Bloodfire fc-5

by John Lutz

  “Really now?” McGregor’s voice took on a different frequency. “When?”

  “I’m not sure. Soon, though.” Carver glanced at Beth. She rolled her eyes as if she was scared. He realized she wasn’t kidding.

  “That it?” McGregor asked.

  “All I’ve got for now.”

  “What do you expect in return for this, Carver?”

  Carver said, “Nail the son of a bitch.” Hung up.

  Beth stared at him for a while, then said, “Well.” Not a question.

  Carver said, “The man I talked to is named McGregor. He won’t say where he got the information on the drug drop. He can’t.”

  “He a cop?”

  “Yeah, but not in the way most people think of cops. He’s the one you saw leave my office the day we met at the marina.”

  “Nobody’s gonna arrest Roberto and make it stick, Carver. You’re only jerking yourself off if you think so.”

  “McGregor might. He doesn’t use orthodox methods. He’ll plant evidence on him if he has to.”

  “That’s been tried. The crooked cop’s youngest child was murdered and the evidence disappeared. Cop wouldn’t testify against Roberto and the charge was dropped. Roberto’ll get down lower than anybody you put on his trail.”

  “Nobody can get lower than McGregor. He’s at the bottom of the ocean, feeding on what sinks.”

  “He’ll be there with weights on as part of the food chain unless he’s careful.” She sat down on the bed. Her denim jeans made a swishing sound as she crossed her legs. She smelled fresh, like the lilac-scented soap in the Casa Grande showers. “That our plan, to hide out here until your friend McGregor puts a collar on Roberto?”

  “More or less.”

  “Piss-poor one.”

  “We can improvise as we go.”

  Beth made herself smile. “Better’n where we were yesterday,” she said.

  “That’s the idea,” Carver told her, “a day at a time, until the situation changes.” He leaned on his cane and looked down at her, into her dark eyes. “How do you feel about Roberto going up for life? Maybe being executed?”

  Her face was a mask, but her eyes seemed to absorb all the light in the room. “The longer I lived with Roberto, the harder it got for me to deny what he was. Or what I was. I knew what was buying the kind of life I was leading. But I didn’t know how to escape; you don’t walk out and send around your divorce lawyer with a man like Roberto. He regarded me as his. Still does. Then I got pregnant and I knew I had to at least try to get out. Not just for me, but for my child’s future.”

  “Roberto’s child, too.”

  “That’s what scares the shit outa me, Carver.”

  He poked at the carpet with his cane. It was almost threadbare, and the cane’s tip didn’t leave an indentation. “Nothing left between you and Roberto?”

  “Nothing good. Hasn’t been for months. Christ, Carver, he just killed my sister and it was supposed to be me!” She swallowed so hard he could hear saliva crack in her long throat. She looked the way she had as they were leaving Melanie Beame’s house, as if any second she might break and begin sobbing.

  But she knew she didn’t have the luxury of tears; all her energy was needed for survival, and not just her own.

  She exhaled heavily, puffing out her cheeks, and stood up from the bed. He envied the ease with which she gained her feet, the liquid way she moved. “I wanna call Melanie. Check up on Adam.”

  Carver said, “Fine.”

  She went back into her room, hips swaying, and left the connecting door standing open. After a moment he heard her talking on the phone. He didn’t know what she was saying and didn’t want to eavesdrop.

  When she came back her eyes were moist, but that was the only hint of emotional storm. She had hold of herself, this one. She’d reached down and found what she needed, what she hadn’t known for sure was there. Not having a choice did that to people. Carver knew.

  She said, “Let’s go revel in the local cuisine.”

  He thought that was a good idea. And he hoped wherever they ate served liquor. He’d set a beast to catch a beast, and he needed a drink.

  22

  When they went outside to get in the Olds, Carver noticed the big Harley-Davidson cycle was gone. The rusty old pickup truck had been joined by a late-model Chevy with a scrape along the left side from headlight to taillight. Not many Cadillacs or BMWs in Dark Glades; mostly ancient or battered domestic iron. The economic expansion touted by politicians hadn’t reached into the swamp.

