F Paul Wilson - Novel 04 (4 page)

Poppy stared at him. “I
don’t get it.”

“Well, neither do I,
completely. Mac didn’t give me no details, just that someone else is
paying him. All we got to do is baby-sit the package for like a week or so and
then walk away. That’s it. No persuaders, no worrying about somebody
holding back on the money—it’s totally guaranteed.” At the
mention of “persuaders” and what they’d had to do last time,
Poppy shuddered again.

“I still don’t like
it.”

“Hey, Poppy—two hundred
large in cash for a week’s work. We can go away and never come
back.” She threw her arms around him and held him tight.

“Oh, I hope so. And then I
never want to see Mac again. He scares me.”

“Hey, you’re wrinkling
my shirt.” Poppy let him go and helped him with his dark gray clip-on
tie. That done, he shrugged into his jacket. Then he put on this dumb cap
and—

“I hardly recognize
you,” she said.

He grinned. “You ain’t
seen nothin‘ yet. Watch.”

He turned away from her and reached
into a brown paper bag on the dresser. After rattling around in it and then
fiddling with his face, he whirled and faced her again with a flourish.

“Ta-da!” The
transformation was so totally awesome. Poppy took a step back. His normally
rectangular face looked round, his nose was wider and flatter, and his eyes hid
behind super-dark sunglasses. The only skin showing was between the bottom part
of the shades and the upper edge of his beard.“

“Jesus, Paulie! How the
hell—?” He pulled a soft white cylinder from the inside of his
cheek and held it up.

“A few cotton
plugs”—he pointed to his nose—“some nostril dilators,
some shades, and I bet I could fool my own mother.” He stepped around the
corner and studied himself in the bathroom mirror, obviously very pleased.

“How cool is this? I mean,
can you just see me going up to my mother and saying, ‘Mrs. Dicastro, you
seen Paulie around lately?’ Would that be cool or what?” Poppy
stepped up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist. Seeing Paulie
transformed like this made her feel a lot better about this snatch. Still…

“You be careful, Paulie. You
pick up this package, whoever he is, and get back here safe and sound.”

He nodded, still staring at himself
in the mirror. “And then I shave off this goddamn beard and get my hair
back to black and—”

“And I’ll have my old
Paulie back again.” He turned and kissed her.

“Right.”

She rubbed her pelvis against his.
She was beginning to feel hot and didn’t want to let him go. “Mmmm,
I love a man in uniform. How about you and me, like—?”

“Whoa, no.” He pulled
away and slipped past her, returning to the bedroom. “That’s all I
need: Show up late and miss the snatch. You know what Mac would do? I
don’t even want to think about it.” Neither did Poppy.

She followed him through the
bedroom and noticed a pair of black leather gloves on the bed—fingered
gloves.

“Hey, Paulie, these
yours?” He turned and looked. “Oh, yeah. My driving gloves. Almost
forgot.”

“No fingerprints, huh?”

He shook his head and held up his
fists. “No tattoos.”

“Oh, right.”
She’d got so used to the letters on his fingers between the first and
second knuckles that she didn’t see them anymore. But someone else would
notice them sure: l-o-v-e on his left hand, h-a-t-e on his right. He slipped
them on and flexed the fingers.

“How do I look?”

“Like you’re ready to
drive the President.”

“Who knows?” He
grinned. “I might be.”

“Not funny, Paulie.”

“Yeah, that’d be a
little much to handle, even for Mac.” He stared at her. “You all
set?”

“I think so.”

“Let’s check the room
one more time.” She followed him into the darkness of the master bedroom
and wrinkled her nose at the smell. The last renters must have kept a dog in
here. A sharp, acid odor permeated the room.

Paulie flipped on the light and
checked out the two windows. He’d hung room-darkener shades in both, then
nailed plywood over them. He tapped his toe against the box sitting on the
floor by the bed.

“All our supplies are up to
date, right?”

“Yep.”

“You sure?”

“What do you think I am, an
Appleton
?”

His smile had an edge to it.
“No. I still don’t know what an
Appleton
is. You keep using that word and—”

“Sorry.” She should
like keep her mouth shut about
Appletons
.
“Just a family expression.”

