“Don’t blame yourself for what happened,” she says. “Blame me.”
“What about the gun?”
“What about it?”
“You use it?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
She takes the sports bag, gets out, watches him drive away.
She locks the bag in the trunk of the rental, looks toward the ocean. The water is calm. No wind now. Gulls swoop in the bright and cloudless sky. The night before seems like a dream.
She doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to go out there again but knows she has to.
And if he’s still there in the sand, dying or dead, what will you do then?
She walks back toward the beach house, moves through the dune grass. The beach is empty. There’s no sign of their struggle. The wind’s swept away their footprints.
He’s alive.
* * *
“We should call the police,” Annalisa says.
They’re in the social worker’s office. Joette bought a new cell phone, called the nursing home. If Travis Clay is looking for her, it’s the only connection he has to her now.
“Not yet,” Joette says. “I might be overreacting. But I wanted to be careful, make sure.” She’s given Annalisa his name and description.
“Who is this man exactly?”
“Someone I was involved with in a business deal. It went bad.”
“And for that you think he might mean your mother harm? Why?”
“I don’t know that he would,” Joette says. “But I don’t want to take the chance. I just wanted someone here to know, keep an eye out.”
“No one gets in here without signing in, showing ID, saying what they’re here for or who they’re visiting,” Annalisa says. “Security will detain anybody inside the building without authorization. We take the safety of our residents very seriously. If this Clay comes here and tries to get past the desk, we’re calling the police, regardless. I’ll make sure everyone on staff has his description.”
“Thank you. It might be there’s no reason to worry after all.”
“We won’t take that chance,” Annalisa says. “If that man shows up here, he’s leaving in handcuffs.”
* * *
Her mother looks up at her, but there’s nothing behind her eyes. She’s propped up on pillows in the Geri chair in her room, wrapped in a blanket.
A knock at the open door. It’s Lourdes from nursing.
“Kim told me you were here,” she says. “We were starting to worry. Can I come in?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been away.”
“Are you all right?” She’s looking at the bruise. Joette’s sweater hides the finger marks on her neck.
“Walked into a door,” she says. “Has she been eating?”
“Only a little bit today, but she’s managed to keep it down, which is good. We had her on an IV earlier this week, to get her numbers up. But as soon as we take her off, they go down again. I think we may be approaching the point we spoke about.”
“Hospice.”
“There isn’t much we can do for her now, except try to make her journey as peaceful as possible.”
She might have died, and you wouldn’t have been here, wouldn’t have known.
“Talk to her,” Lourdes says. “That can be comforting for her, even if she can’t respond.”
When Lourdes leaves, Joette leans over and kisses her mother’s cheek. “It’s Jo, Mom. I’m right here.”
Her mother blinks; her dark eyes are glassy.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Joette says. “And I’ll never leave you alone again.”
* * *
Driving back to the hotel, she’s exhausted, with a fatigue deep in the bone.
She puts the money back in the safe, looks at it before she closes the door. Drug money, more than likely, she knows. But if she’d gone to Noah early on, told him everything, the police would have seized the cash. It would be sitting in a basement evidence locker somewhere, or already absorbed into some department’s budget.
You almost died for this money. Maybe the only person it belongs to now is you.
She’ll make the round of banks again, distributing the money back into safe boxes and accounts. Taking her time, spreading it out.
Phone calls to make. Glad now she kept up the insurance on the trailer. The company will likely write it off as a total loss, cut her a check. She’ll junk the Subaru. The cost of four new tires would be more than the car is worth. She’ll buy a used one that won’t attract attention, pay cash. Then she’ll need to find a place to live.
Welcome to your new life.
* * *
The next afternoon, she meets Helen at the diner. It’s 3 p.m., and the lunch crowd has thinned out. Most of the booths are empty.
“How much of this are you going to tell me?” Helen says.
Joette stirs sugar into her coffee.
“I’m sorry I had to run out on you. I didn’t want to leave you with that responsibility, but there was no one else I could trust.”
She looks out the window into the lot, half expecting to see him out there.
Is this what it’s going to be like? Looking over your shoulder until the day he finds you?
“Your face,” Helen says.
“Took a fall.”
Helen frowns. “I was waiting to get a phone call, with some news I didn’t want to hear.”
“It wasn’t fair, leaving you in the dark like that. But it seemed like the best thing at the time.”
“I’m scared to ask what happened.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.”
Helen crosses her arms, sits back. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Same person I always was.”
“I don’t think so.”
The waitress refills their cups.
“Thanks for looking in on my mother,” Joette says.
“How was she yesterday?”
“Weaker.”
“Did she know you were there?”
“I don’t think so. She was asleep most of the time. At this stage that’s a blessing, I guess.”
“Jo, anything you need from me, you only have to ask. You know that, right?”
“I do. Thank you.”
“But promise me you’ll never run off on me like that again.”
