by Rob Aspinall
"Thanks for reminding me," I say, removing an onion ring from the burger and dipping it in ketchup.
"You're the one who robbed the truck, Dad. And you killed . . . How many guys is it now?"
"Oh, here we go, lecture time."
Cassie shrugs and chomps on another fry. "You were protecting the planet," she says. "That's fine in my book,"
I take a sip of water and shake my head at her. "You've got a screwed-up moral code."
"Yeah, Dad, I wonder where I get that from?"
I finish the first half of the burger.
"So back to the conundrum at hand," Cassie says. "You're sat here eating an abattoir on a bun while the mob are out there plotting your demise. Don't you think it might be a good idea to head out of town?"
"They'll soon track me down," I say. "I don't know the country. Don't have the funds."
"You have a cut from the raid."
"I can't spend it, Cass. Not without rinsing it first. And then there's Collins."
"I guess you can't let him down now."
"And I can't give him the money either. Not without painting a bullseye on his back, too."
"Why not?"
"Think about it. He just happens to walk into the mob's own bank and pay the loan, days after turning over one of their own trucks?"
"You mean they'll go after him, too," Cassie says.
"Maybe not immediately," I say. "But one night, he'll get in his truck and there'll be a man in the back."
Cassie screws up her lips. "So what now?"
I put the burger down and wipe my mouth with a paper napkin. "I'm still working on it. There's a piece missing here. And I don't know what it is." I pick up a fistful of fries. "Hey, did I tell you? I'm reading the Bible?"
"Good for you," the waitress says, standing over me. She smiles, coffee pot in hand. "Want a top up?"
"Uh, no, thanks. Too much coffee makes me nuts."
"Clearly," the waitress says, moving onto the next customer.
I look across the table. The seat opposite is empty.
Talking to thin air in public. I've gotta stop doing that.
I come out of Al's weighing more than when I went in. I look up and down the street. See the priest waving at me, coming at me. "Good afternoon!" he says.
"Hello, Father . . . What the hell is your name?" I catch myself too late. "Shit. Sorry, Father."
He laughs. "It's fine, Charlie. Call me Father Shaw . . . So how are you finding the good book?"
"It's not what I thought it'd be.”
"What did you think it would be?" Father Shaw asks, cocking his head as if fascinated by my take on things.
"I dunno. Guess I thought it'd be an easier read, seeing as it's so popular."
"Stick with it," Father Shaw says. "In the meantime, you heard about the break-in last night?"
"Must be big news here, eh?"
"There's been a lot of big news around here lately," Father Shaw says, shaking his head. "Too much news."
I decide to play along. "Yeah, I heard there was another robbery, not far out of town."
"And two men killed in a burning car," Shaw says. "Terrible business."
He looks at me as he says it. Let's it hang.
"Yeah, terrible," I say, shaking my head.
Father Shaw puts a hand on my forearm. He's got a firm grip for a man of the cloth. It takes me by surprise. He stands in close and talks under his breath. "I know it was you."
"Know what was me?"
"You were the one who led the assault on the armoured truck."
"Don't know what you're on about, Father—"
"You don't need to pretend, Charlie. Part of that money was going through the church."
"Accepting stolen cash, Father? I'm shocked."
Shaw looks around. "This is God's country. It's our duty to protect and nourish it. But the violence has to stop." He fixes me with an intense stare. "I see it in you, Charlie."
"See what?"
"Blood may wash off the hands, but not the soul.”
"Yeah, well you're in a battle here, Father. And battles are fought with blood. Not good intentions."
"There's always another way," Shaw says. "God always has a plan."
"Maybe I am God's plan," I say. "Or the devil's. I dunno."
Father Shaw releases his grip. I stride off across the street. Shaw shuffles off, too. I get to my room, take out my key and slide it in the lock. I turn it and step inside.
The drapes are open. The room is light. The bed made and the air fresh and cool.
I stop dead inside the door. On the bed lies the woman from the bar.
What was her name again?