“Yeah, well, I just want to
make sure we got everything we need. Is that okay?”

“Sure.” She knew the
checklist by heart: “Three sets of cuffs, fifty feet of rope, duct tape,
two flashlights plus extra batteries, three blindfolds, a first-aid kit, a gag,
our masks, and a good supply of yellow jackets.” The last were the
downers she used to use to bring her off the quartz when she wanted to sleep.
They kept them in case the package got antsy and noisy.

“Cool. We’re set,
then.” Paulie returned to the front room where he took off his cap and
pulled on his long black-leather coat, completely hiding his chauffeur’s
livery.

Poppy straightened his lapels.
“Nervous?”

“Nah.”

“Come on,” she said
with a smile. “Truth: You got to be like just a little bit
nervous.”

“Okay. Maybe just a little
bit. I mean, like I know Mac’s got this whole thing planned down to the
last detail, but still… things can go wrong. Shit happens.”

That it did. Oh, did Poppy know how
shit happened. And suddenly a worm of dread was squirming through her gut. She
didn’t want anything to happen to Paulie. He was a good guy. They had
good times and good sex, and he never hurt her, which was more than she could
say about some of the creeps she’d hooked up with since since she’d
been on her own.

But it was more than that. Paulie
took good care of her. She needed that, because whenever she tried to go it
alone she like always seemed to mess up. She could see staying with Paulie
forever. Because as far as she knew, he didn’t want kids. And that was
just fine with her.

“Everything will be all
right,” she told him.

“Yeah. I know that. I’m
just a little edgy is all. I could use a couple of hits of Mary. You
know… to relax me.”

“That’s all you need.
You know how Mac feels. He finds out you been tokin‘, he’ll like
kill you.”

“You got that right.”
He straightened his shoulders inside the leather coat; then he clasped her head
between his gloved hands and kissed her hard on the lips.

“See you later.” Before
she could grab him for a last hug, he had picked up his cap and was heading for
the side door to the garage.

“Be careful.” Poppy
watched as he backed the old white panel truck out of the garage and coasted
down the street.

“Please let everything go
smooth,” she whispered. Almost like a prayer. She used to pray, but you
couldn’t pray about something like this, could you? Maybe she could pray
that this time nobody got hurt. Yeah. Somebody might answer that one.

With the truck out of sight, she
turned away from the window. Now the hardest part: waiting. She stretched. She
felt so tense. Used to be she’d pop a pill to loosen up. Now she had
another way.

She went back to the thirteen-inch
portable TV-VCR combo they’d brought along and restarted the Buns of
Steel tape. Best way she knew to kill time. She turned down the sound, jacked
up the latest Jawbox on the portable CD player, and got down to it.

She was determined to get in shape
again. She’d been a real hard body back in high school but she’d
let herself go to hell. Drugs and fast food—bad news. She still ate too
much garbage, and she’d get around to changing that.

But first the drugs. She wanted off
the drugs.

She’d been so totally rattled
by the last snatch that as soon as it was over she dove head first into the
coke… and did way too much. She’d never been strung out like that
before. Scared the hell out of her.

That was when she’d decided:
no more coke. No more downers, either. Oh, she’d take a hit on a nail now
and then, and maybe keep a few thrusters handy—just for diet
help—but for the most part she was going to get back into her body and
start treating it right. And once this was over she’d like keep treating
it right.

Once this was over…

The job had just started and
already she had this bad feeling.

She concentrated on the routine on
the screen, adding two-pound steel dumbbells to work her upper body. She felt
her heart start to pump, the sweat begin to sheen her skin. Soon she’d be
working into a high—not a pill high but another kind. And it was almost
as good.

Almost.

“One-fifty over
ninety,” John said, not happy with the numbers but relieved they
weren’t through the roof.

Usually he took Tom’s blood
pressure in the ground floor clinic, but today he was upstairs in the Monroe
Room. He’d been to the top floor of the White House on numerous
occasions, but this was the first time he’d ever done a medical exam
here.

