That was it. Other than the Caddys, it was all about taking numbers, passing the years.
Then, four years earlier, Gene Calb had offered to expand their relationship—an expansion that would give Singleton free working space for his cars and a thousand dollars a week, with an up-front payment of ten thousand dollars.
Ten thousand down, and a thousand dollars, cash money, no taxes, every Friday. All he had to do was keep an eye out . . .
The money had changed everything. For one thing, his mother had begun to take an interest in him. Then, one night up at the casino, he’d introduced her to Deon Cash and Jane Warr.
And then Katina had shown up.
SINGLETON HEARD KATINA coming out of the shower, heard her clumping around, getting into her pants and shoes. She came out of the bathroom like a rocket, kissed him quick, once on the mouth, once on the penis, gave him a quick suck and then said, “Wally’s gonna have to wait.”
“C’mon, thirty seconds,” he said.
“Fifteen seconds.” She sucked on Wally for fifteen seconds, and then hurried away, laughing, and was gone.
SINGLETON AND KATINA Lewis had fallen in bed a couple of months after they met, which was at Calb’s. Katina came in with her sister, Ruth, who was showing her around before Katina made her first run across the border. Ruth didn’t care for Singleton, but Katina was immediately attracted. Their daddy liked to work on old cars, she told Singleton later. Ruth didn’t care about that—she was closer to her mother, and to Jesus.
Katina saw a relationship with Singleton. She’d already mentioned love, that she might be falling into it, with him. She’d told him over dinner at the Bird, and then peered over the little red votive candle on the table.
Singleton had felt something blossoming within him, as he looked across the table at the woman. After all this time, a woman really cared for him? Somebody who would hang out with him, and cook and make babies? How did that happen?
He’d reached across the table, and had taken her hand; tears rolled down his face, and she said something like, “It’s okay.”
Later, feeling a little unmanly about the whole thing, about the tears, he’d started to apologize for himself and she’d laughed and squeezed him and said, “Loren, you did just perfect. Just perfect.”
Somehow, he thought, he had.
SINGLETON HAD WORKED until seven that morning and had come home to find Katina in his bed. He’d crawled in with her, though he hadn’t been too tired. Now, at ten o’clock, he was sleepy; he closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep.
Deon and Jane, he thought. Hanged.
Fear tickled through his chest. He tried to shut it out, flopped this way and that, wrestling with his pillow. Maybe somebody was coming for him, he thought.
A hangman.
Katina didn’t know anything about that.
RUTH AND KATINA Lewis stepped inside the body shop’s overheated office, took off their mittens, and Ruth pulled the door shut behind her. Gene Calb was working behind his desk. He was a balding, heavyset man in his mid-forties, with a weathered face and thick, scarred mechanic’s hands. A pair of reading glasses perched on his thick nose. He looked over the glasses and said, “Guys. You musta heard.”
“A little while ago, in town,” Ruth said. “Jane and Deon, but people said they were hanged?” Ruth stuffed her mittens in her coat pocket, and unzipped the parka. Ruth Lewis felt like her sister, but didn’t look like her. She was a slender woman, where Katina was round, and she had flinty green eyes behind steel-colored, wire-rimmed glasses, while Katina’s eyes were softer, paler. Ruth’s hair was close-cropped, an ascetic’s ’do; Katina wore her hair full. Ruth’s cheeks were rosy from the cold, like her sister’s, but unlike Katina, she wore no lipstick or jewelry—a pretty woman determined to do nothing with her looks.
Ruth was the older sister and the boss, Katina the subordinate.
Calb said, “Hung in a grove off the ditch road. That Letty kid found them this morning.” He looked at the clock. It was just 11:45. It seemed like the morning had stretched on forever, since he’d heard the news at ten.
“So what are we doing?” Katina asked. She always reminded Calb of a clucking hen, a busy, mildly overweight woman, but with a sensuous underlip. She was supposedly a member of some Catholic religious group, but apparently one that didn’t have anything against sex: Katina had been sleeping with Loren Singleton, and Singleton was looking as happy as he ever did, if a little peaked. “Do we do anything?”
“I’m closing down,” Calb said. “For the time being. Until we find out what’s going on.”
