A Long Walk Up the Water Slide

by Don Winslow

  Karen called into the next room, “They’re coming now!”

  “Yeah, right!” Neal answered. He turned back to Polly. “Once again: The long thing in the middle of your face is your nose. It’s for breathing and things to do with mucus we don’t need to discuss right now. The oval-shaped thing beneath it, the one crammed with chocolate at the moment, is your mouth. It’s for speaking, and, as you already know, eating. The idea is to inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth in the form of speech. Swallow first.”

  Polly swallowed a mouthful of $4.50-a-bar Toblerone, inhaled deeply, and said, “I first met Jack Landis when I was a typist in his New Yawk office.”

  “Not bad. But there’s an r in York. Try it again.”

  “I first met Jack Landis when I was a typist in his New York office.”

  “Good. Breathe deeply, because that gives you the nice soft tone. When you don’t breathe, you sound tinny.”

  “Cheap,” Candy suggested.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Landis,” Neal said. “Go on.”

  “I tought—”

  “Thought,” Neal corrected.

  “—thought he was handsome, and I guess he thought I was cute, and it wasn’t long befaw—”

  “Before.”

  “—before one thing led to another.”

  “You got that r. Great.”

  There was a knock on the door in the other room. Neal put his fingers to his lips, switched places with Karen, and shut the adjoining door. He put the pistol in his belt, at the small of his back, and slipped on his jacket.

  “Room service!”

  Neal opened the door and saw Walter Withers, in a white tunic and sandals, standing beside the cart.

  They stared at each other for a half second, then Neal grabbed him by the front of the tunic, kicked the door shut with his foot, and shoved him down the hallway and into the alcove with the ice machine in it. Turning so he could keep an eye on the hallway, he pushed Withers against the wall and stuck the gun barrel in his face.

  “You dirty lying alkie son of a bitch,” Neal said. “I should shoot you right here.”

  “You stole my money,” Withers accused.

  “I am going to shoot you,” Neal said. He would have cocked the hammer for effect, but he was nervous around guns, his hands had the adrenaline shakes, and he only wanted to blow Withers’s head off in fantasy. “Is that the money you took for setting Polly up?”

  “It’s the front money,” Walter explained. “Neal, they’re downstairs waiting.”

  “What, and you came up to warn me? How did you find us?”

  “It was an accident, I swear.”

  Neal pushed the barrel into Withers’s cheek.

  “I know. I don’t believe it myself,” Withers said. “But I got lucky.”

  “How?” Neal asked.

  “You made quite a splash as a pornographer, my boy,” he answered. “I’m afraid you overplayed your cover.”

  First I underplay. Now I overplay. I should have it bracketed now.

  “Who are you working for?” Neal asked.

  “Top Drawer—Ron Scarpelli. It’s his money you took. Neal, I’m in big trouble.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  But I’m not in much better shape, Neal thought, and Withers knows it. He can blow the whistle and we’ll have the media around our ears in about twelve seconds. And we’re not ready for that yet.

  Buy some time.

  “I’ll give you ten thousand of it now to keep your mouth shut,” Neal said. “The rest goes to you in New York in two days if everything stays nice and quiet.”

  “That just puts me even, Neal. I need something for my trouble.”

  “You unbearable little shit …”

  “My boy, I need something,” Withers said, his eyes twinkling with the joy of combat, “or I’ll have no choice but to sell this information to the media.”

  You’d do it, too, Neal thought. In a heartbeat, if you had one.

  “Okay, another ten for your so-called trouble,” Neal said, “In one week’s time, not before.”

  “Twenty in three days.”

  “Fifteen in five.”

  “Done,” Withers said. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

  Neal slipped the gun back under his belt and released his grip on Walt.

  “I’ll go get your damn money,” he said.

  “That’s wonderful, my boy, wonderful,” Withers said, straightening his tunic. “But do you suppose you might advance me, say, a thousand? I find myself fiscally embarrassed.”

