by G. M. Ford
“I take it she was impressed with your artwork?”
“I think the sight of my ass may have sobered her up.”
She looked down at the cup of coffee in front of her. Frowned. Looked at Corso.
“I didn’t think these guys could manage a double grande no-fat hazelnut latte, so I just ordered coffee,” Corso said.
She shrugged in resignation. Took a sip. Winced. “I can’t drink this,” she said.
The TV newscaster droned. “President Bush has proposed a national campaign to promote abstinence among teens. The president said today…”
Whatever sobering effect the sight of Dougherty’s tattoos may have had on the other woman had apparently been short-lived. She lurched out of the women’s room like she was on ice and banged facefirst into the far wall. Somewhere in her sixties, she’d teased her jet-black hair straight up. The tangled mane seemed to float above her head like smoke from an oil fire. She’d used that indoor tanning cream, which had dyed her pouchy face and neck the color of a ripe tangerine.
Using both walls for balance, she tightroped her way out through the archway into the diner, where she slid her large, veiny hands along the tops of the booths to keep herself upright as she shuffled forward. Her rheumy eyes rolled in her head as she moved slowly along. She was doing all right until she came abreast of Dougherty. Then she stopped.
She leaned closer and tried to focus. “I seen you,” she slurred. “You from the circus or somethin’?” She cackled, swayed on her feet, and then began to sing. “Lydia, I’m Lydia, the ensephlopedia….”
Dougherty stared silently into her coffee. The woman leaned over and placed both elbows on the table. “Never seen nothin’ like that before. All them arrows and stuff, pointing right at—”
Dougherty stood up. She towered over the woman. “Take a hike,” she said, “before I kick your drunken ass all over this place.”
The woman started to speak but thought better of it and instead went tottering off, looking back toward Corso and Dougherty and muttering to herself. Dougherty stared off into space. At the far end of the diner, the drunken woman was getting loud. Shouting her outrage to the world. Nobody else in the place seemed to notice. Just another Saturday night at Earls.
Dougherty suddenly stiffened. Corso read her expression and looked back over his shoulder. A man in a red windbreaker was coming their way. His once-blond hair, turned the color of dirty brass, was slicked back. Even from a distance, he looked drunk.
He was breathing heavily through his mouth as he lurched to a stop at Dougherty’s side. “You the bitch threatened my Emily?” he demanded. His eyes were watery and bloodshot. His nose looked like a half pound of raw hamburger.
“Emily needs to sober up,” Dougherty said.
He reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder, then leaned over and put his face in hers. “No fancy cunt like you got cause to say something—”
“No need for that kind of talk,” Corso said.
“Was I talkin’ to you, fuckface?” the guy demanded. “I wanna talk to an asshole like you, I’ll—”
That was as far as he got. Corso grabbed him by the back of the hair and drove his face down into the table so hard the whole diner shook. The shattered nose left a trail of blood on the tabletop as the man slid slowly to the floor. Nobody moved. Except for the TV, the place was silent. All eyes were aimed their way.
“I could have handled it,” Dougherty said.
“The c word upsets me.”
She smiled, then slid her coffee away. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.
They rose together. Stepped over the unconscious guy, out into the aisle. Corso threw a five-dollar bill on the table. “On the regional front,” the announcer droned, “Wisconsin State Police authorities are investigating the murder of Avalon, Wisconsin, Deputy Sheriff Cole Richardson, who was found shot in the head early this afternoon. Unnamed sources have told KUMO News that the officer was apparently killed by his own gun. Although no formal charges have been brought, Wisconsin authorities are seeking reclusive author Frank Corso in connection with…” A five-year-old picture of Corso flashed on the screen. “…whose current true-crime book, Death in Dallas, has been on the bestseller lists for nearly thirty-three weeks. In the past Mr. Corso has…” By the time Corso gathered his wits, Dougherty was already out the door. “…fired by the New York Times for fabricating a story…” Corso followed her out.
12
She had a good arm. None of that awkward girlie throwing stuff. The keys came zipping through the night air on a line, hitting Corso square in the chest and falling to the ground. He made no move to pick them up. Just stood there staring at her.
“You want to tell me what in hell is going on here?”
Corso bent at the waist and picked up the keys. He slipped the chrome ring over his index finger. She walked over to the car, jerked the door, and found it locked.
“I need in,” she said.
Corso took his time, stopping to look back toward Earls and the faces dotting the window and then moving forward again. As he neared, she stepped back as if he were radioactive. Corso put a hand on her shoulder.
“I had to go through the cop to get out. He was—”
She waved him off. “Why does everything always get more complicated with you, Corso? Five minutes with you and things have always gone from bad to worse.”
“I didn’t kill him.” He held up two fingers. “I swear.”
“I know that, you idiot,” she said disgustedly. “I’m just pissed off is all. Open the fucking car.”
“He pulled a gun on me.”
“And you what?”
“I left him on the stairs. Handcuffed.”
