by Dan Taylor
I put down my drink and leave a nervous Regan sitting on a now lonely bar stool. Hugh follows. When at the bar, he hands me the phone.
“Jake Hancock.”
“It’s Detective Horse, Mr. Hancock. We need you down at the station.”
“For what?”
“I’ll explain further when you get here.”
I hang up.
I tell Hugh to phone me a cab, then walk back to Regan.
She says, “Any news?”
“They want me to go to the station. I think I’ll find out when I’m there.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
I imagine Regan screaming Omar’s name, flinging herself round the police station reception area, spit flying out her mouth, breasts swinging to and fro as Detective Horse clings on to her.
“No, it’s okay.”
“What should I do?”
“Stay here. It’s the best place for you.” Then I remember the college boys who were chatting her up. “In fact, go book yourself a motel room. Again, on my dime.”
“A motel? You think that much of me?”
“Okay…a hotel, but don’t raid the minibar.”
“What do you think I am, an extortionist?”
“I don’t think that word means what you think it does.”
She winks. “I never deleted those pictures you sent me when you were trying out horny goat weed.”
I sigh. “Raid the minibar if you must.”
She kisses me on the cheek. And it’s a lingering one, leaving a little spittle there, almost as though she marked her territory.
I wipe it off with the sleeve of my jacket.
She says, “I don’t have cooties.”
“Just drink your drink. I’ll get Hugh to phone you a cab.”
I do. When I come back, Regan’s pensive.
Knowing full well why I’m going down there, or at least having an inkling, I say, “Don’t worry. I’m sure when I get there, they’ll give me good news.”
Now that I’ve said it, I can hear how illogical it sounds. Sending for me to give me the good news that Charles has said where he’s keeping Omar and the rest of them? Not even a mentally retarded horse would believe that.
I look at Regan, and it seems what I said has had a calming effect on her.
46.
“WHY DO YOU STINK of booze?” the man, who I presume is Detective Horse, says.
I say presume because he hasn’t introduced himself yet. Nor has he held out his hand to shake the one I’m presenting to him. Come to think of it, he hasn’t even looked at me.
I look around the squad room, see groups of police officers, none of them within earshot.
I say, “Are you talking to me?”
He stops looking over my shoulder, focuses on me. “Do you see anyone else who smells like a brewery?”
“It’s been a long day, Detective…”
“Horse, you nitwit. We just spoke on the phone. First of all, I’m going to be straight with you, Hancock. I don’t like you and I don’t like your kind. You should leave this sort of thing to the professionals.”
I think about the night and I can’t think of one bit of investigating I’ve done.
He continues, “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t let you or your vodka breath within farting distance of the station steps, let alone anywhere near the squad, let alone near the interview room, let alone—”
“I get it.”
“If not for this…” He takes his notepad out, reads: “Senator Trundle, then you’d be sitting at home twiddling your thumbs.”
Fact is, Senator Trundle is made-up. At least I’ve never heard of one.
“So I’m not at home twiddling my thumbs. What am I doing here?”
He takes his time putting his notepad away.
“We’ve questioned the three of them. The bald one—”
“Terry—“
“Yeah, he lasted a good thirty minutes before he cracked. Up until we told him we could match his prints to a gun that matches the bullet we found in an Ibrahim Jafari’s head.”
“Okay.”
“Then the dam broke, and he spilled everything, apart from where Mary, Randy, Omar, Cole Baxter, Senator Trundle, and a Scottie McDougray are being held captive. The other one, the dumb kid in the expensive suit, with the silver tongue—”
“Leo—”
“Yeah, he spilled everything the moment we clicked the record button on our tape recorder. He would’ve been ready to give up his grandmother, if he could’ve implicated her in the crime. But again, he didn’t give up the location of where the captives are being held.”
“But the third one—”
“You’re not as dumb as you smell, Hancock. Right, the third one. His lips are sealed tighter than a nun’s draws. Would only say two words the whole time we spoke to him.”
“What were those?”
He raises an eyebrow. “‘Jake Hancock’, you klutz. Why the hell do you think you’re standing here?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We’ve got him sitting in an interview room right now. You’re to go speak to him and find out what he has to say.”
“If you think it’ll help.”
“I don’t think it’ll do a God damn thing. Want my guess, guy just wants to take one last look at the guy that outsmarted him. But there’s a chance that he’ll tell you, so I’ll entertain this circus for twenty minutes or so. Follow me.”
Detective Horse leads me through the squad room, out into a corridor, then through a door into a narrow, dark room—the room adjacent to the interview room. Through the one-way mirror adjoining the two rooms, I can see Charles sitting there, drinking coffee from a paper cup.
Detective Horse hands me a weighty battery pack, attached to which is a wire and an earpiece. “Take this. Put the battery pack in your back pocket, thread the wire up through your shirt, and put the earpiece in your—”
“Ear?”
Detective Horse fixes me with a dead stare and I do what he said. Then I mention, “But won’t he see the wire and earpiece?”