  Carver saw the big Harley outside Whiffy’s Restaurant and parked next to it. In the lowering dusk, heat was radiating in waves from the motorcycle’s recently raced engine. The restaurant’s broken neon sign was on and buzzing now, though it wasn’t yet dark. A couple of moths were fluttering around it as if fooled by the noise and feeble light.

  Whiffy’s was surprisingly large inside. Up front was a wide area of square gray Formica tables and the kind of molded plastic chairs-some red, some blue-found in waiting rooms. To the left, beyond the chairs, was a long serving counter with high stools. Opposite the counter were wooden booths with straight, high backs. On the back wall was a mounted blue marlin above a lineup of video machines that were zinging and boinging in soft electronic cacophony.

  Two men sat on stools near the front of the counter, eating cornbread and beans and drinking beer. Another, older man was slumped at the far end, hunched over a cup of coffee. A tall, skinny man in Levi’s and a sleeveless red T-shirt was coiled in front of one of the video games, scrawny arms tensed and hands darting to punch the buttons that would bring the desired results on a screen where something resembling a hockey game was portrayed in dots and flashes.

  Carver and Beth sat down at a table near the front. There were a few crumbs on the gray Formica. A few flies. A black-and-chrome napkin holder, glass salt and pepper shakers, a half-full Heinz Ketchup bottle. Four large paddle fans with clusters of light fixtures slung beneath them were slowly rotating near the ceiling. Carver could feel the faint breeze. An air conditioner was humming somewhere, keeping the place fairly cool but not doing so much to keep the humidity out; that was probably impossible, so close to the swamp.

  The rubber tip of Carver’s cane didn’t grip the slick linoleum, so he hooked its crook over the back of the chair next to him. The linoleum was gray with a kind of lighter gray cloud pattern on it, buckled in places. It creaked and made a sticky suction sound beneath the shoes of the short, dumpy young blond girl who’d been standing behind the counter and was now waddling toward them carrying two glasses of water. A couple of menus were tucked between her fleshy right arm and her ample chest. She was wearing cut-off jeans, and a white T-shirt that was lettered WHIFFY’S in black across the chest, above what looked like an ironed-on bat and baseball half hidden by the sag of her breasts.

  She had a round, kind face, a nice smile except for bad teeth. She placed the glasses and menus on the table. “Hi, I’m Marlene. Getcha somethin’ to drink?” Bwip-bwip-zoing! went the video game, much louder.

  Carver said, “Budweiser if you got it.”

  “We got it. This ain’t that far off the beaten path.”

  “Just water for me,” Beth said.

  Marlene went back behind the counter to get the beer while Carver and Beth studied the handwritten menus. One of the men at the near end of the counter turned and stared openly at Carver, then at Beth. He was fat and wore bib overalls and no shirt. Thick-soled brown leather boots. His sandy-colored hair was chopped so short he looked almost bald. There was a roll of flesh at the back of his sunburned neck. His eyes were sunk deep in pads of flesh and glared out at the world like the tiny, primitive eyes of pigs irritated on a hot day.

  The man on the stool next to him was wearing jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, like the guy at the video machine, only his shirt was white. He was tall, lean, and long-muscled. Tendons in his forearms rippled as he forked in a mouthful of beans. He didn’t look in Carver’s dire
ction, just kept eating, chewing with his mouth open.

  Marlene returned and Carver ordered the chicken-fried steak special. Beth asked for a hamburger and home fries.

  When Marlene had gone, Beth said, “That fat creep at the counter keeps staring at me.”

  Carver poured beer in his glass, watched it foam, then looked to the side. “Not now, he’s not. He’s concentrating on his cornbread.”

  “Well, he doesn’t look like he could concentrate on more’n one thing at a time. Wait’ll he swallows, he’ll look back over here.”

  “Probably’d like to ask you for a date.”

  “Fuck you, Carver.”

  “Such spirit.”

  She sipped her ice water daintily, little finger extended. Mouth didn’t match manners. “Listen, Carver, what do you think this McGregor character can really do to catch Roberto?”

  “Whatever needs doing. He’ll see that the Del Moray marina and any likely landing sites along the coast’ll be watched like a clock at quitting time. He’ll take part in it himself, sleep in his car if he has to. The man’s fucked up. Wants to be mayor.”

