Gone ’Til November (13 page)

He didn’t stop for food, ate two of the chocolate bars instead.

When his eyes grew tired, the white line double, he found a motel off 95. The fat white man at the desk wanted identification. Morgan turned away, was leaving the lobby when the man called him back. When Morgan handed him seventy in cash, the man counted it twice.

In the room, Morgan spread the map on the bed and traced his route. He’d try to make Savannah tomorrow night, would drive as late as it took. Then into Florida the next morning.

His cell buzzed on the bed. He picked it up, saw it was C-Love’s number.

“Yeah.”

“Take this down,” C-Love said.

“Hold on.”

He went to the writing desk, got a sheet of motel stationery, a pen. “Go ahead.”

“Where you at?”

“Place called Emporia.”

“Where’s that?”

“Virginia.”

C-Love read off a ten-digit number. “Woman’s name is Simone. She knows you’re on the way. Hit her on that number when you get down there. She says she got some information for you.”

“Anything I should tell her?”

“You don’t need to tell her shit. Just find out what she got, take it from there. They released the body, so she getting ready to fly back. After you hook up with her, call me. Big Man’ll wanna talk to you.”

“After I hear what she says, I’ll handle it my way, whatever I think is best. He knows that, right?”

“He knows. He just want to talk, see what your sitch is. See if you need some help.”

“No help,” Morgan said.

“Might change your mind when you get down there. Can’t never tell how that shit’s gonna play out.”

“I’ll call after I talk to her. Tell him that.”

“I’ll do that. You stay in touch, bro.”

Morgan pushed
END
. He was feeling the miles, the ache in his back and hips.

He checked the lock on the door, set the chain. He felt vulnerable without the Beretta. He turned the TV on, the sound low, just to have another presence in the room. He folded the map, switched the lamp off, lay on the bed fully clothed, the TV light flickering on the walls. In a few minutes, he was asleep.

Crossing into Georgia, Morgan had the windows open, Bunny Sigler on the tape deck. Warm air blew through the car. Forest on both sides of the highway, green and thick. Then suddenly, on his left, a wide river running parallel to the road, the sun sparkling on its surface. After a few miles, the river turned, winding back through the forest like some primeval scene, a painting from a book.

He’d bought a pair of sunglasses at a Stuckey’s in South Carolina and put them on now against the glare. He wore a gray pullover, sleeves pushed up, the leather coat folded on the backseat. The sun and breeze felt good. He hadn’t taken a Vicodin that morning, hadn’t needed it. He felt awake, alert, the highway unfolding in front of him, the air sweet. Newark felt like another world, another time.

He drove past billboards for pecan logs, fireworks. Past Waffle House and gas station signs mounted on high poles visible from the elevated roadway. Every few miles, he passed pieces of torn-up truck tires on the shoulder. He’d push as far into Georgia as he could, until the fatigue was too much, then stop for the night.

Tomorrow he’d cross into Florida, head west on 301, the
route that would take him around Gainesville, then south again. I-75 part of the way, then local roads past Lakeland, deep into the heart of the state. He’d marked Hopedale on the map, had picked a town named Arcadia to stay in. It was in a different county, an hour northwest. Close enough to get in and out easily, far enough away that his presence wouldn’t be known.

He turned the volume up. Bunny telling his woman he’d be home soon. A phone call from a bus station. Only a few more hours to go.

The trees dropped away on both sides, gave way to rows of white-tipped plants stretching forever, like a carpet of snow. Cotton fields, he realized. He drove on.

He crossed the border a little before noon and turned off I-95 onto 301, the map open on the seat beside him. For most of the ride, Florida had seemed like more Georgia, but now the terrain began to change. He passed swamps and canals, thick trees with hanging moss. Barns with tin-patched roofs, chickens in the yards.

He stopped for lunch outside Ocala, a fast food drive-through, and ate half a hamburger before his stomach rebelled. He sipped Coke to settle it, got back on the road. Soon he began to see signs for Lakeland. He found it on the map, traced the roads that would take him southeast.

Near Arcadia, he passed a row of unpainted shotgun shacks hard by the roadside. In front of one of them, two black children played in the dirt. They watched as he drove by.

