at the bag. “What’s in there?”

  “Nothing. Stuff I got.”

  “Personal things? It’s none of my business what you buy, but what we can’t do is leave any of our effects lying around here when this is over. No paper bags, nothing floating in the Johns, nothing.”

  Basil raised the shopping bag and hugged it protectively to his chest. “I won’t leave nothing here. Just some stuff I got.”

  “See that you don’t.” Money pulled the ski mask off and handed it to Basil. “No masks, nothing,” Money said. “In something like this the smallest detail is what’s going to ruin you, as I see it.” Tendrils of gray hair waved in the breeze.

  “As you see it. As you fucking see it.”

  “And the way I see it.” Money said, “is the way things have to be. No residue.”

  Basil set the bag down, removed his Six Flags cap, and put the rolled-up ski mask on top of his head. He retreated to the Honda and dropped the Six Flags hat and the shopping bag in the front seat. “That better?” He started to roll down the mask to cover his face.

  “You crazy?” Money said. “You’re going to stand out in the yard looking like a hijacker, I suppose.”

  Basil paused, then rolled the mask up on top of his head. “Ain’t nobody watching.” He began to snug up his gloves, wiggling his fingers as he did.

  “Don’t ever forget those,” Money said. “Just when you think they aren’t watching is when they are.” He walked over to his car. “No more rehearsals. By the numbers, now, what’s the plan?”

  “I’m going in to baby-sit the broad.”

  “The merchandise. With your gloves and mask on. And then?”

  “Four o’clock tomorrow I’m driving in to this pay phone.”

  “Which is where?” Money intensely cocked his head.

  “Corner of Ross and Fitzhugh, across from a washateria. Jesus, we just drove down there this afternoon.”

  “Which means you shouldn’t have any trouble remembering. I’m calling you there, right?”

  “That’s what you said. And telling me what?”

  Money opened his car door. “Depends on whether I’ve got the money in hand. If I don’t I’ll tell you we have to arrange a meeting.”

  “Jesus Christ, you telling me you might not have the money? I thought you and your fringe asshole had that covered. Whoever the fuck he is.”

  “Oh, it’s covered. It’s just, you have to prepare for every possibility. Chances of me having the money by then are, say, ninety-nine to one in favor of.”

  “So if you got the money you’re going to tell me where to take the broad.”

  Money sat down in the front seat and grabbed the door handle. “Afraid that’s not in the program, Basil.”

  “You mean I’m going to off her?”

  “Yeah, it’s a pity. We can do everything to see she doesn’t recognize any of us, but those chances aren’t a hundred percent. Same with our friend from the Theater Center. Elimination of prospective witnesses, that’s the only way to be sure. Listen, you got a problem with that, say so now.”

  Basil hesitated, wondering. “Naw, I got no problem. Listen, are there any of them lasagnas left in the freezer?
I can’t stand that Mexican food.”

  Meg had never thought she’d yearn for the sound of dripping water. Noise, any kind of noise, anything to break the silence. She reached inside the shower stall and pressed the button. The water cascaded against the curtain, then, as she released the button, receded to a steady plop-plop on tile. Meg sat down on the cot. In approximately two minutes the water would stop dripping, then she’d have the choice between pressing the button once more or flushing the toilet. Anything to create sound.

  She wondered if she’d lost her mind. She didn’t think so, but nutsos never realized it when they went off their rockers. Flushing toilets and pressing shower buttons like a wild woman, were those the early signs? Or did she need the noise, any kind of activity, to keep her senses? At this point she wasn’t sure. She raised her bare feet, curled up her legs, and sat on her ankles.

  What was she thinking about? She wasn’t going crazy, no way. Not the original Rational Rhoda, feet on the ground and all that. Why just that morning she’d done a hundred situps, whistled during her bath, and recited the first six verses of “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere” from memory. Nothing nutty about you, kiddo, she thought. I’ll just sit here and make a joyful noise unto myself, and wait them out. Before you know it Daddy will pay the ransom and I’ll be free as a bird. Free as a freaking…You know the woman, a hollow voice inside Meg’s subconscious said. You can identify her, so what do you think’s going to happen whether they get their money or not?

  Meg firmed up her mouth. That’s nonsense, she thought, they wouldn’t…Oh yes they would, and you damn well know it.

  Meg swallowed a lump from her throat and forced the death thoughts from her mind. Think positive. Think freaking positive. What do I know that will help them nail these bastards, once this is over?