November Road

by Lou Berney

  After a long minute, Leo opened the door. He’d traded his black Savile Row suit for a sport shirt and faded blue jeans and a pair of leather huaraches.

  “Sorry,” Guidry said. “I was looking for my old pal Leo.”

  Leo’s eyes twinkled. “Good evening, sir. Mr. Zingel is in the library. If you’ll follow me.”

  They passed through the dark and empty living room. Through the dark and empty dining room. Not a sound, just their footsteps’ tap-tap-tap on the marble and the wind booming against the plate glass. Out over the desert, the moon blinked on, the moon blinked off. Guidry wished that Cindy and her friends were here, splashing in the pool or lounging on the zebra-skin rug. Ed’s lost boys and girls gave him the creeps, but this deserted house was worse.

  “Where’s the gang tonight, Leo?” he said.

  “Mr. Zingel sent them to the pictures in town,” Leo said.

  A light at the end of the tunnel, the golden frolic of a fireplace, Ed’s library. Ed sat behind a big oak desk. Guidry took one of the club chairs in front of it. There wasn’t much on the desk. A telephone, a box of cigars, a manila envelope stuffed thick. Ed’s gun.

  “Romantic, Ed,” Guidry said, “and I appreciate the effort, but turn on a lamp for God’s sake, will you?”

  “I do my best deliberating in the dark,” Ed said.

  The moon blinked on. Two walls of the library were nothing but glass.

  Guidry nodded. “That’s better,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “Anything for you, boychick.”

  “You’re still deliberating?”

  “Not about this. Not about you.” Ed glanced at his watch. “I made up my mind minutes ago.”

  Leo brought Guidry a glass of scotch, neat. Ed pointed to the manila envelope.

  “The paperwork that’ll get you onto Nellis, out of Nellis, into Vietnam,” Ed said. “It’s all on the up-and-up, more or less. You toil in middle management for a company that has an army contract. Rain-suit parkas and combat trousers, lightweight, Limited Procurement Order 8901. Fletcher and Sons Fabric and Apparel, Holyoke, Massachusetts. It’s a real company, a real contract. I might even turn a profit.”

  “You know, I’ve always wanted to get into pants.”

  “You’re hitching a ride with a fine pilot and degenerate gambler by the name of Colonel Butch Tolliver. His bird flies tomorrow evening at seven sharp, a transport Cargomaster. I’m still working on a passport. Give me a few weeks. You won’t need one right away, since you’re flying into Tan Son Nhut. That’s the air base. Nguyen’s greased all the necessary wheels. So for the time being, you’re still Frank Guidry. Can you remember that?”

  “I’ll do my best,” Guidry said.

  “Leo, run downstairs and get us a bottle of the good stuff, will you?” Ed said. “The ’46 Macallan. We’re celebrating. Grab yourself a glass, too.”

  Ed gave the manila envelope a flick of his finger. It spun across the polished wood to Guidry’s side of the desk. Guidry didn’t reach for it.

  “What are you waiting for, boychick?” Ed said. “There’s no surprise twist. The surprise twist is that there’s no surprise twist. You’re going to have a long and fruitful life. We’re going to have a long and fruitful partnership.”

  “I’ve a favor to ask, Ed.”

  Ed had been about to clip the end off a cigar. He put down the cutter. He put down the cigar. “Another favor, you mean.”

  “You’ve already done a lot for me,” Guidry said. “Nobody understands that better than I do.”

  “It appears not,” Ed said, “or you wouldn’t be asking for another favor. Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for you? The money and the goodwill I’m leaving on the table? Guess how much you’re worth to Carlos.”

  “So you’ve made the discreet inquiry.”

  “Of course I have. Don’t sound so shocked.”

  “I’m not shocked.”

  “You would’ve done the same thing, boychick, if you’d been in my place. I hope so, anyway.”

  Guidry drank his scotch, all of it, one long swallow. “I want to take Charlotte and her daughters with me to Vietnam.”

  The moon blinked off. The room went dark again. Guidry couldn’t make out Ed’s expression. The wind outside paused to gather itself and then charged again, yowling at the glass.

