by Laird Barron
For Harriet’s sake, I relented. She’d seen enough blood spilled by us, to my regret.
“Some of my old compatriots are mad as hornets. One in particular. He’ll come at me, sooner or later. You can depend on it.”
“Oh, no,” Harriet said and put her hand to her mouth.
Rather than tossing a snappy comeback, Dad frowned at his bowl. And that was dinner, more or less.
Harriet kissed me good-bye and Dad shook my hand. They watched from the porch as I drove off into the gathering darkness. A better visit than I’d expected or deserved and the first in many years that hadn’t ended with a punch-up. Almost perfect.
Except for one little detail. There was always one little detail. In this case, it was a framed photograph on the fireplace mantel. A photograph of my father and seven or eight comrades, duded up in hunting gear. An older shot, because Dad still had some pepper in his hair. So, eight or nine years back, taken in the Brooks Range on a day colored white-gold with frozen sunlight.
I’d recognized the mountains in the background. Despite the fact he’d worn a beard and pitch-black aviator glasses, I also recognized Teddy Valens, stone-faced as he cradled a 7mm rifle.
The universe contained so much I didn’t understand.
TWENTY-ONE
Headlights flashed twice directly in my eyes as I eased along the access road. The mysterious brown sedan had parked on the curb near the highway intersection. Its driver pulled forward at an angle, partially blocking the narrow lane.
The kind of rude behavior that, in the words of Machiavelli, kindles my ire.
“Buckle up for safety, suckers,” I said.
I switched on my brights and tromped on the gas. The Acura clocked fifty as I blew past. My left front bumper sheared the sedan’s headlight with a satisfying clang. I hit the brakes and barely made the turn on two tires in a spray of smoke and gravel, all of which my friend in the other car ate. Once on the straightaway, I cranked the radio. Moments later, the sedan heaved into sight, its single headlight glaring in the rearview.
As the needle edged past eighty-five I held her steady and allowed the other car to close the gap. At the critical moment I’d learned from countless action flicks I dynamited the brakes and felt the impact of the sedan against my rear bumper. The scream of tires was deafening.
The collision swung me around and the sedan drifted by, its taillights yawing wildly. It departed the highway and bounced down into a field and stopped. Unlike the movies, there was no explosion. Meanwhile, I popped the hand brake, corrected amidst a cloud of smoking rubber, and continued on my merry way.
I’m no stunt driver, and it was only a dirty trick that happened to catch the other guy off guard. Felt great, though. And I laughed.
* * *
—
I STOPPED AT THE NEAREST ROADSIDE DINER and took a window booth. The beat-to-hell sedan rolled in as I sipped my third cup of wretched coffee. The car’s pockmarked windshield was black with dust. Steam boiled from its radiator.
A pair of men in off-the-rack suits emerged into the spill of light from the diner windows. The driver was dark and hard-bitten, his graying hair shaved high and tight. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his nose. Broken, was my guess. The other man was very young, possibly a recent college grad, and superpissed. He slammed his door twice, but the hinges were ruined and it hung there.
Both of them noticed the Acura with its smashed-in taillight. They exchanged a comment, then limped into the diner. Blood splattered the black guy’s chin and had dripped onto his collar and tie. Intact, outside of a few bumps and bruises.
The young guy homed in on me. He wore glasses with round lenses that reflected the fluorescent lights. I hate it when I can’t see a man’s eyes.
“Hold it right there, shithead! I am the FBI!” He pointed at me as if I was supposed to be petrified by an incantation or drop dead like one of those natives who fear the finger of doom.
It worked on the rest of the joint.
The waitress froze in the act of laying out silverware. A trucker at the end of the counter gaped at the spectacle. If there’d been a piano player, he would’ve been hiding under his bench.
I stifled a laugh.
“You? The whole Bureau?”
“Enough, Tim,” the older one said. He smiled reassuringly at the waitress. “Ma’am, federal agents. The situation is under control.”
