Dirtbags (16 page)

In the end, London had fessed up. He did what he could to skirt the issue, but she had him dead to rights. She had transcripts from the sheriff’s office, god knows why. She had federal evidence.

The first night, he slept in the restaurant. Actually, he didn’t sleep much at all. He sat up in a booth, music full blast from the speakers and drinking a bottle of vodka from behind the bar. The Mexicans woke him when they arrived to prep the next morning, and he cleaned up in the sink in the men’s room. He tried to reconcile for the better part of the day. Phone, email, a quick trip up to her office . . . nothing worked. All he learned was that it was best to avoid her in person. He’d since taken up residence at a motel by the Interstate.

He would get drunk and call Rhonda, who still feared having anything to do with him. His calls were innocent at first, but as the cocktails went down, so did his demeanor. He would descend into pleading, then get downright nasty.

“Who do you think you are?” he’d spat, the night previous. He’d gotten too drunk to drive from the restaurant after the dinner shift, so he parked it at the corner of the bar. “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be dancing at that titty bar, taking dollar bills from rednecks.”

“That’s not fair,” whispered Rhonda through the phone. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“No, more like you
begged
for it.” He laughed. “This is all your fault. If I never laid eyes on you at that damned club, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Rhonda’s breathing could be heard through the phone. Otherwise, London would have assumed she’d hung up.

“It’s because Reyna is an alcoholic.” London rattled ice cubes in his glass. “She’s not stable. I can’t live with someone like that. She runs hot, then she runs cold. You have no idea the pain I’ve been in.”

“She’ll take you back,” Rhonda said. “Just give it some time.”

“I can’t believe you won’t come over tonight,” London growled. “My first wife died, and my second wife left me, and this is how you treat me?”

But before long, he’d worn her down, and she drove over. They fooled around a bit, but London passed out in the booth before things got too hot and heavy and, the next morning, the Mexicans rousted him again, telling him to get his britches on before the waiters arrived.

In J.B.’s office, London asked for another beer and continued on with his tragic tale. More than once, J.B. told him he shouldn’t be hearing all this, that he could never represent him. London didn’t care the slightest and kept at it.

“Who else I got to talk to?” he moaned. “You know, for a while there, after Corrina, business was real good with folks coming around wanting a freak show. But Reyna . . . man, Reyna sure knows how to stick it to a fella. She ran her mouth about the whole deal, and now folks don’t come around at all. It’s like they’re scared if they’re seen at the restaurant, they’re being disloyal to her somehow.”

“I’m real sorry about that, Tom,” J.B. said, checking his watch. “But like I said, I can’t—”

“You can’t be a decent person?” London slammed the beer down atop the desk. “You can’t hear me out, a fella in pain? What kind of friend are you, J.B.?”

“Tom, look—”

“Forget it,” he grumbled. He stomped out of the office, past Miss Blakely in the reception area, and on into the parking lot. Sometimes he got his way, other times he caused a scene. He fancied himself fine either way.

The beer had tickled his head a bit, and what had been beads of sweat only moments earlier froze solid once out in the parking lot. He pulled his jacket tighter, and it was as he made for his car that things began to turn. He heard a
pssst
, but thought nothing of it. Even the second time he heard it, it offered him little interest, but on the third time, the caller grew frustrated and presented himself plain and simple in front of London, backing him against his driver’s side door.

“Calvin,” he stammered. “Calvin, how are you?”

Calvin Cantrell had changed. He hadn’t shaved in some time. There were circles under his eyes. His face looked like it had been through the ringer, with all the scrapes and scratches and signs of a scrum. London thought him simple and goofy when they’d met earlier, but now found he looked a fright. His shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets, but London still felt a mite taken aback.

This guy carved numbers into people’s chests?

“I’m doing just fine, Mister London,” he said. “Just fine indeed.”

How much had Calvin heard? Sure, word went around nice and quick that he and Reyna separated, but did everyone know exactly
why?
More importantly, did Calvin know Reyna was leaving him because London had been carrying on with Calvin’s wife?

The wife of a man who carved numbers into people’s chests?