She's lies on her side, propped up on an elbow, full hair and makeup. A skin-tight blue dress that doesn't leave much unsaid.
She smiles. "I forgive you," she says.
I'm still not quite sure what for, but as she taps the bed, I close the door behind me. I toss my room key on a chest of drawers and pause a moment. I look her down and up, from her lean, tanned legs, to her slim waist, her cleavage and her pouting red lips.
Oh hell, why not?
I might be dead tomorrow.
22
The convoy proceeded along the highway, a dozen trucks long.
Like an invading army, the wheels rumbled over the asphalt. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes. Trailers hauling bright yellow earth movers. And pickups with labourers riding six to a truck in the back. There would be more to come, with each stage of the project.
Cranes. Scaffolding. Temporary offices. Portable lavatories.
Tools, pumps, drills, machines.
An endless array.
Following the early settlers, workers would come in moving trucks and U-hauls. Their families would arrive later, with executives and business owners not far behind.
The biggest new arrival of all would be the money.
But first, came the exploration teams. The prospectors in their gleaming, high-powered vehicles. Wearing the Mainline Oil colours of primary red and blue with pride. They rolled beyond the Rattlesnake sign, to the edge of town, where they pulled up at the side of the highway.
The drivers stopped and turned off their engines. Passengers jumped out of their cabs and off the backs of pickups. They stretched their legs, urinated in nearby bushes, smoked cigarettes and shot the breeze. From the rear of the convoy, a sleek black saloon pulled out of line and drove on into town.
23
"Wow, Charlie, that was . . ."
Fantastic? Amazing? Earth-moving?
"Brief," Darla says, staring at the ceiling and blowing out a plume of cigarette smoke.
"It's my first time in a while," I say.
She stubs out the end of the cigarette in a glass ashtray on the bedside table. She cosies up to me. "It's fine," she says, kissing me on the shoulder.
Which, of course, is woman code for not fine.
"I still like you," she says with a smile, snuggling up to me. "And there'll be plenty of other times . . ."
"Er, yeah," I say, wondering what I've got myself into. I decide to nip it in the bud. "Listen, Darla. I'm not the kinda guy you want to be involved with."
Darla squeezes my bicep. "That's why I want to be involved with you," she says.
I'm still trying to figure out what she means when there's a thump on the door. I prise Darla off me and slip out of bed. I pull on my discarded boxers and pick my way through our peeled-off clothes. I open the door a few inches.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," I say. "You again."
"Yeah, me again," Sheriff Dooley says, chewing on a stick of gum in hat, uniform and aviator shades.
"What can I do you for, Sheriff?"
"You can start by telling me what you were doing last night," she says, hand resting easy on the butt of her duty weapon.
"I was sleeping," I say. "Like everyone else."
"So you wouldn't have heard the break in a couple of doors down," she says.
"Couldn't hear much of anything with
that storm last night."
"You didn't notice anything suspicious before you turned in?"
"Nope," I say.
"And yet I've got an insomniac witness says they saw a Chevy truck coming and going in the dead of night."
I shrugged. Better to say nothing.
"I've also got a motel room full of bullet holes . . . What do you reckon to that, Mr Ronsen?"
"Maybe they were pissed off. They had a tip there was some cash in there. Turned out to be wrong. So they fired a clip in anger."
"Well they must have calmed down quick, 'cause they dug the bullets out of the wall. And they were so damn pissed, they screwed on a silencer, too."
"How do you know that?" I ask.
"You don't think anyone would have heard the gunshots? A mouse takes a shit out here and the town knows about it."
"It was thundering pretty loud last night," I say. "Bangs, flashes, pretty similar to a gun . . . You sure they were bullet holes, Sheriff?"
Dooley brings a hand around from behind her back. She holds a small plastic evidence bag with a spent shell casing inside. "Found this out here on the walkway," she says, smiling like she's got me.
She's got shit and she knows it. But she's persistent. And that worries me. Persistent people tend to get what they're looking for in the end.
