Olivia pours coffee for Taggert and Spiller. T.K. watches her with hooded, angry eyes, and waves her off when she lifts the pot in his direction.
“You about ready to go?” Taggert asks T.K.
“I’ve been thinking about the plan,” he says.
“Yeah?”
T.K. glances at Olivia like he’s uncomfortable saying what he wants to say in front of her. Fine, Taggert thinks. He’ll send her out.
“Babe,” he says to Olivia. “Could you give us a few minutes?” The request angers her, he can tell.
“Whatever,” she snaps as she turns off the stove and bangs a few pans together.
When Taggert hears the bedroom door slam behind her, he turns back to T.K. and says, “Go on.”
“Why do I have to be the one to wait to pat these fuckers down?” T.K. says.
“Because you’re my first impression,” Taggert says. “They see a big black badass like you, it’ll get their heads right.”
T.K. grunts and thrusts out his jaw. “Something don’t sit well,” he says.
“All of a sudden there’s a problem?”
“And what about this no-guns bullshit?” T.K. continues. “That makes me nervous. Guns keep motherfuckers humble, get them thinking twice about any foolishness.”
“It makes me nervous too,” Taggert says. “But there’s only so much I can do here. We went to them for this, they didn’t come to us, and the first time you deal with anybody new, you bend over and hope you don’t get fucked. I’ve known Benjy since he was a kid, done business with him many times. I’m going on that and on my gut feeling that these guys are looking for solid partners on this thing.”
“And you trust your feelings these days, do you?” T.K. says.
“What the fuck’s that mean?” Taggert replies. He sees a shadow on the wall in the hallway. Olivia is hiding there, eavesdropping. Back less than a day and already up to her old tricks. It’s something he’ll have to deal with, but first he needs to get T.K. in hand.
“Seems to me you been a little shaky lately,” T.K. says. Taggert squints up at him. “Oh, yeah?” he says. “Why don’t you elaborate on that?”
T.K. starts to speak, then stops short, like his brain suddenly catches up to his mouth. “Well, well, I’m just saying,” he stammers before picking up speed and committing himself. “This girl of yours puts you down in the dirt in front of your crew, sticks a gun in your face, wrecks your truck, and runs off with some motherfucker who, for all you know, came out here to do you harm, and not only is the bitch still breathing, but you let her back in your house.”
Spiller looks askance at T.K., then says to Taggert, “He’s only talking for himself, boss.”
“That’s right, you punk,” T.K. says. “Only for myself.”
Taggert reaches up and touches the scar on his throat. He shouldn’t be taking this. Five years ago the guy would have been choking on his own blood at this point.
“Anything else?” Taggert asks.
Olivia is standing out in the open now, watching them.
“I want you to explain the sense of that to me, of keeping her around,” T.K. says. “Because I was raised to deal with shit like that in a whole different way. Bitch acts up; bitch gets put down.”
Before Taggert can respond, Olivia walks over and steps right to T.K.
“Call me a bitch again,” she says.
T.K. turns to Taggert with a disgusted grimace and throws his hands in the air.
“Olivia,” Taggert sighs wearily.
“Call me a bitch again,” Olivia says.
She’s pointing a gun at T.K.’s heart. Taggert recognizes it as the .38 he keeps in the nightstand.
“Whoa!” Spiller yelps. He hops out of his chair and backs across the room until he’s up against the stove.
“Olivia!” Taggert shouts. The wind grabs the house and shakes it like it’s trying to pull it down.
“Call me a bitch,” Olivia says.
“Bitch,” T.K. spits.
Olivia fires as he grabs for the gun. The .38 ends up in his hand, but he staggers backward, a trickling hole in his chest. He bares his teeth in a kind of snarl and makes a strange grunting noise.
Taggert springs to his feet, can’t believe what he’s seeing. Olivia stands her ground, cheeks flushed, as T.K. sinks to his knees. He aims the revolver at her but begins to spit up blood before he can get off a shot. A second later he pitches forward onto the worn linoleum with a fleshy smack.
