by Ben Sanders
He locked the Ford and saw the Pontiac park near the road, well clear of the lights. Its motor in a deep mumble, dying as Marshall stepped through the door beneath the portico. The place was maybe half full. A good warm diner hubbub, lots of ketchup-coloured pleather, the kind of grease aromas that would placate folks drawn in by the burger ad.
A pear-shaped waitress smiled at him. ‘Table, darling?’
He smiled back, tried to look embarrassed, glanced out at the lot. ‘I was just looking for your bathroom.’
A delicate topic. The smile grew, eyes crinkling at the edges. She leaned in as she said, ‘Just on your right, down the back there.’
The placement couldn’t have been better. He had to walk along past the front windows, down the narrow corridor between the booths and the outermost tables, pausing awkwardly a couple of times to let people through. Hard to miss, if you happened to be watching from outside. When he reached the bathrooms, out of sight of the windows, he made a left and crossed to the rear side of the diner, and then in a crouch hurried back along the length of it. No one reacted. People probably thought he was playing hide-and-seek with the kids, being the cool dad.
The kitchen had little swing doors, like something out of a Wild West bar. He yielded to a guy carrying a plate of pancakes and then stepped through, into clatter and stainless steel, deep fryers doing a roaring trade. He glimpsed an exit sign and headed over, ignoring a voice saying he couldn’t be back here, pushed out through another door, back into the sharp night.
He put his shoulder against the brick and waited a few seconds, breathing into his collar so he wouldn’t give off steam. Quiet again, more soothing now than ominous, diner noise just faintly audible. God, it was cold. He wasn’t really dressed for the job. He’d bought the jacket in Santa Fe, just lightweight leather, and December in Connecticut was asking too much of it. On his feet he had a pair of slip-on steel-capped boots, great for anything except running and being quiet, their fashion value debatable as well.
He crouched again and ran along the edge of the parking lot, one hand still across his stomach like a sling, holding the book in place. He stopped near the road and waited behind an SUV, the Pontiac parked broadside to him, maybe fifty feet away. Probably ninety seconds now since he’d been at the bathroom door. He watched the Pontiac. Windows opaque with tint, but he knew the guy would have his eye on those front windows, waiting for him to leave the restroom. Assuming it was just the one man, but he figured if it was two or more, they would’ve taken him while he was talking to Henry.
He unzipped his jacket and removed the MoMA book. Diagonally across the lot, two couples stood talking. Post-meal goodbyes. The wives were doing most of the chat, husbands engaged in some hands-in-pockets foot scraping. It took another minute for them to finally get going, engines and headlights coming on, odd splintered shadows through the parked vehicles. He stood as they began to move, two hulking SUVs in tight procession. He held the book at his thigh in his left hand and headed for the Pontiac, a calm and even stride, unhurried, not wanting attention from the diner patrons. He approached the driver’s side, not quite perpendicular, just inside the blind spot.
Thirty feet. That slick tyre noise as the SUVs headed for the road. He felt tense with the exposure, head and shoulders above the nearest vehicle, just him and all this metal.
Nearly there. Twenty feet. Fifteen. A good few minutes since he’d been at that bathroom door.
Ten feet. Opaque glass ahead of him.
There could be someone in back. They could be looking right at you—
He reached the car just as the two SUVs disappeared up the street, red taillights floating away into the dark. He held the book up by the spine and placed it against the driver’s window, a soft click as the tip of the rock touched the glass, and then he hit the front cover with a massive straight right, great momentum off his final stride.
The effect was impressive. The window shattered instantly, book and fist coming through the frame like the glass wasn’t even there. Something to do with physics. The tip of the stone tried to oppose the force of the punch, but the rock being smaller than the fist meant the impact stresses were proportionately more extreme. Hence breakage.
The book tumbled across to the passenger seat, and Marshall shifted his stance to bring his left arm round and grabbed the driver by the throat, a good solid grip up under the jaw.
He ducked down slightly, saw there was no one else in the car, and that the lone occupant wasn’t taking things well: the human throat is more or less cylindrical, fairly conducive to grabbing, so even left-handed Marshall was hanging on pretty tight. The guy had arched up off his seat, clawing at Marshall’s wrists, pumping his knees in the foot well, maybe trying to hit the horn.
