Star never was one to follow rules.
Dolly stood. “I brought a pie for Robin. Two-mile-high mud. I reckon he’ll be disappointed it’s not real mud.”
Duchess followed her to the truck and took the pie from her.
“Your grandfather is old.”
“I know.”
“You ever made a mistake, Duchess?”
Duchess thought of the Cape, the fire, the fights, scratching Brandon’s Mustang. “Never.”
Dolly grabbed her then, held her. She smelled of sweet perfume. Duchess tried to break it but Dolly held her tight. “Don’t lose yourself, Duchess.”
After, she watched the truck fade.
First rain fell on her shoulders.
It turned on her fast, so heavy it kicked up the mud around and splashed her legs. She stood there and tilted her head toward the sky, the opening heaven not enough to cleanse her.
She found Hal on the porch. He held a towel. She let him wrap her and walked to the seat, took the cocoa he handed, the mug steaming away her protest. The rain fell so loud it drowned the scream of that voice that told her to kick and kick.
“Robin is sleeping. He didn’t mean what he said.” Hal sat beside her, far enough up the bench.
“He did.”
“I saw you in the field. Big Sky is beautiful, even in the rain.”
“Dolly brought a pie.” Duchess handed him the dish by her foot.
Inside the phone rang. It did not ring often. She watched the old man head in and speak a few words that did not carry.
“Who was it?”
“Walker.”
“Did he mention Darke?”
“He was just checking in.”
“Darke will come.”
“There’s no way of knowing that.”
“You don’t get it.”
“Tell me.”
“He promised he’d come for me.”
“Why?”
She said nothing.
They sat and drank and breathed the earthy rain.
“I dream more here. I don’t want to.”
He turned to her.
“And my dreams are fucked up.”
He did not flinch at the curse. “Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell the gray. She can hear you from here. Just talk, that’s all, Duchess.”
“That’s all,” she said quietly.
He closed his eyes to the rain. She saw him then, a life of paid mistake, the lure of second chance, the plaintive ask of redemption.
“I rise above the farmhouse and see slates and green, the gutter of leaves that remind me of fall and seasons that change no matter who dies. I am high in the sky and Montana is a footnote, patchwork fields stitched by tractors like ants, people that bob like they are drowning in ordinary.
“The ocean is endless but I see its end. I see the earth, the curves are tomorrow but it won’t turn. I see clouds that hold sky, a sunset in the desert and a rise over metals. Before long I am darkness and stars and their moons. The world is a nothing so small I raise a finger and hide it. I am the God I don’t believe in. I am big enough to stop the bad men.”
She would not cry.
Hal watched her carefully. “If he comes I will stop him.”
“Why?”
“To protect you and Robin.”
“I can protect us.”
“You’re still a child.”
“I’m not a child. I am an outlaw.”
He placed an arm around her and she melted into the warmth, hating herself as she did.
22
THE APARTMENT WAS ABOVE A Five & Dime, one window punched out and replaced with a board, the others grimy enough Walk couldn’t imagine much light made it through. Beside the door was a vent, the smell of Chinese food pumped out, despite the early hour.
The girl’s name was Julieta Fuentes and she’d worked at various clubs as a dancer. Martha had left several messages on her cell but gave Walk the address when the girl didn’t get back. It wasn’t on Walk, he didn’t press, but Julieta had trouble with an ex and Martha was worried about her.
He found the door open and climbed the narrow staircase. Mold crept its way from the mottled ceiling.
He knocked on the door, waited a little then hammered it.
Julieta was small, dark hair, wide hips, the kind of beautiful that almost saw him take a step back.
She glared. He flashed his badge and she glared some more.
“My son is sleeping inside.”
“Sorry. I got your details from Martha May.”
Julieta softened then, just enough to take a step out into the narrow hallway and pull the door to behind her.
She pressed close to Walk. He tried to move back, dropped down a step but found his eyes level with her bust. He coughed once, turned a shade of red that saw her glare return.
“Get it over with, whatever you want to know.”
“You worked at The Eight.”
“I took my clothes off for money, is that a crime?”
Walk wanted to loosen his collar, felt it constricting the blood, sending even more to his cheeks. “I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Dickie Darke.”
No change in the glare.
He cleared his throat. “Martha said you had some trouble with a guy. Is it the father of—”
“I don’t sleep around, officer. Not all girls that dance are whores, you know.”
Walk glanced around, half hoping to see backup arrive. “I’m sorry. I just, I’m trying to find out about Dickie Darke.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“What?”
“Whatever you think he did.”
“That the party line?”
She tightened her robe, opened the door a little and listened out. “My son sleeps late. Up all night.”
“Like his mother.”
The first hint of a smile. “Listen, people look at Darke and see the size of him, guess he’s some kind of tough guy. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he can handle himself. I’ve seen him, this guy tried to grab me once. And Darke just picked him up by his throat. I mean clean off the floor. Like something out of a movie.”
“But he’s not violent.”
Julieta hit his arm, hard enough, something Latin in the move. “You’re thinking like an asshole cop.”
“How should I be thinking?”
