by R. A. McGee
Porter paid and left, thankful that Babe started again. He rolled back over to Steven Jones’s street, back and forth a few times on the larger street, ensuring there was no one outside. Then he rolled down the street, right past the house. No one was outside. He turned at the end of the dead-end street, turning around and parking in an unoccupied spot in front of someone’s house.
Porter parked fifty yards from the Jones’s house. That, coupled with the fact that no one had any clue what he was driving, made him feel fairly comfortable sitting there for a while. As long as none of the neighbors came outside and saw the heap he was sitting in.
He waited, stuffing his cheeks full of sunflower seeds, spitting the shells into the empty cup. Busy work. The worst part about a surveillance was the surveilling.
For no other reason than to pass time, Porter looked closer at the houses in the neighborhood. At first glance, he thought they were nice. Expensive. The kinds of houses people lived in when they thought they were better than most other people. His opinion changed upon closer inspection.
The houses were all older than they let on. Their façades were kept clean, but little things gave them away. The smoothness and discoloration of roof shingles. The mold on the side of the house that never got sunlight. Oil spots in the driveway. The general use and decay that the owners tried to hide from the world.
These people didn’t think they were better than everyone else—they just hoped they were. Their money and property were monuments to their egos and self-esteem. Porter didn’t care about them one way or the other.
Forty minutes into his analysis, a wine-colored Jaguar crept onto the street and stopped in front of the Jones’s house. A brunette woman with leggings and hair in a high, tight bun stepped out of the car to the mailbox. She got back in the car and must have pressed something, because the gate pulled open and granted her admission to the home.
“Mrs. Jones,” Porter said. He leaned back and rolled the rear passenger’s side window down to get a cross breeze. The heat in the car was stifling.
Another hour later, the black metal gate opened and the Rolls Royce edged out of the driveway, careful with the concrete lip that dropped onto the street. The Rolls was black and shiny and moving slowly away from Porter.
Porter fired up Babe, praying as the engine struggled to turn over, exhaling once it did. He nudged out of his spot, allowing the Rolls to move ahead a bit. The Rolls rolled slowly toward the stop sign at the edge of the street. Before it came to a complete stop, Porter feathered the pedal, giving the car a bit more gas.
As the Rolls came to a stop, faithfully obeying the rules of the road, Porter smacked into its bumper. The fender-bender wasn’t serious, but Porter had no incentive to be gentle on the junker car. Leon Williams wouldn’t mind.
Before the driver could get out, Porter pulled into the parallel parking spot next to the Rolls on the passenger’s side. Porter hopped out, face tilted toward the ground.
An Asian man, different from any he had seen earlier in the day, stepped around the hood to the passenger’s side of the car. “Hey, man. You need to watch what you’re doing. This car is worth more than your life.”
Porter let the man step closer, then from his back pocket, he produced his polymer knuckles. He struck the man squarely in the temple, separating him from the waking world. Porter pinned him against the rear passenger’s side of the car, opened the front door and dumped him inside. On his way out of the car, Porter grabbed the man’s not-so-concealed pistol out of his shoulder holster.
The pistol was a Czech gun, cleverly brand named ‘CZ.’ Porter had never used one with regularity, but he had tried them out before. He knew what to expect. He worked the slide, and no round popped out.
Who carries with no round in the chamber?
He grabbed the brown bag from the surplus store and tossed it on top of the sleeping man. The entrenching tool clanged as it touched down.
Porter stepped behind the trunk, to the rear driver’s side of the car. Pulling the handle, Porter found it to be locked. The butt of the CZ made short work of the window, and Porter was face to face with Steven Jones and his missus.
“Car’s running,” Porter said.
“So?” Jones said. One of his eyes was swollen shut from where Porter had hit him earlier in the day.
“You said Roll Royces are meant to be chauffeured in.”
Jones looked confused.
“So start chauffeuring,” Porter said.
Chapter 10
Porter sat in the back, next to Mrs. Jones. He made both of them give up their cell phones, then directed Steven Jones on the next phase of the trip.
“Easy stuff, Stevie. You do anything crazy, I’ll shoot you in the back of the head. Or maybe I shoot her,” Porter said, gesturing to Mrs. Jones. “No telling. And don’t get any genius ideas about crashing into something to knock me out. Remember, you’re in the front seat.”
“How much do you want—”
“The time for talking is on hold, Stevie. You do what I say,” Porter said.
It was late afternoon and the sunlight in the car wasn’t kind to Mrs. Jones. It was obvious that she was much younger than Steven Jones. It was also obvious that she had taken what was once a very lovely face and intervened too often and too drastically with plastic surgery. Her nose was much thinner than any natural nose had the right to be, and her lips had an unrealistic fullness to them.
Porter directed Jones, turn by turn, toward the less expensive part of town.
“Where are you taking us? We can’t just drive this car anywhere.”
“Just point this big bitch where I tell you,” Porter said.
The streets gave way to the carwash Porter had scouted earlier. “Pull in here. Around back.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jones said.
