by David Rich
“Yeah.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, bringing along the fresh scent of soap and body oil that seemed like an oasis in the musty motel room. Her hair was pulled up, accentuating her neck and faint, downy hairs too short to be included. She said, “I’m going to call him, McColl, and tell him I’m still working you, tell him you think you’ve turned me, but I’m still with him. I want to do it in front of you so there’s no question…”
She twisted around to face me and put one leg up on the bed. She had freckles on her chest. I remembered that there are days when I really like freckles. This was one of them. I said, “He knows where the jeep is. He’ll know I’m here. He can locate the call. Maybe it’s better not to do it, anyway.”
“I’ll wait until you go. I just don’t want you to not trust me.”
“Do you trust me?”
She stared into my eyes, but her gaze fell. She couldn’t lie about it. She couldn’t give trust anymore but believed she could still earn it.
“You could do me a favor.”
She whispered, “Okay.”
I sat on the bed next to her, pulled off my T-shirt, and turned my back toward her. “Next to my right shoulder, something’s there…” She let her fingers drift gently up to the spot where the itch was and circled it.
“Stitches there. A little swelling, just a little. They must have stabbed you there.”
“Thanks.” I turned toward her and she stayed close. We kissed. She pushed me back onto the bed and snuggled in close to me as the towel came loose. We kissed some more. My skepticism cleared its throat and mentioned her likely insincerity, but confronted with a superior force it withdrew to let the storm pass. I thought about how I was getting a much better deal than McColl: he just got a phone call; I got freckles and downy neck hair and long legs and…I opened my eyes to enjoy it all, and there, before me, was a clock. Who put it there? How dare they? I swore I would rent a cheaper room next time. I slid away from her.
“Where are you going?”
“Wait here. I’ll be back.”
“I’m not…lying to you.”
The towel had fallen off her. For a moment, fear and uncertainty twisted her posture and I believed her, but that did not do her any good. She looked away as if trying to find where she threw her defenses. I bent down and kissed her.
“I won’t be long.” I put on my shirt and went out.
15.
Hal’s Discount Furniture sprawls along Apache Boulevard south of the Arizona State campus in a mishmash of buildings acquired piecemeal through years of booming prosperity and astute management. New cheap furniture, used cheap furniture, and, most profitable of all, rental cheap furniture. If you want cheap furniture, something you won’t feel like taking with you when you move, this is the place. TV? Fridge? Microwave? Computer? Hal has them for you, and the trucks to deliver and retrieve them, and the countless hardworking, reliable legal and illegal Latinos to do the heavy lifting. Hal, who put it all together, built it with hard work and guts and brains, is Dan’s older brother.
I lived with Hal and Marion the Bitch, as Dan called her, and their two children, Melissa and Mark, for most of a school year. The first time I ran away was when Marion started screaming at me because she could not find her earrings. I had not taken them at that point. The screaming went on for a couple of days and I was the main target. I knew Melissa had been trying them on. I searched around in the den and found them in a drawer where Melissa’s hash pipe was stashed, too. Rather than rat her out, I took the earrings and sold them at a pawn shop. I didn’t come home, and when I was wandering around, I saw a family moving toward the rear of one of the outer buildings of Hal’s Discount Furniture. I followed. They disappeared. I waited. Next two Mexican women came timidly to the same rear door and knocked and said “No tengo adonde ir.” The door opened and they entered. I tried it.
Rudy, one of Hal’s managers, opened the door and he froze at seeing me. I shrugged and said, “No dire nada, se lo juro.” And he said, “Hal knows.” The large room was filled with illegals, mostly families, camped out on the furniture awaiting repair. I stayed a few nights until Rudy told Hal, who was worried about me.
Hal’s locks the front doors at six p.m. sharp so I walked in at 5:55. A salesman approached and I said, “Please tell Hal that Rollie is here to see him.” A moment later, Marion the Bitch came lilting across the floor, pretending not to see me.
