"You did a bad thing to me, woman. I turned sick in that prison, and I been getting worse ever since. You did that. Deceived me, shamed me. Broke me in two."
She held his eye, watched a web of veins rise from the yellowed tallow of his forehead. Blue vessels growing into small fingers, clawing upward toward his brain, as though Allison were witnessing the fierce war between Meriwether's heart and mind.
At last the old man closed his eyes, let his head sag. The same submissive posture Brenda Cougar had assumed out in the yard. An Indian gesture perhaps, something he'd learned from her that he must have found frequent use for in his waning days.
He muffled a wet cough with his fist, brought his chin up, fixed his glittering eyes on Allison. Then she watched as they backed down the volume, softened, and she drew a full breath for the first time since she and Thorn had pulled ashore. Feeling this whole moment swinging around, heading off in a hopeful direction.
"We don't need to go to all the trouble," he said. "Hiking way up to Monroe Station."
As Brenda Cougar continued to chop, Crotch shuffled over to his workbench, squatted down, pawed through a cardboard carton underneath it, and came out with two black cellular phones.
"Yes, sir, old Crotch went and joined the twentieth century. Did it at the last possible second too."
Allison shook her head, feeling an urge to go over, kiss the old bastard on his dry, bristly cheek.
"When it starts to ring," he said, "you switch yours on."
Crotch's mouth puckered hard as though he were about to choke on the thick fumes of vengeance.
"Tomorrow night," Allison said. "Have them meet you tomorrow night. You'll lead them to the Shack like you're going to ambush me there, and then we'll capture them, find out what they know."
Crotch squinted at her.
"But the most important thing for now is," she said, "you've got to make one of them say my name."
He didn't ask why, just looked at her, kept staring into her eyes like maybe he was trying to see inside her, catch a last flickering glimpse of her daddy's ghost, Julius Ravenel. One of the rare men Meriwether had once respected.
"I'm sorry, Crotch," she said. "I know it doesn't begin to make up for what I did. But I'm truly sorry for what I did to you. I was full of myself. I thought everything was simple, black-and-white. But I'm seeing a lot more gray wherever I look these days. I hope you can forgive me. It was a shitty thing I did, very shitty. But seven years, that was a long time ago. I'm not that same person anymore."
"No," he said, and looked away at his Indian girl. "I don't reckon none of us are."
***
Rayon White was on his way out of the office, carrying the ape up to Palm Beach, when the phone rang. He cursed under his breath, debated it for a second, then turned around, unlocked the office door, came back in, shifted the orangutan to one arm, and picked up the phone. Crotch Meriwether calling.
Just like that, "Crotch Meriwether calling." Like it was the very first goddamn time the old man had ever used a phone, he didn't know the proper lingo yet. Then he started right in talking in his jawbreaking, cornpone accent, asking Ray how the hell he was doing.
Ray broke in, saying, "Whatta you want, you old fool?"
"It's more what you might want, Raimondo. Something I got."
A quick wave of panic passed through him and Ray considered slapping the phone down, but then he could hear from the static that Crotch was at least a hundred miles away, nowhere close enough to actually worry about.
"I think I already took everything I could possibly want from you, Meriwether."
The old man hesitated for a second, then began to laugh, kept at it for a few more seconds. A wheezing whiskey laugh like maybe the bag of worms had forgiven the thievery Orlon and he had perpetrated a few years back, robbing the geezer of every valuable thing he had. Old fellow was probably so senile from all those years of moonshine and fried mullet that he didn't even remember what they'd done to him.
"I'm prepared to provide you with the location," Crotch said, "the exact whereabouts of a certain animal lady."
Ray was quiet.
"You there, Raimondo?"
"What animal lady we talking about here?"
"You know the one, the fucking bitch put me in Raiford. I hear tell she's trying to do the same thing to you boys."
Ray put the orangutan down on the floor.
"Allison?" Ray said softly.
"What's that?"
"Allison!" Ray said. "Allison Farleigh."
"Yeah, that's her, that's the one. Allison."