“That’s not acceptable,” Ruth said.
“I . . . ” A car went by on the highway, and Ruth and Katina and Calb all turned their heads that way—you always looked at a car on the highway in Broderick. A Highway Patrol car with extra passengers.
“Ray Zahn,” Ruth said.
“Loren told me that a couple of big shots flew in from St. Paul, and Zahn’s driving them around,” Katina said.
Calb shook his head. “I’ll tell you what, guys; they’re gonna hook Deon up with me, and I don’t know what I’m going to tell them.”
“Tell them as much of the truth as you can,” Ruth suggested. “That you hired Deon to drive for you, on the recommendation of an old army buddy in Kansas City, that you rehab trucks from all over the Midwest, and that he picks them up.”
“That’s not exactly . . . ”
“He does that,” Ruth interrupted. “You could give references.”
“Yeah. He’s done that,” Calb said. “What about you guys?”
“We can’t stop,” Ruth said. Her chin was set, tough, square. “We need to keep working.”
“I’m sorry, but we gotta stop, until we find out what’s going on,” Calb objected. “This may be coming out of Kansas City. If that’s what it is, maybe we can give some stuff to the cops, and they can settle it, but before then . . . ”
“Ray, we can’t,” Ruth said urgently. “We haven’t made enough runs lately. The Ontario net just came back up, since Jeanette died.”
“I can’t help that,” Calb said. “I talked to Sister Mary Ann yesterday, when she came in—she seemed pretty happy.”
“She did fine, but the mix wasn’t that good. We can’t stop,” Ruth said.
“Hey—I’m shipping a load of junkers out right now. George is on his way in with his truck and we’re getting them the fuck outa . . . excuse the language. I’m sorry.” He was genuinely worried that they might be offended. Ruth had once been a nun.
“I don’t care about the language,” Ruth said. She switched a smile on, and then off. “All I care about is that we keep working—and we won’t stop. If we have to pile up the junkers on your doorstep, that’s what we’ll do.”
“Ah, Jesus Christ on a crutch,” Calb said, forgetting himself again.
THE DEAL WAS complicated, but profitable for everyone.
A man named Shawn Davis from Kansas City, Missouri, working with old drug-dealing friends in St. Louis, Des Moines, and Omaha, would spot and steal late-model Toyota Land Cruisers, 4Runners, and Tacoma pickups. No Nissans, no Fords, no Chevys. Nothing but Toyotas. That kept parts and paint supply simple.
The stolen vehicles would be driven, individually, from Davis’s place in Kansas City to Calb’s body shop, in Broderick. Calb had been in the Army with Davis, and they’d done some chickenshit black market stuff in Turkey, selling U.S. government meat. They trusted each other, to a point. The stolen cars were driven north by Deon Cash, who was Davis’s cousin, or Joe Kelly, a friend of Cash’s.
As Cash or Kelly was driving north, one of a group of religious women—as a group they were called the “nuns” by the Custer County people, and some of them were—would pick up a late-model, but high-mileage, last-legs Toyota in Canada, usually from a dealer auction. The nun would nurse the wreck across the border into Minnesota, and deliver it to the body shop.
In the shop, the stolen car would be repainted to match
the beater. Some of the parts and trim—the dashboard graphics indicating kilometers per hour, instead of miles—the ID numbers, and papers of the high-mileage Toyota would be transferred to the low-mileage machine.
A nun would then drive the truck back across the border, where it would be resold. The remnants of the beater would be shipped to a junkyard, where it would be crushed into a cube and sent to a smelter.
The money was great: a battered, busted-up two- or three-year-old Toyota Land Cruiser, often owned by the kind of long-distance salesman who’d put fifty thousand rough miles a year on his car, would be purchased at a used-car auction for a few thousand dollars Canadian. Three weeks later, it would turn up on a working ranch in Saskatchewan or Alberta, in near-new condition, with all the right papers. The buyer would pay the equivalent of $20,000 for a $50,000 machine.
After all the work was done, and the employees paid, and the investment in the vanishing truck was accounted for, Calb and Shawn Davis would split $5,000 on each Toyota sale, give or take. Two trucks a week added up to a quarter-million tax-free dollars a year, each. Hiding the cash was almost as much trouble as making it, but they found ways.