  Beth smiled. “You notice everybody wants to be what they’re not?”

  Carver sampled his beer. Good and cold. “You’re no exception.”

  “Yeah, I know. What about you?”

  He set the glass down in its puddle of condensation on the smooth table. The video game bwipped and zoinged some more. “During the last couple years, I got divorced, got shot, lost a son, and got involved with a woman too much like me. What with my leg, the way my life took a turn, I approach things a day at a time.”

  “Like a recovering addict.”

  “Something like.”

  “What woman you involved with, Carver?” She was tactful enough not to ask about his son.

  “Private matter,” he said. “Anyway, it’s not going good for us right now.” Bwip! Zoing!

  “I figured.”

  He didn’t ask her how. It was better to leave Edwina out of anything that went on between them. He didn’t like the way Edwina was changing in his mind, leaving him helpless and lonely, with terrifying moments when he could feel time flowing around him and carrying him like the current of a great river.

  Beth said, “You got a lotta faith in your friend McGregor.”

  “He’s not my friend. Not anybody’s. That’s the way he likes it, so he can sacrifice anyone he wants in whatever game he’s playing.”

  “Sounds like a total jerk.”

  “He is. But he’s good at what he does. He’ll haunt the Del Moray coast like the Ancient Mariner.”

  “Well, he better stoppeth more’n one in three if he’s gonna get the goods on Roberto.”

  The fat man at the counter said, “Marlene, put on some music, why doncha, so we don’t have to listen to that goddam video machine fartin’ at us.”

  “ ’Kay, Junior.” Marlene pushed through some swinging doors. Speakers mounted up near the ceiling crackled to life. Dolly Parton started singing about a party right next door. The man at the video machine hadn’t turned around. He was still trying to influence microchips with body English.

  A red light flashed on the video screen and an electronic voice yelled “Score!” above the sound of Dolly’s. Fat Junior said, “Jesus H. Christ, I hate them ’puters!”

  Marlene was back behind the counter, carrying plates on a tray out in front of her with both hands. She said. “That ain’t no computer.”

  “Same fuckin’ difference, ain’t it?”

  Marlene ignored his question and moved out from behind the counter. Squish-squished across the buckled linoleum and placed the plates of steaming food in front of Carver and Beth. Carver was surprised; everything looked delicious.

  “Getcha anything else, jus’ lemme know,” Marlene said, and turned and walked away. Her legs were thick and brown beneath her cut-off jeans. Muscular rather than fat. A tightness moved in Carver’s groin and he averted his eyes. The waitress was a backwater kid, no more than seventeen.

  “Don’t you be eyeballin’ Marlene,” Junior said. “You got your black meat there.”

  Carver thought, This is gonna be trouble. A part of him had sensed it coming for a while. Something in his gut got hard and cold, and ready. He ignored Junior. Took a bite of chicken-fried steak, Chewed.

  Beth was staring at him. “You catch what that asshole said?” she whispered.

  “Eat your hamburger.”

  “Didn’t hear me, I guess,” Junior said. “Ain’t got goddam ears maybe, you think, B.J.?”

  B.J., the thin one, took another bite of beans. “Leave the man alone, Junior. He likes niggers, that’s his business. He’s a cripple. Maybe dark’ns is all he can bed.”

  Junior tilted back his tiny head on his thick neck and took a long pull of beer. “Well, I don’t think that’s it. I think he’s bein’ bad-mannered, is what.”

  Marlene had shrunk back against the wall near the grill. The old man at the far end of the counter was staring into his coffee cup. The skinny guy at the video machine pocketed a handful of change and loped leisurely from the restaurant. He wore rimless glasses and had greasy black hair that curled down over his forehead. He didn’t look scared. Didn’t look anything. It was time for him to leave, that was all.

  Junior swiveled on his stool to face Carver directly. “Black section of town’s down t’other end of the street. Got a restaurant there serves scum like you.”

  Carver said, “But it’s not in the Michelin guide like this one.”

  Junior looked at B.J. “The fuck’s he talkin’ about tires for?”