Dooley slips the evidence bag in a trouser pocket. She takes out a small notepad and pen from a breast pocket and clicks open the pen nib. "Care to tell me again where you were prior to turning in?"
Bollocks. This could be tricky. Do I want to say I was at the ranch? Not really. Don't want her sniffing around Collins. She might catch him out, or lean on him. Get him, Janice or their boys to talk. But I need a good story.
Come on, Charlie, think.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten already, Mr Ronsen,"
"Uh—"
Do I take the fifth? Demand a lawyer? Say I was in Al's?
No, too many witnesses to argue different.
"He was with me, Sheriff," Darla says, pulling the door open wide. She stands wrapped in a bed sheet, hair messy from our afternoon roll-around.
Dooley casts an eye over the floor of the room. A trail of jeans, t-shirt, dress and underwear leading to the side of the bed. "Yeah, that figures,” she says.
I sense a kind of friction between the two. Something that doesn't involve me in the slightest. "You two know each other?" I ask.
"We went to high school together," Darla says, running a hand through her hair.
"Huh," Dooley says. "By together, I take it you mean you bullied the crap out of me for four years."
Darla rolls her eyes. "Are you still on that, Terri? Get over it already, jeez."
Dooley stares at Darla like she wants to kill her. She snaps out of it and turns her attention to me. "And what time did the young lady arrive at your room?"
"Think it was around nine," Darla says.
I shoot her a look over my shoulder. Anything she says could be used against me.
"Or it could have been seven?" she says.
Dooley smiles. "Where were you really, Mr Ronsen?"
As I'm considering my answer, Father Shaw appears on the walkway, eavesdropping. "Mr Ronsen was with me," he says.
"Oh for God's sake," Dooley mutters to herself. "Really, Mr Ronsen? You have varied taste."
I crack a sarcastic smile. "Obviously, not like that."
"Then what?" Dooley says.
"Bible lesson," the priest says.
Dooley stares Father Shaw down and points at me with her pen. "This man reads the Bible?"
"Anyone can read the Bible, Sheriff," Shaw says. "It's never too late to seek redemption."
Dooley turns to me. “Looks like Father Shaw here has a nose for a sinner, Mr Ronsen."
"Show him the Bible, Charlie," Father Shaw says.
"Every motel has a damn Bible," says Dooley.
"Not one with the stamp of my church on the inside cover," Shaw says.
I turn to Darla. "Get the Bible off the table in there, will you?"
Darla huffs. "What did your last slave die of?" She moseys at her own pace across the carpet. She saunters back with the Bible and hands it over. Dooley checks the inside cover. It bears a stamp in purple ink: Property of the Church of the Servant, Rattlesnake, Az.
I see it in the sheriff's eyes--another dead end. She snaps the book shut. Hands it back.
At the same time, Collins pulls up in a blue Ford pickup. He gets out and makes his way over. "Sheriff, Father," he says, nodding to the pair. "What's goin' on?"
"Nothin', apparently," Dooley says. "What can I do for you, Bill?"
"Oh, I was just here to pick up Charlie. We've got some cattle to move. Need an extra rancher."
"Say Bill, I was just asking Mr Ronsen here if he had an alibi for his whereabouts last night."
It's a trick, Bill. Don't say anything.
"You wouldn't have happened to have seen him yesterday evening, would you?" Dooley continues.
"Yes ma'am," Collins says. "Had him over for supper."
"And around what time was that?"
"Well, it was around seven, as I recall," Collins says, giving me the thumbs up behind the sheriff's back.
I shake my head.
Dooley consults her notes. "Was this before or after Bible class?" she asks me.
Collins looks puzzled a moment. Catches my eye. I give him a look that says lie.
"Oh," he says. "Or maybe it was eight—"
Dooley closes her notepad, tucking pad and pen away in her pocket. "What does it say in that Bible of yours, Father Shaw? Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour?"
Shaw shuffles uneasy on the spot, his head down, avoiding eye contact with the sheriff.
