Here Comes the Night (8 page)

Buck dialed the last number of his safe combination and
clicked it open. After his clumsy attempt to tackle Jorge on his way to
Gordon’s office, they had flex-tied Buck’s hands again in front. And his nose
was bleeding from a shot Meatface had landed. Now it hurt even to breathe in
short spurts.

Twigs, holding her gun on him, motioned to his desk chair.
“Go sit down. And no more heroics.”

When he was safely seated, she looked inside Buck’s safe and
whistled. “Oh, here we go.” She started dumping the wrapped bills out of the
recyclable brown bag Buck had brought them in.

After a minute, Jorge popped his head in from around the
corner, eyeing Buck curiously. “Twigs, you gotta see this.”

Buck dropped his head. All hope of a miracle officially
vanished.

“What? I’m in the middle of this,” Twigs snapped.

“No, trust me, you want to see it,” Jorge said.

Twigs stopped and signaled with her gun for Buck to walk
ahead of them. When they opened the door to Gordon’s office, Meatface was
standing behind the desk, mimicking a ringmaster’s presentation of the big act.

He extended one hand toward Gordon’s body and gave a
“Ta-da!”

Twigs glanced over at Buck, grinning like she was actually
impressed with him. Then she walked around the desk, studying the dead body.
“No wonder our star quarterback was so nervous.”

“You think he did it?” Meatface giggled.

“If he didn’t, I bet he knows who did.” Then she looked
sharply at her boys. “You touch anything?”

Both thugs showed her their latexed hands, like “of course
not.” All three of them looked at Buck with a new awareness, even respect.

Twigs’ laugh was dark. “Boys, the vocabulary word for the
day is ‘serendipity.’ Find his safe.”

Buck could only stare at Gordon’s body lying across his desk.
In the moment when it had taken everything Buck could muster to pull the
trigger, he had been in the grip of his hatred for the man. Gordon had known
how to push Buck’s buttons and did it regularly, laughing aloud when Buck was
slow or reacted like a hurt kid. Gordon always had an uncanny sense of how to
undercut Buck when he least suspected it. And Gordon had thrived on his little
game.

Now, with impossible irony, Gordon was doing it to Buck
again. Seeing the blood drained to the front of Gordon’s face as he lay there,
the mottled white of his sagging skin, Buck remembered the first time he had
killed a rabbit. It had been so important to prove himself to his hunter father
and brothers. But afterwards, holding the innocent, limp body, blood dripping from
its ears, he had not been able to hold back his little boy tears. He had never
lived down the humiliation. No family get together was complete without
retelling the story with relish.

That same wave of sensations push through him again. Tears
welled in his dark, swollen eyes, and he cried silently, unnoticed by Twigs and
the boys, who had gotten a drill out of Jorge’s workbag and were going at
Gordon’s safe.

Of all the things Buck had figured on, the least of them was
the possibility that Gordon Wesner was just another man. In his death, he was
the dead rabbit from his childhood. Even his hands, with their caramel colored
liver spots, looked fragile and harmless in the moonlight.

Buck looked out at the shadows of tree branches lightly
scraping the windows. He couldn’t imagine how the sun would ever rise again.

As she made her way home, Erika’s head slowly began to
clear. Getting a grip on the night’s events, however, was like chasing storm
clouds. Nothing, then bits and pieces would pop up with such intensity that she
had to stop and rub her face to believe it was all real.

Normally, walking by the side of the road in the middle of
the night would be too unsafe to consider, but it didn’t matter much to her
now. She sensed Tony trailing her at a distance, which made her keep pace ahead
of him, determined to somehow get home.

At some point it hit her that it was after the truck stop
soda when she’d started feeling woozy. Then she got it. Vivian had somehow
slipped her something. Probably Rohypnol.

Erika had to get back to her apartment and get her bearings.
She was supposed to work her usual early Saturday breakfast shift in only a
couple of hours. And she still hadn’t slept.

A farm pickup pulled over to the shoulder close to her.

“What are you doin’ out here on the highway by yourself,
young lady?” It was a female voice, older and kindly.

Erika looked into the eyes of a farm woman and her husband,
who were checking her out. “I’m kind of lost,” Erika said, which was true
enough.