Taggert surges toward Olivia and raises a hand to slap her silly. Her terrified eyes meet his, though, and he stops mid-swing. She’s breathing hard, and the fingers she uses to wipe a splash of blood off her forehead tremble like a frightened child’s.
“I just wanted to shut him up,” she says.
“Aw, fuck,” Spiller moans. “Jesus Christ.”
“There’s a tarp in the bed of the Dodge,” Taggert says to him. “Bring it in.”
Spiller hurries for the door like he’s glad to be getting out.
Taggert crouches over T.K.’s body and slips the gun out of his hand. He feels no anger, no sorrow. He’s always considered this a gift, that when things go haywire, his emotions shut down, and the situation, no matter how dire, becomes nothing more than a series of problems to be solved. It’s why he’s lasted so long in this dirty business, where every day has its disasters.
“Don’t kill me, Bill,” Olivia whispers. “Please don’t kill me.”
He should. Should put her down like he would a biting dog. She crumples to the floor, though, and looks so tiny sitting there moaning and shaking. He forgets how small she is sometimes, how delicate, because of that oversize attitude of hers, but, really, he can see why things that wouldn’t scare him might scare her, make her lash out. How can he know what the world looks like through her eyes, what’s a threat, what seems dangerous?
“Shhhh,” he says, setting the gun on the counter next to the dish drainer. “You think crying’s going to change anything?”
OLIVIA THOUGHT T.K. was going to hit her, so she pulled the trigger. Turns out he was only going for the gun. So many times it happens that way, because of a misunderstanding. All the killers she’s known have had similar stories. But knowing why it happened doesn’t make it any easier to watch a man die by your hand. That’s something that changes you, even if she can’t yet say how.
The bang of the door slamming shut behind Spiller makes her jump. His face glows pink, buffed by the wind, and he’s carrying a folded sheet of clear plastic.
“Get up,” Taggert says to her and holds out a hand to help her off the floor. He takes hold of one edge of the tarp, and he and Spiller spread it out and lift T.K.’s body onto it.
There’s blood on the linoleum. Taggert scoops a stack of dish towels out of a drawer and passes them to Olivia.
“Get it all,” he says. “Do a good job.”
She’s not sure she can handle this. Kneeling at the edge of the red slick, she presses a rag into it. The blood has a smell, animal and chemical combined, and she gags the first time she gets a good whiff. When the cloth is saturated, Taggert has her toss it onto the tarp, with the body.
He and Spiller lean against the counter while she works, Spiller puffing on a cigarette. She tries her best not to get blood on her hands, but by the time the floor is clean, gore is caked under her fingernails and in the folds of her knuckles.
Taggert and Spiller wrap the body and the rags in the tarp and carry the bundle out to the Dodge. Olivia is scrubbing her hands with dish soap and a Brillo pad in the kitchen sink when Taggert steps back inside.
“You better come along,” he says.
“Where?” she asks.
“Have you not figured out yet that I don’t like those kinds of questions?”
“Okay,” she says quickly and grabs her jacket off a chair. Dread coils around her like a snake.
She and Taggert walk out to the truck together. She sits in the middle, between the two men, and has to swing her knees over w
hen Taggert wants to shift gears. They drive down the main road a short distance, then turn off on a narrower, rougher track that leads up a slot canyon to a square hole in the ground, the entrance to an abandoned mine.
Taggert and Spiller get out, lift T.K.’s body from the truck bed, and drop it down the shaft. Watching them from the cab, Olivia can’t sit still. She rocks back and forth on the squeaky seat. If Taggert has decided to get rid of her, this is the place he’ll do it.
He and Spiller are talking at the lip of the mine now. Olivia extends a trembling finger to press the button on the glove box. Taggert keeps a gun in there; she’s seen it. The compartment is empty though.
As the two men approach the truck, their feet stir up clouds of dust that are promptly whisked away by the wind. Olivia reaches up to hug herself. She’ll fight, that’s for sure. They’ll have to drag her out, hold her down.