She thought on that. “Maybe like a father looking out for his girl.”
“That’s what Darke was like?”
She sighed like she was dealing with an asshole cop. “He didn’t watch us. Dancing. He never watched, never tried to date us, never asked for a blowjob. And believe me, that’s not usual. If we had trouble, came up short, he’d see us right. You talk to any girl from The Eight, you won’t hear nothing bad about the man.”
“This guy, father of your son, did Darke sort that too?”
She didn’t speak, but her eyes told him what he wanted to know.
“Anything at all you can tell me? He might be in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“There’s men looking for him. Two guys, one had a beard and glasses.”
He could tell by the look on her face she knew them.
“I’m just trying to get answers here. Please.”
“I know those men, they stopped by each month, second Friday, left with a fat envelope. Not unusual, the kind of clubs I worked in, there’s always guys collecting.”
“He always paid.”
She laughed. “You don’t have a choice with guys like that. You pay or they make you pay. Darke knows that.”
“And the fact they’re looking for him now …”
“You think they give a shit The Eight burned? Not their problem. They want their money.”
“I don’t think he can pay them.”
A flash of concern then. “He should run.”
“I’m sure Darke can take care of himself.”
“You don’t understand him. Beneath it all
…”
“Tell me.”
“There was a dancer there, Isabella, now that one was a whore. She thought Darke had money, so she made her move. And he told her he wasn’t interested.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said he didn’t look at her that way. Said he had a girl. That was all. We never saw her.”
“So he was seeing someone. Anything else, even if you think it doesn’t matter.”
“Jesus. You cops keep pushing, right.”
“Please, it’s important. Anything.”
“You’re looking to bust the man but all I can tell you is he looked out for us, for me. Me and another girl, we were his favorites.”
“Why?”
“We had kids. He was protective, soft even. One night I didn’t show for work and he turned up here. He saw me, my face that night. He was worried.”
“And the other girl?”
“Layla. He was the same with her. He even took them out, Six Flags. I mean, even I was jealous. He’s a decent guy.”
“Can I talk to Layla?”
“She’s gone, somewhere out west. Her and her little girl.”
“She had a daughter.”
“Yeah, used to have a picture on her locker. Beautiful girl.”
Walk heard noise from inside. The kid calling out.
“We done here?”
“Sure.”
“Happy hunting, officer.”
An hour to Darke’s place. On the drive he called Martha. Julieta’s ex-boyfriend was Max Cortinez, and he was beaten half to death outside a bar in Bitterwater two months prior. Walk got Martha to read the report.
Max was stamped on, so hard and so many times he’d lost all but one of his teeth. Big boots. Max, the kind of guy Bitterwater PD didn’t waste any hours on. Walk tried to call him direct, got told to fuck off when the guy finally answered his cell.
Walk caught his own eyes in the rearview mirror, beard a little longer, face a little thinner, slow slide toward someplace darker. Not just his body betraying him, he no longer questioned breaking the kind of rules he’d based a life on. It would lead somewhere bad, it couldn’t not.
Cedar Heights, a half-finished estate, wide lots, grand and soulless. A gatehouse, the brick too new, even the woodland surrounding had an air of manufactured. Darke had put money into the place.
He drew up by the barrier. A man stepped out, straggly beard, smart polo, strong smell of weed. The kind of eyes that told Walk he existed in a permanent state of confusion.
“Morning, officer.”
“I’m here to see Dickie Darke.”
The man looked toward the sky, scratched the beard and tapped the side of his head like he was working loose an answer. “I don’t think he’s home. I haven’t seen him.”
“He’s expecting me.”
A minute passed while the guy made a call. “He’s not picking up.”
“I’ll go and knock.”
Another beard scratch.
Walk leaned an arm out while the man weighed things. “What’s your name?”
“Moses Dupris.”
A silent flinch.
Beside was a water fountain, dry and green, mosaic tiles were missing in spots.
“I’ll say I steamrolled you, Moses. How’s that sound? Threatened to make a scene, knock his neighbors’ doors.”
“Well, to be honest there’s not a lot of neighbors.”
“Which house?”
Moses pointed. “Darke … Mr. Darke, he stays in the model home at the moment. You can pull up right on the driveway.”
Inside was a single road that curved its way around a dozen homes. A couple were finished, most were boarded, scaffold stood, half painted, a pile of rubble towered. The model home sat by woodland, pretty enough, white stucco, pillars and sash windows. Walk hated the place, the sterile feel. He thought of Cape Haven and the will to make it someplace like this. People were buying parcels of coast that didn’t yet have planning permission. He hoped he’d be long dead before the green tide rolled in.
Up close the house had already aged, a deep crack crept its way to broken guttering that hung loose. Grass grew long, weeds poked their way through beds.
The door was large, Walk couldn’t find a bell so he hammered the way cops did on television. Heavy, urgent thumps. He stood there a while, birds singing at him.
He walked along the front of the house, the drapes pulled, no gaps at all. At the side was a gate, wrought iron, black and heavy but open when he tried it.
