“I don’t know, Max. He doesn’t seem all that smart to me.” “I warrant you, sir”—Max flapped his hands against the table in a series of tiny slaps—“Billy Bob Bonehead knows exactly where the tigress hides.”
The one named Stu hadn’t driven very far when he pulled over into a parking lot. From what Roscoe had seen so far, Stu was the comparatively sane one of the three, but he was agitated now—sweating heavily, cursing every other car, and driving off the shoulder and back on, over the white line and back, though the car didn’t smell of alcohol. And now they were sitting in the parking lot of an insurance company, closed at this hour. There were no other cars in the lot. It was raining again, and Roscoe wondered if this would be the last time he would hear that sound, fat drops exploding on metal.
“Okay,” Stu said, “I’m gonna let you eat your burger now.”
“My hands are cuffed behind my back, Stu. Why don’t you take the cuffs off for a second—or at least put ’em in front?”
“No way. I’ll feed it to you.”
He unwrapped the foil from the burger, and the smell of fried meat billowed through the car. He held the burger in front of Roscoe’s face, and Roscoe took a big bite. These guys hadn’t been too regular about feeding him, so it was definitely the finest burger of his life. This was a good sign, wasn’t it? They wouldn’t buy him a burger if they were planning to kill him, right?
“You want some root beer? I got you a root beer.”
“Root beer. Sure. What’s going on, Stu?”
Stu didn’t answer. He held out the paper cup and straw, and Roscoe took a long sip. The ice had melted, making the root beer watery, but it tasted as good to him as champagne. For the next few minutes Roscoe couldn’t do anything but eat and drink.
“Man,” he said when it was done, “I give that burger a ten out of ten. Thank you.”
“Sit back now.”
Stu started the car again and pulled out into the traffic.
“Where we going, Stu?”
“I told you. The train station. Ship you home.”
“You’re going the wrong way. I’ve been to Dallas before. I know where the train station is.”
“We’re going to the suburban one. Less crowded.”
“Uh-huh. Stu, are you aware there is root beer all over your back seat? Blood, too. Looks like someone had a hell of an accident back here.”
“That’s right. Someone had a hell of an accident.”
They passed turnoffs for Plano and Rockwall. Roscoe hitched forward a little on the seat.
“Where’s Clem, Stu?”
“Who knows? Took the day off.”
“Took the day off, huh? He know people in Dallas?”
“Search me. I don’t know Clem that well.”
“No? You seemed to get along pretty good. I figured you two for—well, not old buddies exactly—but long-time colleagues, so to speak.”
“We’ve known each other awhile.”
“So would this be Clem’s blood on the back seat here?”
“Stop talking.”
They drove another ten minutes, then Stu exited onto a boulevard that ran under an expressway. It was down to one lane owing to construction. He veered around a ROAD CLOSED sign and pulled off onto an undeveloped area that was just scrub grass and sandy soil. He switched off the car, and there was only the clatter and hiss of the expressway overhead.
Stu got out and took a shovel out of the trunk. He opened the back door. “Okay, Jeopardy. Now we dig.”
“You expect me to dig my own grave?”
“Don’t panic. It’s not for you.”
“Why am I here, if it’s not for me? What happened to the train station?”
“It’s not for you, I said. It’s for Clem.”
“Uh-huh. Zig killed him?”
“Just get out and start digging.”
“Start digging or you’ll what? Frankly, Stu, I don’t see a lot of downside if I just sit right here in this car. What’re you gonna do, shoot me?”
Stu looked off in the distance and sighed. “I knew you were gonna say something like that.” He folded his arms and looked up at the sky—or where the sky would have been if they weren’t underneath an expressway. The overhead traffic sounded like a waterfall.
“Anyway, how am I supposed to dig with my hands cuffed behind my back?”
“I’ll cuff ’em in front.”
“And then I come at you with the shovel. Bash you over the head.”
“And I shoot you. Okay, fine. You’re right. That doesn’t work either.” Stu leaned on the shovel, thinking. “I could shoot you in the balls.”
“You think that’s going to improve my digging? Anyway, I don’t think you’re like that. It was Zig and Clem took my toes. No, no. You want a grave dug, pal, you’re gonna dig it yourself. I’ll just sit right here and watch.”