Marshall said, ‘Stop it.’
But the driver obviously viewed this as one of those life-or-death situations, thrashing crazily, the car rocking gently on its springs, a rhythm that seemed more coital than violent.
With his right hand, Marshall grabbed the driver’s left wrist and pulled backward until the elbow was resting on the sill, the forearm sticking up at right angles. The guy in a total froth, kicking away, hitting the brake pedal every now and again. Marshall pushed the wrist to his right, a clockwise motion, the shoulder twisting backward horribly.
‘OK, OK, OK. Stop, Jesus.’ His voice dying in a retch.
Marshall released a little pressure on the wrist, maintained his throat hold. The guy stopped kicking, the balance of power pretty clear. There was a .38 revolver in the foot well.
Marshall said, ‘If you can sit still, we’ll get along just fine. But if you’re going to get agitated, we can go another round. OK?’
The guy didn’t answer. He was about Marshall’s age, closing in on forty. Wide Irish-looking features, but with a Henry Lee aspect to him, lean and drawn. Marshall released his wrist, and the guy let a long sigh out through his teeth, drew the arm back inside the car.
Marshall said, ‘You got anything else other than the pistol?’
Still breathing through his teeth. ‘If I did I would’ve used it.’ Still some fight left in him.
Marshall didn’t answer. He looked at the diner. Dark enough over here they probably couldn’t see him, reflections obscuring the view. A car came down the ramp from I-95, turned, and drove past without pausing.
He stood there relaxed a moment, counting himself in. Then he let go of the guy’s throat and jerked the door open and stepped neatly around the window frame as it swung toward him, braced his right forearm across the guy’s chest, trapping him in his seat. Fast enough the guy’d barely moved. A quiet, resigned look to him now. Marshall leaned down and picked up the revolver off the floor, stepped to the rear door, opened it, and slid in.
He said, ‘Good move with the window tint. Pays to have your doors locked too, though.’
The guy didn’t answer. Marshall reached across himself with his right arm and pulled the door shut. The car was in good condition. A big three-spoke wheel, a long leather bench seat up front, no headrests to obstruct talk.
Marshall placed the gun beside him, leaned forward, and put his arms on the seatback. ‘Originally I had it as an even bet each way, whether you were following me or following the guy in the Cadillac. But it’s looking a little clearer.’
The guy didn’t answer.
Marshall leaned down and picked up his MoMA book carefully, just a pinch on one corner. He tipped glass off the cover, held it up so the guy could see it in the mirror. ‘Got this from the Museum of Modern Art. They’ve probably sold tens of thousands of them, I don’t know, maybe hundreds of thousands. All the tourists.’ He popped the stone out of the back cover, smoothed a palm over the damage. ‘But you can guarantee, this is the first one that’s been used to break a car window. So there you go. However tonight turns out, at the very least you were party to a brand-new thing.’ He pocketed his rock.
The guy didn’t answer. An older couple and a little girl emerged from the diner, the thre
e of them hand in hand. The girl in the middle, skipping cheerily, probably loaded on soft-serve. Marshall watched them to a tan Camry and said, ‘All right, look.’
The guy looked at him in the mirror.
Marshall said, ‘I’m prepared to be civil about this, but you’ve got to meet me halfway. Otherwise we can do the strangle thing again.’
With his tone and the way he had his forearms on the seatback and his hands dangling over, it seemed perfectly reasonable. He said, ‘Why’re you following me?’
The way the guy thought about it, eyes running back and forth, Marshall knew whatever he got wouldn’t be the truth.
‘I was after the Cadillac, but he took off too fast.’ Voice not quite right, a little dry and raspy.
‘So you followed me instead.’
‘Yeah.’
Marshall said, ‘You’re not a very good liar.’
The guy didn’t answer.
The tan Camry exited the lot and went left. Another car came down the highway ramp and waited at the stop sign. A faint orange strobe from the turn signal.
Marshall said, ‘What’s your name?’