“Are you hurt?” the man asked.

Their kindness started Erika bawling so hard, that the woman
got out and put her arms around her. “There, there, you’re safe now.”

“I’m sorry,” Erika said in gulps.

“It’s okay,” the woman said. “My husband and I are headed to
Farmer’s Market in the city. We’ll give you a ride.”

Erika looked carefully in their eyes and saw no deception
there. These were good, rural folks. She nodded and gratefully took a seat
between the two of them. The front seat smelled like hay and fresh bread.

Within ten minutes, Erika was asleep.

A hundred yards back, Tony watched stone-faced as Erika got
in the pickup ahead. A part of him wanted to apologize for the disaster last
night. But she wasn’t speaking to him anyway.

The thing he wondered now was if she would talk. There was a
time he could have been sure about her, but not any more.

Strangely, one of the things that had drawn him to her was
that she had a conscience, and it was interesting being around someone who thought
like that. It was actually surprising, because she’d had a crappy childhood
herself. She had never known her father, and when her mother died Erika was
still young. He couldn’t remember exactly how old. But she had to figure it out
in foster homes, and he knew how some of them could fuck kids up.

But the point now was, don’t blow the big stuff. His weekly
meet with his sad sack parole officer was scheduled for later this morning. He
had
to make that. No debate. He couldn’t get violated. P.O.’s never bought “shit
happens.”

And sooner rather than later, he’d have to have a talk with
Erika.
He was pretty sure he could bring her back around.

The discovery of Gordon Wesner’s 36-year old Remy Martin
premium cognac, which usually went for $90 a shot in fancy bars, had slowed
things down considerably. They had foregone his crystal brandy snifters for
fear of leaving DNA. But they were gloved up and not leery of taking shots straight
from the bottle and wiping it down. Even Twigs had relaxed a little. And
Meatface was having a heyday looting Gordon’s desk.

Still wearing Buck’s football helmet, he was rifling through
the drawers when he noticed Gordon’s Rolex still on his wrist. Bingo! He
started singing a whispery rendition of the Sooner fight song as he freed the
watch from the dead man’s arm. “Rah Oklahoma, Rah Oklahoma, Rah Oklahomaaaaaaah…”

He slipped it free on cue and held it up like a trophy as he
brought the song home. “Rah, Oklahomaaaa, O. K. U.”

Twigs cautioned him, “Enough with the mugging,” but she was
enjoying herself, too. She had brought the money from Buck’s safe into the
president’s office and was counting it to see if there was any left over for
them.

Meatface spit on the bloody face of the watch and wiped it
clean. Then he modeled it for Buck. “Some dried blood specks,” he said proudly,
“no big deal.”

The only one not having a good time was Jorge, who’d nearly
stopped talking altogether because it was taking forever to drill out Gordon’s
safe. He blamed it on not having heavy duty enough tools with him, but Buck
figured it was more likely the Lortabs Jorge had popped just before they left
for the bank.

As Buck’s painkillers started wearing off, his missing
finger throbbed as though it were still attached. To take his mind off it, he
tried to think who might be on watch duty tonight. Sometimes Johnny, the talky
security guard, pulled a double and came back in for the midnight to eight
shift. The rest of the night watch group were so old they would be no match for
Twigs’ boys.

The possibility that his captors might be blamed for
Gordon’s death had not escaped Buck’s attention—if the police ruled out
suicide. But even as it flashed through his mind, he watched a drop of his own
blood fall from his bandaged hand onto the rich Turkish carpet. It made him
realize there were just too many loose ends he couldn’t wrap his head around.

The grind of the drill stopped and it whirred effortlessly
for a moment before going silent. Everyone turned toward Jorge, who whooshed
out his breath and nodded it was done. “It’s set free time, amigos.”

Twigs did the honors, swinging the safe door open. The three
took it in with smiles.

“Bucko,” she announced, “turns out you’re small potatoes. Look
at all this.”

Inside were even thick stacks of bundled bills, files of
legal looking stuff, manila envelopes, and a prominent cigar box marked:
Havana
Whiffs.

