Jail Coach

by Hillary Bell Locke

  “Well don’t.”

  “Too late, I already have.”

  She started giggling. Either that or sobbing. It’s sometimes hard to tell. Turned out it was giggling.

  “You’ve always made me laugh, Jay. Goddamn you, you always have.”

  “Well, I’ve pretty much used up the A stuff, babe, so I’ll just listen for awhile.”

  That triggered the monologue. Eight minutes that seemed like thirty. Pain, self-loathing, anger at me, anger at herself, anger at her mom and dad, anger at Jews, anger at goyim. This routine usually climaxes with a set piece about how I act so nice and everything but when you got right down to it I’m an even bigger shit than she is. Ending in sobs, that no one would confuse with laughter.

  “Okay, babe.” I sighed. “Try to get yourself a good night’s sleep. And if you get the munchies, stick with rice cakes. No sense getting fat over me on top of everything else.”

  “Fuck you! Fuck you, you fucking bastard!”

  She hung up.

  “Wyndham, Red Roof, Ramada to the north. Best Western to the south.” Thompson’s hotel scouting report. She’d gotten her eyes open just in time.

  “We’ll be heading north.”

  “Yeah, I’m not a big Best Western fan myself.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it. Three times as many hotels means three times more light in the neighborhood, which makes it three times riskier to be nosing around looking for cars with rental plates.”

  Thompson nodded.

  “What’s the deal with that chick chewin’ your ear off on the phone? Ex? Or would you just as soon not talk about it?”

  “We’re separated.”

  “Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em. Boy, is that ever an old story.”

  “I guess it is.”

  “Sounds like she’s got some baggage.”

  “We all have baggage.” Any other time I would have left it right there, but something made me feel like I could unload on Thompson. “Thing is, if she was on chemo for leukemia or something and that made her cuss me out and treat me like crap, everyone would expect me to stand by her, no matter what. What she’s actually got going on, though, is between her ears. So it seems like I should still stand by her, but it’s a lot harder to explain.”

  “‘Between her ears.’ You mean that shrink stuff you were talking to her about?”

  “That stuff is the closest I’ve come to anything specific.”

  “Well it sounded like b-s to me.” Thompson turned her head to look straight through the windshield. “High grade b-s with four-dollar words.”

  “Can’t really argue with that.”

  Exit one-half mile. I checked the rear-view mirror. Nearest headlights had to be a mile behind us. I waited until we went around a little bend, then nudged the Buick up to seventy-five and cut the lights. I braked barely enough to swoosh onto the exit ramp without laying rubber. As soon as we’d twisted far enough down the ramp that you couldn’t see our car from the freeway, I put the lights back on.

  “Did you spot him back there?” Thompson asked. Not an unreasonable question, under the circumstances.

  “No. But I’m playing it as if I did.” I stopped at the bottom of the ramp and just sat there, alternately checking the rear-view mirror and the road at the bottom of the ramp. “No way he’d figure on us stopping before midnight, so as long as we didn’t advertise it our exit should have taken him by surprise. That means that unless he tries some Fast and Furious stuff to cross the median, he’s stuck on the freeway at least until the next exit, thirty-seven miles down the road.”

  I eased onto the northbound lane of State Highway something-or-other, toward the garish lights of three hotels within half-a-mile of each other. My drive-past told me that all three had vacancies, but the parking lots were pretty full. Good. I circled back to the service station, spun the Buick around in the ample area next to the pumps, and backed into a parking space in front of the convenience store. That way I could look through the windshield and see any car headed north from the freeway before the driver had a prayer of seeing me. I scrounged two twenties from my shirt pocket and handed them to Thompson.

  “We’ll have at least ten hours on the road tomorrow, maybe more. Why don’t you get some snacks, breakfast material, and some stuff to drink?”

  “While you stay here and watch the road, just in case?”

  “While I stay here and watch the road, just in case.”

  She whistled as she took the money.

  “You are careful, aren’t you?”

  “I had a friend in-country who wasn’t careful. I was the eighth rifle in the honor guard for him.”