“What do you call
that?” Tom said. He had his suit coat off and his left shirtsleeve rolled
up.

“Borderline. And considering
the circumstances—”

“Not bad.” John
unclipped the cuff from Tom’s arm. “Watch that sodium. I
don’t much like you staying at ninety on the diastolic; it gets above that
and I’m going to hit you with some pills.”

“That mean no more pork
rinds?”

“Damn right! They’re
loaded with fat and sodium; Pure poison for a guy like you.” Tom fell
silent as John rolled up the BP cuff and stowed it in his bag. When he looked
up, Tom was standing at the window. His sharp profile was why the Secret
Service had come up with “Razor” as his presidential code name. As
he stared out at the protesters beyond the front fence, he looked very much alone.

“Surprised by the
response?” John said.

Tom turned and shrugged. He’d
left his leader-of-the free-world face downstairs. “George Reedy says the
White House robs people of their political instincts. We begin to think we can
do anything.” His smile was tight, his eyes bleak. “Maybe
he’s right. Look at them. They want to crucify me.”

“You expected less?”

“I thought I was pretty
persuasive last night. A whole hour of network prime time… I thought
I’d convince somebody.‘”

“You probably did. But
they’re not out there marching, and they probably can’t get through
on the phone or fax. Maybe e-mail.” He barked a laugh.

“E-mail! The queue is
endless!”

“You’ll probably find a
lot of support on the Internet. Lots of free-thinkers out there.” He
stared at John, holding his gaze.

“How about you, good buddy? I
change your mind?” Clearly the answer was important to him, and John
longed to tell him what he wanted to hear.

Tom had announced last night that
he was going to the International Drug Summit in
The Hague
next week to advocate a cease fire in the war on drugs. John was already
familiar with most of the arguments, but he’d hoped some rhetorical magic
would make him a believer.

He shrugged. “Intellectually
I can see it. But emotionally…” He shook his head as he tapped his
chest. “Something in here won’t go along with the idea of an
America
where I can drop by the local drugstore for some toothpaste, some dental floss,
and a fix of heroin.”

Tom smiled tightly. “Et to,
Brute?”

“What can I say? You’ve
got a fight on your hands. The fight of your life.” And you’re going
to go down in flames, old buddy.

“I need your support,
Johnny.”

“No, you don’t.
I’m just one guy. You need the support of those four-fifty odd guys on
the Hill.”

“No, Johnny,” he said
softly. He put his hand over his heart. “I need your support here. I need
to know the one guy I could always count on is still watching my back. Somehow
it’ll be easier to win knowing you’re with me.” He jutted his
jaw defiantly at the protesters. “But with you or without you, I am going
to win.”

John knew that look. He remembered
the time when they were seventeen and had been tipping a few brews behind
Ebersol’s gas station outside Freemantle. A couple of the guys started
making fun of the beat-up old Kharman Ghia Tom drove, wondering if it could top
fifty.

Tom couldn’t defend the
car’s speed, so he said something like, “Yeah, but I can drive all
the way home without ever using the brake.” Well, nobody believed that,
so they challenged him to prove it. A crazy idea, an insane
dare—he’d have to drive through the center of Freemantle to reach
his house on the far side of town. Four traffic lights stood between him and
home, and they were not sequenced. Freemantle’s lights changed whenever
they damn well pleased.

John never expected Tom to take
them up on it, but he drained his beer and said, “Sure. Follow me and
watch. You see my brake lights once, you guys can have the car.” Truth
was, nobody wanted that pint-size rust bucket, but after checking to make sure
the brake lights worked, everybody piled into their cars to follow. Everyone
except John. He got in beside Tom. No discussion. It was understood, expected.

Off they went. John still got shaky
when he remembered that ride. The first light was green, and that had been
fine. But the next three turned red as Tom approached. He never slowed. Playing
the manual gear shift like a Stradivarius, he passed stopped cars ahead of him
on the left or swung onto the shoulder and shot by. But never once did he hit
the brake pedal. Ran three red lights, and each time he flashed through an intersection
his face wore the same expression it did now, with that same jutting jaw.