“He will, but I’m not sending a rookie in there without one.”
“It’s your gig.”
“And don’t you forget it. I’ll stay here, radio in guidance and pointers as you speak to him. Go out, make a right. It’ll be the first door on your right.”
“Thanks for the directions.”
I start walking, but then think of something, and turn back to him. “Am I going to be in there with him alone?”
“He insisted on it. Guy gets cute, I’ll be in there before you even have chance to break wind, let alone shit yourself.”
“Comforting.”
I go out, make the right, and take a deep breath before opening the door to the interview room.
“Hey, Charles, they treating you right?”
47.
“LIKE I’M THE QUEEN of England, kid.” He nods. “I see they’ve got you wired up.”
“Yeah…sorry about that.”
I sit down. Charles leans forward, and I stop myself from flinching. He says into my chest, “Detective, I’ve got one more for you. Why did the pony have to gargle?”
I hear the detective say, “Shut him up, Hancock.”
Charles continues, “Because it was a little horse.”
He leans back, laughing as he looks into the one-way mirror.
I hear Detective Horse sigh.
After settling down, Charles says, “So you’re probably wondering why I asked for you to come down here, kid.”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“Did you bring that pack of smokes and bottle of single malt I asked for?”
I frown.
“Just fucking with you. Anyway, I don’t want you to get worried. This thing’s over. And I mean over. No more tricks, no more twists.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“I just thought that if I had to spill the beans, I’d rather tell you than that long-fac
ed son of a bitch.” He laughs again, raises his voice. “Sorry, Detective. That’s the last one, I promise.”
Charles thinks a second. “Leo and Terry, they’ve folded, right?”
Detective Horse says, “Don’t say a God damn thing, rookie.”
I ignore him. “Right.”
Charles leans back, shakes his head. “I thought as much. Hoped it wasn’t the case, but thought as much.”
“So, Charles, where are they? Mary, Randy, Omar, Scottie, Cole Baxter?”
Detective Horse says, “Don’t forget Senator Trundle!”
I wince, say, “Senator Trundle…”
Charles frowns. “Who?” His eyes narrow, but there’s some recognition there, as though Detective Horse might’ve mentioned it a few times.
I wink with my left eye, the one on the opposite side to the one-way mirror.
“Oh yeah, that guy. Anyway, I’ve got a few requests before I tell you.”
Detective horse says, “Don’t make any deals without my say-so, Hancock.”
Charles continues, “First of all, the things the detective and his boys are going to dig up will leave me in prison for the rest of my life. I want to make a deal regarding Terry and Leo. I’ll save him all that digging, if those two get off lightly. I’m not naïve. They’ve done some bad things, and they deserve to be punished, but they should get some living, at least some.” He raises his voice. “How does that sound, Detective?”
Detective Horse says, “Tell him I’ll think about it.”
I relay the message.
Charles says, “That’s not good enough for me, Detective.”
I can hear Detective Horse breathing deeply in my ear. Then he says, “Tell him I can make them accessories to murder and kidnapping, with their cooperation, of course. As long as you were the guy who put a bullet in Ibrahim Jafari’s head.”
I relay the message.
Charles holds his hands up. “It was me, Detective.”
Detective Horse mutters, “Son of a bitch…”
Charles turns his attention back to me. “The next part is the most important bit. So listen carefully. You remember that pie I told you about?”
“I remember.”
“See that Howie Dogood in Cedar Creek, Nebraska, gets a slice of it. Howie suffers from Down’s syndrome. He’s my nephew, a hell of a kid.”
Detective Horse: “What pie, Hancock?”
I wink again, say, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Charles: “If that’s the way you want to play it.”
Detective Horse: “If you two think I don’t know what you’re talking about, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Me to Charles: “Are you going to tell me the address, anyway?”
Charles pauses for effect, then says, “They’re in an abandoned warehouse in West Hollywood.”
Detective Horse: “Okay, Jake. You can come out now.”
I stand up.
Charles: “One more thing, Jake. Make hay while the sun is shining.” He winks at me, and I can hear Detective Horse cursing.
I leave the room while Charles whinnies.
When I go through the door, two officers push past me to get to Charles, who they’re presumably going to take to a cell.
Behind them is Detective Horse. He gets right up in my face, says, “What pie, Hancock?”
“Apple, of course. If you don’t know what type, you should always assume apple.”
I walk around Detective Horse, and while I’m walking away from him, he says, “This isn’t over, Hancock. You go to visit someone in Nebraska called Howie DoGood, we’ll know about it. And we’ll be waiting for you.”
Detective Horse is wrong. I’ve got a feeling it is over.
48.
I HEAD OUT of the station, find a phone booth two blocks away and phone Regan. “Regan, it’s over.”
“Oh thank God!”
“Which hotel are you at?”
“The Roosevelt.”
“Have you paid yet?”
“I’m in the room.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Why you asking?”
“Never mind. Order a bottle of champagne. We’ve got something to celebrate.”