“Hi, Marion.”
She seemed startled and acted like it took a second to recognize me. “Rollie, how nice to see you.” I went forward and we almost hugged.
“You, too.”
“You look great. A stuntman in the movies? I think that’s what Dan told Hal.”
“Starting to do a little acting, too. You look great.”
Six o’clock had struck, and the employee at the door looked to Marion to see if he had to toss me before locking the door. She waved him off. “What brings you here?”
“Rollie!” It was Hal. He gave me a big hug and pumped my hand a few dozen times. Hal had the same white hair as Dan, but he had gained weight, wore reading glasses low on his nose, and the weariness of responsibility and marriage had worn him down. Still, his eyes showed that crinkly understanding and amusement, the same look Dan would turn on to disarm anyone within range who showed skepticism. “Have a seat. Great to see you. How’s Dan?” And he smiled as he pointed to a living room setup near the rear of the store. I sat in the comfy chair covered in brown microfiber that was probably coated in enough stain-resistant chemicals to weather a slaughterhouse. Hal and Marion sat on opposite ends of the couch.
I was thinking I might as well get straight to the bad news, but Hal talked so I would feel welcome. “As you can see, everything here is just the same. Mark is going to come into the business when he graduates and he thinks he’s going to make big changes. Well, maybe. We’ll see. And Melissa is finishing up at NYU law school. Hard to believe it. I don’t know if you’d recognize her. Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I’m in the Marines.” I made sure to glance at Marion so I could catch her expression: daggers. “I’ve done three tours in Afghanistan and I’m hoping to go back soon.”
“They’re lucky to have you. What’s up with Dan?”
By now you know I am not sentimental about Dan, but something must have shown in my face because Hal sat forward in anticipation and Marion said, “What trouble is he in now? How much does he need?” Hal shot her an angry look.
“Dan is dead. He was murdered. I can’t give you a lot of details. I’m sorry.”
Now Hal slumped back in the couch and the slouch made him look like a schoolboy in the principal’s office. Marion said, “It’s not a surprise.”
Hal did not look at her. “Get away from me.” She thought about it for a few seconds while staring at him. He would not glance her way. She left.
“I wanted to ask you a few things about him.” I wasn’t sure he heard me. He just stared and nodded a bit and then started talking.
“He was my younger brother, but he got me laid the first time. I was fifteen. So he was just thirteen. He talked a girl, Jillian Koepke, into doing it with me. Can you imagine that? A little brother. He could talk, Dan could talk, talk the fish out of the water. Our father ran away and we had to take care of each other and our mother. I thought Dan would end up president. You know I made him my partner in this place, gave him twenty percent, but he put up the shares as collateral on some deal and I ended up having to buy them back. But I never cared, no matter how many times he needed money. You had to know him as a boy. I’ve been very lucky, very lucky.”
He covered his eyes so he wouldn’t cry, then rubbed his hands together as he looked at me. “What did you want to ask?”
“Did he ever change his name?”
“Of course. I’m Hal Reynolds, and he was Dan Reynolds.”
“He said you were half brothers. That’s why he was Waters.”
Hal laughed. “Of course he did.”
“Did you know my mother?”
Hal scratched his head, then pulled his ear, keeping his eyes tight to mine, though I sensed he stopped seeing me. He nodded as if convincing himself of something. “I could use a drink.”
I followed him to his office. Marion glared at us as we passed by the office where she was brooding. Hal shut the door and went behind his desk and pulled a bottle of scotch from the bottom drawer. He poured each of us a drink. He guzzled his. I pushed mine toward him. The desk was an old, solid pedestal style, complete with chips and stains and nicks.