“Fuck,” Stu said. He flung his jacket into the car and started digging. Even though the expressway afforded some protection, a stiff wind had come up and was blowing rain all over him, though not enough to soften the ground. He soon started cursing.
“So what’d he kill him for?”
“Who you talking about?”
“Why’d Zig kill Clem?”
“You said that. I never said he did.”
“You said the grave was for Clem. Why’d he kill him?”
“Because Clem did something he shouldn’t have. Zig doesn’t like people who don’t listen.”
“So what’d Clem do that he shouldn’t have?”
“What do you care?”
“I don’t—but you should. You’re the one gotta work with the guy. What’d Clem do that got him the death sentence?”
“He was supposed to keep an eye on a certain party, and he didn’t do it.” Stu’s words came out between jabs of his shovel. “And now we don’t know where that party happens to be. I recognize it may seem like an overreaction.”
“Oh, no, Stu. Anybody’d do the same.”
“I admit Zig can be unreasonable.”
“Well, here’s a question for you—not trivial, for once. Here’s a guy shoots someone he works with for making a mistake. And here’s you. You saw him do it. What possible reason could Zig have for letting you live?”
“He respects me. He didn’t respect Clem.”
“Uh-huh. It seems pretty clear you don’t need me anymore. Which means you know where Max’s score is, or you know who knows. Are you betting your personal well-being on the notion that Zig can’t wait to share that money with you?”
“I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to sweet-talk me.”
“Yes, I am. But that doesn’t make what I say any less true.”
“So you think I should let you go. On the possibility that Zig’s gonna kill me.”
“More than a possibility, Stu. Stop digging, for God’s sake. You and I have been around the block. We know how people work. Right away I figured you three guys out. You tell me if I’m wrong. There’s you: tough guy, get-ahead guy, but not a berserker, not a thug. Right?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then there’s Clem. Not the smartest guy in the world. A follower. Kinda scared. He’ll do stuff he knows is wrong, real wrong, if it keeps him in good with the boss. Might even kill, if push comes to shove. Right?”
“Yeah, I’d say that pretty much covers Clem.”
“And Zig. Zig is a fucking psycho. Zig does not care how far he has to go to get what he wants. Knew it the minute you guys grabbed me. There’s no connecting with that guy. He’s missing whatever it is makes one human being recognize another. That’s why he formed the Subtractors. That’s why he works this way.”
“Subtractors?” Stu laughed and started digging again. “That’s a good one. You thought we were the goddamn Subtractors?”
“I can’t imagine what gave me that idea.”
“We’re not the Subtractors. The Subtractors are just a legend, man. The Subtractors are just a scary story.”
“Tell that to my fucking feet, Stu.”
“Naw, Zig just liked the legend, that’s all. Everybody’s heard about this mythical gang—why not live off their reputation? Act like you’re this invincible force of darkness, who’s to know?”
“So if you’re not the Subtractors, what’s the deal with Zig’s nipples? Being chained up in a bathroom, I got to see more than I wanted.”
“Word is, he was in D block at Sing Sing. He was in a beef, owed a lot of dough, and he was gonna get hit. So he did it to himself to get transferred.”
“Like I say—a guy who’ll do anything. So, if you think he’s going to let you live after all this, you’re out of your mind.”
Stu’s shovel clanked against rock. “Fuck.”
“You beginning to see my way of thinking?”
“No, no. I’m just hitting bedrock here.” Stu’s face was glistening with sweat. He was about two feet down. “What’s in it for me if I let you go? What am I supposed to do for work? Guy’s gotta make a living.”
“I don’t know. I could put a word in with Max. If he knows you saved my ass, he might do something for you.”
“I worked with Max one time. He was good for a laugh, but he’s past it, man. Way past it.” Stu had to rest on his shovel again, his face was dripping. “You think he might cut me in?”
“He doesn’t even cut me and Pookie in. But you’ll get some work. Max is a good guy to have on your side. Knows everybody.”
“Fuck it.” Stu threw down the shovel. “Okay, you convinced me. How about you help me dump Clem and then we hit the road together?”
“Deal.”
“Get outta the car and I’ll take off the cuffs.”
Roscoe got out of the car. His feet stung where the toes were missing, and every muscle in his body ached from being chained in the bathroom for days.