THERE WERE A few flies in the ointment.
The nuns made everybody nervous. They weren’t paid anything, which meant that Davis and Calb didn’t have a good hold on them. The women were using the trucks and the body shop’s expertise to smuggle drugs south across the border. Although they had no economic hold on the women, Calb believed that they were safe. The women were, he thought, the next thing to fanatics. Nice fanatics, like Ruth Lewis, but they would go to prison before they talked about the deal.
Another fly was Deon Cash, and his old lady, Jane Warr. Cash wasn’t quite right. Shawn Davis had given him a job reluctantly, paid him $432 per delivery, because he was a cousin, and because he had shown in jail that he could keep his mouth shut. But Cash was a bad man; and worse, he was stupid.
A third fly, and lately a big juicy one, was Cash’s friend, Joe Kelly. Kelly stayed with Cash and Warr between runs. Then, a month earlier, he’d disappeared. Nobody knew where. Everybody wanted to know. Calb had begun to suspect that Kelly had made a move on Jane Warr, and that Cash had buried him out in the woods.
Now this.
CALB WASN’T LISTENING to Ruth Lewis’s appeal. He was staring past her, out into the shop, thinking about the whole mess, and calculating. He had to have something going out there when the cops arrived. Maybe he could haul one of his own trucks in, tear it down, start repainting it. The place couldn’t be empty, with a bunch of guys sitting around staring at the walls . . .
“Gene! Gene!”
Calb looked back at Ruth: “Sorry—I was thinking about . . . getting something going out in the shop. Before the cops get here. It looks weird, being empty.”
“Give us the cash to buy a truck,” Ruth said. “One truck.”
“Listen. Guys. We’ve got to figure out what’s going on here. You have to figure it out, too—I mean, you’re doing the driving. I thought maybe Joe Kelly just took off, but there was no sign he was going and Deon said all his clothes are still hanging in his closet . . . ”
“You think Joe’s dead, too?” Katina asked.
“Well, where is he?” Calb asked. “Nobody in Kansas City has heard from him.”
“There’s an auction Saturday morning in Edmundston that’s got the perfect truck,” Ruth said. “Three years old, two hundred and fifty thousand kilometers, runs good enough to get across.”
“I gotta talk to my Kansas City guy . . . ”
“Gene, we’ve got to do this,” Ruth said urgently. “We’ve got a load waiting. We’re desperate.”
“Let me talk to my guy.” He looked around the office. “You know, if this doesn’t get settled quick, we might have to start worrying about where we talk. What we say.”
“You could always come over to the church to talk,” Katina said. “I don’t think they’d have the guts to bug the church.”
“Maybe . . . ” Calb looked out the window. “I wonder what happened? I heard they were just hanging there, like icicles, all . . . messed up.”
“Jane Warr. She was not a nice woman. Deon was worse,” Katina said. She turned to Ruth. “The Witch used to hang around with Jane. I hope she’s not involved with this somehow.”
“Ask Loren,” Ruth suggested.
“I will. But Jane and Deon . . . ”
“May God have mercy on their souls,” said Ruth, and she crossed herself.
5
ARMSTRONG, THE COUNTY seat, came over the horizon as a hundred-foot-tall yellow concrete chimney with a plume of steam hanging over the prairie, then as a couple of radio towers with red blinking lights, then as a row of corrugated steel-sided grain elevators along a double set of railroad tracks. They followed the tracks past the elevators, past a few broken-down shacks on what had once been the bad side of town, into a quiet neighborhood of aging Cape Cod houses, all painted either white or a dirty pastel pink or blue, over a bridge labeled CROSS RIVER, and into the business district.
“What’s that smell?” Del asked, as they came into town.
Zahn looked at him. “What smell?”
“Paper plant, or chipboard plant,” Lucas said.
“Chipboard,” Zahn said. “I don’t smell it anymore.”
“Jesus. It smells like somebody’s roasting a wet chicken, with the feathers on,” Del said.
“Ain’t that bad,” said Zahn.
“Yes, it is,” Del said.