A pool, barbeque area built up and out, TV screen by the chairs. Walk stopped still when he saw the back door, open.
“Darke,” he called.
He stepped inside. His heart beat quick. Thought of drawing but found his hands not cooperating. That’s how it was now.
A fan spun above. He saw neat order, opened a cabinet to canned food, labels front, perfectly so.
He moved through, sweating now. Past the dining room, an office, the living room, television on, the sound muted, ESPN, Karl Ravech in front of a wall of books, talking Bautista and Braves.
The whole place was dressed, every item carefully chosen to project an ideal. He saw plastic fruit in a bowl, plastic flowers on a side table, and photo frames filled with a model family sporting plastic smiles.
He imagined Darke living there alone, big and awkward and trying not to make a mess.
Walk climbed the stairs, wood, carpet runner, cream and thick. He passed a mirror and saw himself reflected, hand still on his gun, a kid playing cowboys, hunting down Vincent and his plastic tomahawk.
He tried guest rooms, three before he found the master. Everything immaculate.
“What are you doing here?”
He spun, his heart hammered away.
Darke stood at the top of the stairs, shorts and vest and earphones in. The stare was cold and hard.
“I came to check on you.”
Just the stare, nothing more.
“There were people asking about you. Didn’t look like the kind of guys you want to pay a visit.”
Walk followed him down the stairs and into a plush den.
“You want to get this over with?”
Walk took a seat on the soft leather couch. Darke stayed standing, the gulf between them grew.
“Julieta Fuentes,” Walk said, and then watched.
Sweat coated Darke, down muscled arms and legs.
“You remember Julieta?”
“I remember everyone that works for me.”
“You remember her boyfriend, Max Cortinez?”
Nothing.
Walk stood and moved over to the window. The yard was small but landscaped, trees and borders, some kind of sculpture carved out of a log. “I don’t blame you. What you did to Max. It was one-sided, him and Julieta, you evened things up.”
Darke just stared, but for a moment something else crept in. Sadness, maybe regret.
“It’s noble. You did her a favor. You showed heart.”
“Julieta earned more than the others.”
And then the fit. He was protecting his asset. Dickie Darke, his sole purpose the pursuit of money.
Walk’s throat dried as he strayed deeper. “You lost it, though. Beat him too badly. He could’ve died. Is that what happened with Star?”
Darke’s face, the disappointment plain enough. “You’re asking the wrong questions to the wrong person.”
Walk moved closer, adrenaline firing again. “I don’t think so.”
“Vincent King, you don’t want to see the man he is, only the boy he was.”
Walk took another step.
Darke straightened up. “You’re out of your depth. You’re losing yourself. I know how that feels.”
“How does it feel?”
“Sometimes we just want to get on. People get in the way of that.”
“How did Star get in the way?”
“How’s her girl doing? You told her I was thinking about her.”
Walk tensed at that, grit his
teeth. Another day and he might have squared off with the bigger man, another day or maybe another life. His breathing grew so labored the room started to dim. “I better get on.”
He walked out and into the kitchen. Darke followed.
Walk slowed a little as he felt the blood rush from his head. He held out a hand to steady himself. The medication, the fucking disease making him weak.
By the street door he noticed it, the small case in the corner. “You taking a trip, Darke?”
“Business.”
“Anywhere nice?” Walk turned to face him.
“Somewhere I was hoping I wouldn’t have to visit.”
The moment passed between them, and then Walk turned and left, climbed into the cruiser and headed back to the Cape.
It wasn’t till he crossed the town line that he pulled over, and dialed Montana.
23
IT RAINED SO LONG DUCHESS took to sitting by the window, on the box seat, sky watching, just like the old man. She noticed him watching her close, and watching the drive, like he was waiting on a visitor.
Robin got sick, a flu that saw him take to his bed for a week. Duchess brought him hot drinks and fussed, though it sat there between them, like a weight on her chest, a kind of divide she would break down absolutely.
On the third night his fever spiked, he cried out for their mother, up in bed, slick hair and wild eyes. He screamed and wrenched sounds from deep, a kind of pain she knew well herself. Hal was panicked, asking Duchess if he should call a doctor or an ambulance. She ignored him, wet a cloth and stripped Robin naked.
She sat with him all night, Hal by the door. Not speaking, just there.
The next morning it broke and he ate a little soup. Hal carried him down and settled him on the porch swing so he could watch the rain and breathe the mist.
“I like how it drums the lake,” Robin said.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. What I said before.”
She turned and knelt on the rough wood, her pants already torn at the knee from working her jobs. “You don’t ever need to say that to me.”
Hal had a VCR. They watched Rita Hayworth one lazy Sunday. Duchess did not know a woman could be so exquisite. And then, in the attic, she discovered a bag full of Westerns, sat beside the old man and watched them through the night till Robin was all better. For a day she lost her name and chased a band of Mexicans through sapping wheat, Hal watching on from the porch, shaking his head like he’d taken in a loon. She called him Tuco and told him he was the ugly and she was the bad. The good clapped his hands, his curls rain plastered, his yellow mac dripping wet.
We Begin at the End Page 17
