by Don Winslow
“Not personally,” Withers answered. “I’m just supposed to find her, make an offer, and give her an advance.”
“But they’d be in good taste, right? The pictures?”
Neal had seen Top Drawer magazine. Caligula would have found its photos in questionable taste.
“The lighting, I’m told, is impeccable,” Withers answered. He knocked back the bourbon in one swallow. If he detected a glimmer of hope, he wasn’t letting on.
“And you’re not working for Jack Landis, right?”
“I’m not,” Walt mumbled sadly. Then, as if it was a fresh thought, he added, “Oh my God, are you?”
“No,” Neal said. He drank his whiskey slowly, thoughtfully, and then let out, “I don’t know, Walter. She’s not a prisoner; she can do what she wants. And it looks like she’s going to need money.…”
Withers lifted his eyes from the table. “Believe it or not, Neal, they’re talking about half a million dollars.”
Neal whistled softly. Then he said, “Could they do it and guarantee her privacy?”
“Her privacy, my boy?”
“I mean, absolutely promise not to reveal her whereabouts?”
Withers brightened, although Neal couldn’t tell if it was the emerging deal or the whiskey.
“Well, after all,” he said, “they’re revealing everything else; I suppose they could withhold that.”
Neal silently counted to ten, then said, “I’d have to be present when you talked to her.”
“Not a problem, Neal. In fact, a pleasure.”
“No cameras, no tapes, no wires. And I’d have to pat you down, Walt.”
“I’ll get naked myself if that would help, Neal.”
From the Book of Joe Graham, chapter eight, verse four: When you have the trap set, let the mark pull the string.
“Okay,” Neal said. “Get a room at the motel down the street. I’ll talk to her and call you in the next day or so.”
Withers answered, “If it’s all the same to you—and no offense—I don’t want you out of my sight.”
Tugging at the string.
“Then—and no offense to you, Walt—get lost.”
“She has maybe, what—a half-hour lead, Neal? Can that hold up if every reporter, private investigator, and curiosity seeker in America descends on this burg by cocktail hour?”
Pulling on the string with both hands.
“You wouldn’t do that, would you, Walt?” Neal asked.
“I wouldn’t if I had a choice, Neal, but …”
He let the conclusion trail. It was Neal’s turn to stare at the table.
“Okay,” Neal said. “Let me go get my car.”
“We’ll take my car. You can drive.”
“Automatic or standard?”
“Automatic.”
“I can’t drive a standard shift,” Neal explained.
Overtime watched the drunken old detective and the younger man cross the street and get into the rental car. The old sot must be Withers, Overtime thought—too drunk to drive—and the young one must be the English tutor.
He kept watching as the car turned around and headed west on Route 50—away from the target house.
Where the hell are they going? Overtime wondered. Then he had an unpleasant thought: What if they moved her while I was sleeping?
Overtime felt extremely irritated for a moment. If he had to track the bitch, it would take time, and he was getting paid by the job, not the hour. Any time he spent following the target around the country was money out of his pocket.
He let his temper run for a minute, then cooled himself off.
No, most likely the English teacher had some unexpected street smarts and was taking Withers for a ride, which meant he’d be back.
And then they’d have to move.
Overtime didn’t like the timing. He’d rather wait until night and then take a window shot.
What to do, what to do? He should wait for Withers to find her, but right now he didn’t think that Withers could find her if she was in his underwear. On the other hand, maybe the dipso detective had done him a favor. Two women, alone in the house, how much of a problem could it be?
Overtime packed his things and threw them in the trunk of the car.
It was time to move.
“ ‘The quality of mercy is not strained,’ ” Polly said. “ ‘It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven/ Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest’—what the hell does this mean?”
“Which part?” Karen asked, preoccupied.
“The whole part,” Polly answered. She didn’t think Karen was paying a lot of attention and it pissed her off. If she had to say this boring shit, then someone ought to be bored with her. Usually, it was that dweeb Neal, who actually seemed to like it, except he winced and made faces like his head hurt when she was speaking.
Karen got up from the table and wandered over to the window.
“I think it means that mercy comes freely from God,” Karen answered. “Like rain.”
“Everybody knows that,” Polly said. She just hoped it was true. She wondered why Neal had left before the Shakespeare lesson, then wondered if it had anything to do with Joey Beans. Maybe Joey Beans isn’t too pissed off. And maybe mercy falls like rain.
“You’re edgy today,” she said to Karen.
“I’m not edgy.”
“You are,” Polly insisted. “Definitely edgy.”
“Do your Shakespeare.”
Karen had never seen the van parked at the end of the street before. Maybe Neal’s paranoia is infectious, she thought. Still and all, I wish he was back. Where are you, Neal?
Polly stood up on her chair and ahemed dramatically. Maybe she could get Karen to laugh. That’s what buds do.
“ ‘It blesseth him that gives and him that takes,‘ ” she intoned, waving her free hand. “I’ll be Neal now.”
She jumped down from the chair, sat down, and put her head in her hands.
“ ‘Polly,’ ” she said. “ ‘There is a t at the end of thattttt. Pronounce itttt. Say thatttttttttt. Please, I’m begging you … before I go in the bathtub and open a vein.’ How come you’re not laughing?”