  “You’ve got some balls,” Ed said. “I’ll say that for you.”

  “Let’s look at the advantages,” Guidry said.

  “What’s the expression you always use? ‘Ye gods.’ That’s it. Mind if I borrow it?”

  “I’ve thought it through, Ed. I’ll do the job you want me to do. I’ll do it well. This won’t change anything.”

  Hearing the words out loud, Guidry knew that his argument was doomed. He’d known it all along and just refused to admit it. Balls were well and good, but a man who put those balls on the block for a woman and two kids he’d met a week ago? Who in the world would ever have faith in that man’s judgment again?

  “Ye gods,” Ed said.

  “Ed …”

  “All right. I can arrange it.”

  Guidry’s momentum had almost carried him into the next sentence. Ed, just listen to me, they’ll trust a family man even more than they’ll trust a single …

  “What?” Guidry said.

  “I’ve picked my horse, boychick. Now I want to see him run. You’ll pay off for me or you won’t. Besides, who am I to stand in the way of true love?”

  What?

  But then Ed was shifting in his chair, his smile was flashing from the darkness, his hand was resting on the gun.

  “Just one condition,” Ed said. “I keep one of the little girls for myself. Your choice, I don’t care which one.”

  Guidry tried to smile back. “Hilarious, Ed,” he said.

  “Is it?” Ed said. “It’s a good deal, I think. You still come out ahead. We can flip a coin if you want. What are their names again?”

  A log in the fireplace burst into brilliant confetti. The moon blinked on. Ed roared with laughter. “You should see your face, boychick.”

  “Goddamn it, Ed.”

  “Am I a monster?” Ed said. “Is that what you think of me? I’m disappointed. I’m flattered.”

  “Goddamn you.”

  Ed picked his cigar back up and clipped the end. “I’ve already arranged it. Charlotte, the kids. All four of you are on that flight tomorrow.”

  “You already …”

  “I knew you’d want to take them along,” Ed said. “Well, I gave it even odds. Everything you’ll need is in the envelope. Go ahead, take it.”

  Ed noticed that Leo was still lingering in the doorway.

  “Did I just imagine it, Leo,” he said, “or did I ask you to run downstairs and get that bottle of ’46 Macallan so we can celebrate?”

  Guidry picked up the manila envelope. He wanted to climb over the desk and give the big bastard a hug. “Goddamn you, Ed.”

  “I was in love once,” Ed said. “I bet you didn’t know that. Long ago, but I remember what it feels like. Love doesn’t last, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t ever there.”

  “I don’t know if it’s love,” Guidry said. “I don’t know what it is.”

  “Just don’t come crying to me. When you get bored and want to ship the wife and kids back stateside. By the way, you’re staying here tonight. You’ll be safer.”

  “Safer?”

  “I’ll send Leo for the ladies. Give them a call. Let them know he’s on the way.” Ed looked over again. “Leo! Wake up, for God’s sake!”

  Leo still hadn’t moved from the doorway. Guidry had only half a second to wonder why, half a second to wonder why Leo had a gun in his hand, and then time jerked forward, jumped ahead, Leo’s arm already raised and the trigger already pulled, the earsplitting rip of blue fire leaping toward Ed and Ed’s head snapping back, a puff of blood.

  Leo.

  Leo.

  Leo, who knew how much Guidry was worth to Carlos, dead or alive.


  Guidry had been shot at before, plenty of times during the war, so he didn’t freeze when Leo turned and pointed the gun at him. He dove for the desk. Oak and heavy, between him and the doorway. He felt and then heard, thump and crack, the second bullet miss him by inches. The glass wall behind the chair where he’d been sitting frosted over.

  All Leo had to do was take a few steps to his left. Guidry was in a corner, nowhere to hide. Ed, one last favor before he died, had managed to grab for his gun and knock it to the carpet. But it was too far away, on the wrong side of the desk.

  Leo. Making his big move. Take out Ed, cash in Guidry. Ed, if his brains hadn’t been blown loose, would have been impressed.

  “Come out,” Leo said.

  “Leo. Let’s discuss this.”