"Why the hell would I care where that slut lives?"
"The way I hear it, you and her are at serious odds over some matter. I thought maybe you'd like to reason with her in private. Use some of your disemboweling skills on her."
"Where the hell did you hear anything about me and Allison, old man?"
"I believe I saw it in a smoke signal blowing across the sky."
Ray listened to the crackle of static for a moment, staring across at the orangutan. The ape had gone into the bathroom and now, all by himself, he'd figured out how to flush the toilet. And he was doing it every few seconds, not even letting the tank reload. The ape was bent over, peering down into the swirling water.
"It so happens I already know where the lady lives," Ray said. "It's not like it's any big secret."
"Not her city place, Raimondo. Her clandestine hideaway out here in the Glades. That's where she spends most of her time."
"Yeah? And what's your angle, old man?"
"Five hundred dollars, that's what it'll cost you to have Crotch Meriwether act as your personal guide, take you directly from your place of business to Allison Farleigh's little bungalow in the woods. Five hundred dollars, not one centavo less."
Ray watched the orangutan step into the toilet, one foot, then the other. Put his hand on the silver lever and give it a flush, squeaking to himself as the water went down.
"I'll think about it," Ray said quietly. "Get back to me later, why don't you, next year or sometime — maybe by then I'll have figured out some fucking use for a guide to that woman's house. Right now, I can't."
"Not just a guide," Meriwether said. "An accomplice too."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'll be there with you, pulling my trigger right alongside you boys."
"Hey, Crotch, if you want to shoot that woman so bad, what's keeping you from doing it your own self? Why you gotta call me up?"
"Sure, sure, I could do it easy enough, but it wouldn't make me five hundred dollars. When I heard you boys were gunning for her, it dawned on me, here's what I've been waiting for, a way I could have my revenge on that woman, plus get some compensation for all them hides and pelts you two fuckfaces ripped off from me a few years back. Two birds with one squeeze of the trigger."
Ray watched as the hairball flushed the john again, moving his feet up and down in the bowl like he was practicing some kind of toilet ballet.
"You threatening me, old man? Is that what I'm hearing?"
"No," he said. "Strange as it sounds, Rayon, I think we're on the same side of this business."
"Well, I'll think about it," Ray said. "I'll mention it to Orlon, see what he has to say."
"You do that. You just go ahead and do that. But let me tell you, if we catch her out at her house, all isolated like it is, isn't anybody going to hear the shots, the screams, none of it. We could keep that woman alive long as we wanted, wouldn't be nobody to know a thing. We could nail her down to the floor, peel the living skin right off her flesh, do any goddamn thing we wanted. Kill her fast, or take our time."
Ray took a swallow, thinking about it, the image of Allison squirming on the floor, not completely sure if the feeling he was having was desire or revulsion. He swallowed again.
"Tomorrow night is when it's going down," Meriwether said. "You and your brother decide now. I'm an old man, and I'm running out of time pretty goddamn fast. If you can't make it tomorro
w night, it isn't going to happen."
"I hear you."
"Good."
"Well, I gotta admit one thing," Ray said. "It's a damn piece of serendipity you should've called at this particular juncture, Meriwether, 'cause it so happens there is one thing you might be able to help me with. A thing more in your neighborhood than mine. Could even make you a little extra cash currency."
"Whatta you lazy thieves need now, an indigo? A gator?"
"Actually, what I'm looking for," Ray said, "is a couple of cats."
"Cats?"
"One male, one female. And I got to have them alive or they aren't any good to me."
"What kind of cats?"
"You know what I'm talking about."
"Panthers? Florida panthers?"
Ray said, "And I don't want any goddamn mountain lion you found in some roadside show. This has gotta be an A-number one genetically correct Florida cat. Gotta stand up to blood tests for authenticity, the whole nine yards. You hear me?"
"I hear you fine."
"I'll go five thousand for the male, six for the female."
The line was empty.
"You still with me, old man?"