  “I’m giving you ten large!” Neal protested.

  “Unfortunately, I have to remit that to my soon-to-be-former employer, Mr. Scarpelli. Thank you for releasing me from the clutches of that tawdry flesh peddler, my boy.”

  “Wait here,” Neal said. “And quit calling me that.”

  Neal went into the room, took $11,000 from the briefcase, went back out into the hall, and handed it to Withers.

  “If I see you poking around here—no, if I see anyone poking around here, I will shoot you, Walter,” Neal said.

  “You’re a gentleman and a scholar,” Walt said.

  And a dope, Neal thought.

  He pushed the room-service cart into the room, checked it for electronic bugs, and called the ladies to dinner.

  Withers strolled into Scarpelli’s suite, walked to the bar, and made himself a martini. Then he sat down on the couch and put his feet on the coffee table, which was shaped like a lyre.

  “I saw her,” he announced to the startled Scarpelli and Haber. “She’s in the room with Heskins.”

  “That’s terrible!” Scarpelli said. “Or great … Which?”

  “It’s great, Ron,” Ms. Haber said, “if we can get access to her.”

  “Access,” Scarpelli repeated. He was pretty sure he’d been to a seminar on access. He couldn’t recall what was said about access, but he did remember it was an important thing. “We need access.”

  “We could access Heskins,” Ms. Haber suggested.

  “We could …” Ron said thoughtfully.

  “Why would we want to do that?” asked Withers.

  “Tell him, Haber.”

  “To make a deal,” she explained. “We can buy and sell Heskins. We’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

  Still flush with success from his deal with Neal, Withers asked, “Why pay twice? Why not go right to the source?”

  “How do we access her?” she asked.

  “Actually, access is not a verb, my dear,” Withers said. “And why don’t you leave that little problem to professionals such as myself? I think you’d have to agree that I’ve done pretty well for you so far. And Ron, would you mind horribly if we settled up on my expenses? I hate to let these things go too far.”

  Because, Withers thought, when Lady Luck is kind enough to land in your hand, work the faithless strumpet to death.

  18

  Overtime drove past the Bluebird Motel three times before he eased into the parking lot, turned off the motor and the lights, and watched. There was a car parked in front of 103 and lights shone through the cheap drapes. He could even see the flicker of the television.

  Overtime didn’t want a long wait. His right arm throbbed from the shoulder on down and his back was stiff. But he’d bungled the last operation by rushing in, and he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  Someone would come out the door. Someone always did. It was proof of the lack of discipline that infected Western society. Even people in great danger would eventually get bored or careless and throw their lives away going to the soda machine, or for something they forgot in their car, or just for a breath of fresh air.

  Most people didn’t have the patience for hiding, not in the long run—especially not women. Besides, these people would think they had dodged the bullet. They wouldn’t expect another attack this soon.

  He had angled the car to place the driver’s side window toward room 103. Now he opene
d his Haliburton briefcase and screwed an aluminum tube into the back of the sniper rifle. He considered using the nightscope but decided that the lights of the motel soffit were sufficient.

  Overtime popped two amphetamines, rolled down the driver’s window, then lowered himself down against the passenger door and waited.

  Chuck Whiting watched from room 120. He had to admit that Carey had picked the rooms well—the hit man had parked on the opposite side of the lot from 103, which put him close to 120. Chuck had seen the man was alone and now could clearly see the top of the man’s head in the passenger window.

  Chuck hadn’t been on a stakeout for years. He’d forgotten how tedious and nerve-racking it was. As a good Mormon, he didn’t drink coffee or smoke, so all he could do to pass the time was think about Mrs. Landis. The hours spent waiting to see whether a hit man would arrive had been soul-torturing. In the long hours of forced introspection, Charles Whiting had to admit to himself that Neal Carey had been right: He did have feelings—strong feelings—for her.

  It’s true, he thought, I’m in love with Candice Landis.

  In the old Mormon Church … Never mind.