“Maybe because I’m edgy,” Karen said.
Karen eased back from the window. She didn’t know whether she should pull the shades. Or whether to call Brogan’s. Damn it, Neal, where are you? And who’s out there?
“I think you’re jealous, Karen,” Polly said.
Karen sat down at the table. “Jealous of what?”
“The baby.”
“Oh.”
“I think maybe you want Neal to give you a baby and he won’t,” Polly said.
“I’m kind of hoping for a new softball glove, actually,” Karen answered.
“Say the truth.”
Karen couldn’t help glancing out the window. The van was still there.
“The truth,” she said. “All right. I think I would like to have a kid with Neal. But not quite yet. Maybe in a year or so.”
“You’re not getting any younger, kiddo.”
“Thanks.”
Karen laughed. It was true. The old biological clock was clanging, and she had finally found a man she loved who might even be a good father. No, make that a great father. Maybe she’d talk to him about it tonight … if the son of a bitch ever got home.
Polly got up, went to the cabinet, and got a bottle of red wine and a glass. She poured a drink for Karen and asked, “Is it true about Neal’s mother being a whore?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Worse things have happened to kids,” Karen answered. “All things considered, he came out of it pretty well.”
And God bless Joe Graham. I wish he were here, too. Because another strange car pulled up the street.
“Polly, go into the bedroom,” Karen said.
“That’s all anyone ever says to me.”
“Do it,” Karen ordered. “Pull the blinds and shut the door.�
��
Karen’s voice left no doubt she was serious. Because the van stopped again, a limousine pulled up behind it, and a strange man was walking up the street.
Where are you, Neal?
This is a breeze, Neal thought as he sped out into the vast sagebrush country south of town. Of all the possibilities, there were a lot worse than Walter Withers representing a porno magazine.
It would be almost worth it to see Ethan Kitteredge’s reaction as he saw the photos, Neal thought. Then he stopped himself from imagining what the pictures would look like.
“What’s funny?” Withers asked.
“Nothing.”
“You were laughing out loud.”
“Was I?” Neal asked as he pictured Kitteredge pitching face-first onto his desk. “I just had a funny thought.”
“This is beautiful country,” Walter observed, “in a Spartan fashion.”
Yes it is, Neal thought. The car was running down a dirt road in the Reese River Valley. The Toiyabe mountain range ran parallel to the left, the Shoshone Mountains farther off to their right. The landscape was a marvel of muted purples, grays, and browns, punctuated by patches of emerald green alfalfa fields. The best alfalfa in America, Neal thought proudly, because of the altitude—six thousand feet. Damn beautiful country, Walter, and you’re going to get a chance to see plenty of it.
“You really tucked her away, my boy!” Withers said. “We haven’t seen a single house!”
Uh-huh.
Neal took a sideways glance at Withers. A sheen of greasy sweat covered his face and his hands shook on his lap. The man had been on a wicked bender. Maybe it would have been a kindness to have gotten him drunk. It’s only a matter of time, anyway.
“Do you have a bottle in here, Walter?” Neal asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Withers said. He knew what Neal was thinking and the kid was right: He needed a drink. “Not to worry. I want to be stone-cold sober when I make the pitch. This could be a big break for me, Neal, my road back to the top!”
Maybe Polly wouldn’t mind posing for a few dirty pictures, Neal thought. A half million bucks buys a lot of “losh,” not to mention baby lotion. Neal felt sick to his stomach. He put his foot down hard on the accelerator.
The Milkovsky Ranch was twenty hard miles south of Austin. Once you turned off the main road, you still had a good drive down to the big log ranch house, dwarfed by the enormous hay barn.
“How did you find this place?” Withers asked in amazement as they pulled into the driveway. “I didn’t know this even existed anymore. It looks like something out of Shane.”
The house sat by itself in the broad expanse of the valley. The land gradually sloped east down to the tree line along Sandy Creek and then up into the jagged, rocky peaks of the Toiyabes. Some cattle wandered in the sagebrush and a few crows perched on the barn roof, but they were the only signs of life.
Neal didn’t answer the question. He turned to Withers and urged, “Look, at least let me go in first and warn her.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
“Fine,” Neal said with all the petulance he could muster. “Come on.”
He got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. He could hear Withers’s footsteps on the gravel behind him.
Neal knew the door would be unlocked even though Shelly was off at college and Steve and Peggy were running around seeing Europe. Ranchers left the houses unlocked in this country, in case anyone got stranded. It wasn’t all that critical on a September day when the weather was benign, but the practice had saved more than one life on a January night. With houses sometimes ten and fifteen miles apart, most people would rather take the chance of getting robbed than having even a stranger die on the road.
Neal let himself in the back door and stepped into the kitchen. He jerked the microphone out of the shortwave radio that passed for a telephone out here. Then he opened a cabinet door under the sink and pulled out a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey and set it on the counter.
Walter Withers looked at him curiously.
“I expect that you’ll behave like a gentleman in the house, Mr. Withers,” Neal said. “I’ll send someone out for you in the morning. Your car keys will be at Brogan’s.”