“I hope I don’t regret this.” Stu was fumbling in his pocket for keys. He found the right one, dropped it.
“Hurry up, man. I think I saw a car pull in over there.”
“Over where? I don’t see anything.”
“Under the cloverleaf. I could be wrong.”
Stu found the key and undid first the leg bracelets, then the handcuffs.
A pair of headlights rolled up to them and went out.
“Fuck, it’s Zig,” Stu said. “Let’s beat it.”
They got into the car, but before they could move, the headlights came on again and Zig swerved in front. Stu threw it into reverse, spitting dirt as they jerked backward. A bullet slammed into metal.
Their own headlights were on now, and they could see Zig standing in the glare like a scarecrow, gun hand pointing.
Stu spun the wheel so that the passenger side was between him and Zig.
“Fuck, man,” Roscoe said, ducking down.
“It’s the only way back to the—”
The glass above Roscoe’s shoulder shattered and Stu slumped sideways, a black hole in his temple. Zig was coming toward them, a black shadow in the cones of light.
Roscoe climbed over Stu and pulled up the seat release, pushing the driver’s seat all the way back. That left just enough room to sit on top of Stu and still reach the controls, even if his head was pressed up against the roof. He put it in drive and floored it.
Another shot hit the rear door.
As the car clattered onto the access lane, he could just see Zig climbing back into his car.
“You all right?” he said over and over again to Stu, but he already knew the answer.
TWENTY
“O
H
, J
ESUS, SON OF THE
F
ATHER
, light of my life, please, if I am worthy, send Sabrina back to me. Help me to win her back, for I know I can do everything through Him that gives me strength.”
Bill Bullard was on his knees before a round glass table in the corner of his Hyatt Regency living room. This time it was the honeymoon suite. Bill took one of the miniature Jack Daniel’s he had set out on the table, cracked it open, and drained it in one go.
“Heavenly Father, through whom and in whom all things begin and end, I thank you for helping me to find the woman of my life. And now I pray that you help me, a sinner—oh, I know I am not worthy—to help her.”
He checked the laptop that was open beside the minis. He clicked Update and the onscreen map shifted slightly, showing a squat red arrow on US 80 about one hundred miles east. She must have checked out of that Red Roof pretty early.
“Now, Lord, I ask you to grant unto Sabrina the perception to see into my soul and recognize that my life is consecrated to her, second only to You, almighty Lord. Let her see that she is enthroned in my heart in a place inviolable.”
He opened another JD and drained it.
“Lord of the Covenant, if that is asking too much, or if you feel I must be further tested, I beseech that you vouchsafe unto me the strength, the wisdom and the tenderness to win her heart. I hope and pray with your help to win her back, not just for me but for You, that I may set her feet once more upon the path of righteousness.”
There was no more Jack Daniel’s. He opened a Rémy this time, sucked a little out of it, and made a face.
“Oh, and please don’t let me hit her anymore. Grant me the strength to keep my temper. I mean, except in the most egregious cases.”
There was a knock on his door. He got up and opened it to a man in a blue suit, white shirt, red tie, holding up an ID card.
“William Bullard?” Zig said. He’d conned the name out of the front desk, using the room number. “My name’s Zigler. I’m a state-licensed investigator. Would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Bill looked closer at the license. Nevada. It appeared to be genuine, but you could buy anything fake these days.
“Questions about what?”
“May I come in? I won’t take up much of your time. My car’s out front begging for a ticket.”
Bill let him in and shut the door. He sat down in a chair near the balcony and motioned for Zig to do the same. Zig looked around, taking his time the way a real PI might. The suite was impressive—couch and chairs, huge desk, flat-screen TV, and that was just the living room. This Bullard character must have some dough.
Before Zig could ask his first question, the guy pointed a finger at him. “You musta had to be a cop before you became a PI. Where were you on the job? Vegas?”
“Santa Barbara.”
“Yeah? Who’d you work with?”
“Mr. Bullard, are you on intimate terms with the staff of the Santa Barbara police service?”
“No.”
“Then maybe you could just let me ask my questions.”
Bullard sat back with a smile. “Fire away.”
“I’ll get right to the point. I’m working for a client who needs to get something of his returned. Something precious that was taken from him.”