"I'll have to see what I can do," he said, sounding shriveled up now, probably a little overwhelmed by that eleven-thousand-dollar offer compared against the measly five hundred he was looking for.
Ray smiled, felt himself getting pumped, showing off for this old bastard, who always came on like he was the world's greatest animal dealer. Meriwether didn't realize Ray and Orlon had moved into the major leagues, playing with the big boys, throwing around much bigger numbers these days.
At the same time Ray was aware, as the bragging words came from him, that he was babbling to this old man. But he couldn't stop himself. Such a golden opportunity to one-up the guy who used to lord it over them, taking all the credit for teaching Ray and Orlon everything they knew about the animal business. Playing like he was their daddy.
"And look here: if you pull this off, Meriwether, I maybe we can work out one or two future arrangements. 'Cause, see, I got myself a client these days, this guy's got the biggest goddamn appetite for exotic animals there ever was. Man's prepared to buy just about every goddamn thing on the j planet."
CHAPTER 25
Ray couldn't believe his luck. First Crotch Meriwether calls out of nowhere, offers to solve two of Ray's most pressing problems, Allison Farleigh and Florida panthers. Then Tricia Capoletti, college-trained therapist, agreed to drive along with him up to West Palm Beach to watch Brad Randolph, the famous movie star and breakfast food promoter, get married.
Ray had to pull out all the stops to convince her to go along. First he'd suggested to her that this trip up to West Palm Beach might serve to reveal various important issues about his particular psychological dilemma. Make certain things clear that Ray wasn't able to articulate in her office setting. But on the phone she said she didn't like the idea, didn't consider it professional, going out with him like that. She made a long pause like she was choosing her words to refuse him, but Ray blurted out that the absolute truth was that he was feeling suicidal, wouldn't she consent to spend a couple of extra hours with him, help him through this deep personal cataclysm. And that seemed to turn things around.
Now, an hour later, Tricia Capoletti had, for all intents and purposes, fallen completely and totally in love. In fact, by the time they pulled into Brad Randolph's well-groomed dude ranch west of the turnpike, Ray was fairly sure this smart woman would've been willing to throw away her promising career in counseling, and abandon all her college-educated friends, to run off to a deserted island with that fucking orangutan.
"You absolutely have to sell him?"
"It's done already."
"Has money changed hands?"
"You couldn't afford him anyway," Ray said. "Thing is worth forty-five thousand dollars."
"That much!" she said. "Jeez." Looking out her window for a second or two, then swinging around and coming back with, "Would you consider taking part up front, financing the rest?"
Ray looked over. Tricia smiled like it was a joke, but her voice sounded pretty damn serious. She probably had five or ten socked away, scrimping for a down payment on her first mortgage, and there she was toying with the idea of tossing that all away for the goddamn hair ball. Man, oh, man.
"They grow up," Ray said, driving down the long, narrow road past a half dozen Mercedeses parked on the shoulder, Rolls-Royces, Ferraris, all the other cowpokes getting there early for the shindig. "He's cute now, but in a year or two he'll be so strong, he might just hurl your body right through your own front door for the fun of it."
The ape was sitting on her lap, its head resting against her red cashmere sweater. Soft, soft, soft. Ray looked over as the orangutan shifted, got even more comfortable, nuzzling in between Tricia's nice, medium-large breasts. The little shithead. Ray knew the ape must be aware of what it was up to. Seducing Ray's woman, seducing her right before his eyes. The ape pressing its cheek in there and staring over at Ray with that goddamn look it had, like man, wouldn't you like to be a little hair ball like me, go where I go, have the power over women I have. Sure you would. Sure you would. But you don't, Ray. You gotta just sit there and drive that car. Drive and wish. Drive and fantasize.
"I shot a guy last week," Ray said.
He didn't even need to look over to know Tricia's reaction. He could feel the air in the car get tight.
"I saw this traffic accident happen. Some twerpy kid ran a red light, hit a car, which skidded off and smacked into a woman, an old lady just standing on the sidewalk. Impact sent her flying, and all the kid could do was whine about how bad his truck was bashed up. So I shot him. Yesterday I read where he was released from Jackson Memorial. Legs paralyzed. Bullet hit his spine. Nineteen years old. Ernesto Hervis, he worked in some Kmart in North Miami. A stock boy, I'm guessing."