Porter pressed the barrel of the pistol behind the man’s ear. He imagined it was cold on Jones’s skin. “What did I tell you?”
“Fine, dammit.” Steven Jones pulled around to the rear of the carwash, idling the car in front of the boarded-up entryway.
“Let’s hang out here for a second. I saw a few looks on the way down the street. It won’t do to have any bystanders right now.” Porter looked at the clock on the dash and let a full fifteen minutes crawl by. There was no noise in the car, except for a peculiar whine coming from the nose of Mrs. Jones.
“I think we’re okay,” Porter said. “Reach into the bag in the front seat with you.”
Jones rummaged around and pulled out a box of handcuffs. “You gonna cuff me up?”
“Not yet,” Porter said. “If I did that, how would you do any manual labor?”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?”
Porter directed the old man to the entrenching tool. “Take that and go pry off that plywood. It may take some effort.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“I’m definitely not,” Porter said.
Porter had to finish the job. The old man was huffing and puffing, face bright red, jowls dripping with sweat. Porter made Jones sit on the concrete with his ankles crossed, so he wouldn’t run away as Porter worked. Mrs. Jones sat in the back of the Rolls, wide-eyed, the entire time. The plywood gave way and a musty smell rushed out into the open air.
“Back in the car, Stevie. Drive us in,” Porter said.
The Rolls edged its way into the dormant carwash.
Porter motioned Jones out of the driver’s seat. “I want you to toss the keys as far as you can, then slide the plywood back.”
“Are you crazy? Do you know how much these keys cost to replace?”
“Do you know how much a head costs to replace?” Porter replied.
“Fine, fine.” Jones flung the keys as far as he could, then struggled to put the plywood most of the way back. In his defense, it was a large piece of wood.
/> “Great. Hop back in the front seat. Keep your hands on the steering wheel so I can see them.”
“You have no clue what’s going to happen to you,” Jones said.
“Enlighten me,” Porter said.
“You don’t really get who you’re dealing with here. The guys watching me aren’t just some goons. They’re real-deal connected guys, and you almost killed one today.”
“The one I stabbed with the fork? He didn’t die?” Porter said.
“Not yet. The other guys stuffed him in a car and took him to their doctor. They don’t use the regular hospital, for reasons I’m sure you understand.”
“Sure. I imagine they have a doctor on retainer who works for them. Doesn’t ask any questions,” Porter said.
“You aren’t as dumb as you look,” Jones said. “So that makes me wonder why you would want to pick a fight with me? Or these people I work with?”
Porter watched in the rearview mirror as Jones spoke.
“Pick a fight? I just came to talk. You sicced your dogs on me. I’m not a punching bag,” Porter said.
“It was gonna be a little something for Todd.”
“You could have fooled me. The gunshot from your basement was a nice touch,” Porter said.
“That had nothing to do with you. You can’t come to my house unannounced and then judge my affairs. Business has to continue.”
“I’m sure you can see why I thought I was next. As if killing me is the easy option,” Porter said.
Steven Jones turned around in the seat, just enough so that Porter could see the side of his face.
“Killing you is the easy option. You don’t get it. The people I work with… they could make you disappear. In an instant. I snap my fingers and it’s done. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The only reason you’re alive is because I didn’t want you dead.”
“All this attention is making me blush,” Porter said. “Enough about me. Let’s talk about Todd.”
“What about him? You gonna tell me why you smacked him around the other night?” Jones said.
“He never learned not to pick a fight with people who are bigger than him. I’m guessing because you were there to wipe his ass his whole life. Sound about right?”
“Guilty. He is my only son. What can I do? I know I spoil the boy, but I can’t help myself.”
“Would spoiling him include making a pregnant girlfriend disappear? That’s definitely one way to clean up a mess,” Porter said.
Steven Jones looked at Porter blankly. “I think you lost me. Who are we talking about now?”
“Evanna Blanchard. Pretty girl. Dark eyes. She was pregnant and it may have been Todd’s. Now she’s disappeared. Weren’t you listening earlier?”
Jones stared at Porter, then turned to look at his wife. “Was that the thing Todd told us about at dinner?”
“Yes. Remember how nervous he was?” Mrs. Jones said, face frozen in a Botox prison.
“Yeah, I remember that now. Todd told us his girlfriend—”
“It was his ex, sweetie,” Mrs. Jones said.
“That’s it. His ex-girlfriend was pregnant or some shit like that. I told him to have her abort it. He’s in no place to raise a kid. But he didn’t listen. Something about raising the kid better than I raised him or something. I stopped paying attention.”
“Like a good father does, right?” Porter said.
“Kiss my ass. That kid has been a screw-up since day one. I tried to do what I could to get him on the right track. Paid off his teachers in high school. Made a huge donation to the college to make sure he got admission. I love him, but he’s a screw-up. I figured he would find out the kid wasn’t his or something. If it was, he would come crawling to me for money, like he always does. And I would have given it to him like I always do.”
“You’re saying you weren’t upset that he might be having a kid so young? You weren’t pissed that he was going to ruin his chance at being a senator or something?”