“God damn it,” the one called Tim said.
The black guy slid into the opposite seat.
“Evening, Coleridge. It’s a street thing. In Baltimore you don’t call the police, you call ‘a police.’ I’m Agent Bellow. That’s Agent Noonan. He’s new.” He paused for effect. “We are the FBI and we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Make with the bona fides,” I said.
The older guy slapped his ID on the table. The kid scowled mightily and followed his lead. He refused to sit. Crossed his arms and glared.
I scanned their credentials. Ezra Bellow and Timothy Noonan, special agents, Federal Bureau of Investigation. The Quantico headshots were a lot slicker than the agents appeared at the moment. Noonan wore an insufferable smirk in his. Gone now.
“Hope you don’t mind if I think of you two as Salt-N-Pepa,” I said. Although, upon closer inspection, I realized the one called Bellow was mixed, like me. African and Persian lineage, maybe something else. His surname was meaningless; it only meant his parents or grandparents had ditched the old-world handle when they emigrated to greener pastures.
“Jesus, you’ve got some stones,” Noonan said. “You ran us off the road. For Chrissake, he nearly killed us, Bellow. I really don’t like this guy.”
“Duly noted,” Bellow said in his affable manner. Obviously, the dangerous one of the pair.
I affected a startled expression.
“Wait, what? That was you two back there? Gawd, I’m sorry. I thought somebody was road-raging or wanted to harm me because of my swarthy complexion. Things have been so tense since 9/11. Honestly, I was fixing to call a police and report the incident.”
“Oh, come on,” Noonan said.
We three stared at one another while the waitress sidled over and nervously poured a round of coffees. Bellow smiled a wide, benevolent smile.
“Bygones are bygones,” he said after she’d made her escape. “Accidents happen. However, Mr. Coleridge, you will reimburse us for whatever the insurance doesn’t cover. This tie is ruined, and I believe my partner might’ve evacuated his bowels into his pants.”
“Oops,” I said.
“God damn it,” Noonan said.
“What do you want?” I said. “Should I call my lawyer?”
“I’d like a million dollars taped to a supermodel, and you don’t have a lawyer,” Bellow said. “I’ll settle for a straight answer regarding your activities the past couple of days. You’ve made a lot of friends recently—mob captains, crooked cops, black ops mercenaries, and ace FBI agents. Reunited with your estranged father.”
“To be fair, the mercs don’t reciprocate my affection.”
“You’re searching for Reba Walker.”
“Who isn’t even officially missing,” Noonan said.
“She’s missing,” I said.
“I tend to agree,” Bellow said. “I checked into the details. An MPR was filed after forty-eight hours. Neither her cell phone nor debit card have been accessed in more than a week. That’s grim. She inhabits a statistically underrepresented demographic in regard to governmental services, especially as it pertains to criminal justice. In other words, she’s a poor nigger. Poor missing niggers are not a law enforcement priority. She turns up in a ditch, the state will send someone right away with a body bag. Until then . . .”
“Until then, there’s me,” I said. “And my friends.”
“We can be friends too. No reason why not.
”
Noonan, bubbling like a mini volcano, blew his top.
“See, I don’t buy your act. My partner might, but I don’t. I’ve read the book on you, pal. Just because shit hasn’t stuck doesn’t mean you aren’t dirty. You aren’t going straight. Not a chance. Things went sideways with the Outfit, Daddy buys you a stay of execution, and now you’re looking to be a player again.” He bared his teeth. “Isn’t that the truth? These contacts are going to help you get your foot back in the door, am I right? You left some bodies on the tundra. The Hudson’s a convenient place to dump a few more. I’m sure Deluca and his scumbag family are dreaming up all kinds of uses for a thug like you.”
“Gracious,” I said. “I’m sensing a lot of hostility. Is this good cop, asshole cop?”
“Tim, you can’t shoot him.”
“God damn it,” Noonan said with real regret.