“I promise,” Joette says.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Travis walks the side of the highway, past the feeder ramps that lead to the Turnpike. Cars raise dust as they speed by. The setting sun flashes off planes circling the airport, lining up to begin their descent.
His head is a dull ache. He slept most of the previous day, then took another hit off the fent capsule that morning.
Horns sound as he sprints across the four lanes of the highway. He took the train from Middletown to Elizabeth, walked the half mile to the off-site parking area. It’s a three-acre dirt lot fenced with chain-link and razor wire. Cheaper than the official airport lots, but farther away. The office is a small trailer. No shuttle van outside, so it’s either on its way to the terminals, or coming back.
He walks through the open gate, down a rank of cars, stops at an old gray Impala near the back of the lot. Leaning close on the driver’s side, he takes off his belt, feeds the buckle through the gap between the window and door frame. He maneuvers the belt until the buckle catches the lock stem. It slips free on his first two tries. On the third, it holds fast, pops the lock. He opens the door and gets in.
The flathead screwdriver he brought with him is all he needs. He jams it into the ignition slot, smacks it deeper with the base of his hand, then twists the handle hard. The ignition lock cracks, and the car comes to life. The engine runs rough at first, threatens to stall. He gives it gas until the idle smooths, then drives toward the gate.
A security guard in a parka comes out of the trailer, holds up a hand for him to stop. Travis puts down his window.
> “You’re supposed to check in at the office,” the guard says. “Get your keys.”
Travis holds out a hundred-dollar bill. “Had an extra set.”
The guard looks at the bill, then at the screwdriver in the ignition. Travis waits.
“Yeah, I guess you did,” the guard says, and takes the bill.
Travis drives out.
* * *
“Where’s your truck?” Darnell Jackson says.
It’s dark. They’re in the Impala, parked in the McDonald’s lot outside Camden, traffic rushing by. Darnell came alone in the Navigator.
“Traded up,” Travis says.
“Looks like you got fucked up, too.”
Travis looks in the rearview. He’s taped a gauze patch over his temple, but the center of it has darkened, and the skin around it is bruised. His shoulder is stiff and warm, painful to the touch. He doused the wound with alcohol before dressing it again.
“You bring what I need?”
Darnell leans forward, reaches behind and takes a snub-nosed .38 from his belt, holds it out butt first. It has a scuffed blue finish, scratches on the barrel. The mother-of-pearl grips are wrapped with black electrical tape.
“This a joke?” Travis says.
“Best I could do.”
“How many bodies this thing got on it?”
“Nothing recent, tell you that. You want it, it’s yours.”
Travis takes the gun. It feels out of balance. It’ll be good enough at close range, undependable at anything more than a few feet. He opens the cylinder, shakes the six bullets out into his palm.
“Still waiting for you to come up with some more of that pure,” Darnell says. “That ever gonna happen?”
“Soon.”
“You need some extra cash, I might be able to help you out.”
“How?” Travis reloads the gun, spins the cylinder to make sure it rotates freely, then snaps it shut.
“Put in some work.”
“For you?”
“For my boy Joffo. Your kind of work, though.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s a trap house. That old motel out there off 295 in Moorestown. Had a fire, been closed for years.”
“I think I know it.”
“They working out of one of those cabins in the back. Can’t see it from the road.”
“Competitor of yours? Can’t handle it yourself?”
“Easier this way.”
“Easier for you.”
“My boy told me to put it out there, see what you say. Any cash you find there, you can keep.”
“They black or white?”
“White boys. Peckerwoods up from Virginia, selling that oxy. Every few months they been coming up here, slinging their shit. They already been warned off.”
“But they came back.”
“Didn’t get the message.”
“Easier for me to get close to them, that what you’re saying?”
“You tell them you’re there to cop, you can walk right in.”
“And I take the heat afterward,” Travis says.
“These are tough times. All your recent troubles, thought you could use the work.”
“Not that tough,” Travis says. “Price is ten grand, cash, up front.”
“I’ll have to talk to my boy.”
“Nothing to talk about. That’s the price. In advance.”
Darnell gives that a moment, nods. “I think he’ll go ten.”
Too quick, Travis thinks.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll call you when I’m ready to meet. You have the cash. Then I’ll do this thing for you.”
“I can tell my boy you’re on it?”
“You can,” Travis says.
* * *
He parks three blocks from Cosmo’s place, kills the engine and leaves the screwdriver in the glove box. He cuts through alleys and yards, comes in through the kitchen.
Cosmo is sitting at the table there, talking low on a cell phone, his back to Travis. When he ends the call, Travis says, “You ought to keep that door locked.”
Cosmo jumps, turns to him. “Jesus, T. You scared me.”
Travis walks past him to the refrigerator, gets a Budweiser. He opens it, holds it out.
Cosmo shakes his head. “No, you’re right. I need to watch the drinking.”
Travis takes a seat. Cosmo’s face is puffy, his hair lank and uncombed. His clothes are loose from weight loss.
“Who was that on the phone?”
“The shop.”