  “You just might make it. You just might beat Stan Chaladian.” She didn’t sound like she’d give very long odds on it, but hey, it was something.

  She came back in fifteen minutes with a bag of mini donuts coated with powdered sugar (that would be breakfast), chips, candy, and enough Dr. Pepper to make a sales rep’s monthly quota. I picked the middle hotel—happened to be the Ramada—because it had the most floors and because it was the middle hotel. The desk clerk’s eyes widened slightly in surprise when I asked for two rooms. She looked at me, looked at Thompson with Luci sleeping soundly on her shoulder, and shrugged.

  “They’re our last two. I’ll need a form of payment.”

  “What brings so many people here this time of year?” I handed her two hundred-dollar bills, because you can’t trace currency by hacking into a credit-card company’s computer.

  “This time of year?” She didn’t bat an eye at the benjamins. “Hard to say. Hunting and football in the fall, and some overflow from Lincoln when the legislature is in session. But this time of year I guess we’re just between where folks are and where they want to be.”

  “Thanks.”

  I took the keys and change from two hundred bucks. Thompson beat me to the elevator. I waited until we were inside before saying anything.

  “In between where folks are and where they want to be. How about that for a business model?”

  “Works for Stan Chaladian,” she said. “That’s why they call him Mister Ten Percent.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  As awkward moments go, the one that came about twenty minutes later was a corker. You don’t see an “actress/model” blush in real life all that often.

  We had adjoining rooms and we’d left the connecting door open. Thompson had Luci tucked into bed in pink jammies. She knocked shyly on the open adjoining door and walked in, holding a tube of something, a box of bandages, and a soaking face cloth from the bathroom. I had unbuttoned my shirt and was bracing myself for the ordeal of taking it off, because I knew that would involve several reminders of the numbers Plankinton and Chaladian had done on me. I aborted the removal operation when I heard her knock.

  “Go ahead an’ get that shirt off. We need to do somethin’ for that shoulder and back of yours.”

  She was right. Trying unsuccessfully to hide the wince, I did as she said.

  “Son of a gun, tiger. He got out the whoopin’ stick for you, didn’t he?”

  “No sweat. Trans/Oxana has world class health benefits with modest co-pay.”

  After sponging my bruises with the hot face cloth, she started rubbing some kind of ointment into my shoulder and then onto my back. Not sure what it was—whatever you can find at a gas station convenience store, I suppose. It felt good and had a medicinal smell that comforted me. It was while she was putting the bandages on that her voice got hesitant and I sensed her blushing.

  “Jay, you may have saved my life. For sure you saved me a smack down that would have laid me up for three days anyway.”

  I swiveled a bit on the bed to look her in the eye. Yep, blushing.

  “Well you pretty much saved my life too. Ho
w did you know how to handle that pistol?”

  “I picked up one just like it during my first tour. Tank—that’s a Russian make—one-dash-thirty-five APS. Nine millimeter. Took it from an Iraqi officer who didn’t need it any more and didn’t look like he had any next of kin.”

  “I’d say we’re even.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” She recapped the ointment. “You stuck your neck out to save my sorry butt. And Luci. I really am thankful for that, Jay. I truly am.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She hesitated. The vibe I was getting was that if I wanted sex, she was willing. Out of gratitude for sure, maybe even desire. If I said no, I’d hurt her feelings. If I said yes and I’d read the vibe wrong, I’d piss her off.

  I picked up her right hand, still smelling richly of ointment. I kissed it.

  “I’m married.”

  “But you’re separated.”

  “Separated. Not divorced.”

  “Most guys I know figure it’s okay if you’re separated. Even Methodists—and they’re real strict.”

  “I’m not a Methodist. I took a vow. Married means married. Also, to be fair, there’s one other thing, I guess. I love Rachel. I really, really love her.”

  Thompson’s face slowly crumbled. She started sobbing, quietly at first and then really bawling with tears streaming down her face. She threw her arms around my neck and started to put her head on my left shoulder, then remembered my bruises at the last instant and switched to the right shoulder.

