Marshall's Law

by Ben Sanders

  Henry glanced up. ‘Asaro?’

  Marshall said, ‘Tony’s in federal lockup, so I doubt it’s him personally. But yeah, it’ll be one of the clan. He’s got a son and a daughter.’

  Henry made a face. ‘Nah, the son hanged himself in prison.’ He cocked his head and mimed a firm yank. ‘But the daughter, yeah, whatsherface.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Chloe, that’s it. She’s all right, actually.’ He smiled. ‘I heard you might’ve had a history with her.’

  Marshall didn’t answer, not wanting to go into it.

  Henry shrugged. ‘All right, just saying.’

  Marshall said, ‘Last time I spoke to her, it was because I pushed redial on that dead hit man’s phone.’

  ‘Who, the Dallas guy?’

  ‘Yeah. Chloe Asaro sent him after me, and she said she’d never stop looking.’ Tipping his hand the whole way now, admitting there was no mystery about who was coming for him.

  Henry licked his lips and said, ‘What a bitch.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m glad the son’s dead, though. That’s the best news I’ve had all day.’

  ‘So where’s Chloe now?’

  Marshall said, ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to determine.’

  Henry jutted his jaw and scratched the underside of his chin, a careful little thumb motion. He smiled apologetically and said, ‘No, well, I don’t know anything about it. I mean, they probably want me dead as well. Shit I said in court would’ve made life pretty awkward for them. And like, you know. I showed up with a bag on my head, but there’s never any secrets, are there?’

  ‘Other than where Chloe is.’

  Henry just shrugged, spread his hands. He took a moment and then said, ‘Why’d they go after the marshal?’

  ‘Well. Because if you want to find me, best place to start would be to ask the feds down in New Mexico. And WITSEC info’s not the sort of thing they tend to divulge, unless you put a gun to someone’s head. Or so I imagine.’

  Henry gave a few slow nods, a far-off look in his eye. His neck hung in two loose sheaths off his chin. He said, ‘So what happened? They grab the guy and ask him where you are?’

  Marshall nodded. ‘He was on a prisoner transport, two guys grabbed him, put him in a car, started asking him about me.’

  ‘He tell them anything?’

  Marshall shook his head. ‘They wanted to know where I was, and he didn’t know.’

  ‘What, so they let him go?’

  ‘No. They didn’t take his backup piece.’

  Henry said, ‘Eww, shit. Hence “attempted”.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Look, no, in all seriousness, until you called, that was the first time I heard your name in God knows how long. Thought they might’ve all forgotten you.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Henry shrugged, like it was no biggie.

  Marshall said, ‘If you can ask around it’d be much appreciated. Send out a group e-mail. See who knows where Chloe Asaro is.’

  Henry nodded, looking into his cup. ‘One of those things, you gotta be delicate. But yeah, I’ll see what I can do.’ He watched some CNN and said, ‘How long you been back?’

  Marshall looked out the windshield. ‘Not long.’

  It was nine days, technically. He’d left on the evening of the Starbucks revelation, and then caught five days’ worth of buses: Eureka south to L.A., and then a dozen places between there and the Port Authority. He was missing California already. It was probably a pleasant eighty degrees right now, not even jacket weather.

  Henry said, ‘I was you, I woulda stayed put.’

  ‘Yeah. I would’ve if they didn’t keep looking for me.’

  Henry didn’t answer.

  Marshall zipped his jacket to his chin, getting ready to face the cold. He leaned forward and said, ‘One other question for you.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You know anything about that guy across the street who’s watching us?’

  THREE

  Marshall

  Marshall said, ‘Don’t get up. He’s on your left. Parking lot of the tyre place.’

  Henry put an arm along the back of the chair and glanced down the length of it. ‘What am I looking at?’

  Marshall, watching the TV said, ‘There’s a Pontiac sedan down the back there. Showed up just after I did.’

  Henry leaned in. His hair was receding on one side, a deep knife-shaped indentation. Marshall could smell the Jack Daniel’s. Henry said, ‘There’s all sorts of cars.’

  Marshall shook his head. ‘No, there are seven. And the Pontiac’s the only one with someone in it.’