Twenty minutes later, he found what he wanted. The motel was set back from the highway. It was a sixties-style motor court, U-shaped with semidetached cottages, all gray wood and clanking air conditioners. Only four other cars in the lot. The pool was empty and cracked.

The old black man behind the bulletproof glass in the office had no problem taking Morgan’s cash. No maid service. Washer and dryer in back, quarters only. Ice machine free. Morgan paid for four nights in advance.

He pulled the Monte Carlo around back, out of sight of the access road. Trees back here, a narrow creek running through, and everywhere the rotten egg smell of nearby swamp.

The key was on a diamond-shaped piece of plastic. He let himself into the small room—a single bed, bureau, nightstand, desk, television, no phone. A jalousie door with roll-up shade. He turned the air conditioner on. It thumped and shook but eventually blew a stream of cool air into the room.

His pullover was soaked through with sweat. He peeled it off and tossed it on the bed. He pulled the heavy curtains shut, found they didn’t meet. A band of sunlight still blazed through.

He touched his toes, held the position to let the tension in his back ease. It was good to be off the road. It had taken more out of him than he’d expected. He got his cell out, looked at it, then put it on the nightstand. He’d rest a while, then make the call.

He stretched out on the bed, closed his eyes, felt the miles start to fall away from him. He slept.

•  •  •

He was lying on the bed, fully dressed, when the tap came at the door. He looked at his watch. It was a little past nine.

He got up, edged the door shade aside. A woman stood in the yellow glare of the outside light. An oversized purse hung from her shoulder.

He opened the door. A cab that said
SAINT CHARLES TAXI
on its side waited in the lot, the white driver watching them.

“You need to pay him,” the woman said.

“How much?”

“Fifty.”

He got his wallet from the bureau, took out two twenties and a ten, gave them to her.

“You do it,” he said. “Tell him to wait around, but not out there. Tell him to go somewhere, drive around, come back in twenty minutes. You won’t be long.”

“What if he doesn’t want to wait?”

“Then he drives all the way back down there with an empty cab and no fare. Or he stays, makes another fifty dollars and a twenty tip. Tell him. He’ll wait.”

She went back out. Morgan switched off all the lights except the one on the nightstand. He heard the cab pull away. When she came back into the room, she shut the door behind her. He caught her purse strap, turned her, and had it off her arm before she realized it.

“Man, what the—”

He opened it. Cosmetics, wallet, cell phone, a thick white
legal envelope. He took the envelope out, tossed it on the bed, shook the purse, saw there was nothing else in it. He handed it back to her.

“Your ass is paranoid,” she said.

He went to the door, locked it. “Anyone follow you here?”

“No. I kept looking. I never saw anyone.”

He pointed to the bed. She went over, sat on the edge, set her purse on the floor. He pulled the desk chair out and sat down, knowing he was in shadow. The way he wanted it.

She was younger than he expected. When he looked at her, he thought about Cassandra, felt something tug inside him. The woman wore her hair straight and back, designer jeans, a soft green man’s shirt. He could sense her uncertainty, the fear she was hiding. Wondering if she should have come out here, what would happen next.

She looked at the door, then back at him.

“You talk to Mikey?” she said. “You know who I am?”

He nodded, pointed at the envelope. “What’s that?”

“Police reports. Coroner’s report, too. And two newspaper stories I cut out. The names are all in there. I found their addresses, too. The man who shot Derek is named Flynn. He had a woman cover for him, named Cross. They’re the ones that killed him.”

“You sure about that? About the woman?”

“She was with him.”

She held the envelope out. He took it, put it on the desk.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said. “I’m taking Derek home.”

“Good.”

“What are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“Mikey said you’d take care of this. Take care of the people that hurt Derek. What happened to him wasn’t right. He didn’t deserve that.”

Mikey don’t give a shit about Derek,
Morgan thought.
If you think he does, you’re as big a fool as that boy was
.

Pain in his stomach then, the first time in days. He grimaced.

“You all right?” she said.

“What else you find out?”

“They said the case is closed. No charges.”