  What was Leo waiting for? He hadn’t spotted Ed’s gun yet. He thought Guidry might have it.

  “Come out,” Leo said.

  The moon blinked off. He who hesitates. Guidry scrambled for Ed’s gun, and blue fire blazed, and out of nowhere a girl screamed. A scream of blistering, bloodthirsty fury.

  The shot missed, Guidry wasn’t dead. He didn’t think so. He came up and saw some kind of demon thrashing around on Leo’s back. Cindy, digging her fingers into Leo’s face, like she was trying to peel the skin off his skull.

  Leo spun, looking for a clean shot over his shoulder. They lurched together across the library, and Leo fired, and Cindy’s head snapped back. Still she hung on to him. Leo spun again and flung her off, into the window already frosted by the bullet. The glass shattered. Cindy and all the winking shards spilled onto the black lava rocks outside.

  Leo turned toward Guidry, and Guidry shot him in the chest. Leo dropped his gun and went down on one knee. He shook with laughter. Ha! Ha! That’s what it looked like. Guidry shot him again. Leo tipped over. He blew one last dark bubble of blood.

  Cindy was dead, too. Ed was dead. Guidry allowed himself three deep breaths. One, two, three. That was it, all he could afford, no more. He made sure he had his car keys. He made sure he had the manila envelope.

  He walked through the house and out the door. He didn’t hear or see anybody else. Either Cindy had returned alone from the movies or the other kids had fled when they heard the gunshots.

  One last deep breath, for the road. Guidry got into his car and started the engine.

  31

  It was clear now to Charlotte that Frank was hiding something from her. Hiding everything, perhaps. About Ed, about himself. But a different realization—he wasn’t listening to her, he’d stopped listening to her—made her heart grow even heavier.

  “I left Oklahoma so that I could make a new life for myself and the girls,” she said. “I have to do that on my own. I want to do that on my own.”

  “Just think about it,” he said. “Give me a chance. We love each other. Nothing else matters.”

  He kissed her. She kissed him back.

  “Will you think about it?” he said. “Yes?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Yes.”

  She did love him, she supposed. But at this point in her life, so much else mattered, too. So much else mattered more. He would have understood that, if only he’d been listening.

  “Good-bye, Frank,” she said.

  “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  The door closed behind him. Charlotte took a seat on the bed to wait. The cream-colored chenille spread was patterned with rosebuds. She counted them one by one. When she reached fifty, when she’d given Frank enough time to take the elevator down and walk to his car, when she was sure that he wouldn’t return for forgotten car keys or wallet, she stood and crossed the hall.

  She left the light in her room off—the glow from the miniature-golf course would have to do—and slid open the dresser drawers as quietly as possible.

  The girls would be indignant. They always insisted on packing their own suitcases and placed great importance on what went where, in which order, exactly. But Charlotte didn’t want to wake them yet, not until everything was ready. Rosemary would have too many questions. Charlotte would have to stop and explain to her why they were leaving now, why Frank wasn’t coming with them, why they needed to hurry, hurry, hurry. Charlotte had only an hour until Frank returned. She didn’t want to say good-bye to him twice.

  Get in the cab, girls, hurry, hurry, hurry. I’ll explain everything once we’re on the bus.

  Was there a late-evening bus to Los Angeles? Yes, surely there was. If not, Charlotte would cross that bridge when she came to it.

  Would the girls ask why Frank hadn’t said good-bye to them? Oh, yes, surely they would. Charlotte had no idea yet what she’d tell them. She’d cross that bridge later, too.

  One of Joan’s shoes was missing. Charlotte got down on her knees and felt around beneath the bed. The dog padded over and pressed his cold nose against the side of her neck.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered to him. “I haven’t forgotten you.”

  The dog flopped down next to her and heaved a skeptical sigh.

  “They won’t keep you off the bus,” she told him. “I won’t let them.”

  Charlotte felt … good. Bright-edged and clearheaded and optimistic. It was only a bit more than a week ago that she’d sat numb and exhausted at the dining-room table as Dooley carved the Sunday roast. Only a bit more than a week ago that the prospect of yet another day of this—her life, in her skin—had made her want to curl into a ball and never move again.