  ‘You can’t even see. It’s all just reflections from in here.’

  ‘I would’ve seen someone get out, and no one has.’

  Henry’s jacket had gapped. He had a blue Parker pen clipped in his breast pocket. Part of his serious look, like the CNN thing. He said, ‘So, what?’

  Marshall said, ‘So someone’s either watching me, or watching you.’

  Henry didn’t answer. He sat back and adjusted his lapels, a dainty little move, elbows cocked. ‘Anyone follow you up here?’

  Marshall shook his head slowly, gaze steady. ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Well, no one followed me down.’

  ‘How confident are you?’

  ‘I dunno. Fairly. I have the reverse camera on. It shows who’s behind.’

  Marshall looked across the street, keeping an eye on things. ‘Be better if you were less confident about it.’

  Henry waited.

  Marshall said, ‘Opens up the possibility you told someone you were meeting me. Set something up.’

  Might as well put it out there, see where it led.

  They looked at each other a while, Henry not bad when it came to flat stares. Marshall ran a count with one finger, tapping gently on the armrest.

  Henry said, ‘I didn’t.’

  Marshall said, ‘Well.’

  ‘I’m packing, just so you know. In case you were planning on working me over or something.’

  It was an option, but not a safe one if there was a gun in the picture. Marshall looked out the rain-beaded glass. The Escalade had white LED strip lighting around the edge of the roof, nice and clear for anyone watching. He said, ‘You know if anyone’s after you at the moment?’

  Henry touched the Parker, absentminded, like patting for cigarettes. ‘I don’t know. Could be. Like I said, I pissed off a lot of people when I testified. And yeah, I guess it was kinda dark by the time I got down here, so maybe I did pick someone up. You know how they all just start looking like headlights?’

  Marshall nodded. ‘We’ll find out in a minute.’

  Henry said, ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Have a chat. See what the story is.’

  ‘You going to clip him?’

  ‘Hopefully not. But it’s a question of whether he’s planning to clip me.’ Looking at Henry as he said it.

  Henry held his gaze, seeming bored. ‘Fuck you, don’t pull that with me. I haven’t set you up.’

  Marshall watched him another few seconds, thinking things over. Angles and possibilities and the chances of murder. He said, ‘All right.’

  ‘All right, what?’

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  Henry arched his back and had a dig around behind him. He found the remote and switched off the TV. He said, ‘What do you want to do? He’s either for me or for you, and I didn’t fucking rat you to anyone.’

  Marshall gave that some thought, sitting there looking at his linked hands, the thumbs bouncing off each other gently. ‘I’m parked further up the street. You can drop me off, and then we’ll see who he follows.’

  Quiet a moment, Henry’s gears working. ‘What if he follows me?’

  ‘Then I’ll follow him.’

  ‘And then what?’

  Marshall waited a few seconds and said, ‘Use your imagination.’

  Henry didn’t answer.

  Marshall nodded past H
enry’s shoulder. ‘I parked that way up Main. Just drop me off and drive away.’

  Henry yawned and blinked, fighting nervous tension. He nodded and said, ‘Shit. Yeah, OK.’

  ‘Good.’

  Marshall rolled sideways in his seat and slipped his wallet and phone in one pocket, went the other way and pocketed his keys. Then with his MoMA book under one arm he opened the door beside him and slid out and got in the front passenger seat. There was only the one door in the rear, so Henry had to clamber out after him and walk around the hood to the driver’s side. A stiff hands-in-pockets gait, the summer-weight suit not much good against the cold.

  Henry slammed his door as he got in and dropped his phone in the centre console. He bounced his keys on his palm, looking for the right one, and said, ‘Would you say that’s about a ’72 Catalina?’

  Marshall looked at the Pontiac. ‘Yeah. I think I probably would.’ He thumbed through his MoMA book. The cover image was from Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Cans. ‘Least we know he’s got good taste in cars.’

  Henry turned the key and looked at him. The Escalade came smoothly to life and waited patiently in a low idle. ‘How you even know he’s a he?’

  ‘Never been surveilled by a lady.’