“On second thought, forget about the supermodel and the cash,” Bellow said. “What I’d love is a lift to the nearest motel. Our car seems to be on its last legs. Could we impose upon you, Mr. Coleridge?”
“Going to move this party to a Motel 6? Count me in,” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt.
* * *
—
THE AGENTS RENTED A ROOM with two doubles at Mama Vito’s Motel. It was a pain in the ass because Bellow insisted on using some Bureau voucher and that meant him and the clerk fumbling around, making phone calls, and so forth. By the book, and then some, was Agent Bellow. Made me curious about the kid-gloved way he’d handled me so far. That spoke of need. Need was an element I understood how to exploit.
Finally, the clerk handed over room keys, we got where we were going.
Bellow ordered room service and put in for a 6 a.m. wakeup call. Noonan kept his peace as he unpacked and changed from the dusty suit to polo shirt and cargo pants. A former UCLA frat boy, unless I’d missed my guess by a country mile. He dialed up a porno on the flat-screen and settled on the farther bed, arms crossed sullenly, blue images of silicone-enhanced bodies reflecting in his glasses. The kid hated me and that made me sad.
Bellow glanced at his partner, and then the television, with a trace of distaste. Beneath his mild exterior, the man was wound tight as a Swiss watch. He tossed his coat aside and rolled up his sleeves. His pistol was a 9mm automatic in a shoulder holster. He laid pistol and holster on the table, then mixed a gin and tonic from the minibar and hesitated to replace the bottles until I waved him off.
“I quit cold turkey in ’99,” he said, examining the glass as if for a flaw.
“Congratulations.”
“My wife passed away eight months later. Kidney cancer. I started drinking again. For real this time. Haven’t looked back. Well, not often.” He sipped his gin. The muscles in his face relaxed. “Ah, that’s the stuff.”
“Congratulations anyway,” I said. “People should do more of what makes them happy.”
“So where were we?” He lit a cigarette. A Benson & Hedges man.
“You were telling me that this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. All I have to do is spy on the villains to prove my good intentions. That’s where this is going, right? I’m presuming you’re part of the gang task force.”
“Would you do it?”
“Be your fly on the wall in the House of Love?”
“Yes.”
“I am not interested in becoming an FBI asset. Also known as a dead man walking.”
“What did I say?” Noonan tore himself away from his skin flick long enough to spear another glare at me. “You’re buddies with Deluca’s crowd. Can’t really blame you, though. The only prayer you’ve got for protection from the Outfit is to suck up to the New York Syndicate. Oh yeah, boy. We know everything, front to back. Vitale Night has pinned your photo on his dartboard. I’ve seen the files on him. It isn’t pretty.”
“Find another rat.”
“We’re not investigating Deluca,” Bellow said. “I wanted to test the waters.”
“Who else could it be?” I said.
“None of your business,” Noonan said. “Ezra, don’t tell him anything!”
Bellow stared at his young partner. He sipped more gin. He looked at me and sighed. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose had swollen.
“Your file is rather scary as well.”
“As scary as Night’s?”
“Not even close. However, what’s on your record is the tip of the iceberg. No, don’t deny it. Let’s skip the bullshit. Apollo was careful and so were you. If we knew where to go digging with a shovel and a flashlight, it might be a different story. Thing is, I don’t give a shit. Right, Tim? We’ve got hip boots on already.”
Noonan made a face.
Bellow’s lips twitched ever so slightly.
“That said, my instinct and twenty years on the job tell me you aren’t here to sign on with the Deluca gang. My instinct says you’re legit. Trying to go legit, shall we say? I applaud your ambition. Never too late to turn over a new leaf.”
“But,” I said.
“That is correct: but, I need—we need—you to back off. Let the wheel of justice grind. Tilt at another windmill and leave this one to the pros.”
“No can do, Agent Bellow. The cops have dropped the ball. Unless you can guarantee that you’re personally on the girl’s case—”
“For fuck’s sake, man,” Noonan said. “Give the white knight routine a rest, will ya? You aren’t even a detective. I mean, please.”