London swallowed. “How . . . how can I help you, pal?”

“I don’t think I have to say it, Mister London.” Calvin looked up and down the street. He’d been a pale guy, but was even paler now. He returned his gaze to London and looked him in the eye.

London shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His stomach tossed, turned, and he reckoned this the absolute last thing he wanted to deal with at that moment.

“Calvin, I—”

“You owe me some money,” he said. “I done what you told me to tend after.”

London took a half-breath. He looked through Calvin’s eyes. Calvin didn’t know. Calvin hadn’t heard. He let the rest of the air from his lungs, and it felt like a breath he’d been holding for some time.

“You did a bit more than I told you to, don’t you think?” London said.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean,
what do I mean?
There was someone else there. You carved into their chests. Then you killed two others and carved into
their
chests, too. Do you know what kind of attention that brings?”

Calvin smiled. He closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, I didn’t want that attention drawn to it,” he said. “The entire point was
not
to draw attention. What I wanted was her dead and a shitload of drugs in her system. You know what they do with junkies they find OD’d? They scoop up their bodies and throw them on a fire. They forget about them. They don’t pay a lot of attention to them, which is the opposite of what’s happening here, because you blew it.”

“You wanted her dead,” said Calvin. “She’s dead.”

“What’s wrong with you?” asked London. “Are you crazy or something?”

“Is that what they’re saying?”

“Is that what
who
is saying?”

“The papers. The news. Are they saying I’m crazy?”

London shivered. So far, winter had been a cold snap refusing to let up. “Well, are you?”

Calvin thought about it and said: “If they say I am, then I guess I am.”

“Did you kill those other people? The ones in New Orleans?”

Calvin only smiled. It was answer enough.

“Why’d you kill them other two?”

“It’s like an actor with an audition tape,” Calvin said. “It’s so people know I’m serious.”

“What people?”

“People like you.” A car accelerated, and Calvin glanced down the road. London looked after—it was only a pickup truck. “People who want other people killed. I figure when you pay me, that’s a pretty good chunk of money. I liked doing it, and I’ll get better the more I do. Maybe, you know, go pro. Folks are always wanting somebody knocked off, so they contract me, and I take care of it for them.”

London couldn’t believe his ears. He looked at them through squinted eyes. “Are you serious? Your plan is to kill people until somebody pays you to kill people?”

Calvin squinted back. “Sure. You ever heard of the Krays over in London? That’s what they did. Dagger Pruett over here in the States. There’s an itch, why not make some cash while you scratch it?”

London’s didn’t waver. He searched the man for any sign his leg was getting pulled.

“Which brings me back to my point,” Calvin said. “Money. You still owe me some. Six thousand, three hundred and seventy-five dollars, to be exact.”

“I already gave you seven hundred.”

“You gave me six twenty-five.”

“I remember it specifically. I gave you—”

“We ain’t haggling here,” Calvin said. “I don’t think you’re in a position to renegotiate.”

“I’m always in a position to renegotiate!” London’s insides exploded. Nothing angered him more than folks telling him how to conduct business. He charged forward, backing Calvin against a redbud tree. He put a finger to his face. “Why am I in any less a position than you? Answer that. You say my name, I say your name. Who cares? We’ll see who gets away with what and who proves what. I’m pretty sure, based on current events, that I would walk away cleaner than you. So tell me, is that your strategy? Is that the road you plan to take?”

“Calm down,” Calvin hissed. “I just want to get paid. I just want my money. I need to get out of here and lay low a while.”

London took a step back. He felt unsure if he was out of his element or not, but did what came natural.

“You don’t expect me to pay for that, do you?”

“What?” Calvin reeled back on his heels.

“I can’t pay you for that job.” London put his back to his own car, something solid upon which he could lean. “It’s too messy. I paid you to kill her, leave dope in her, and get out of town. I didn’t pay you to sleep with her. Think about it: you fucked my wife. Ex, current, don’t matter. I didn’t pay you to go down to Dallas for a romance.”