The guy massaged his neck. ‘Perry Rhodes.’ Getting more cooperative. He must have been pretty tender.
Marshall said, ‘That your wallet in your pocket there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why don’t you take it out. Nice and careful, though.’
The guy looked at him, giving him a stare in the mirror, but it didn’t last long. He arched up off the seat, awkward and cautious with his injured shoulder, trying to keep the arm still. He slid a hand in his pocket and removed a wallet and a cell phone, laid them on Marshall’s outstretched palm.
The guy had a New York State driver’s licence that confirmed his name, VISA and American Express stamped PERRY RHODES as well. Marshall left the contents intact and dropped the wallet on the passenger seat. The phone didn’t need a passcode. It was a cheap smart phone, brand-new, probably a burner. He checked the call history, but it was empty. He powered the thing off and put it in the outer breast pocket of his jacket, patted it after he’d closed the zipper.
He said, ‘Maybe I’m just seeing conspiracies where there are none, but I’m fairly sure it’s me you’re after, and not Mr. Cadillac.’
The guy didn’t answer. The cabin monochrome in the gloom, cold with the broken window. Driving would be like riding in an igloo.
Marshall picked up the gun. It was a Colt Detective Special, cut down to just a snub-nose. He liked the sound as he cocked it, the cylinder stepping around, the hammer spring creaking. He said, ‘Deputy marshal I know had some trouble down in New Mexico, and by that I mean some guys kidnapped him and asked him where I am. And now you’ve showed up, which means it’d be a big coincidence if it wasn’t me you were after. Anyway. You’re kind of lucky you ran into me when you did, caught me in a transitional phase, philosophy-wise.’
He held up the MoMA book again. ‘I was telling the guy in the Cadillac just before, I’m trying to get more cultured, cut back on my violence.’
Perry Rhodes didn’t answer, just sat there looking at his feet, probably wishing that gun would reappear. He was slumped slightly to his left, injured arm in his lap. Outside, a mistlike rain was falling, visible on the windows and in the streetlights’ cone-shaped glow.
Marshall said, ‘So I’m offering you a special opportunity. Normally if I had someone following me around with a gun, I’d take it to heart. But if you tell me who sent you and how to find them, I’m prepared to give you a pass.’
Perry didn’t answer. Marshall ducked a little, saw a long row of diner people chewing and gabbing, not bothered by them. All sorts of conflict in the world you’re never privy to.
He said, ‘Keep in mind it’s a one-time-only thing, though. I see you again, we won’t be parting so amicably.’
He saw Perry go tense. Just a tightening in his jaw, gristle standing out.
Marshall said, ‘You know anything about lawmen getting snatched down in New Mexico?’
A black-eyed stare from his dark reflection, kind of spooky if he wasn’t sitting there cradling a sore arm. Perry said, ‘No.’
‘You pretty sure about that?’
The guy turned his good hand palm-up, brought it in close. ‘Look, I don’t know anything about it. I’m just the guy who gets sent.’
‘Gets sent to do what? Kill me?’
Perry Rhodes didn’t answer. Between his pride and his window and his shoulder, he wasn’t in good shape.
‘You don’t look like the sort of guy who’d do this, Perry. You couldn’t have been more conspicuous if you tailed me in an RV. You look like a lightweight, and you look like you’re scared.’
Perry didn’t answer.
Marshall nodded slowly, like the quiet was some kind of answer. ‘You bring any help I might’ve missed? Or is this it?’
Perry Rhodes took a moment, put a hand on the wheel, like trying to squeeze out some courage. ‘Fuck off.’
Marshall said, ‘In a minute.’
He touched the gun barrel to the back of Perry’s neck, wondered if the hairs were standing up. ‘Remember the deal. You have to tell me who sent you.’
‘I can’t.’
A car pulled into the lot, shadows in the cabin stretched and wild. Like those dreams he had, worse moments than this.
Marshall said, ‘Yeah you can. This is all part of the arrangement. You set out to kill me, so by definition, either you or I was in for a bad night. And here we are. And it can get worse if you don’t start talking.’
‘They’ll kill me.’