  He forced his thoughts back to the alleged perpetrator in the vehicle. Carey had said just to watch, but Chuck didn’t feel obliged to put himself under Carey’s authority, even if he did have some mysterious influence over Mrs. Landis. Carey viewed this as strictly an intelligence-gathering operation, but now Chuck had the chance to capture the perpetrator. All he had to do was sneak out the door and come up behind him.

  The door would be the difficult part.

  Charles Whiting crouched in the darkness and thought about it.

  Overtime felt eyes on him.

  Paranoia, he thought as images of frothing dogs and baseball bats skidded across his brain.

  Control yourself. Breathe. Focus on the target.

  Goddamn it, there are eyes on me. I can feel them in the back of my head.

  For one awful moment, he imagined the crosshairs lining up on the back of his head. His breath caught in his throat. He wanted to slip lower into the seat but was afraid that would trigger the shot.

  Trigger … so to speak.

  That’s good. You’ve retained a sense of humor.

  Professional. Analyze your situation.

  Hypothesis: They set you up.

  Supposition: They’re behind you.

  Potential solution: Turn and shoot.

  Analysis: One, you won’t have the time to turn, roll over, find the target, and shoot. Two, there’ll be cross fire coming from 103. Three, they’ll shoot the tires out and then take their time.

  He paused to suppress the rising terror.

  Breathe.

  Dismiss image of bullet smashing into your brainpan.

  Return to analysis. And hurry up.

  Potential solution: Escape.

  Analysis: One, you’re facing the ignition and steering wheel. Two, you can push yourself forward and offer a minimal target. Three, you’ll be out of good fire angles quickly.

  He thought it was the best solution. If he could only get himself to move. An unfamiliar emotion suffused his being: humiliation. He recognized that he had the contemptible deer-in-the-headlights syndrome, and he was—for the first time in his life—deeply humiliated.

  Overtime resolved there and then that if he ever got out of there, he was going to kill someone for this.

  Charles Whiting couldn’t make up his mind.

  He recognized the problem. He was inexperienced in solo ops—the bureau just didn’t do them. If this was a bureau operation, there’d be a dozen well-armed agents in several rooms, on the roof, and on the street. They’d give one warning on the bullhorn and then open fire.

  And he was too old for this. His legs already hurt from crouching and he wasn’t sure he had the agility or speed to make the requisite moves.

  And I’m scared, he thought.

  That revelation hurt almost as much as the realization that he loved Mrs. Landis. Life had become an uncertain experience after he’d left the bureau.

  Now or never, he thought. He pulled his .38 from its shoulder holster and duckwalked to the door.

  Overtime sensed the motion and threw himself forward. His head smashed into the steering wheel and the gun butt slammed into his upper ribs. Lying on the seat, he turned the ignition, put his foot on the gas, reached up to the steering wheel, then cranked it hard to the right.

  The car careened in a wavering arc out into the road. Overtime’s foot found the brake and got just enough of it to stop the car. He straightened the wheels and hit the gas again. When the car was ten yards down the road, he sat up.

  His vision was blurred from the blood dripping into his left eye and he felt like someone had lighted a match and stuck it into his ribs.

  I hate these people, he thought.

  Whiting picked himself up. He’d tripped on the threshold and gone sprawling across the landing. Relieved and embarrassed—and embarrassed that he was relieved—he watched the car speed away.

  It was almost time for Carey’s call. This time, at least there’d be something to tell him.

  And he was looking forward to getting back to San Antonio, even if it did mean blaspheming his religion.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Neal said to Graham. “Why would Foglio put a hit on Polly Paget?”

  “To shut her up,” Graham answered. He was having a hard time holding the receiver with his chin while trying to pack with one hand. “I’m telling you, I sat there and watched her make the call. Then you tell me a hit man shows up at the Bluebird Motel. You don’t need motive if you’ve got evidence.”

  Neal sat back on the bed. Karen dozed beside him.

  Neal pressed the point. “Why shut her up? What is she going to say that she hasn’t already said?”