“What about the car?”

“They impounded it. They’re keeping it, I guess.”

“They find anything else in it?”

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“Not that they told me. And there’s nothing in those reports.”

He got up, walked past her into the bathroom, took the Vicodin bottle out of his overnight bag. He shook out a half tablet, filled a plastic glass with water from the sink, washed it down. He could feel her watching him.

“Mikey give you anything for me?” she said.

“Like what?”

“Money.”

He went back out, shook his head.

“He owes me for what happened,” she said.

“You need to take that up with him.”

He went to the window and pushed the curtains aside to look out. Insects fluttered around the outside light.

“Mikey tell you how much he paid Derek to come down here?” she said. “Four thousand dollars. That what his life was worth?”

He let the curtains fall closed.

“It’s not fair,” she said. He looked at her, saw water in her eyes. She blinked it away.

“He needed that money for us,” she said. “For his little boy. That’s the only reason he came down here. If he hadn’t, he’d still be alive.”

“You need some cash? I could give you a hundred or so.”

He saw the anger then, pushing away the fear. Liking it, the strength there.

“A hundred?” she said.

“I can maybe go two.”

“You’re all the same, aren’t you? You and Mikey and C-Love, all of them. You don’t care what happens to anyone else, do you? It’s all about the money.”

“What did you think it was about?”

“We’re owed,” she said. “
I’m
owed. And my little boy. For Derek, for what happened to him down here.”

This woman is trouble,
Morgan thought.
Trouble for Mikey, trouble for C-Love. Once she walked out that door, though, not his trouble anymore.

“Like I said, you need to get with Mikey on that.”

“I will.”

She stood, picked up the purse. “I’ll wait outside. I don’t like the smell in here.” She started for the door.

“One thing you need to be careful of,” he said. “When you get back up there.”

“What?”

“Mikey don’t pay his debts if there’s a cheaper way to solve the problem. You feel me?”

He got his wallet, took out three fifties, then, after a moment, three more, held them out. She looked at the bills.

“For the ride home,” he said.

He kept them out there. She took them, then unlocked the door, went out, and shut it behind her.

He opened the envelope, took the papers out, got the reading glasses from his bag.

Copied reports, twelve pages altogether. One was from the coroner’s office, had the generic outline of a body, front and back views,
X
s marking entrance and exit wounds. Newspaper clippings and a plain sheet of white paper. On it, she’d written two names and addresses in a small, precise feminine hand.

He saw headlights, went to the window, and parted the curtains. The cab was there. She got in, looked back at the room, at him. Then the driver turned around and headed back the way he’d come.

He lay in the dark until one thirty, then went out to the car. The night was filled with the sound of crickets, the ragged hum of air conditioners, a muffled TV from one of the rooms.

He popped the trunk, got the bag Otis had given him, a
screwdriver from the toolbox, the gun cleaning kit he’d bought at a sportsmen’s shop in North Carolina. Then he opened the passenger side door, sat on the blacktop, and worked by the glow of the courtesy light.

When he was done, he replaced the rocker panels, locked the doors, carried the bag inside. At the desk, he cleaned and oiled the Beretta, then reassembled it. He spilled a box of 9 mm shells out on the blotter, brass glinting in the light. He thumbed fifteen rounds into the clip, pushed it into the grip until it seated. He chambered a shell, decocked the gun, engaged the safety.

He did the same with the Walther, the gun only slightly heavier when it was loaded. When he was done, he took out the bag of reefer, got the pack of rolling papers from his overnight. The pain in his stomach was back, low and burning. He sat on the bed, lit the joint, sucked in smoke and held it, thought about the three hundred and fifty thousand.

Mikey’s money, but he’d be inside before long, one way or another. Morgan knew if he brought it all back, Mikey would find a way to cheat him on the cut. Or just give him up to the Trey Dogs to make peace, keep it all himself.

With the three fifty and what he had stashed in Newark, Morgan could start again in another city, another state, bring Cassandra and the boy with him. He could find a doctor there, begin the treatments. If Mikey or C-Love or the twins came looking, he could deal with that, too, protect what was his. What he’d earned.