“Okay, boys, pack her up. We hit the Mother Lode.” Twigs was
fairly dancing through the office now. Then she checked her watch. “Put a move
on. We got to get out of here.”

Meatface was looking around for something to put the
unexpected loot in. “Hey, Bucko, where you keep the trash bags?”

“In the conference room,” Buck said.

“Show me.” Meatface grabbed him by the arm and Buck showed
him where the black bags were in the closet.

As they came back in Gordon’s office, Twigs said, “Okay,
complete silence now. We’re cutting it close.”

Hot water had never felt so good. Angie slid into the corner
against the jet sprays and let the showerhead run over her until her fingers
were shriveled as prunes. She never did that. She always took short, coolish
showers because of the damage the heat did to her hair and skin, but this
morning she needed everything she could throw at this hangover, including a
hair of the dog.

The second she had arrived, she downed a couple of ice cold
Stoli shots and felt better almost immediately.

Indigo had dropped her at the house before dawn and Angie
didn’t argue. She would rather have brought her car from the Cowtown public
parking lot, but Indigo said the last thing she needed to risk was driving in
her condition.

She put on a pot of coffee while she dried her hair and
found some jeans and a sweater. She would have to get her car. She’d call a cab
to do that.

Angie was supposed to report Gordon missing early Saturday
morning, saying that after getting up, she’d realized he hadn’t come home. The
fact that she had been arrested for
drunk and disorderly
the night
before complicated the picture, but then she thought perhaps she could use it
to her advantage. She would say she was so upset when her husband didn’t come
home, she’d gone out and tried to drink her troubles away. She needed to call
Gordon’s office as well. The records had to show she kept trying to get in
touch with him.

Right now, however, Angie was ravenous. She poured a cup of
coffee and opened the refrigerator. Something on her stomach would settle her
down. There sat a sumptuous Greek yogurt with caramel at the bottom. She never
allowed herself that many calories for breakfast, but this was an exception.
Today she needed fortitude.

This truck driver was giving Tony a headache. Clearly, he
had no one to jawbone with on a regular basis.

“Now take the goddamn Department of Agriculture,” the
enormous, overalled man was saying. “I bet you don’t know shit about what they
do.”

“Not really,” Tony answered, and waited to hear a repeat of
the guy’s thoughts on national policy. He had been working his way through
American government for half an hour now. And whatever he was hauling in back
stank to high heaven.

Tony was relieved to see an
Oklahoma City Limits
sign
on the right.

“Those fuckers are looking to help the farmers, so they say.
Which doesn’t sound all bad, ‘cept these farmers are getting subsidized out the
ass already, whether they plant or not. Food prices go up, they still get
payments. Food prices go down, the payments go up even more. It’s a goddamn
racket is what it is.”

“Why don’t you become a farmer?” Tony asked, just to seem
interested.

“Who the fuck can afford the land? Don’t get me started. I
spent everything on my trucker’s license. But now the Department of
Transportation—you think those assholes are going to help us out? Hell, gas can
nearly double overnight and ‘fore I can blink, I’ve lost my whole load. You
think we’re gonna get subsidized?” He turned in his seat, expecting a response.

“I doubt it,” Tony complied.

“You are correct, boy. We’re the last ones on the government
tit. They’re just hangin’ us out to dry. It sucks so bad my wife isn’t even
talking to me. Kid needs fucking shin guards so he can play
after-fucking-school baseball. Daughter needs some kind of fancy goddamn angel wings
so she can be in the school play.”

The truck was heading right into Cowtown. At least that was
a stroke of luck.

“Where was it you was headed now?” the trucker asked.

“Anywhere around the stockyards is fine.”

“I’m delivering to the stockyards,” he said.

“That’s perfect,” Tony said. “What are you hauling anyway?”

“Oh, I’m picking up manure from around the show rings. How
about that for a gig?” He laughed. “In a few minutes I can honestly say I’m
full of shit.”

Taking the last swig of Gordon’s cognac, Twigs sat studying
Buck as Meatface and Jorge loaded the entire contents of Gordon’s safe into the
trash bags. Everything was at a whisper now, preparing to get out of there.