Withers blinked.
“You wouldn’t abandon me in this wilderness, would you, my boy?”
“I wouldn’t if I had a choice, but …”
Neal stepped out of the door and trotted to the car. He heard Withers holler, “You’re a bastard, Neal Carey!”
What can I say, Mr. Withers?
“Let’s get this over with,” Chuck said, using an understated, matter-of-fact tone to hype the drama.
Culver yawned and picked up the mobile phone. He was used to squadrons of adrenaline-crazed DEA types—their jaws grinding and knees twitching—gripping solid-steel two-man battering rams, M-16s, and automatic pistols as they readied themselves to rush a cocaine fortress that was usually better armed than they were. Culver had Vietnam vet drug agents order him to call in a tactical air strike on a crack house, and once or twice he had actually requested one over the phone just to settle them down. So Culver wasn’t too impressed with the upcoming assault on a single woman whose most desperate act to date had been to file a lawsuit.
Nevertheless, he picked up the phone and faithfully spoke the words Whiting wanted: “We’re operational.”
Chuck Whiting checked the knot on his tie and gripped the Bible in his hand. Although Whiting had never done a lot of undercover work—in fact, he hadn’t done any—he did recall the old axiom about keeping your cover as close to the truth as possible. But he just couldn’t bring himself to mock his faith by going to the door as a Mormon missionary—he had spent two happy years in Uruguay doing just that.
So he went as a Jehovah’s Witness.
Karen answered the door and opened it a crack.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Ma’am,” the man said politely, “do you know where you’ll spend eternity?”
“Well, I sat through The Sound of Music,” Karen told him.
The man laughed politely and said, “I’d like to come in and share a few things about the Bible that you may not know.”
“Uhhhh,” Karen said, trying to look over his shoulder, “the prison chaplain did a pretty good job of that, you know, before my appeal went through.”
“Oh?”
This would be a good time to come home, Neal.
“Yeah,” Karen said, “and sitting on death row for all those years, I had a lot of time to read and everything.…”
“If I could just come in and pray with you,” he said.
“I don’t pray well with others.”
The man scratched his head and looked down. Then he leaned on the door and said, “Look, enough is enough. I’m coming in the house.”
The man is big, Karen thought. If he wants to come through this door, I can’t stop him.
“I don’t think so,” she said as she tried to close the door.
Neal was at the bottom of the hill when he realized he’d forgotten the home-pregnancy test.
He thought about skipping it. He needed to get back, call Graham, and get Polly out of there, but this pregnancy test could provide important information, either way it went. So he turned the car around and parked it outside of Brogan’s.
He locked it up and went into the bar. Brogan was asleep, so Brezhnev settled for a low, threatening rumble as Neal came in. Neal set the keys on the bar and retreated.
It took him about three minutes to find what he was looking for in the store and another three minutes to get enough nerve to take it to the counter. He picked up a bottle of Coke, a package of chocolate-chip cookies, and some oven cleaner to make the pregnancy test blend in.
Evelyn arched an eyebrow at him.
“The oven’s dirty,” Neal said.
The eyebrow arched a little higher.
“And I’m thirsty,” Neal said.
Evelyn leaned over
the counter and grabbed his wrist.
“Neal Carey,” she said, “you should marry that girl.”
“You’re right,” Neal said.
He paid for his purchases and started to walk back to the house.
Karen tried to shut the door, but the man stood his ground in the doorway.
Then another man came over the top of him and slammed the door back open. Karen was about to punch him when she saw the woman standing on the doorstep behind him.
“What are you doing here, Mrs. Landis?” Karen asked.
Candy held up her hands and said, “I want to see the cheap tart who says she’s been sleeping with my husband.”
Polly stepped up behind Karen and raised her hand.
Candy flushed, summoned up her nerve, and said, “My husband has a disgusting nickname for the sexual act. What is it?”
Polly looked her square in the eye and enunciated, “Jack-in-the-box.”
Candy Landis looked at the teased hair, the stiletto fingernails, the mascara, the eyeliner, and the skintight black outfit and asked the eternal question of the wronged wife: “What do you have that I don’t?”
Polly looked at Candy’s chiseled hair, her plain nails, her white blouse buttoned up to the neck and tied with a bow, and her tailored business suit that looked like a piece of armor.
Polly rolled her eyes and sighed. “Where to begin?”
Overtime watched this scene, put his car into a K-turn, and retreated down the street. He blessed his good fortune as he recalled one of Chairman Mao’s old sayings: “All is chaos under the heavens, and the situation is excellent.”
9
Levine pulled the plastic lid off the cardboard cup and frowned. He set the cup down on his desk and looked at the young accountant, who was taking his own coffee out of the bag.
“Does this look black to you?” Ed asked.
The accountant looked into Ed’s cup and said, “No, it looks regular.”
“Maybe you have the black.”
The accountant took the lid off the other cup and gave Ed the bad news. “Regular.”
“What did you tell the guy?”
“I told the guy one black, one regular.”
“He gave you two regulars.”
“Do you want me to go back?” the young accountant asked. He was afraid of Levine.