  Now, even though she knew that there were trials yet to come, she couldn’t wait for tomorrow. She couldn’t wait to see what it might bring.

  Joan’s missing shoe finally revealed itself, wedged between the wastebasket and a leg of the desk. Climbing to her feet, Charlotte saw an envelope on the desk. She’d almost missed it in the dim light. Inside the envelope were the prints from the roll of film she’d entrusted to Gigi.

  Charlotte shuffled through the stack. The shot from the miniature-golf course had turned out rather nice, though not quite the way she’d expected. The shutter had lagged a bit, spilling the shadows from the windmill onto Frank and the girls. But the extra split second had given Rosemary’s pirouette an extra inch of lift and thrown Joan’s golf ball into stark white relief and caught Frank at the very beginning of a smile.

  She stuffed the photos into her purse and finished packing. She checked to make sure that the girls were still asleep. Their day at the lake had knocked the stuffing out of them, and they hadn’t stirred. It would be a struggle to wake and dress them, but Charlotte had time.

  Back across the hall in Frank’s room, she found a pen and a sheet of hotel stationery. She didn’t know what to put in the note. What more was there to say? Already he was beginning to transform in her mind, changing from a real person to a fond memory. A memory that would grow perhaps even fonder over time, but also less real.

  She considered giving the photo to him, the one from the miniature-golf course. It was the best of the batch, though, so she decided to keep it for herself.

  When she opened the door to leave, she was surprised to find a man standing there. He’d been about to knock, she assumed, though his arms were at his sides.

  “Oh,” she said. “Hello.”

  “I’m with the hotel,” the man said.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Back inside.”

  Her sudden panicked thought: a fire, the girls, why had she not heard the alarm? She had to go to them, she had to go to them now. “My daughters. I need to—”

  “Back inside,” the man said. He took a step forward, and Charlotte had to take a step backward and before she realized what was happening, the man had closed the door behind him, he’d locked it.

  He was chalky, sweating, a fringe of dark hair damp and jagged against his forehead. His suit looked as if he’d slept in it.

  He didn’t work for the hotel. His eyes moved around the room. His right hand was bandaged, from the wrist to the tips of the fingers. She hadn’t noticed t
hat before. In his left hand, he held a gun. Where had the gun come from? She hadn’t noticed it either.

  She felt dizzy. Maybe, maybe this man did work for the hotel. Hotel security. Maybe …

  “Where is he?” the man said.

  “This isn’t my room,” Charlotte said.

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s not here. He went to visit a friend.”

  “Sit down. The bed.”

  If she screamed, the girls might wake. They might come running. They knew where she was. Every night when she’d tucked them in, she’d made sure that they understood. I’m just across the hall. I’ll be back by ten. If you need anything, anything at all, come and get me.

  If she screamed and the man fired his gun at her, the girls would hear the shot and come running. He would shoot them, too.

  The girls, the girls, the girls. Charlotte’s brain stammered and stalled. The girls, the girls, the girls—she could think of nothing else. Whatever happened, whatever she did or did not do, whatever this man did or did not do to her, she had to keep him away from Rosemary and Joan.

  She’d been so stupid. This was about Frank. No, it was about the man she’d thought was Frank. How could she have been so stupid? Her hands were shaking. She clenched them and pressed her fists flat against the chenille bedspread, the patterned rosebuds.

  “When will he be back?” the man said.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “In about forty-five minutes, I think.”

  The man peeked into the bathroom, into the closet. He pulled the drapes shut. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  His voice, quiet and conversational, should have calmed her. It didn’t. He pulled the chair away from the desk and took a seat by the door. He used his bandaged hand to swab the sweat from his temple, his forehead.

  He was Frank’s age. Shorter, slighter, just … ordinary. That was really the only way Charlotte could think to describe him. If not for the pallor, he might have been just any one of a dozen men—clerks and waiters and fellow guests—she’d encountered at the hotel. Eyes, a nose, a mouth. She waited for him to blink as he looked around the room one more time, but he didn’t.