“I don’t think they have any sparkling wine on the menu.”
I slow laugh. “The best they have.”
“Should I order food as well?”
“Later. I want to drink that champagne on an empty stomach.”
“Nice.”
“See you in about twenty minutes.”
“Okay, I’m in the presidential suite.”
I’m silent a second.
“You could’ve laughed, you shithead. Room two-thirteen.”
I hang up.
I take a cab to the hotel, spending the whole time wishing I’d gone to the bathroom before getting into it.
The hotel doesn’t look like much from the outside; it’s a tower block structure, with a red neon sign at the top of it. A relic from the days when the movie industry was just taking off. But when you go inside, you can see why they charge the prices they do, because they’ve kept the old-style décor—crystal chandeliers, the works. It’s like going back in time, to an age of hair slicked back with petroleum-based pomades, funny little bow ties, tuxedos, dames dressed in frilly dresses, and everybody smoking—even the pregnant broads.
Through a window in the reception I can see the swimming pool, around which are palm trees lit up by spot lighting.
I get in the elevator, share it with a couple who look like they’re on their honeymoon, and who sigh when I press the button for the second floor.
I need to piss so bad my brain’s not able to function properly. At first I go the wrong way out of the elevator, then double back, eventually finding my way towards two-thirteen. Regan, God bless her, left the keycard in the door, so I’m able to go straight in without having to knock. As I make a beeline for the bathroom, I see two small empty gin bottles on the bedside table and say, “Jesus, Regan.”
When at the bathroom door, I hear the shower running.
“Regan! Regan, I need to piss real bad.”
After a moment’s silence, she says, “Come in. I’m decent.”
I open the door, and what I see makes my full bladder the last thing on my mind.
Standing there in the shower, with the curtain pulled back, is Regan. Buck naked, water splashing onto her generous tits. And let’s just say the water must not be as hot as you’d expect for such a classy place. She sees me, says, “Oops. Look what I did.”
I stand there wide-eyed.
She raises an eyebrow. “Well, aren’t you going to take a piss?”
49.
“REGAN, THIS IS WRONG.”
“It feels pretty right to me.”
“We shouldn’t do this.”
“We already are.”
She’s right. We should have had this conversation before we got into bed. Before she straddled me. But I don’t feel like I had much choice in the matter. I was close to saying no. I really was. I thought about that word the whole time I took a piss. It was on the tip of my tongue while I shook the last drops out, and then I went to wash my hands. But when I tried to leave the bathroom, using my hands as blinders when I passed the shower, I couldn’t help myself. I had to turn back, just to take one last look. For old time’s sake, you understand.
I blame my weakness on three words. “I’m all dirty.”
This was said as she picked up a bar of soap, worked up a lather in the dense bush between her legs, then proceeded to smother her body with it. Rubbing and massaging places I wish I were touching.
Three words and a regular old bar of soap. That was my downfall.
Any other hotel, I bet they’d have those crappy little bottles of shower gel. That wouldn’t have been nearly as sexy. She would’ve struggled with the little cap, and I’d have been able to make a quick exit. Get a hold of myself as I waited on the balcony.
But, of course, none of
that happened. And now I find myself looking up at her, damp hair drooping down onto her voluptuous chest. Goose-bumped skin dotted with beads of moisture. That crazy yet empty look women get in their eyes when they’re really turned on.
I say, “Regan, stop that.”
“What?”
“Stop rocking back and forth.”
She ignores me, grabs my hands and places them on her breasts. I try to take them away, but she holds them in place.
I’ve had a few occasions, when I’ve had one drink too many, that I’ve had to concentrate to try and get an erection. Tonight is the opposite of those situations.
After a few futile attempts to make her stop, I give in. “Oh, fuck it…”
“Mmmm…that’s the spirit.”
Regan pops my weasel and then I get out of bed, go over to the minibar get out the champagne bottle and open it, pour us both a glass.
Speechless, I sit on the edge of the bed.
After a few sips, I say, “So, I guess you’re not going to marry Omar.”
“No…I probably still will.”
Wide-eyed, I turn and look at her. “So this was just a quick fuck? You just used me for sex? No thoughts of us not getting a divorce, of us getting back together?”
“I’m offended you even asked.”
I feel relief. Sweet relief. “The whole time we were doing it, I thought I’d fucked things up big time.”
“You worry too much, Jake.”
“I like this new Regan…but, you know, not in that way.”
She ignores me, gets out of bed, tits swaying to and fro as she walks over to her clutch bag. She takes a pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter out of it. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
I’m still smiling from the relief. “No, go ahead.”
She gets back in bed, covers up half her body. “I’ll leave these out for you to look at.”
I sip the champagne, then say, “Have those things gotten bigger?”
She looks down at them, then back at me. “Right?”
“I know. And you’ve lost weight, as well. How did you do it?”
“I hadn’t realized they were bigger until you pointed it out to me.” She looks down at my crotch. “Speaking of pointing things out…”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”