Dooley rests her knuckles on her hips. "Well, I don't have to tell you the law on aiding and abetting. And if I find out any of you are covering for Mr Ronsen here—"
A long black saloon speeding along main street. It slows and parks in front of Collins' pickup. Two men climb out, suited and booted. Both in their forties with square haircuts and stiff walks. They hurry over to us, a piece of paper in hand.
"William J. Collins?" one of them says.
"What of it?" Collins says.
One of the men thrusts the paper into Collins' hand.
He takes it. Scratches his head. "What's this?"
"Notice of eviction," one of the men says
"Who the hell are you?" Collins asks.
"Lawyers for Pickard and Arnesen," one says. "We represent Western & Main."
Collins tries to hand back the document. "Then you can tell your client I've got until midnight on Friday."
The lawyers refuse to take it back. "Read the document," one says. "Your land will be taken over."
"Everything's set up," his lawyer pal says. "Diggers are waiting on the edge of town."
"What's that got to do with the bank?" Collins asks.
"Mainline Oil have agreed to buy the land once forfeited."
"Yeah, I bet they have," Collins says. "Well I ain't forfeited it yet."
"We suggest you make it easy on yourself. Start packing now," one of the lawyers says.
"Give me that," Dooley says, snatching the paperwork off Collins. She scans the page. Turns to Prick and Arsehole, or whatever they're called. "You fellas may know the law, but around here, I enforce it. So until the deadline passes on the loan payment, this man is the owner of that land. And if I find you encroaching on the town, or this man's property—"
"Don't shoot, Sheriff," one of the lawyers says, hands in the air.
"We're just the messengers," the other says.
The lawyers retreat to their car. "We'll see you on Saturday," one of them yells as they climb inside.
They turn the car around and leave town. Dooley hands the notice back to Collins. She looks us over one more time. "None of you touch room number four. It's still a crime scene. I'll be seeing you around, Mr Ronsen."
Sheriff Dooley walks to her
cruiser. Father Shaw goes about his business.
"What the hell was all that about?" Collins asks.
I turn and look at Darla. Can't discuss things in front of her. Something tells me she isn't watertight.
"Give me five minutes," I say to Collins. "Let me put on some clothes."
24
We take a drive out of town. Collins at the wheel. He's nervous. His clutch leg jigging and fingers tapping the wheel. We head past the ranch, towards the mountains. The black shadow of the range cooks in the heat haze on the horizon. A hot desert wind blows sand from right to left across the truck.
Bugs hit the windscreen. Big things that leave a stain. Collins releases a jet of water over the windscreen and beats 'em away with the wipers.
"I told you to wait for my call," I say.
"Thought you'd skipped out on me," Collins says. "I've been waiting around all morning and half the afternoon. Janice couldn't take me pacing around the house anymore so I thought I'd come out and see what was what. But I see Darla's been keeping you busy."
I shrug off the comment. "Pull over here," I say. "On the right."
Collins brings the pickup to a stop at the side of the highway. He looks out of the driver window. "So, is this the spot?"
"No Bill, this isn't the spot."
"Then why make me drive out here?" Collins says.
"I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. No witnesses."
Collins tenses up. He reaches for the door handle. "You know I won't say anything, Charlie . . . To anyone."
I can't help laughing. "Whoa horsey, don't get ahead of yourself. I'm not talking about doing you in. I've noticed word travels in that town of yours. I want to keep this tight, between the two of us."
Collins relaxes. Kind of. I can see he's still impatient about the money. And he's not gonna like what I'm about to say.
"I can't take you to the stash," I say.
"What? Why not?"
"'Cause things have changed."
"Since when?" he says.
"Since last night. Since five armed men broke into what they thought was my room. Since I found out the money we stole belongs to the mob.”
"What are you talkin' about?" Collins says.
"The mob owns the bank we hit," I say. "The bank who owns your loan. It's a front for laundered money. Guess even Loretta didn’t know.”