He could have guessed that line.
Marshall said, ‘Yeah. But this is one of those occasions where it can be sooner rather than later.’
The guy’s breathing getting rapid, slipping down between a rock and a very hard place. ‘I can’t.’
‘Yeah you can.’
Silence. The car cruised along in front of them, left to right, pulled up by the portico. It was a light blue Crown Victoria, whip antennas on the trunk lid. The lights died, and then two guys in suits got out and headed inside, buttoning their jackets as they walked. Probably state police, not the sort of people he wanted nearby while he was talking to Perry.
Marshall thought about it a while, patient despite the context, the gun still on Perry’s head. Pros and cons on some mental fulcrum. With the broken window, they might hear shouts or screams. Not worth the risk. Assault, possession, maybe a couple of extras, depending on what else was in the trunk.
He sat back, slipped the gun in the side pocket of his jacket. Easy with the snub-nose. He saw Perry relaxing, shoulders deflating as he let his breath out.
Marshall said, ‘Well, this is where I leave you.’ Nice and calm, still in control, stop Perry from getting any bright ideas. ‘I’ve got your phone, so whoever you’re working for can get me on your number. Make sure you tell them I’ll kill you if I see you again; might get things moving. I’ll turn it on tomorrow, see if I’ve got any messages.’
He put the book under his arm and opened his door. Half out of the car, he paused and said, ‘Is this a seventy-two Catalina?’
Perry, watching him in the mirror, didn’t answer.
Marshall waved it off. ‘Forget it. Let’s hope I don’t see you again, but I’ve got your phone if you want to talk.’
Then he got out and slammed his door.
FOUR
Perry
He didn’t think about it on the drive home. Prison had been good like that: he’d learned to forget, operate on a kind of thoughtless autopilot. It felt doglike, animalistic or whatever, living purely in the moment. The trick was to make it last.
He hit traffic on 278 coming into Brooklyn, roadwork or something. He crawled along stop-start in a line of cabs, this frenzy of horns and veering lane changes. Probably just drop-offs from LaGuardia, but they all drove like the meter was a bomb timer. On his right Manhattan had its head in the clouds, buildings cut off at mid-height. The darkness pr
essing down and the city’s electric colours thrown up on its underbelly. He listened to white noise on the radio. Blank and numb when he’d normally be edgy with the holdup.
He kept hearing sound bites from earlier, random snippets getting through the daze:
‘I’ve got your phone if you want to talk.’
‘I’ll kill you if I see you again.’
They had the guy’s tone and everything, godlike how they’d just broadcast in his mind. He leaned across and took the Smith .38 from the glove compartment and put it in his lap. Closer the better, though it wasn’t much good against his own head. Or maybe it was.
He reached the exit at Meeker and gunned it down the ramp. Darkness and grime. The black steel ribs of the freeway hanging over him and the traffic’s lonely, hollow note echoing through the curves. He went north on Hausman and then came back south on Humboldt and parked in his slot. The brick and clapboard houses standing right on the street, each place tight to the next. If you got sent to Brooklyn and ended up here, you wouldn’t feel cheated. Humboldt was right on brand. As a kid he used to love it, being driven on these streets, sitting there with his face to the glass. Houses crammed in like parade watchers and Perry was what they’d come to see.
He draped an arm on the wheel and leaned forward to check the other cars. Both kerbs pretty busy, but they all looked like locals. No one waiting for him tonight. He put the backup gun in his pocket. If he’d had more balls he might’ve tried for it while the guy was in the car. Should’ve said he was getting his wallet or something, lean across, bam. Too late now. He rubbed his face, like getting rid of hindsight, spent a moment listening to the radio static. Smooth and soothing, anaesthetic for your brain.
The car would be a quick steal with the missing window, but he locked it anyway, didn’t want to make it too easy. He went up the steps and let himself in the house. Didn’t even need the key. God knows why he’d had that chain installed. He drew a breath, working up a shout, wake them with a good fright, but he glimpsed tomorrow’s headline: LATE-NIGHT YELLING GIVES WOMAN HEART ATTACK. Last thing he’d need.
