“Tell me, or go.”
She shook her head. “Are you for real, man?”
He said nothing.
“Okay, I’ll tell you what. Let me have the rest of that burger and fries, and I’ll tell you where I’m headed. Least I could do in exchange for you making me listen to that silly story, right?” She had the hint of a twinkle in her eye when she said it, which told him that what she planned to say next would be mostly lies, but it would be a real conversation. Something he hadn’t had for days.
He nudged the red basket across the table. She picked up a cluster of fries, dragged them through the pool of ketchup in her basket, and stuffed the fries in her mouth.
Then she bared her teeth and chewed.
- 6 -
IN ROUTE
THE BURNER CELL in Antonio Montez’s pocket buzzed. He dug for it as he turned down the big Crown Victoria’s radio.
The kid next to him in the cheap suit gave him an angry look and twisted his hand on the steering wheel, saying, “Hey, I kinda liked that song.”
Montez ignored the protest and touched the green circle on the phone’s display screen and held the glass and plastic brick up to his ear. The voice on the other end said in an agitated tone, “We got a problem.”
Montez drew a calming breath before asking, “What’s the problem?”
“She’s with some big guy now.”
Another breath. “You going to be able to get to her?”
“No way, man. I can’t.”
Silence.
“Why not?”
“It’s not my job to do that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was paid to watch her. That’s it. Nothing was said at all about grabbing her. Nothing.”
“You are not the one who makes contact and persuades her?”
“No. That’s someone else. Not me, man.”
“Then I was misled earlier.”
“How so?”
“You, yourself informed me that you were following her and would watch her closely.”
There was a pause. “I am, but you called me first, man. Out of the blue. Where’s Vaughn? I normally deal with him. I want to speak with him before I say anything else that could—”
“Who?”
“Vaughn. I want to speak with Vaughn”
“Not yet,” Montez breathed, wondering just how much meth the guy had smoked. It had been his experience that hiring guys who indulged was problematic at best, but he hadn’t chosen the guy.
He held his tongue for a quick three count, then said, “Who makes the acquisition then?”
“Aqua-what?”
“Who is it that grabs the girl?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Merda. Montez lifted the phone from his ear. “Shit,” he repeated, this time aloud and in English. He again placed the phone against his ear, knowing that he’d fucked up.
Fucked up bad.
He had to think fast. “What about Vaughn?” he asked with a bit more insistence. “Has he ever told you anything about who he works with locally?”
“Nothing at all.”
“You never watched a grab take place?”
“Nope, ain’t seen nothing like that, man. I just get paid to watch the girls.”
Montez sighed. “Okay, then you better start thinking about it like your life depends on it.” And as a matter of fact, it did. He’d make sure of it.
“Where’s Vaughn?” the guy repeated. “I haven’t heard from him at all.”
“Mr. Vaughn has been reassigned,” Montez said. “I’m taking over in his absence. So, I need to know exactly who makes the grab. Can you do this for me? Can I count on you to figure it the hell out and tell me?”
“Oh, yeah?” Rodney said. “So you’re the guy in charge now? Not Vaughn? Who says?”
“I say,” Montez stated firmly. You little…finocchio. He bit his bottom lip. Good help really was hard to find, especially outside New York. What he wanted now was to crush the phone and, by extension, the man on the other end of the line.
There was a long pause and some mouth breathing. “Okay,” Rodney finally said. “I don’t know who makes the grab. Think it happens here, though.”
Montez’s free hand tightened into a fist. “Where is…here?”
“Some shithole of a town called Crow Canyon, man. It’s in the middle of dipshit Nebraska. I don’t know who makes the grab—wait—” There was a longer pause, more mouth breathing. “—yeah, yeah I think I know after all.”
“You think you know or you know, know?”
“Know, know—I think.”
“Tell me,” Montez said, already figuring what to do with this finocchio. He checked the time on the expensive Omega wristwatch he’d taken off some guy then looked at his partner who was already punching buttons on the car’s GPS system. Efficient, had to give him that. In a flash, there on the display was the exact time it would take to get to Crow Canyon, Nebraska, down to the minute.
“We’re about four hours out,” Montez said into the phone. “Should be there around five-thirty at the latest.”
“That’s cutting it close, man. Can you hurry it up?”
Montez chose his words carefully, not wanting his temper to get the better of him. “Just keep your eyes on her. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Montez hung up.
“Sir,” the guy had said this time. Not “man.” While the guy was not good for much, Montez liked the sound of that more formal form of address when used in reference to himself. It dulled the ache of working with such a finocchio.
Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yeah, he liked it a lot.
- 7 -
GOING TO CALIFORNIA
THE WAITRESS STOPPED by to refill Wolf’s coffee. She had brought along two glasses of ice water and set one in front of the girl who called herself Melody and one in front of him. Then she gave him a look, one of stern disapproval, one of, hands-off-you-scumbag-you’d-better-leave-this-girl-alone.
He lifted his coffee cup to his lips and sipped the brew, staring back at her. The coffee was still hot, but he had lost his taste for it, so he set the cup back down to let it cool further. She eyed him for a second longer than she should have, before leaving to refill cups elsewhere. Her point was taken, but not appreciated.