Spiller says something to Taggert that makes him stop to answer. There seems to be some disagreement between them. Taggert, Spiller, Taggert, then they start walking again.
Taggert opens the door and sticks his head in.
“You cold?” he asks Olivia.
“A little,” she replies.
“Put your window up,” he says to Spiller as Spiller slides in beside her. He starts the truck and turns it around, heads out of the canyon.
Olivia is relieved to be alive, but she’s still on edge. She doesn’t trust this new Taggert. What kind of rules does he expect her to follow?
“Today’s going down a little different than we planned,” Taggert says. He steers with one hand while grabbing his sunglasses off the dash with the other. “A lot different.”
“I don’t know why,” Spiller mumbles, staring sullenly out his window. “We could use Miguel.”
Taggert puts on his sunglasses and says, “I told you he’s gone. Went to visit his family.”
“Great,” Spiller says. “So what are these guys gonna think now?”
“Who gives a fuck if we’ve got the money?” Taggert says. “That’s all they care about. It’s a one-man job anyway. I’m only taking someone else along because Mando’s gonna have someone. Even-steven and all that.”
A tumbleweed rolls out of the scrub and into the road. Taggert swerves to avoid it, fishtails a bit, then glances at Olivia and says, “You’re coming to Lanfair with me.”
“Really?” Olivia says. She has to act happy about it, after pestering him for so long, but this fucks everything up. She’d planned to head back to L.A. as soon as Taggert left for the meet, sit there drinking rum with Virgil while they waited for Boone to bring them their money. How’s Boone going to react when he sees her in Lanfair? Worse yet, what if Taggert figures out what’s going on? She’s dead for sure then.
Right now, though, she’s got to show some enthusiasm.
“It could actually be good in a way,” she says. “I mean, how out there is it — how, like, random — to bring a chick along? These guys are gonna be like, ‘Holy fucking shit, this dude’s got superballs.’ ”
“Give me a break,” Spiller groans.
“You give me a break,” Olivia replies.
“Shut up, both of you,” Taggert snaps.
A long silence follows, just the old truck’s rattles and the wind whistling through a gap somewhere. The sun throbs red behind roiled dust, and gasoline fumes are making Olivia dizzy. She’s scared and getting scareder. It’s the same kind of cold panic that surged through her, that made her choke and flail, the first time she walked out into the ocean and realized that her feet weren’t touching the bottom anymore.
BOONE IS AWAKENED by a tickle on his cheek and a gust of hot, sweet-smelling air. His pulse rate jumps immediately, instinctively, but he keeps still, lifts his eyelids a bit. The horse staring into his face exhales again, a grassy blast.
“Hey, buddy,” Boone murmurs.
The horse, chocolate brown with a black mane and tail, starts, spooked by Boone’s voice. Boone props himself on an elbow and watches as the animal and another scout that had been investigating the men’s camp lope off to join twenty or so other wild horses that are already fleeing. The herd follows the road for a distance before galloping across the desert toward the mountains.
Carl sits up and says, “What was that? Thunder?”
The wind has returned, and heavy black rain clouds fill the sky, not even a faint glow marking the morning sun’s position. Boone stands with his sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders, and the wind billows it like a cape as he glares at the mess overhead. Eight a.m. Four hours until Taggert and the Mexicans arrive.
Robo wobbles out of the warehouse on stiff legs and pisses in the fire ring. A billow of steam rises from the still-warm coals.
“Toss more dirt on that,” Boone says. “We don’t need anybody seeing the smoke.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Fuckface,” Robo grumbles.
It’s warm despite the clouds, humid. Boone puts on his hoodie and joins Carl and Robo at the entrance to the warehouse. They stand around stamping their feet and choking down PowerBars and tamales. Boone accepts a cup of the cold instant coffee Robo mixes up and carries it with him as he walks out to look over the town again.
Quick and dirty is how it should go. As soon as he’s got everybody proned out and has collected the money, he’ll send Carl up to the warehouse to retrieve the truck. The whole thing should take five minutes, tops.
Carl brings over three Spider-Man walkie-talkies, toys that he borrowed from his kids.