  B.J. shrugged and said, “Don’t know, little bro.”

  Junior flexed his jaw muscles. “We don’t mix the races in this part of the country, mister.”

  “Don’t you really?”

  “You and the nigger bitch head for the door,” Junior said, “or you’re gonna find out for sure we don’t.”

  “I think we’ll stay here for now, thanks.”

  B.J. stopped eating. He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Better listen, mister. Best you and the nigger get up and leave, or my baby brother here’s might gonna turn mean.”

  Carver said, “We don’t want trouble, but we plan on finishing our supper before we leave. That seems reasonable.”

  Junior said, “Not to us, it don’t.”

  “Ain’t no cause for any meanness, Junior,” Marlene said in a squeaky voice. “There’s gonna be a problem, I’m headin’ out back an’ get Whiffy.”

  The big Harley fired up outside, then spat and roared as it accelerated down the street; the video-game player leaving. The receding rumble of the cycle’s motor seemed to have a calming effect.

  “Let’s keep it light, please!” Marlene said.

  For a moment Carver thought Marlene’s plea might work. Junior and B.J. were silent. Junior was glaring at Carver with his tiny, porcine eyes. B.J. was gazing curiously at Beth. His face was narrow, his dark eyes set close together and recessed under shaggy brown eyebrows. The left side of his face didn’t quite match the right, as if there’d been a tectonic shift of bone beneath the flesh.

  Carver took a drink of beer and felt some of the tension leave the air. He could breathe easier. Maybe they’d get out of here okay after all. The hostile brothers seemed to have cooled down. He took another long swallow of beer, moving very deliberately to add another measure of calm.

  Beth said, “How far back in the swamp were you two dumb rednecks born?”

  Fat Junior’s jaw fell open. B.J. had lifted his fork, but set it back on his plate with a tiny clink. Marlene was edging toward the swinging doors to the kitchen. Carver casually removed his fingers from the cold beer glass and rested his hand on his cane.

  Junior said, “Come again, nigger?” and got down off his stool. He was taller than Carver had thought, well over six feet, maybe pushing three hundred pounds. The tricep muscles in the backs of his thick arms flexed as he moved. He’d done heavy lifting sometime in his life;
there was steel beneath the fat. B.J. did nothing to restrain his huge “baby brother,” and swiveled around and dropped off his stool. He was as tall as Junior.

  Junior’s sunburned, beefy face folded into a grin, and his tiny eyes glittered in cruel anticipation as he swaggered toward Beth. B.J. was moving toward Carver. The brothers had silently partitioned the work. Or was it recreation?

  B.J. said, “Your lady shouldn’t have talked that way to baby bro.”

  “Don’t bother with the fuckin’ cripple,” Junior said. “Like you said, he ain’t enough man to be with anything but black cunt. You just step on the worm and keep him outa my way while I learn the bitch a lesson.”

  “Don’t underestimate the man,” B.J. warned. “Some of them gimps got strong upper bodies from draggin’ themselves around. ’Member that limp-legged fisherman give you a split lip last August.”

  “That’n was a man and this’n’s a pile of shit,” Junior said. He was angered even more by being reminded of whatever trouble last year’s victim had given him. Great, Carver thought, just what we need, more adrenaline for Junior.

  Beth hadn’t budged, but now Carver saw her move her hands beneath table level. She was digging in her purse for something. A gun, he hoped; he’d left his back at the motel.

  But it was only her keys. A ring of them attached to what he at first thought was a thick ballpoint pen, but was only a cylindrical piece of brushed aluminum with a dull pointed end, large enough to keep her from losing her keys in her purse.

  Junior was smiling broadly and sweating hard. He smelled stale and sour, and faintly of fish. There were perspiration stains on his bib overalls. He ducked a shoulder as he got close to Beth. Reached out for her.

  Carver slashed with the cane. Felt solid contact with Junior’s wrist. Junior drew back his hand and rubbed the wrist, looking annoyed. He said, “Shouldn’t have oughta done that.” Carver knew the blow would have broken the wrist of an ordinary man, but Junior was a subspecies.

  A shadow flitted in the corner of his vision. B.J. rushing him, striking like a snake.