  “Son, we traced the leak: Polly to Gloria, Gloria to Harold, Harold to Foglio, Foglio to the hit man. What more do you want?”

  Neal said, “Certainty.”

  “Not in this life, kid,” Graham said. “Sit tight. We’re reaching out.”

  Sit tight, Neal thought. What else am I going to do?

  He knocked on the adjoining door and went in to tell the ladies the happy news.

  “Gloria wouldn’t do that,” Polly said when Neal told her about the dye test that ended at the Bluebird Motel.

  She was sitting up in her bed. Candy sat on the other twin. An old black-and-white movie flickered in the background.

  “But she did,” Neal answered. “Joe Graham watched her do it.”

  “Are you sure Chuck is all right?” asked Candy. When Neal nodded, she asked, “Why would this Joey Beans person want to kill Polly?”

  That was the question Neal thought Polly might have asked, but he guessed she was too focused on Gloria’s betrayal.

  “You’re not going to like this,” he warned Candy.

  The woman was just getting used to the fact that her husband was an adulterer and a rapist. Now she was going to get to hear that he was a crook.

  “Joey Foglio has been skimming off your construction project,” Neal explained. “Polly’s rape allegation is busting his rice bowl. If he can shut Polly up, money will start flowing through Candyland and into his hands again.”

  He watched Candy absorb this new information.

  Then she said, “It’s hard to imagine this could happen without Jack knowing about it.”

  “It iS.”

  “Or participating in it,” Candy continued. “Do you think he’s involved in the murder attempt?”

  Neal shrugged. “I would say that’s a possibility.”

  “Dear Lord,” Candy said. “What can I do to start making this right?”

  “Nothing right now,” Neal said.

  All we can do right now is wait for my boss to go see an old man in prison.

  19

  Ethan Kitteredge stood in the waiting room of the visitors’ center of the Adult Correctional Institution clutching a brown paper bag of expe
nsive yellow peppers.

  Kitteredge was not happy. He had never gone to visit any of the several bank customers who had passed time in white-collar federal facilities with tennis courts, manicured lawns, and well-appointed lounges, so he was especially displeased to find himself in this impossibly squalid human storage bin.

  Why Dominic Merolla preferred this hovel to, say, Danbury was a mystery to Kitteredge. But Merolla had told the prosecutor and the judge that if he had to do time, he wanted to do it in Providence, prompting one wag on the local paper to observe that living in Providence at all was like being in prison, so going to prison in Providence was an irrational redundancy. But Merolla owned the prosecutor and the judge, who checked their law texts, bank books, and life-insurance policies and agreed that justice demanded Dominic Merolla be confined to the state prison for twenty years or the rest of his life, whichever came first.

  Kitteredge felt horribly out of place in the waiting room, among the sweating mob composed mostly of overweight young women dressed in stained frocks that resembled used tents. Each woman seemed to have the same tired, blank expression, and oddly, they all seemed to have at their hips carbon copies of the same three filthy children, who in turn each seemed to have an identical health condition, the most apparent symptom of which were layers of dried mustard yellow mucus caked between their nostrils and upper lips.

  Kitteredge had intended to spend this weekend cruising the blue water south of Newport on his boat Haridan. He had acquired several bottles of excellent wine and ordered some very good smoked salmon from his grocer. It was going to be a lovely weekend. Instead, he was standing in the visitors’ waiting room, feeling sartorially inappropriate in his brown three-piece corduroy suit, white button-down shirt, and knit tie, all because Dominic Merolla would talk only to “the boss.”

  After a Dantesque eternity, a guard shouted, “Kitteredge!”

  Kitteredge made his way through the crowd to the double-chambered doorway. The guard looked at his clothes suspiciously.

  “You a lawyer?” the guard asked.

  “No.”

  Ethan Kitteredge did not realize the significance of the question, unaware that prison guards loathed attorneys and tended to subject them to strip searches and all manner of hassles.