“You driving straight along to California?”
“I’ll stop now and then,” I said. “Sleep and eat, check out the gun shops. I usually find someone willing to sell on my terms. Lots of folks feel like we feel, less are willing to act on it, but enough.”
“If you was buying,” he said, “how’d you be paying?”
“Cash.”
“And you mentioned something about a premium?”
“Thirty percent more than list.”
“Cash, you say?”
“Unless you fellows don’t take cash.”
“What kind of pistol you thinking of?”
“You got Glocks?”
“Do we got Glocks.” Slurp, smack. “Fourth-generation 17s are popular with the local folk, but you don’t want to get caught with the big magazine out there in California.”
“Who’s getting caught?”
“Well, if you’re not in no hurry, I could maybe let you see what we got.”
“You got an AR-15 to show me for the heck of it?”
“Just so happens. I could let you see that, too. Only to look, you know.”
“Sure,” I said. “I know.”
I am floating on my back in the ocean.
I was really in that motel room in New Orleans, naked, lying on my back on the sodden carpet as the mites snapped at my neck. I was sleeping uneasily—in such a place how else was one to sleep?
But now, in my dream I am floating on my back in the ocean, staring up at the stars. My mouth is dry and I am thirsty; I am ill from the rocking of the waves; there are sharks; I need to pee. I call out into the emptiness. Save me. Save me. So I can pee. Yet even as I wallow in my fear and need, the stars, the stars are like a blanket of loveliness, and in their cold beauty I begin to sense there may be some truth about myself up there in the heavens. But before I can wrestle that shimmering truth into words, a great shape blots out my sky.
It is a boat, a yacht really, big and arrogant, twice the size of the Principal’s dinghy, brightly lit, with wide decks that stretch across the stern like gaping superior grins. There is a grand party whirling on the yacht, beautiful people, dancing and kissing, eating bits of roasted heart speared with toothpicks, drinking champagne from blue high heels. Laughter, the clinking of glasses, a steady rap beat strangely muffled. And I recognize some of the faces.
There is Joey Mitts and Shelly Levalle, there is Cassandra and Mr. Maambong, there is Mr. Boggs, the partner at the law firm I slugged, and Mrs. Boggs, the partner’s wife I bagged, there is Tom Preston and Mr. Gilbert, and the Principal, and Jeremy with his tight polo shirt, and Mrs. Wister and her awful grandson, Edwin. All of them are having just the dandiest time. And suddenly, even more than needing to pee, I need to be with them. I need to drink champagne out of blue high heels.
I call out and wave my arms, hoping to be saved, and they all notice me, lost in the ocean, floating and calling out. They look down with something dead in their eyes, a deadness more cruel than the shark fin circling me in the water.
Save me, save me. There are sharks and I need to pee. Save me.
They look down with lifeless eyes as they chew their bits of heart. Then the Principal shouts something and Mr. Maambong goes to the rear of the boat and picks up a green ring buoy. I am saved, and relief spreads through me, until I realize Mr. Maambong is not holding a life buoy at all, instead he is holding a great wad of paper. One by one he peels sheaves off the wad and tosses them into the ocean. These sheaves are bills, hundred-dollar bills, and they float in a snaking line from the boat.
The shark swims by and grabs a mouthful. I reach for the bills, one after another, as if they will somehow keep me afloat. I trail after the boat, grabbing at the bills, punching the shark in the nose to keep him away as I grab at the bills. And the boat continues on, and the party continues on, and I fall farther behind.
Out of desperation, as the shark swims by, I grab that dangerous fin and hold on as he chases the boat. We chase the boat together, forgetting about the bills now as we chase that boat. And the partyers on the boat spy us coming, and the dead gazes become suddenly alive with fear. And as we get ever closer, I am becoming one with the shark. And their fear rips through me with a shiver of joy. And our teeth are razors.
I had a few hours to kill—it wouldn’t do for me to get where I was going too early—so I found a range just off the highway in east Shreveport. There had been a shooting park on Route 50 outside Carson City, not far from the Gold Dog International sales office, and some of us used to go after work. Nothing calms the bile after a day of cold-calling like blasting an old television set with a pump-action Remington. One of the salesmen had a Glock, and I used to shoot bottles and cans full of beans with that little beast, but it had been a while, so I thought I’d get some work in before I relied on my new toy in something more than a target shoot.
I had never had much use for a firearm; a gun is a lousy way to chase after money. It may fill your pocket in the short run—John Dillinger and Jesse Duchamp proved that—but you’re haunted by the act ever after and it will get you in the end—John Dillinger and Jesse Duchamp proved that, too. The smart guys take money with their law licenses, or their gift for gab, or the contacts they make at the golfing club. I always considered myself one of the smart guys—self-deception is one of the markers of my condition—so I never had much interest in guns. But after my shark dream in the Jesse Duchamp death room, it was time to armor up.