“See, what I don’t get from you, Buck,” she said low into
his ear, “is the lack of stunned surprise about your boss being dead. I mean,
most people would be all aghast, or sad, or at least a little freaked out,
don’t you think?”

Buck’s finger was throbbing and his lip was so swollen he
could barely talk. “I’m freaked out, for sure,” Buck managed.

“Poor baby.” Twigs brushed back some of the hair that had
fallen over his forehead. “It has been quite a night, huh? Still, something is
way off here.” She held up Buck’s key ring and shook it. “Like how come you’ve
got the key to the big boy’s private office? You guys that tight?”

Buck just shook his head.

“Oops. Hey, don’t worry. I mean, even if you killed him, you
didn’t take his money,” Twigs whispered. “That’s on us.”

“What are you saying?”

Twigs sighed, as though repeating something to a slow child.
“We both have our reasons for keeping our mouths shut. Agreed?”

“Yeah,” Buck assured her.

“Good,” she said, patting him on the shoulder as she moved
back to the safe. “Chop chop, guys.”

Meatface hoisted a bag over his shoulder. “We’re done.”

Jorge was loaded up as well, and they were ready to walk out
when the sound of someone whistling came from down the hallway.

Twigs halted everyone with a hand gesture and put a firm
finger to her lips. They all turned off their mini-flashlights. Soundlessly,
Twigs closed the side door to the conference room. They all stood frozen in
Gordon’s office, only a blue-green slice of moonlight marbling their faces.

Buck recognized Johnny’s whistle. The guards were supposed
to stay silent during the room checks, Johnny had told Buck once, but he always
forgot. Moments passed, the whistle coming nearer and nearer.

Now Johnny had entered the secretarial common area and was
headed toward the front door of Gordon’s office.

No one breathed. Across the room, Gordon’s doorknob clicked
as Johnny wiggled it. Locked. Everyone’s shoulders dropped a little with
relief, waiting for him to move on.

Then Gordon’s desk phone rang.

Stunned, Jorge jumped and dropped one of his cash bags.

It made a light thump as it hit the carpeted floor.

Everyone froze again. And waited in the thick silence.

Then back at the front door, Johnny’s familiar voice.
“Somebody in there?” A moment. “Mr. Wesner?”

They could hear him walking down the hall back toward Buck’s
office door. They heard a tap on Buck’s door. “Mr. Wesner? Mr. Dearmore?”

After a moment, the metal clicks of Buck’s office door being
unlocked by a key. It swished open, and Johnny’s voice grew closer and clearer.

“Oh, shit,” they heard Johnny say. Then the sound of his
holster being unsnapped.

A two-way cackled on and Johnny spoke into it: “This is
Zero-5. I got a possible 52. Over.”

A female squawk came back at him. “Roger that, Zero-5.”

Everyone listened as Johnny rustled around Buck’s office,
speaking into his two-way. “Confirm that 52. Vice-President’s safe’s been
robbed. Send back-up and call 911.”

Now all business, Twigs signaled Meatface to stand by the
side of the door that opened into the room. Buck was seated a couple of feet
from the hinged side of the door, opposite Meatface.

On Twigs’ signal, Jorge pulled out a small handgun and
pressed the barrel to Buck’s temple.

A slight rustle on the carpet on the other side of the door
confirmed that Johnny had moved into the conference room. Twigs pointed her gun
at the side door.

After a moment, the side door handle slowly turned, and Buck
saw Jorge look away to watch the door.

Buck saw his chance. He yelled and swung his flex-tied hands
into Jorge’s arm, dislodging the weapon. In the same move, Buck dived to the
carpet and rolled his body against the door, trying to close it in the middle
of Johnny entering.

Buck was too late.

Johnny had moved through the door just far enough that
Meatface could swing the football helmet right into Johnny’s face.

Stunned, Johnny reeled, and Meatface delivered a second blow
to the top of Johnny’s head. He fell unconscious to the floor. Moving with
amazing quickness for his size, Meatface had Johnny disarmed in seconds.

Twigs snapped to her men. “Let’s move. Double time.”

As they hustled Buck out with them, Johnny groaned behind
them. His two-way squawked. “Zero-5. Backup’s on the way.”