  “That is just the sweetest thing I have ever heard in my whole life.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “America is one hell of a big country. Did you ever notice that?”

  “Yeah,” Proxy said. “That’s why I mostly fly over it.”

  Ten-thirty mountain time Saturday morning. I’d gassed up the Buick while Thompson took Luci to the potty.

  “It took us most of the morning just to get out of Nebraska. I mean, it’s not like Nebraska is Texas or anything. Four bloody hours on I-80, plus the better part of two that we’d put in last night, and we’re just barely into Colorado.”

  “So you still have, what, all of Colorado before you get to Arizona?”

  “You’re forgetting New Mexico. I could use a little sympathy, Proxy.”

  “Well, Colorado is something. I mean, at least it sounds Western instead of Midwestern, so you’re, like, psychologically closing in on Arizona. Self-pity aside, Davidovich, how goes the battle?”

  “As good as we have any right to hope. Wells reports that the pre-publicity tour is wheels up on its way to Denver. If we can avoid a temper tantrum for another forty-eight hours, we will have finessed our way through the first hurdle without a breach of contract.”

  “Dodging bullets. Speaking of which, you haven’t actually killed anyone yet, right? Because if you have I really have to take it to Legal.”

  “Casualties but no fatalities. Any special reason you asked?”

  “We got a call from a guy named Knapp claiming to be a detective with the Omaha Police Department. Said he wanted to verify your employment.”

  “I hope you told him the truth.”

  “Naturally. I just skimmed the report you emailed about last night. Do you think there was anything at all to Chaladian’s pay-me-to-make-the-problem-go-away pitch?”

  “Maybe at the start. If I’d convinced him that I was buying it, he might have figured that I wouldn’t give him an argument about taking off with Thompson. He might even have followed up to see if he could shake a down-payment out of me. But then Thompson tipped our hand.”

  “And that’s why he sent Plankinton after you?”

  “Right.”

  “Hmm.” A mental image came to me of Proxy tugging on her chin. “So why didn’t he just yank Thompson and Luci off to wherever he wanted to take them right away, instead of waiting at the bus station for you to show up?”

  Thompson and I had talked about that last night, during the first part of our drive. Turns out Chaladian had only gotten to the bus station about fifteen minutes before I did. He really was trying to sell her that reality show malarkey so that she’d come along quietly, without him having to use any attention-getting muscle. He’d already spotted me at the hotel, so when he saw me waltz into the bus station he figured out what I was doing there. I explained this to Proxy.

  “So if Chaladian was going after Thompson to undermine Trowbridge, was that just to motivate us to pay him off?”

  “Don’t know, but my gut says there’s got to be more to it than that.”

  “‘More to it’—like what, for example?”

  “Don’t have a clue. Whatever Thompson meant about ‘going way back’ with Chaladian, she hasn’t been very chatty about it since.”

  “Okay.” Now I imagined Proxy uncapping and recapping a blue Bic pen. “For what it’s worth, I think you made the right call in chasing Thompson instead of hanging around to watch the Asset pitch hissy fits. If this goes real wrong, though, it won’t make any difference what I think.”

  “Noted. You’re having someone do a total workup on Chaladian, right?”

  “That’s on my list for first thing Monday morning.”

  “Fair enough. Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Proxy.”

  Next stop was a Denny’s about thirty yards down the frontage road. The waitress treated us like she thought Thompson and I were married and Luci was our kid. I couldn’t help noticing that Thompson really got a kick out of living out that little fantasy. Not a fantasy of marriage to me, particularly. Just of being a regular wife and mom, traveling across country, instead of an “actress/model” who went way back with the likes of Stan Chaladian.

  I’ve never seen Denny’s screw up breakfast. Hamburgers or chicken can be hit or miss there, but short stacks and scrambled eggs they always nail. I was halfway through a waffle the size of an Olympic discus when my phone buzzed. Omaha number. I answered.

  “Davidovich.”