The woman on duty was familiar with the model. She showed me how to fill the big magazine, how to slap it in, how to rock the slide, how to hold the thing with two hands when firing. There was a safety on the trigger, but nowhere else, she told me, so I should keep my finger off the trigger until I was ready to shoot. After a few more safety tips, she wheeled the target downrange, had me shoot a few, and then left me to it.
Rippity bing.
It had a nice kick to it.
Rippity bong.
There’s a predatory sense of direction when you’re shooting off a gun. The gap between you and your target shrinks to a narrow cylinder even as you yourself expand with dangerous possibilities.
Rippity bing bong bing.
The last time I rocked across the country in my Porsche with nothing but burned bridges behind me and uncertainty ahead, desperation cleaved my heart and the taste of copper stained my tongue. But now, racing along similarly barren highways with the very same conditions both behind and ahead, I tasted not the sourness of copper but something strange and marvelous. I wasn’t running from what I was anymore, I embraced it. I wasn’t dancing to their tunes and begging for their rewards anymore, I was instead writing my own song according to the dictates of my own twisted psyche. What I was tasting now was freedom pure, and it was fresh as mint.
I played the radio loud. I lowered my window so the wind would whip. Even with my sunglasses in place, the verdant landscape zipping by on either side was almost too bright to bear. Shreveport, Texarkana, Hope, yes, Hope, on the way to Arkadelphia and Benton and Little Rock. It was about 9:00 p.m. when I crossed the Mississippi on I-40 and skirted the bright lights of downtown. I let the GPS lead me off the highway and onto the main road that ran east from the river. I turned this way, I turned that way, until I was on a narrow road, an apartment complex on one side, a fenced-in truck depot on the other. Beyond that, amidst the swelter of mature trees, was a row of tidy bungalows.
I drove by slowly, looking for anything of interest, anyone casing anything. The first floor of the bungalow I had aimed for, a squat green building, was lit. I drove past, saw nothing that worried me, turned left, and then left again. I parked on the street across from a house without a fence. I took the Glock from the case. One of the magazines was full. I slapped it in, loaded the chamber, and stuck the gun into the pocket of my jacket.
A dog barked as I made my way down the house’s drive and across a lawn to the rear of the squat green bungalow. I leaned up against the wall on one side and listened. A television. T
hat seemed innocent enough. I walked toward the front, looked around the street, and then went to the front door as if there was nothing to it.
I pushed the buzzer, I pushed it again. A moment later the front door opened and she was standing there, pretty, barefoot, wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
“Hello, Cindy,” I said.
Cindy Lieu’s face twisted in puzzlement before her eyes widened in recognition. “Dr. Triplett?”
“It’s good to see you again. You’re looking healthy.”
“I’m feeling okay, yes. What are you doing here, Doctor?”
“I’m here to save your life,” I said. “Again.”
34. Cindy Lieu
I’m glad you came,” she said. She had offered tea, but I had suggested coffee instead, and so we both held a mug of a watery Keurig brew. Her living room was bright purple with a painted rainbow stretching across one of the walls. I was sitting on a wooden chair, my jacket still on; she was curled like a cat on the sofa. There was a stuffed bear sitting beside her, and a stuffed unicorn sitting beside the bear, and Cindy was exceedingly, painfully cheerful. “I’ve actually been looking for you. I wanted to thank you for all you did for me when I was sick.”
“I was just doing my job,” I said.
“Is being here, now, part of your job, too?”
“My new job. I’m here to make sure you’re okay and continue to be okay.”
“I didn’t think doctors made house calls anymore.”
“I’m not your normal doctor.”
“I know that already,” she said, taking a sip. “There was something about your eyes and your smile. And then I went to the Department of Health website. A number of Dr. Tripletts came up, but none of them matched.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Why is that?”
“Do you want the tough truth or a comforting lie?” I said.
“Maybe the lie,” she said, laughing, flirting. “You can always tell more from a lie than from the truth.”
“The lie is that I came over from California, and my Tennessee license hasn’t yet been issued. It also happens to be the truth.”
“That’s almost intriguing. So what are you doing here, really?”
“Like I said, I’ve come to save your life.”
She laughed. “You are such the gentleman, aren’t you?” She lifted a plate of chocolate-dipped sticks from the coffee table. “Pocky?”
“No thank you.”
“It’s like the greatest thing ever.”
“I’ll pass, really.”
She put the plate down, took one, and snapped it suggestively in her teeth. “Don’t you think,” she said, “it’s a little presumptuous in this day and age to assume I need saving? Maybe I don’t need your help.”
“Oh, you need my help.” I looked around. “Nice place.”
“I’m just renting, but I added my own touches. I assume the color will cost me my deposit. Do you like it?”
“It’s very purple.”
“Exactly. Are you living in Memphis now?”
“No.”
“Good. I don’t think I’m staying.”
“Where would you go? Back home to Murfreesboro?”
“God, no.”
“Why not?”
“Go on down to Murfreesboro for a couple of weeks, live with my mother, and then you tell me. I was thinking San Francisco, but it’s so expensive.”
“You’d fit in.”