Travis looks up at the clock. It’s almost ten. “This late?”
“They wanted me to know they had a problem with one of the washers. A bad leak. Repair guy’s coming tomorrow.”
“Who runs the show when you’re not there?”
“Esme, most times. I have someone else I bring in on weekends if I need him.”
“This Esme, she know about us? The money you move through the business?”
“No, she doesn’t know anything.”
“She ever ask about me?”
“I told her you were an investor who liked to come by every once in a while, check on the shop.”
Travis drinks beer. “Smart. I got some more cash coming in soon. We can add it to the fifty.”
“From where?”
“Darnell Jackson.”
“You and he got something going again?”
“Maybe. If it works out.”
“You still trust him?”
“No reason not to.”
“You need me to get involved?”
“You’ve got enough to worry about, don’t you?”
“Can’t help it.”
“Relax,” Travis says. “I have the feeling this is gonna work out for all of us.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
This my boy Joffo,” Darnell says.
Travis turns to the man in the Navigator’s backseat. He’s older than Darnell, wearing a black knit watch cap, a black-and-red leather coat.
They’re under a Turnpike bridge in the Meadowlands, parked behind the Impala. He picked the place this time. There’s black and silent swamp on both sides. Traffic rumbles by above, headlight reflections moving across the surface of the water.
“Darnell tell you the deal?” Joffo says.
“He did.”
“So we good on this?”
“We are. Got my cash?”
“Darnell.”
Darnell hands over an envelope. Travis opens it, counts the bills. Ten grand in hundreds.
“I need a day or so,” he says. “Watch the way they’re doing business, figure out the best approach.”
“Nah, man,” Joffo says. “No good.”
“Why not?”
“What we heard, they pulling out tomorrow,” Darnell says. “Going back home.”
“Isn’t that what you want?”
“No, they been warned once,” Joffo says. “They need to go. We let them leave, they’ll be back again. Maybe with some more boys. Might not be as easy next time.”
“What are you saying?”
“Gotta be tonight,” Darnell says, and looks at him.
“No way. I need to plan.”
“What’s to plan?” Joffo says. “You get up in there, and you do it.”
Travis looks back at him. “You’re disrespecting me a little here.”
“No disrespect,” Darnell says. “Just the way it is.”
“We can go another thousand,” Joffo says. “Get it to you tomorrow. But those boys gotta go tonight.”
“Another thousand?” Travis says. He sits back. “Well then, that’s all right.”
He puts away the envelope, takes out the .38, sticks the muzzle into Darnell’s armpit and pulls the trigger.
The sound fills the Navigator. Joffo’s hand goes under his jacket. Travis twists to aim the gun at him. “Uh-uh.”
Joffo’s hand comes out slowly. “Lookit, man, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but—”
“Don’t embarrass
yourself.”
Joffo’s left hand moves closer to the door latch.
“How far do you think you’ll get?” Travis says. “Or maybe you think it’s worth taking the chance anyway.”
Joffo shakes his head, looks out the window, then back at him. “Fuck you, cracker. You’re the one been messing with everyone’s business, dropping bodies. You brought heat down on everybody.”
“Who’s at that trap house tonight? More of Chano’s people?”
Joffo doesn’t answer. Travis thumbs back the hammer.
“The Ds put the word out on you,” Joffo says. “You fucked things up for everybody. Chano had a lot of friends. You’ll never get them off your ass.”
“They pay you to get me up there?”
Joffo sits up straighter, squares his shoulders. “If you gonna do it, bitch, then do it. Or are you just gonna—”
Travis fires. Blood spots the back window. Gunsmoke drifts against the headliner.
He reaches into Joffo’s jacket, careful to avoid the blood, pulls out a sleek black Bersa .380. He sets it on the console, pats him down, finds a diamond-studded money clip in his front pants pocket. The bills are all hundreds and fifties. He takes the clip. He’ll count them later.
Darnell has five hundred dollars in a billfold inside his jacket. Travis takes the money, wipes down what he’s touched, gets out. His ears are still ringing from the shots. He pockets the Bersa, throws the .38 out into the water, hears it splash.
He gets into the Impala, cranks the ignition, swings the car around. He drives past the Navigator, onto the service road and back up to the highway.
* * *
The town house is dim when Travis gets back. Cosmo’s bedroom door is closed.
Travis sits at the kitchen table in the silent house, takes out the Bersa. There are seven rounds in the clip, the chamber empty. The gun smells faintly of oil. He pulls back the slide. The action is smooth. He slips the magazine back into the grip, jacks a round into the chamber, lowers the hammer.
Joffo was right. He was burned here. Sooner or later, the Dominicans, the bikers or Joffo’s own people will get lucky, find him. Or find Cosmo, try to get to him that way.
It’s time to move on, get out of Jersey, go somewhere else, start again. But he’ll need a stake, enough cash to keep him going until he finds another hookup. What’s in the safe won’t cut it. He needs the rest of his money.
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