The downtown was a flat grid, mostly brick, yellow and red, with meterless curbs along blacktopped streets, three or four stoplights. Lucas could see both a Motel 6 and a Best Western, Conoco and BP stations on opposite corners with competing convenience stores, a Fran’s Diner followed by a Fran’s Bakery followed by a Fran’s Rapid Oil Change, a McDonald’s on one corner and a Pizza Hut halfway down the block, a sports bar called the Dugout.
At the heart of the town was a scratchy piece of brown grass, patched with gray snow, with a two-story, fifties-ish red-brick courthouse in the middle of it. A newer red-brick Law Enforcement Center hung on to the back of the courthouse, with a fire station even farther back.
Three cops and a couple of firefighters were outside in the cold, leaning against the walls of their buildings, smoking.
Holme’s Motors was across the street from the LEC, in a metal building with a single plate-glass window looking out at a dozen used American cars. Red, white, and blue plastic pennants hung down from a wire stretched above the lot; there was just enough wind to keep them nervously twitching. Zahn pulled into the lot, and through the window they could see a man poking numbers into a desk calculator. “That’s Carl,” Zahn said.
Carl Holme was broad and bald-headed, with a cheerful smile. “Heard about the Negro getting hung,” he said to Zahn, when they pushed through the door. “That’s gonna dust things up, huh?”
“I’d raise your prices before the TV people get here,” Zahn said.
“Really? You think?”
Five minutes after they walked in, they walked back out into the cold. Lucas took the Olds and Del cranked up the Mustang and they trundled behind Zahn, a three-car caravan, sixty feet across the street to the Law Enforcement Center.
The smoking cops said hello to Zahn, looked with flat curiosity at Lucas and Del. Zahn took them inside, was buzzed through a bulletproof-glass door to a reception area, where he introduced them to Zelda Holme, the car dealer’s wife, a pretty, round-faced woman who was also secretary to the sheriff.
“Sheriff Anderson called and said you wanted to talk to Letty. We’ve got her back in the lounge,” Holme said, smiling and friendly. “Come right along.”
“I’m gonna take off,” Zahn said to Lucas, lifting a hand. “You’ve got my number. Call if you need anything.”
“See you later,” Lucas said. “Thanks.” He and Del fell in behind Holme, and as they followed her along a cream-painted concrete-block hallway, Lucas mentioned that the
y’d just rented cars from her husband.
“I hope you counted your fingers after you shook hands with him,” she said cheerfully. “Carl can be a sharp one.”
The lounge was the last door on the right, a pale yellow concrete cubicle with Office Max waiting-room chairs, vending machines, and a slender girl in jeans who had her face in an Outdoor Life magazine.
“Letty, dear?” Holme said. “You’ve got visitors.”
LETTY WEST TURNED her head and took them in.
She was blond, her hair pulled back tight in a short ponytail. She had warm blue eyes that Lucas thought, for an instant, he recognized from somewhere else, some other time; and an almost oval face, but with a squared jaw and freckles. She wore jeans and a blue sweatshirt and dirt-colored gym shoes that had once been white nylon. A Coke can sat on an end table at her right hand. She might have been a female Huckleberry Finn, except for a cast of sadness about her eyes—a Pietà-like sadness, strange for a girl so young. Lucas had seen it before, usually in a woman who’d lost a child.
A good-looking kid, Lucas thought, except for the weathering. Her face and hands were rough, and if you hadn’t been able to see her preteen figure, you might have thought she was a twenty-year-old farmer’s daughter, with too much time hoeing beans.
“These gentlemen are here to see you from St. Paul,” Holme said. She was stooping over like older women did when they approached younger children, her voice too kindly.
“Cops?” Letty asked.
“State policemen from St. Paul,” Holme said.
“Cops,” Letty said.
Lucas looked at the kid and said, “Hi,” and then to Holme, “We can take it from here.”
“Okay,” she said. Holme looked once at Del, as though he might be carrying a flea, and went back out the door. Lucas had the impression that she might have stopped just outside, so he said to Del, “Did I see a water fountain in the hallway?”
“Let me check,” Del said, smiling. He stuck his head out, looked both ways, and then said, “Nope. Nothing there.” More quietly, “She’s going.”
Lucas Davenport Collection: Books 11-15 Page 109