“Why thank you, Dr. Triplett. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I think we need to go somewhere, now.”
“It’s a little late, but there’s a bar not too far away on Madison.”
“I’m not thinking of a bar, I’m thinking out of town.”
“Now you’re being a little forward. What about getting to know each other first? Or is that too old-fashioned for a doctor practicing in Memphis without a license?”
“I apologize that I haven’t been clear. I am not here to date you, I’m here to save your life, and to do that we need to get you out of town, now.”
She sat up on the couch. “You’re starting to scare me.”
“Good.”
Her eyes brightened. “I sort of like it.”
“Not so good, but I admire your attitude.”
“I suppose there’s an explanation for all this.”
“There is, but there isn’t time to go into it all right now, and, frankly, your reaction to the truth won’t be good. So I think I’m going to short-circuit the whole thing.”
I took the gun out of my pocket and laid it on my thigh.
She looked at the gun, at my face, back at the gun. “You’re taking it up a notch,” she said. “Maybe I’ll see your gun and raise you a pair of stilettos.”
“You’re not getting what’s going on. This isn’t a sex game. What I need you to do is to put on some shoes, sensible shoes, and pack up what you need in a small bag. Take your keys, but leave your cell phone, your laptop, and your tablet here so they can’t track you.”
“I don’t have a tablet.”
“We need to get you out of town, now.” I picked up the gun and waved it in the air. “Let’s go.”
“I don’t think you’re going to shoot me.”
“I’m not. This isn’t for you. There’s a man named Tom Preston from Miami who is coming to kill you. This is for him.”
“Why would anyone from Miami want to kill me?”
“Because he’s getting paid to, and he’s the kind of killer who finds nobility in killing, not to mention a sexual charge. The safest thing for you and me both is to get out of this house as quickly as possible.”
She looked at me, and for the first time a real concern creased her features. “Either you’re totally insane,” she said, “like crazy insane, which I kind of like, or I’m in trouble.”
“One or the other, and maybe both. But it doesn’t much matter, does it?”
While she packed, I went around the apartment, pulling shades and closing curtains. We would leave the lights on, but I didn’t want anyone seeing inside. I kept the front porch light burning but turned off the light over the rear door. When Cindy appeared with sneakers on, a leather jacket, and a small black bag, I held out my hand.
“I’ll turn it off,” she said.
“It will be here when you get back.”
“If I get back.”
“You have to trust me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“You trusted me with your appendix and that turned out okay. And you like my smile, right?”
“I do.”
“And also, if you want, I’ll give you the gun, but I know how to use it.”
“Now you’re really scaring me.”
“That’s the point. Let me have the phone.”
She took it out of her bag, put it in my hand. I tossed it on the kitchen counter before turning out the kitchen lights.
“Follow me,” I said.
Just then her phone rang. The sound track of an old Nintendo game. We both stopped, turned toward it. The game continued. She started walking to the phone but I put out an arm to stop her.
“It could be my mother,” she said.
“It could be him.”
“Who?”
“Tom Preston.”
“The bogeyman.”
“The bogeyman has nightmares that Tom Preston is in its closet.” I walked to the phone and checked the caller. “A number with no name. Not one of your contacts. Let’s go.”
I stepped out the back door and crouched down as I looked all about. The gun was out, but my finger was off the trigger. Nothing seemed amiss. I stood and gestured for Cindy to follow me and quietly closed the door behind her. Together we slipped across her backyard and onto her neighbor’s drive. We kept well within the shadows of the house as we moved toward the road. On the far side I could see the outline of my car.
And then a figure, a mere silhouette in the darkness, standing behind the car, examining it.
No one.
I looked back to the car and the silhouette was now walking away, being pulled forward by a large dog on a leash. He wasn’t a henchman, he was a guy walking his Labrador, wondering what a Porsche was doing parked on his crappy street.
“A little jumpy?” she said quietly.
“Sometimes it pays to be jumpy. Let’s go.”
Nothing stopped us from getting in the car, nothing stopped us from calmly pulling away from the curb. I imagined Tom Preston ripping after us in a car of his own, I imagined Tom Preston slamming into us from behind as we drove calmly to the end of the street and took a left. I feared we might have to fight our way out, but our exit was as smooth as the icing on a layer cake.
“That was surely the most dramatic walk to a car outside my house ever,” said Cindy as we drove toward the highway. “What other fun games are we going to play?”
“Be happy it was anticlimactic,” I said, “because the number that came up on your phone had a Miami area code. Let me get us on the interstate and then I’ll tell you what this is all about.”
“Does that mean you’re not really a doctor?” she said.
This came after I told her the entire story, including a short review of my career as a henchman. This came after she yelped when I told her what we had really done to her during that operation. This came after a long bout of silence when she crossed her arms and closed her expression, even as her eyes wriggled back and forth like two of Tom Preston’s goldfish in their small deadly bowl. Finally, her question came out of the darkness from the other bed in our motel room off the highway east of Nashville.
A Filthy Business [Kindle in Motion] Page 27