“Who—”

“Your buddy told me all about it,” London said. “The one you killed. Also, I didn’t pay you to involve him. I didn’t pay you to bring attention to it. This is front page in smaller towns with less to talk about. For God’s sake, there’s a blogger out there keeping tabs on it.”

“That guy is getting it all wrong, but did you hear what they’re calling me?” Calvin’s eyes sparkled. “The Couples Killer. Sounded gay at first, but I think I like it now. What do you think?”

London shook his head. “What do I think? I think I didn’t want my ex-wife’s killer to be blogged about.”

“You’re missing the bigger picture here,” Calvin said. “I hear loud and clear what you wanted, but what I done was something bigger. I’ve given you a chance to be part of history.”

“I didn’t want to be part of history. I wanted a clean and simple hit.” London opened his car door. He turned his back to Calvin. “For that reason, I ain’t paying for it.”

Calvin’s mouth hung open. London checked his watch, then climbed into his car and closed the door. After starting the engine, he lowered the window a small enough piece and tossed out a twenty-dollar bill.

“Here’s a hundred,” he said. “Use it to get out of town.”

Rather than press things any further, London drove away. When he got down the street and to the stop sign, he looked to the rearview and saw Calvin still standing there looking after him.

Once on his way and around the corner, London reflected on J.B.’s admonitions back in his law offices. About London being a dumb shit and reckless and not being careful. A big part of him wanted to shake the lawyer and stand over him with his puke-colored tie and say, “Oh J.B., you have no earthly idea how stupid I’ve been.”

But another part—an even bigger part of him—thought of Calvin Cantrell, probably still standing back there in the parking lot with his jaw dropped, and thought no, there were still plenty of people in this world much more stupid than himself.

14

Tom London reckoned it time to turn a new leaf and hoped it could be done quick and proper. He first drove to his own house and pounded at the door. Reyna answered and asked if he was drunk, did he know what time it was?

“Of course,” he said. “I drank until I had the courage to come over and that was until two.”

“Two was an hour ago,” she told him and closed the door.

He moaned and hollered some more out on the front porch, then got to banging on the door again. She asked if he wanted her to call the cops. He shouted back that she could call them all she wanted, his only crime was being in love with her.

He came to a few hours later when the paper arrived. He could barely open his eyes as the dew had frozen them shut. He, a cursed mess of shivering, lay there as Reyna hobbled out in her heels to fetch the paper, and while he tried to say something, she wasn’t having it. She both kindly and not-so-kindly suggested he find his way over to That Whore’s house if he wanted to sleep somewhere. He tried to explain that the house was his and he had every right to it, but it didn’t come out quite how he planned. Reyna stalked back into the house and bolted the door.

He somehow made his way back to the restaurant, because a few hours later, he awoke to the seafood truck driver nudging him with the steel toe of his work boot. London could barely open his eyes, but when he did, gave the driver all kinds of shit for being in the restaurant without permission.

“The front door was wide open, sir,” he said. “Are you all right?”

A trembling pillar of ash stretched from between blackened skin where he had fallen asleep holding a cigarette. A spot on the carpet was good and fucked from the embers of the cherry. He licked his thumb and wiped at it, but it did no good. Beside his head, a bottle of cheap vodka had overturned and puddled. A cloud of fruit flies vibrated about him.

“I’m guessing you’re wanting to squeeze me for more cash, aren’t you?” London grumbled. Not all of the words sounded like they were supposed to. “Didn’t I just pay you people?”

The driver slowly backed out of the restaurant with his hand truck, as if what affected London may be contagious. London pushed against the carpet with his hands and brought himself to his feet. He cleaned up what he could, but left the vomit, the cigarette burn, and the puddle of vodka for the busboy, scheduled to arrive at lunch.

He was in no condition to cook and persuaded himself that the rest of the day should be spent with his son. Wasn’t all of this for his son in the first place? Reyna had delivered Jason to his motel room along with an armload of clothes, all dumped in front of the door while two of her girlfriends sat in the car with the top down, glaring at him from a safe distance. He fought every urge to rush out and beg her to take him back, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it in front of her girlfriends. Instead, he had gathered up his son and his clothes and brought them all inside the motel.