She made a lunge for the keys. He put them behind his back, then reached into his overcoat pocket and came out with a gun. “I took his gun with me.” He pushed the cylinder release and shook the cartridges out into his hand. “Look,” he said.
She hesitated and then peered down into his palm. She frowned, looked up into Corso’s face, and then used a fingernail to move the bullets around in his hand.
“They’re all there,” she said.
He nodded twice and handed her the gun. “Smell it,” he said.
Holding the revolver between her thumb and forefinger, she brought the barrel to her nose. Gave it two tentative sniffs.
“What’s it smell like?” Corso asked.
She thought it over. Sniffed again. “Oil.”
“Right. That’s because it hasn’t been fired since it was cleaned.”
He reached over and plucked the gun from her fingertips. One by one he inserted the shells back into the chambers and then swung the cylinder shut, before returning it to his coat pocket. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and pointed his way.
“So…why’s the TV saying—”
“Probably because his gun and I turned up missing at the same time. If I were in their position, I’d be thinking the same thing.”
“You’ve…we’ve gotta go back. Make sure they understand you didn’t do this. You just show ’em the gun and then they’ll…” She stopped. Looked at Corso.
“Right,” he said. “That’s what I was thinking too. That’s why I kept it.”
“So let’s—”
“Then it occurred to me that they’ve got no way of knowing I didn’t kill him and then clean and reload the gun.” He shook his head. “How can I prove that didn’t happen?”
She massaged her temples. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment.
“Me neither,” said Corso. “But I’ve got a feeling this whole thing’s got something to do with that family we found in the shed.”
“Why’s that?”
“ ’Cause nothing else going on in that burg has enough passion attached to it to get somebody killed.” He slipped the key ring from his finger and opened the back door. “I’ll take you to an airport,” he said. “Get you back home as soon as I can.”
“I’m going wit
h you,” she said.
“Don’t be an idiot. This isn’t a joke anymore. We’re not talking about some little contempt of court rap here. All of a sudden it’s about murder. There’s going to be some real serious folks looking for me now. I don’t want you along for that.”
“I’m coming with you, Corso. Whether you like it or not. You got me into this, and I’m going to see it through to the end. Period.”
“Think about it—” he began.
“I have,” she said. “And I’m coming along.”
Corso sighed. She had her muley look on. The one where there was no sense arguing with her. He looked back over her shoulder at the diner. The line of faces had left the window. A pair of truck drivers came down the stairs and started across the lot.
“Then we better get organized here,” he said to himself.
She watched in silence as he unzipped his bag and pulled everything out. The sound of an interior zipper came to her ears. Corso used both hands to fold one side of the bag’s lining out over the top, and then another zip and his hands emerged holding a white plastic sack.
Corso set the sack on the rear bumper. He untied the handles, reached inside, and pulled out four inches of money. Dougherty’s jaw dropped.
“Jesus,” she said. “How much money is that?”
“Ten grand.” He removed the rubber band. Took about a quarter of the stack and slid it into his pants pocket. “I brought it along in case we needed anything while we were hiding out from the Texas cops.” He replaced the rubber band, set the bundle of cash on the tailgate. From inside the sack, he produced a small brown paper bag. He shook it out onto the tailgate.
She looked down at the pile of paper and plastic. First thing she saw was her own picture on a Washington driver’s license. She picked it up. “What’s this?”
“A little alternative ID,” he said with a wink. “Just in case.”
She furrowed her brow and tapped the license with her fingernail. “Margaret Dolan. What kind of name is that?”
“Irish,” Corso said. “I was being sensitive to your cultural heritage.”
She tossed the license back into the pile. “Things are bad enough already, Corso. I’m not handing anybody some piece of phony—”
“They’re not phony,” Corso said.
“Of course they’re phony,” she sputtered. “I’m not this Dolan—”
“You can hand that ID to any cop in America and come out of it smelling like a rose.” He shushed her with a raised finger. “Because what’s on those IDs matches what’s in everybody’s databases.” He paused to let his message sink in. “The ID is real. The credit cards work. From now on, you and I are Margaret, no middle name, Dolan and Francis A. Falco. The A stands for Albert.”
“As in Sinatra.”
He shot her a small smile. “That cultural thing again.” He sorted their new documents into two piles, pulled out his wallet, and removed several items. “Better stash your other ID. Don’t want to be handing anybody anything by mistake.” She watched as he removed everything with his name on it and replaced it with the pile on the tailgate. Then she lifted her cape, found a red wallet in the small Mexican purse she wore slung over one shoulder, popped the snap. Started dropping things in a pile.
A minute later, the transfer was complete. Corso zipped the cash, the documents, and the gun into the interior pocket. He reattached the lining and then stuffed his clothes back inside. After zipping the bag, he closed the tailgate.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asked.
She glared at him. “Where are we going?”
Corso watched as a pair of 18-wheelers roared to life and then eased out of the lot heading north. “I don’t know,” he said. “You got your cell phone?”
“Where’s yours?”
“It had an accident.”
Reluctantly she reached inside her cape and produced a red Nokia phone. In one motion, Corso plucked the phone from her fingers and dropped the keys into her outstretched hand. “I need to make a call,” he said. “Why don’t you gas up the car?”