“Easy, it’s okay,” Bellow said.
“No training, no license. It’s a farce. Fucking ridiculous.”
“Shut up, Tim,” Bellow said.
“Yeah, Tim,” I said, making the nix sign. “You used a swear.”
“Screw this, I’m done,” Noonan said. Nobody paid him any attention.
“Well?” I met Bellow’s eye.
“There’s no case,” Bellow said.
“Ah. No case, yet you paid a visit to Kari Jefferson and snatched the computer she shared with Reba. I’m not a private eye, as your sidekick so cleverly noted, but two plus two . . .”
“We have asked questions. It’s what we do. I know this won’t frighten a hard ass such as yourself, but it needs saying. If you go all the way down the rabbit hole, you’ll find yourself in the underworld. The tenants are very bad people. The term people is debatable.”
“Thank you, Agent Bellow. I’ll try to keep my head.”
We studied each other. Two bulls at an impasse.
I would’ve bet my wallet that he was more than a law enforcement officer married to his badge and book of regulations. He was a father, possibly a grandfather, and Reba’s situation pained him. Plain to see if you were skilled at reading body language, and I am. That told me he figured her for a goner or he was onto something big. Something big enough that if a few eggs needed breaking to make the omelet, so be it, even if it hurt.
“This the part where you threaten me if I don’t keep my nose out of your affairs?” I said.
“I already did.” Bellow wrote his name and number on motel stationery, folded it and passed it over. “This is the part where I say, ‘Thanks for the ride, Mr. Coleridge. We’ll be seeing you.’”
Noonan didn’t say good-bye, but I think he flipped me the bird as the door closed.
TWENTY-TWO
On Tuesday, Lionel took the afternoon off farm duty to squire me around the Ulster County club scene. When it comes to pressuring the rubes, two heavies are better than one. Also, after paying for the demolition of the rental car, I’d decided to give driving a pass.
I insisted that he dress a tad sharper than was his wont. Ray-Bans, bomber jacket, pressed jeans, and canvas-topped tennis shoes. Meanwhile, I went with a gray suit and black wingtips that I used for these kinds of expeditions. Classy with an undercurrent of menace. The goal was to impress people with my s
tatus while subtly suggesting I wouldn’t mind getting blood on my threads. Always better to win battles without actually having to fight them.
According to Lionel, all signs pointed to a typically brutal northeastern summer. Hot enough to wilt a steel flagpole and thick as a sauna, with much worse in store. Heat lightning crackled over the Catskills. I protested that it wasn’t even June and he smirked and said something about a raisin in the sun that I didn’t quite catch.
He’d put in hours tracking down Reba’s immediate circle of friends and classmates. Upshot being, none of them had seen her the day she vanished. That information, coupled with the fact her car remained in front of the apartment, suggested she’d either voluntarily left with or been abducted by someone in or near her residence. Word had it she was sweet on a banger named Philippe. Nobody knew if they were really a thing.
I asked him to take me to Reba’s old reformatory first thing. We’d proceed to the clubs later, once the sun set and the joints started hopping.
The Grove Street Academy was a bunker-style block of salmon-toned concrete on the north side of Kingston. It abutted a sleeker, more contemporary structure—SMYTH & COE HEALTHCARE. My research indicated this was a pain clinic.
Here lay a rough neighborhood of salvage yards, garages, and clapboard houses. The street side of the academy was frequently painted, but if you swung along the alley you got a view of creosote, graffiti, and security mesh windows. A hurricane fence ran along the length of the building. Teen girls in oversized sweatshirts played a desultory game of basketball in the asphalt-paved yard. They stoically regarded the Monte Carlo cruising past. A camera above a service door watched them watching us.
“Looks like a fucking Mexican prison,” Lionel said.
“You know Mexican prisons?”
“One time in Tijuana,” he said in a breathless voice.