  “This is detective-sergeant Knapp, Omaha Police Department. We met yesterday.”

  “Good morning. Almost good afternoon where you are.”

  “You mentioned knowing a lot more about the bald guy sometime today. Got anything for me?”

  “His name is Stan Chaladian. Sometimes goes by Mr. Ten Percent. The last time I saw him he was sitting in a white Navigator. He pals around with some kung-fu muscle named Marcus Plankinton. I don’t have an address for him yet.”

  “Someone whose insurance card said Marcus Plankinton took an ambulance ride to the emergency room last night with a hairline fracture in his right knee and a noggin cut that took eleven stitches to close.”

  “I’m betting that’s the same guy. How does he say hurt himself—falling down some stairs?”

  “He’s not saying anything. You wouldn’t have any ideas about what happened to him, would you?”

  “I’d hate to speculate.”

  “Next time we see each other I’ll update you.”

  He hung up. I was glad I wasn’t in Nebraska anymore.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “‘Rest area one mile.’” Thompson, sitting in the back seat with Luci dozing on her lap, read the words to me softly. “Let’s pull over there.”

  Didn’t like it. Sunday afternoon around two, only a couple more hours to Tucson. The deeper we’d driven into the vast expanses of New Mexico and Arizona, the harder it was to worry about Chaladian. Our Buick was a gas-guzzling pinpoint in open country with horizons that bumped up against infinity. One guy with nothing but guts and a fancy car didn’t figure to find us. Getting to Tucson, though, would expose us all over again.

  I pulled over anyway. In the last twenty-six hours, Luci had thrown up once and gotten cranky twice—not bad for an eight-year-old on a long road trip. At the second bout of c
rankiness, Thompson had pulled over to the shoulder. For sixty terrible seconds I thought she was going to smack the kid. But she handled it with a little heart-to-heart instead: I know it’s tough, Lucky Luci, but we’ve got tougher stuff than this to do, so we need to suck it up now. Then she’d settled into the back seat, cradling the girl in her arms and nodding at me to take the wheel. If Thompson needed a break, how could I say no?

  When we were ready to roll again, Thompson got into the driver’s seat. I wondered if I’d somehow lost control of this little expedition. I had. Within a minute of getting back on I-10, Thompson handed her phone to me.

  “There’s a Best Western on Stone Avenue in Tucson. The directions are in there. As soon as we get within a mile of the exit, get ready to read them to me.”

  “Uh, yeah. But you know what? I’m thinking the money play would be to bunk at the Hotel Tucson—City Center. That’s where Trowbridge and company will be pulling in sometime tonight.”

  “Stan’s gotta know by now that Phoenix was a wild goose chase.” Thompson shook her head while she spoke, and didn’t sound like she was interested in a debate. “He can’t be sure where we went, so he figures to re-connect with the tour and hope for the best. He probably has the tour hotel staked out already.”

  “If he has, then we should get in there as soon as we can and hunker down.”

  “Hunkering down ain’t what I got in mind.”

  I dropped the subject. If I didn’t show up with her in Trowbridge’s suite on Monday morning, I’d be fresh out of credibility. Trowbridge would cop an attitude instead of completing the last day of his tour. All I’d have to show for about two weeks of expensive effort would be bruised kidneys and a rental car receipt.

  We were almost three steps into the Best Western’s lobby when I heard a screech that reminded me of the siren they used in Iraq for incoming mortar rounds.

  “Trina! There you are!”

  “Sue Ellen? Is that you?” Thompson matched the screamer decibel for decibel.

  They scurried at each other across the imitation Navajo carpet and collided in a full-contact hug. Sue Ellen Whoever had hair a lot blacker than anyone that Anglo gets from nature. About an inch shorter than Thompson, she had roughly the same assortment of generous breasts and curves that would make an art director snicker if she called herself a model. She was wearing pink stretch pants and a black tank top. A big, four-wheel hotel luggage cart sat next to the chair where she’d been waiting. It featured a large suitcase, and about a dozen outfits hanging from its bar.