“The first piece of good furniture I ever bought. My only extravagance. Here, anyway. Doesn’t look like much, does it? But it’s solid as a battleship.” He stared at me for a little while, then took a sip from my drink. He paused and pursed his lips and breathed through his nose a few times and generally looked like he was going to have to plead guilty to some crime or come out of the closet. For a moment, I thought he was working up to telling me Marion was really my mother. “Dan showed up with you one day. You were about five or six years old. Told me your mother was dead. Never gave me a name. I didn’t know he’d been married. Still don’t know if he was or not. He had been living outside LA in Ventura County. Then, about I don’t know how many years ago, you and Dan were living in Albuquerque not long after you had been living with us, a woman showed up here. Said she was Dan’s ex-wife and your mother. She spent a little time trying to put together some reason why Dan owed her money. It was bullshit, but I paid her off. Dan never knew she came around. At least he never heard it from me.”
“What was her name?”
“Kate McFarlane.” Hal took another drink and did the breathing-through-his-nose thing again.
“It can’t be that bad,” I said. “She have fangs, or track marks, or a prison tattoo?”
Hal smiled. “No, she was an attractive woman. Seemed down on her luck. Seemed…hard…” He stopped, but his mouth was poised for more.
“Hard and…?”
“She asked about you. Where you were. I said I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Rollie. I just wanted her gone. I should have at least let you know.”
“Nah, you did the right thing,” I said, and I knew I didn’t convince either of us. I was already starting to walk my past through a maze of new paths with Kate McFarlane. Unless it was a con. Suddenly it occurred to me that Dan could have sent her.
Hal must have read my face. “I think she was for real.” We talked for a few more minutes. I thanked him and left him sitting there with another whiskey.
16.
Outside, with ever-shifting visions of Kate McFarlane in my head and Dan on my shoulder whispering long-forgotten details, I was halfway to the jeep when I felt the sharp poke in my kidney: a gun or a baton.
“Hands up.”
I started to put my hands up then spun and chopped down to knock away the weapon. The baton stabbed hard into my ribs; the tall man who held it was too fast for me, and his partner, Pongo, stepped in behind me to slap his baton across my throat so that it felt like my windpipe was wrapped around my spine. Perdy handcuffed me. It happened in three seconds. This went beyond training; these guys were naturals. They marched me back, past Hal’s Discount Furniture, while I gasped for breath. Marion the Bitch glowed with vindication when she saw us go by.
Colonel Gladden stared at me through watery eyes bobbing under half-closed eyelids, which made him look like a junkie who thinks he is ready to face the world. But I knew it just meant Gladden was happy to see me. “Why aren’t you dead?” he said. We were in a drab motel room not far from the drab motel where I was staying with Shannon. Gladden paced like a guy who had seen footage of what happens when you bring a black light into this kind of motel room: his problem was that you can’t beat up microbes and they like jail cells. Pongo and Perdy stood next to the door. I was on the bed. “And where is your scumbag father?”
“He’s dead.”
“Sir”
“Sir.”
Gladden didn’t exactly smile; his face tightened and his mouth drew back and his blank, reptilian eyes crinkled around the edges. Not a smile, maybe it was related to some vestigial expression of sympathy. It was ugly and inscrutable, like a lizard after you’ve fed him: you pretend that he looks satisfied. But Gladden’s insults were as meaningless as sympathy would have been. “And now you’re buying furniture?” he said.
“His last wish, sir. ‘Get yourself a comfy chair,’ he said, ‘and an ottoman.’”
“You’re going to have to decide, Lieutenant, which side you’re on.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not done.… You think you’re on your own side. But that is not an option. You want to be sarcastic, go ahead. I’ll deal with it later. If I don’t, someone else will. But you’re in the Marines, you’re an officer in the United States Marines, and that means you and me are on the same side. That comes first. You find that money and you return it to the United States Marines. That’s your job. Your only job. Do you understand that, Lieutenant?”
I understand that I represent the Independent Floating State of Rollie. My only promise is to not take over the world. I understand that I will never be on your side. “Yes, sir,” I said.
“And you return the money to the Marines, not to the Treasury or anyone else, to the Marines. Get it?”