“Getting all high-tech on me, huh?” Boone says.
“Short notice,” Carl says with a shrug. “They’re supposed to have a range of up to a mile though.”
Robo and Boone switch on their units. Robo presses his SEND button and says, “Do you read me? Over.”
“I’m standing right here,” Boone says.
“Copy that,” Robo says. He’s wearing a fleece vest that he can’t zip shut over his belly.
The men break camp and load everything into the Xterra. Boone covers the truck’s license plates with duct tape and passes out the ski masks. Robo hands him an M-16. The weapon’s cold heft and oily tang do nothing to calm his nerves this morning. Maybe he should have gone to the police instead.
He inserts a thirty-round clip into the rifle and twists the firing mode switch from safety to semi to burst and back again. An extra clip goes into one pocket, the Ruger is in the other. What should he say when he steps out of hiding? He searches for exactly the right words to let Taggert and the others know that he’s in control and they’d better do as they’re ordered.
A raindrop explodes on the bridge of his nose and splashes into his eyes. He blinks, confused, then ducks his head as a violent downpour beats down on him. He and Robo and Carl take cover in the warehouse, where they dodge leaks and speculate on whether the deluge will let up before it’s time to get into position.
Water flows from the sullen sky with such intensity that at times Boone can’t see more than twenty feet through the torrent. The runoff pools quickly on the packed-earth floor of the warehouse and begins to flow in small, swift streams out the door and down the hill toward the town.
RAIN? YOU GOTTA be shitting me. Spiller stares glumly at the drops speckling the windshield of Taggert’s old Dodge, then sticks his hand out the window to feel it for himself. He’s been waiting at the Nipton exit for an hour. The Mexicans should be pulling up anytime now.
He lights a cigarette and picks at the scab on his neck from the tattoo-removal laser. The ground around the truck is pocked with muddy dimples, and farther south, where the actual meeting will take place, it’s really coming down. Looks like a black blanket has been thrown over the desert out that way.
His toes curl inside his Nikes a few minutes later when a gray Silverado leaves the freeway and glides up the ramp. The truck cruises slowly past, the driver and passenger eyeballing Spiller, before easing over onto the shoulder about twenty feet in front of the Dodge.
Spiller flips his cigarette out
the window and gets his Hawg from the glove compartment. Olivia brought it back when she returned to the ranch, the only good thing to come of that. He slips the gun into his waistband and zips his jacket to hide it.
The rain is falling harder, riding the wind. Spiller steps out of the truck and strides down the shoulder toward the Silverado. The driver, a greaseball bodybuilder who’s even bigger than T.K. was, gives him a hard look when he peers in his window, while the passenger, some beaner in a cowboy hat, stares straight ahead.
“Hola, amigos,” Spiller says, making the greeting sound like an insult. He nods at the driver. “You first.”
Mr. Universe opens the door, slides out of the truck, and lifts his arms. Spiller runs his hands over the guy’s torso and legs, has him turn all the way around.
“Wait up there,” Spiller says when he’s finished, directing the bodybuilder to the front of the truck.
Mr. Universe glances at the cowboy, who nods slightly. The big man moves off to stand about ten feet away.
“Next,” Spiller says.
The cowboy gets out and walks around the truck to face Spiller, his stupid smile revealing a gold tooth. He reminds Spiller of a pool shark who once tried to stab him, so he does an extra-thorough job — goes up his leather coat to check under his arms, sticks his hand down inside his boots — before sending him to join his boy.
Turning his attention to the Silverado, he sweeps under the seats, front and back, opens the glove compartment, pulls down the sun visors, even lifts the floor mats.
There are two duffel bags on the rear seat. He unzips the first one and whistles at the sight of all those phony hundreds, neatly stacked and banded just like the real thing. He slides his hand around and under the piles but doesn’t find anything, and there’s nothing but funny money in the other one either.
It’s pouring by the time he finishes his inspection. Big fat drops pass through his thin hair to tap his scalp, and he wishes he’d worn a hat.
This Wicked World Page 31