“Todd? A senator?” Jones laughed. “It’ll be all I can do to bribe his way through a good law school somewhere. I wouldn’t care if he had a baby. I had my first kid, Todd’s sister Shay, when I was eighteen. With my first wife, you know?”
“Then why did you tell him to have her get rid of the baby?” Porter said.
“Because that’s what you do when you don’t want a kid. Not my cup of tea, but I wanted to give him the easy way out like I always do. If he showed up with a baby, I wouldn’t care,” Jones said.
“So you didn’t make Evanna Blanchard disappear?” Porter said.
Jones struggled to lean forward in the seat. “I don’t think you get it. If I’d killed her, I would tell you. I wouldn’t care if you knew because you could never prove it. I do what I want in this city. The mayor owes me favors. So ask yourself, why would I lie to you about not offing Todd’s pregnant not-really-girlfriend? Because I didn’t do it, stupid.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to get that vibe from you,” Porter said.
“So you gonna let us go?”
“Not a chance. I’m still sore about you trying to have your goons tune me up. We could have just had this conversation in your house, at your kitchen table, then we could have avoided all this. But I won’t kill you.”
“Reasonable,” Jones said.
Porter made Mrs. Jones roll the windows to the Rolls Royce down and hand him the small blue boxes from the bag. He handcuffed each of the Joneses around a window frame, one on each side. He pulled the still-unconscious chauffeur up and cuffed him through the passenger’s side front window.
“Not too tight?” Porter said to Mrs. Jones.
“Just fine, sweetie. Not the first time I’ve been handcuffed.”
“Not the first time you liked it, either, I’ll bet,” Porter said.
Mrs. Jones smiled, and nothing above her nose moved.
“I take it you don’t live around here,” Steven Jones said.
“Nope. I’m from a long way away.”
“Good. You go back there and you stay back there. Never let me see you again. Not in this life or the next, you follow what I’m saying?”
“Letting you live doesn’t get me any brownie points?” Porter said.
“Sure it does. I’m not going to have my men find you tonight and fillet the skin off your face. That good enough?”
Porter put his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “You just remember that I could have killed you and I didn’t. You aren’t invulnerable. I can get to you anytime, anytime at all. When you get out of here, you pray to whatever you worship, and thank them I was in a charitable mood. Because you aren’t the only one with bodies in his past, and I don’t have other people do my dirt for me.”
Jones regarded Porter through the rearview mirror with a look that was at least part amusement and may have bordered on respect.
Porter placed the plywood back, but before he moved it all the way into place he stopped for a moment. “If you’re thinking about screaming, I wouldn’t. You know what kind of neighborhood you’re in. Best to be quiet until someone safe finds you. Imagine if people know there’s a Rolls Royce in this carwash. It would be bad for you.” Porter moved the plywood back into place and hammered one nail into the wooden support.
He emerged from behind the carwash’s entrance and toward the main street, loitering for a minute or two to make sure no one was watching where he had come from. Then he turned right, heading down the main street, head on a swivel, hopeful that he would never see Steven Jones again.
Chapter 11
A quarter-mile later, Porter was in the strip mall where Leon Williams’s surplus store was. Porter thought about going to see him, but looked at his watch and realized that it was either past quitting time or getting damn close. No reason to bother the old man.
As he fumbled with the auxiliary cord in th
e rental, his phone rang with a number he didn’t recognize. California area code. He finished inserting the cord and slid the icon on the screen to talk.
“Yeah.”
“Uh, hi. I was wondering if I spoke to you yesterday?”
“It depends. Who are you and do you want to have spoken to me yesterday?” Porter said.
“I think we met at the party? My name is Katie.”
“Right. Katie. I guess the cup of your bra is a safe place to keep business cards.”
“Uh, yeah, I guess so…”
“Is there something you want to tell me, Katie?” Porter said.
“Yeah. About that. I was wondering if you could meet me. You know, so I can tell you some stuff.”
“Depends. Is it worth my time? If not, just tell me on the phone. I’ve had a long day, and all I can think about is not thinking about this for a while.”
“I think you’ll be interested. How long until you can be here?” Katie said.
“Depends,” Porter said.
“On what?”
“Where you live. I don’t know your address, remember?” Porter said.
“Oh yeah. Uh, I live on campus. In the old buildings on the east side, next to the Pavilion. Building five. I’m in room fifty-five. Easy to find,” Katie said.
“Why not? I’ll be there in a bit. And Katie?”
“Yes?”
“Call me old-fashioned, but can you have a little more clothes on than you did yesterday?”
“Yeah, sure. Of course.”
“Appreciate it,” Porter said and disconnected the phone.
The Flannery O’Connor had long since worn off and Porter’s stomach growled and grumbled, but talking to the girl took priority. There would be time to eat after. The deadline Mr. Blanchard had given him to double the reward was only a couple of hours away. He pointed the car toward the university and set a quick pace to get there.
Following the signs for the Pavilion, Porter wound his way through the campus. The late afternoon sun was clear and the throngs of people walking around seemed not to notice. Heads down in smartphones, tapping devices and tablets. The future of America.