"Are you serious, Ray?"
There was a black man standing out in the middle of the dirt road wearing blue jeans and a red-checked shirt with a big blue bandanna around his throat like a cravat, a black ten-gallon hat tightened down on his head. He motioned Ray to stop, then started over to his window, probably wanting to check his goddamn Hollywood union card.
"And the weird thing is, I don't even feel all that guilty," Ray said. "The kid was an empty-headed little piece of shit. He didn't have any moral depth. Didn't even realize what he'd done was wrong. People like that, you know, they're barely alive to begin with. A serious thought might go through his head every year or two. I mean, for a kid like that, getting killed is the best thing ever happened to him. Gives him a chance to move up the reincarnation ladder. Maybe next time he'll get a brain."
"Have you been to the police about this, Ray?"
The African cowboy was at the window, Ray looking up at him. Guy in his fifties. Ray believed he recognized him from some movie or another. Played some real badass, a killer, or a bad cop, he wasn't sure. Orlon would know, of course. He'd be able to list all the guy's credits, probably even know which movies he'd auditioned for and didn't get.
Now, there was another thing Ray should file away to ask Tricia about if things got dull again. Why was Orlon so demented about movies? What was the root of that particular neurosis? And how did it connect to his hair plucking and shaving fetish?
"No, I don't consort with cops," Ray said. "Law enforcement officers and I have never enjoyed successful communications."
Ray cranked down the Volvo's window, looked up at the black guy.
"Can I see your invitation, sir?"
"Don't have one," Ray said.
"Then you'll have to turn around right here, and drive on back the way you came."
"I'm supplying the ape."
The cowboy leaned down lower and looked over at the orangutan. The thing was nestled so deep between Tricia's breasts it looked like he might be melting into her.
"Oh," the man said. "You're the entertainment?"
"Yeah, that's
right," Ray said. "I'm the organ-grinder. This is my monkey. You want a look in the trunk, see my organ, verify my true identity?"
"Don't, Ray," Tricia said. "Be nice."
Hearing her say that gave Ray a little tickle of pleasure, like she was his wife chastising him, knowing exactly what he was up to, going to push the black guy inside the trunk, slam him in there, let him roast in the Florida sun.
The black Roy Rogers told Ray where to park, back down the line of Ferraris and Mercedeses, where it was a good long walk to the main house. The house itself was showing through a stand of pines and mossy oaks. Pretentious place up on a terrace with eight white columns across the front. Gone with the Fucking Wind. Ray could see striped awnings set up out in the grassy front yard, the vodka and liver pate booths. People milling around, some kind of music coming from over there, a live country band.
He got out and went around and opened Tricia's door.
"The lady that died," Ray said. "The one the kid ran into and sent flying, she looked exactly like my mother. So because of that, I felt it was crucial I do something. Wasn't any choice for me. A dead-ringer resemblance to my mother."
"Oh," Tricia said.
Oh, she said, like that made all the difference in the world. You could murder all you wanted if it was because of mother love. Oh, she said. And if Ray wasn't already deep enough in love with Tricia Capoletti, he felt himself sink even farther in. Oh, she said. Oh.
"Still think I should go to the police?" he said. "Or is this something you and I should work through together? I may be in denial about it or something, I don't know."
"I need to think about this," Tricia said. "This is serious."
"Yeah, I know it is. That's why I wanted to share it with you, somebody I could trust."
"And this is what made you consider suicide?"
"Right," he said. "Exactly."
They walked up the dusty road, Tricia dressed for the air-conditioning in a charcoal blazer over her red cashmere sweater, a black scarf tied at her throat, and a pair of jeans with fancy red stitching. Penny loafers, black socks. Auburn hair appearing redder than usual under the orange November sun.
Gone Wild (Thorn Series Book 4) Page 25