  Henry nodded, mouth downturned, and then he flicked the lights on and ran the wipers, just one sweep to clear the glass. He leaned forward so his chin was almost on the wheel and said, ‘How do you know it’s just the one? Could be others you haven’t seen.’

  Marshall looked at the parking lot. The cold vehicles all rain-dewed, gloomy in their dulled metal, streetlights in the black windows. He wouldn’t have minded being back in California right now, even New Mexico. Maybe some New Mexico cuisine, too. Enchiladas and green chili would suit him just fine. He said, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But there could be.’

  ‘If there was a whole bunch of them they would have walked up and got us while we were sitting in the car.’

  ‘So what’s this guy going to do?’

  Marshall checked his side mirror. Nothing behind them, just the kitchen end of the diner. Windowless brick, air-con grates venting mist, a toppled stack of boxes in a jumble. A crimson tint from the taillights. He said, ‘Wait for a quiet moment, and then do whatever it is he’s planning to do. Generally how these things work.’

  ‘Terrific.’

  ‘Yeah. Go left.’

  Henry let the brake off and coasted out to the kerb, hood dipping gently as they crossed the gutter. He waited a moment for traffic to clear, and then swung out into the far lane, the big car gliding easily up to speed.

  Marshall leaned forward and checked his mirror again, saw the Pontiac’s lights flick on. The dark car moving quietly off its mark.

  ‘Slow. We don’t want to lose him.’

  Henry backed off the gas, glanced at him. ‘What’s with the book, anyway?’

  Marshall said, ‘For reading. I’ve been here all evening.’

  ‘Yeah, but why the, like. Arty shit?’

  Marshall didn’t answer. He saw the Pontiac, ’72 Catalina or whatever it was, pull into traffic behind them, five cars back. It seemed more of a threat at this hour. Rain on black glass. The street some graffiti dream in its night colours. Bad things on the way. He just got that feeling.

  Henry leaned across and clicked his fingers. ‘Yo. Why the arty shit?’

  ‘I’m trying to be more cultured.’

  Henry held the wheel with his knees, blew in his cupped hands. ‘Is it working?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m only halfway through.’

  They stopped at a light. Henry grinned at the rearview mirror, checking his teeth.

  Marshall said, ‘I’m at the laundromat. Just up here on the right.’

  ‘You get some clothes done or something?’

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  The light went green. They moved forward with the traffic. Henry signalled and made the turn as instructed. There were three cars parked nose-in at the Laundromat, just silhouettes against the bright front window. Two people inside staring at machines, transfixed by the tumble.

  Henry said, ‘Probably a good way to hypnotise people. Like, just sit them in front of a dryer, put it on a five-minute cycle, whisper shit in their ear. Make them sniff some powder for good measure.’

  Marshall said, ‘Mine’s the Ford down the end there. Pull in on the far side on the gravel.’

  ‘I could let you out here.’

  ‘No. Stop on the gravel.’

  Henry shrugged, like it didn’t bother him either way. They cruised along past the line of cars, bumped down gently off the parking lot’s concrete slab. A large section had been broken out, as if intended for replacement. Narrow saw cuts intersecting at the corners. Henry drove one-handed, open palm on the wheel, swung in beside the Ford. Stones popping under the tyres, headlights glaring back at them from the shop window. They sat idling a moment, exhaust in a grey wreath behind them.

  Henry said, ‘So do I follow you, or do you follow me?’

  ‘I’ll follow you.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘At the kerb back there.’

  Marshall dug his keys from his pocket and opened his door, felt the bite of the night air. ‘Good seeing you, Henry.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  He dropped the book on the ground as he got out, gathered it again quickly, barely breaking stride. The Cadillac cut a hard turn in reverse and then tore away, rooster tails of groundwater off its back wheels. Marshall walked over to his Ford, chin ducked, shoulders hiked in the cold. The car was a rental, which meant he had to break his no-ID rule and show the sales guy his driver’s licence, but Marshall justified it on the basis he’d made the same disclosure at hotel check-in last week, so any privacy doctrine had been well and truly flouted. In any case, Henry hadn’t left him much choice. The conditions for the meeting had been today-only, see-you-in-Connecticut, so having no car would have posed a problem.