The girl stopped chewing. “I’m headed to California, you know. Got a boyfriend out there who works in the movie business. He makes solid money.”
Wolf gave her an even colder look than the one he had given the waitress.
“No,” she said. She held her hands up. “It’s not that. I’m not going there to do porn or anything bad like that. Ewww. God, no. He’s got a legit job running lights and sound—and DJ’s on the weekends. So it’s all good. I know what I’m doing.”
Wolf nodded slowly.
She swallowed and asked, “What about you? That bike of yours outside is pretty shiny. Where’re you headed?”
“You are not coming with me.”
“No, I wasn’t asking about that. I was—just making conversation.”
He waited long enough that she looked down and resumed eating.
But then she tried again. “Guess you aren’t going to tell me where you are headed, are you?”
He drew a breath. “Nowhere.”
“Nowhere…? What kind of place is that? Nobody just goes nowhere.” She started working on another fry.
He felt the muscles pull at the corner of his mouth.
She shook her head. “See? I, at least, have a destination. You, on the other hand, do not. That makes you a drifter. A bum, my dad would say.”
Wolf grunted.
She smiled a bright smile, but it was obviously false. “But he’s dead now. They’re both gone. My mom died in a car accident. My dad… Well, I just got stuck with my aunt until I got sick of her crap and left that place. She was a real bitch. Soon as I turned eighteen, I was so outta that place.”
“And when did you turn eighteen?”
> She did not answer for a moment, then said, “Two months ago.”
A quick check over at the man with the greasy hair showed the guy was still chatting on a cell phone. Wolf had not caught the guy looking over at the girl in the past few minutes, so maybe he wasn’t a real threat. Just some guy pushing his own rock up the slope.
Still…
The girl who called herself Melody was looking at him when his gaze returned to her. Thought clouded her eyes. “He still watching me?”
“He appears to be occupied elsewhere.”
“And what’s that mean?”
Wolf shrugged.
“You’re one big dude, you know that?” She licked her lips. “Do you work out?”
“No.”
“And you can eat cheeseburgers and fries?”
He did not answer.
She wriggled in her seat and mumbled, “Wish I could get away with it. I could once, you know? When I was a kid.”
He had always been a big guy. He’d almost been too big for the Marines but had come in just under their maximum height requirement, so they’d taped him for the extra weight and given him a special dispensation to join.
She started to leave the booth, saying as she rose, “It’s going to be another long stretch. I gotta go pee, okay? B-R-B.”
The guy at the counter noticed her shifting to leave, and Wolf noticed him noticing. He glared at the guy, who only turned back to what he was doing—dunking a teabag into a cup of steaming water. Yup—threat. Which meant that if the guy got up, Wolf would get up as well.
But the guy did not get up, and a few minutes later, the girl who called herself Melody returned to the table and slid back into the bench, smelling of hand soap.
She glanced left, right, and leaned forward. “You ever kill anyone?” she whispered.
He tensed. The question had caught him off guard. He leaned forward, setting his elbows on the tabletop and closing the distance with the girl. “Why would you ask such a question?”
“So you have?”
“That is not polite lunchtime conversation.”
She pulled at one of her earrings and asked, “Is that a good cheeseburger? Good fries? Good coffee? Want some pie? Great weather we’re having.” She smiled. “Is that better?”
He said nothing.
She leaned closer. “No, I mean it. You ever kill anyone before?”
He again said nothing.
“You have,” she said, nodding and pulling back. “Yeah, I knew it. I could tell. You got that look. My dad had that look. But he’s dead now. He was a cop and he got shot for it by some gangbanger.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“That he got shot, or that he killed people?”
“Are you finished?” he asked.
“Maybe. How about it—? Have you—?”
He did not answer. Instead, he finished eating while she watched him eat, her tension clearly visible and growing. Having her ask such a question was further proof that he’d gone too far down the rabbit hole with her already. No one asked a question of a stranger like that unless they meant something by it. No one. Yeah, he’d killed people. Plenty. Some had even deserved it.
Soon, plates and baskets were being pushed back by patrons, napkins were being wiped on lips and fingers, and some were rising and donning coats, followed by slow, I-ate-too-much marches to the register.
Tammy shifted duties to handle the growing line of people wanting to pay their bills while the greasy-haired guy who had been watching the girl got up and waited his turn in line. He paid his check and walked out the door. Didn’t even look back. Not even once.
“You haven’t answered me.”
“I know.”
The girl who called herself Melody touched the top rim of the red basket, pushing it down and tilting the entire thing with its remains of dark crumbs, salt, and smeared ketchup onto the rounded edge. She balanced it there.
“Is he gone?” she asked, looking like she wanted nothing more to do with him.
He nodded.
She let the basket drop and thrust her hand out across the divide. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Raymond Wolf. Lunch was great. Thank you. I appreciate it. We should do this again sometime.”