“By ‘the Marines,’ do you mean return the money to you, sir, directly?”
He lived in a world of commands, of direct orders and blunt talk. Insinuation meant nothing to him. “Yes,” he said. “Directly to me. I’m not making you any special offers, Lieutenant. You ran away from these MPs and you’ll be charged with that when the time comes. First you have a mission to complete. Now account for your time. Where did you get the money in your wallet?”
He wanted me to be a good soldier, so I played that for him, gave the full report, or as much as I thought it would take for him to believe it was a full report. Actually, I left out some parts so when he threatened to have me beaten there was something to tell him. When I finished, he asked, “Where’s the Treasury agent?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Do you trust him?” I had not given that enough thought to make a decision. He jumped in: “They don’t.” He meant Pongo and Perdy. They stared straight ahead, showing nothing. Gladden took a phone from the desktop and tossed it to me. “Satellite phone. It’ll be tougher for McColl to intercept any calls or locate them.”
“But easier for you.”
“You’re in the Marines, Lieutenant. Even when you’re in the brig, you’re still in the Marines until the Marines say you aren’t.” He stopped to take pleasure in that last statement. His eyes searched the room for the horizon. I don’t know what he saw. “You’re dismissed, Lieutenant. Patterson and Pruitt will conduct you back to your jeep.”
I stood up and put the phone in my pocket. I started for the door but stopped and turned back to Gladden. “Sir, McColl’s men might be watching my jeep by now. Could I be dropped off a few blocks away?”
“Okay.”
“And one more thing…I could use a weapon.”
He leaned so far forward without moving his feet that the room seemed to tilt. His leathery face bulged and the creases grew deeper. Then he laughed, a sputtering cough of the final remnants of something long dry inside him.
17.
I thanked Pongo and Perdy for the ride and started walking back toward Hal’s Discount Furniture, where I had left the jeep. No pedestrians around there at night, even the bus stop was vacant. The streetlights, headlights, store lights blotted out the stars. The air smelled like what it was: the desert made dirty. It all reminded me of times when I snuck out and just roamed, sometimes walking, sometimes hitching, sometimes riding the buses, just reaching for that feeling that the city was mine, that I was the free loner, anonymous and mysterious. The secret prince of the shadows. But this was different. I was being tracked. As a kid, I took imaginary evasive measures. Now I did nothing to disappear.
I didn’t want to lose my trackers. Not yet.
Two Latino kids, maybe sixteen, leaned against the front of the Circle K and watched a Ford Mustang parked on the side street. They wanted to steal it and looked like they would talk about it for a long, long time before making their move. Maybe I was wrong, maybe they just liked Mustangs. Gladden stayed on my mind. It was one thing for him to mistrust Shaw: he mistrusted everyone. It was another for him to mention it to me.
A car pulled in fast and parked right in front of the Mexican boys, stopping with a jerk. They glared defiantly into the headlights without flinching. The lights went off, and a tall, broad-shouldered black guy with muscles got out of the driver’s side, and his date, in shorts and sandals and a low-cut tank top, got out of the passenger side. The black guy passed close to the Latino boys, ignoring them, then opened the door to the store for his date. The Latino boys never stopped staring at them. After a pause, one of them spit on the car and they moved to the shadows around the side of the store where they could keep an eye on the Mustang.
I drove back to the motel. The small lot was mostly empty. Halfway up the steps to the second floor, I looked back and noticed a black pickup in the far end of the lot, idling. It was not near the streetlights, and I could not see the driver. The curtain was pulled across the window of my room, so I could not tell if the lights were on or not. Before putting my key in the door, I slid back along the walkway to get another look at the idling truck. It was still there.
The room was dark. I was reaching for the switch when the odor reached me. Blood smells. You would think because it’s slimy and slippery it would have a thick or oily smell, but it’s metallic; the smell of blood reminds me of an armory. This room smelled of blood. I flicked on the light.