  He watched the street across the Ford’s roof as he unlocked the door. Light traffic. That thin, clean noise of wet tyres. The Pontiac still sitting there, not worried about Henry Lee’s Escalade, disappearing up the road.

  He slid in and flicked on the dome light. The Pontiac was hidden now, just headlights in the window mist. He wiped grit and water off the MoMA book, placed it facedown in his lap. He appraised it briefly, cleaned the back cover with his sleeve, used his thumbnail to score a mark at the centre. A neat little X. He tilted the book in the light, assessing his accuracy. The two legs of the cross were equal length, matched to the diagonal axes of the page, about a thirty-degree separation. Aesthetically pleasing. Maybe a fraction of an inch shy of the middle, but still acceptable. Not bad, given he’d worked purely by inspection.

  He flipped to a random page near the back, 359 as it turned out, the one on Trisha Donnelly. Still a trace of new-book smell. He held up the piece of gravel he’d collected a moment ago, turned it back and forth in the light. Quite a good specimen. Vaguely pyramidal, maybe an inch from point to base. There’d been no selection process: he was limited to whatever the book happened to land on when he dropped it, but this would be fine.

  He gripped the car key firmly by the shaft and ground the tip hard into the centre of the paper, right through the text on Trisha’s Satin Operator, twisted the thing back and forth until he’d broken through the last pages. The back cover was more effort, but finally the metal crowned and then broke through at the location he’d marked. He removed the key and pushed the tip of the rock in through the hole. Pages squeaking as he got it tight. This was the best way. He was damaging text he hadn’t read, but he didn’t want to mar the front cover.

  He put the key in the ignition and ran the air, waited for the window mist to fall away. The Pontiac still watching him. He closed the book carefully, set it rock-side-up on the seat beside him, clicked off the dome light, and started the engine.

  Southbound on the Merritt Parkway
now, the Pontiac five cars back. Marshall cruised at sixty-five, kept to the right-hand lane, making it easy for the guy. All that time waiting, he didn’t want to lose him now. The Ford seemed happy with the trip. It was a Fusion model, only a year old, comfortable enough at highway speed. The motor still had that smooth, new-vehicle tone. He drove with the radio on, not really listening, the FM frequency catching intermittent static. Solid traffic on the four-lane, a twin stream of headlights forever inbound. Dark woodland stencilled sharply on either side. No stars out tonight.

  He wanted another diner, preferably something with a big parking lot. The Merritt probably couldn’t offer much. He figured the highway turnoffs would have local joints, but the interstate would cater better to his needs. Heavier traffic, therefore heavier diner patronage. The parking lots would be correspondingly more impressive.

  He stayed on the parkway another twenty minutes, got on U.S. 7 at Norwalk, and made the right onto I-95, southbound. Just one set of headlights in pursuit, no doubt the Pontiac. He settled back into his sixty-five, mulling on how to do things, how far he was prepared to go. He drove with his elbow on the sill, one thumb hooked through the wheel, trying to stay relaxed, trying to limit his mirror checking.

  Five minutes past Norwalk he found what he wanted, a diner billboard screaming at him: loopy bright red print over a twelve-foot-tall burger. The kind of megawatt lighting that gave it a once-in-a-lifetime feel. Next exit. He made the right as directed, the Pontiac tailing obediently, quite a long way back now that it didn’t have a buffer.

  He reached the bottom of the ramp and saw the place sitting right there, just across the through road. It was a brick building with a little portico midway down, like some nominal attempt at grandeur. A good half-acre of parking laid out in front. Cars dotted at random, a few streetlights keeping watch.

  Marshall rolled through the stop sign, drove into the lot, and pulled up near the portico. People at window booths watched him idly, blank expressions, minds consumed by chewing. He shut off the engine and sat a moment, watching the Pontiac in the mirror, still sitting there at the bottom of the ramp. He picked the book up off the seat and slipped it in his jacket, jiggled the zipper to get things comfy. The car approaching the lot now. Marshall slid out of the Ford, arm across his midriff to keep the book in place. A real edge to the evening. Dead cold and a cave-black sky, just the highway to listen to. Puddles here and there, random glossy planes where the streetlights hung inverted.