She closed her fingers on the keys. Turned and walked toward the front of the car.
Corso stood on the frozen gravel. Listened to the closing of the door. Heard the engine start and then the Ford pulling away.
She drove to the brightly lit gas pumps without turning her lights on. A kid in a pair of blue coveralls trotted out. Corso turned away. He thumbed the phone’s
ON button. The battery was good. The wireless service bad. He dialed. Waited for the electronic symphony to subside and then dialed his access code. Same voice as always.
“This is not a secured connection.”
“I know,” he said.
“No further messages will be accepted from this number.”
“I know.”
“The sending unit must be decommissioned.”
“Yes. I know.”
“Please reenter your access code.”
He did so. More clicks.
“No new business can be conducted on an unsecured connection.”
“Sissy Warwick,” he said.
He heard a keyboard. “Two hundred seventy-three partial name matches. Seventy-six still living. One exact match.”
“What’s the exact?”
“Sissy Marie Warwick. Born September fourth, nineteen fifty-seven. Died on the same date in nineteen seventy-two. Cause of death: leukemia. Buried in the Cemetery of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, Allentown, Pennsylvania. Grave number one-one-two-six-seven. Survived by siblings Robert and Allen and parents Rose and Alfred.” He pondered the ignominy of dying on one’s birthday as he listened to the sound of the keyboard. “We have an anomaly,” she announced. “Also in September of nineteen seventy-two, six days after the DOD, Sissy Marie Warwick requested and was granted an official copy of her birth certificate.”
“Six days after her death.”
“Yes sir.”
“Neat trick.”
“On September eleventh of that same year, she was issued a duplicate Social Security card.” More typing could be heard. “A data gap follows,” the voice said.
“Being dead will do that,” Corso said.
“The name reappears. Nineteen seventy-three, Avalon, Wisconsin. A person of that same name and birth date marries one Eldred Holmes, together they produce—”
“That’s enough,” Corso said. “Anything after Avalon?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Before he could ask another question, she said, “I have been instructed to inform you that recent events have created a situation where no further queries will be accepted from your access code.”
“I understand.”
“You will need to decommission your present sending unit.”
“Of course.”
Dial tone. He bounced the phone in the palm of his hand as he walked across the frozen gravel. Dougherty was signing the credit card receipt when he arrived. The kid handed her a copy and then hurried back to the warmth of the station office. She waited until the kid closed the door. “The credit card worked.”
“I told you. They’re real.”
Her face said she wasn’t convinced. “You wanna drive?” she asked.
“Not particularly,” Corso said. “You all right with it?”
“Sure. Where to?”
He thought it over. “East,” he said finally. “Pennsylvania.”
Dougherty climbed into the driver’s seat. Corso walked around the front of the car. He stopped for a moment, bent at the waist, and placed something in front of the passenger-side tire. The Ford’s engine roared to life. He got into the passenger seat and fastened his seat belt. Dougherty dropped the Ford into Drive. A loud snap cut through the night air.
“What was that?” she asked.
“What?”
“It felt like we ran over something.”
“We did.”
“What?”
“Your phone.”
I don’t care what she says. I do
n’t care what anybody says. Life is supposed to be fair. Things are supposed to work out right. Otherwise there’d be no reason for going on, would there? Might as well throw yourself in the ground if things were that out of hand. Problem is…most people just sit around and wait for good things to happen to them. Like life is something jumps on your back, insteada the other way around. It’s always the dried-up ones like Mama May—they’re the ones always telling little kids life isn’t fair. ’Cause that’s what they gotta believe, or else they gotta look at their own lives and blame somethin’ other than bad luck for why they never in their whole lives got anyplace near their dreams. Gotta tell themselves that successful people they don’t like just got lucky. All that talk of righteousness is hooey. People just do what’s easiest. Then they repent. It’s like the Nature Channel. Only the strong survive.
13
What kind of goddamn street name is that?” she groused.
Corso read it out loud again. “Mauch Chunk Road.”
“What in hell’s a Mauch Chunk?”
Corso laughed. “A small piece of a larger Mauch, I guess.”
Dougherty braked the Ford to a stop. Nothing but guardrail straight ahead. Perma Avenue angled off to the right. Girard Avenue to the left. The white Lincoln Continental that had been riding their rear bumper for the past five minutes honked twice and then swung out and accelerated around them in a cloud of fumes and frustration.
“Take Perma,” Corso said, pointing to the road on the right.
“That what the guy said?”
“Actually, our friend back at the gas station neglected to mention a fork in the road, but he did say the cemetery was on top of the hill, and Perma goes up and Girard goes down.” He tapped his temple. “Not much gets by Francis Albert Falco.”
She checked the rearview mirror. Pushed the accelerator. “Why do they always put graveyards on the tops of hills?” she asked. “It’s not like anybody’s gonna be putting out lawn chairs and enjoying the view or anything.”
“Nearer my God to thee, and all that,” Corso said.