He took her hand and held it loosely as she tried to stand. Her eyes widened in shock as if she just realized she’d made a horrible mistake. Then he let her go. She scooted out of the booth, rose to her feet, and began adjusting her jacket in an unhurried way to cover her obvious discomfort. She nodded one final time and—
The door to the street opened, and the bell chimed its now familiar tune, and a small breeze fluttered nearby papers. But this time, the door didn’t sound for someone going out. It rang for the three new people coming in. All three were wearing uniforms. Because all three were cops.
- 8 -
SHERIFF'S IN TOWN
WOLF EYED THE three cops who had come into the diner. The middle guy stepped between the patrons filing out the door and came to a stop just past the cash register and stripped off a pair of brown-tinted aviator sunglasses and scanned the room like he owned the place. The guy had on a crisp brown shirt, a tan tie, and a big, bright American flag patch on his right shoulder. Above his left pocket, which was above his heart, was a gold-plated, seven-pointed sheriff’s star. The other two cops with him were both women and far more pleasant to look at.
Wolf had nothing bad to say about cops in general, but some he’d found could be particularly troublesome.
This one? Trouble.
The girl across the table from him slid back into the booth and sank down low in her seat, seeking to remain anonymous. It was all playing out just like it might in some cheesy Hollywood script, but this was not some cheesy Hollywood script. This was real. And, in fact, he had been in nearly this exact situation before. He’d seen the same assholes and he’d heard the same bullshit lines.
The sheriff took only a second to size up the greasy-haired man who had followed him back inside the diner and returned to the end of the counter. He frowned at him disapprovingly, and with a questioning eye. The guy went back to nursing the cup he had abandoned at the counter, twirling a plastic stir-stick around in it, probably making a regular vortex of the tea. The sheriff frowned a little and moved on from the guy and swept the place with a hardened gaze. Then he tugged at his belt and caught the eyes of Tammy the waitress, who hustled over and stopped before him respectfully. He leaned in close and whispered something in her ear. She pulled away and nodded in Wolf’s direction.
Breathing through a half-opened mouth, the sheriff bobbed his head once and set off like a dog on a new scent. His strides were those of a man with an overabundance of self-confidence, and he kept his chin high and held the swaggering gait of authority as he closed the distance with Wolf.
Behind the sheriff trailed his twin deputies, who were nowhere near twins in appearance. Both were in their mid-30s, or so. Both had square black microphones topping their shoulder blades and radios and guns on their hips. But only one of the two women Wolf found relatively attractive. She had blondish hair that was pulled back into a ponytail. And while she matched the sheriff’s own crisp uniform in conformity, she filled out the top portion of her uniform whereas he filled out the bottom of his. Nothing was out of place on her. Neat. Tidy. On the other hand, the second woman was a touch on the wider side, a bit disheveled, and wore the soured look of someone suffering persistent constipation.
Wolf remained perfectly still with his hands on the tabletop, not moving a muscle, blinking regularly. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Not yet, anyway. The sheriff and his entourage made their way to stand before him. They stopped in unison as if they’d executed the same maneuver countless times before. And since the sheriff was short, Wolf didn’t have to look up much to meet the guy’s gaze, which he found a bit too cold and disconcerting to match the newly added warm and welcoming smile that cracked the guy’s pudgy red face.
“That your bike out there, son?” the sheriff
asked.
Wolf said nothing.
The sheriff’s smile faded. “Son, I asked you a question.”
Wolf nodded in acknowledgment. The man had indeed asked him a question. One that he had no desire to answer just yet.
The sheriff ran his thumb up and down his chest. “You are not planning on staying for long now, are you?”
Wolf kept his hands up and visible, unmoving. “I do not want to be the cause of any trouble.”
“Trouble, eh?” the sheriff said. “Who said anything about trouble? No, none of us want any trouble. But you’ve already caused us trouble just by coming here. Your type is not welcome in our town.”
Wolf waited a beat, swallowing thickly. “And what type is that?”
“Your type.”
“My type?” Wolf nodded his head. “I see.”
The sheriff continued. “So you need to pay your check and leave our fine, upstanding community. Go somewhere else on that fancy motorcycle you got parked outside.”
“And where is it exactly that I am supposed to go?” Wolf asked.
“Anywhere but here, son.” The sheriff then clucked his tongue inside his mouth, and his grinning swagger returned twofold.
The two woman deputies behind him were like stone statues, one looking a bit like a gargoyle. Both had their chins raised, their lips tight, their squinted eyes peering up over their cheeks. Neither lifted a finger from where they rested on their sidearms, ready to step backward and draw them if things got ugly.
Wolf decided then that things would not get ugly.
The sheriff stuck his thumbs under his belt and shook his head. “You just don’t belong here, son. This is a family sort of establishment. We got a place for your type up the road from here. Got it?”
Wolf looked past the man as if the guy were no longer there. Others in the diner had turned and were watching the interplay of forces with muted interest, each trying to catch parts of the conversation while pretending not to care. Tammy rested against the podium with the register on it, biting at a nail on her right hand and occasionally glancing down at it.
Wolf drew a solemn breath. “I will be leaving soon.” He waited until the man blinked then added, “But not just yet.”
Wolf Who Walks Alone: A Raymond Wolf Mystery Novel Page 4