“Blackmail, you mean.”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Zig cleared his throat. His only contact with private investigators was through the movies. He didn’t have a clue how they might act or what they might say in real life.
“In the course of our investigation, my associates and I keep running into you and your green Chevy Blazer, and frankly we’re wondering what your interest in this case might be.”
“Case? I’m not involved in any case. I just happen to be looking for something myself. Some
one
. You used the word precious. Well, this person is very precious to me.”
Zig smiled. “I can understand that, Mr. Bullard. She’s very beautiful.”
“Yes, she is.”
“Judging by the way you’re keeping tabs on her, you probably know she’s been staying with one Max Maxwell and an individual who may or may not be his nephew, called Owen.”
“I’m aware of that,” Bullard said. “I didn’t know their names. That who you’re interested in?”
“Very.” Zig sat forward and spoke in a low voice. “May I tell you something in confidence?” He was happy with that
may
. Never used the word himself, but a private investigator would for sure.
Bullard shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
“These men are professional thieves.”
“Uh-huh. Why you telling me?”
“I’m trying to be helpful to you. Because I’m hoping you’ll be helpful to me. I need to interview the young lady in question. I believe she has information crucial to my case.”
Crucial
. Another good word.
“I doubt very much that Sabrina knows anything about their business. She only met these yahoos a couple of days ago.”
“You know she’s been staying with them? And where?”
“A trailer park,” Bullard said.
Zig laughed. “I have to say, Mr. Bullard, you’re outclassing us on every level. You must be on the job yourself. How did you know about the trailer park?”
“You oughta try praying now and again, Mr. Zigler. You’d learn a lot of things.”
“No, really, I have a professional interest here.”
“I just pray for insight. You should try it.”
“Do you have any reason to think she might be coming back to you? Have you talked to her?”
Bullard shook his head. “She doesn’t answer her cellphone. She’ll come back, though. I’ve prayed on it, and I believe with the Lord’s help I can persuade her.”
“I see. You prayed on it.”
Bullard just shook his head again, slowly this time, as if in pity, as if there were secrets too deep for the likes of Zig to fathom. His cellphone rang and he peered at the tiny screen before answering.
Zig stood up and mouthed the word “washroom.” Bullard pointed.
“Who’m I talking to?” Bill said, stepping out onto the balcony to take the call. It was sunny now, but humid from yesterday’s rain. The screen on his cell said
Sabrina
.
“You can call me Owen.”
“You’re using Sabrina’s phone. Put her on.”
“She isn’t here. She left the phone behind.”
“Don’t bullshit me, boy. Sabrina wouldn’t do that.”
“Okay, you’re right. I took it from her. I didn’t want her calling you.”
Bill looked over toward the washroom. He did not trust this so-called PI, not by a long shot.
“Are you who I think you are, boy?” he said into the phone.
“We met the other night in Vegas. You beat me up in a parking lot.”
“You’re the kid tried to interfere?”
“It was nothing personal. I just wanted you to stop hitting her.”
“You got spunk, kid, I’ll say that for you. Short on common sense, though. Tell me something, boy.”
“What’s that?”
“What did I get clocked with that night, a baseball bat? I woke up with one hell of a headache.”
“Parking meter.”
“Parking meter. There ain’t no parking meters left in Las Vegas.”
“They were taking them out, I guess. There was a whole bunch stacked up at the edge of the lot.”
“That a fact. Well, I give you credit for resourcefulness.” Bill glanced through the reflected Dallas skyline toward the washroom door. “I got company right now, why don’t you state your business?”
“I have something for you from Sabrina.”
“What would that be?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t open it. Kind of a fat envelope.”
“Sabrina’s got my number. Address, too. Why would she give you something to give me, that being the case?”
“Look, I’m doing you a favour. I didn’t have to call.”
“Why’d she give it to you, boy? Answer the question.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why she does anything she does. She’s a confusing person.”
“That’s a understatement right there, is what that is.” Bill raised a boot toward a pigeon that was sidling along the balcony railing. It flapped away. “But it still don’t answer why she give it to you.”
“Obviously, she doesn’t want to see you in person.”
“Obviously. Is that your word?”
“Anyway, she didn’t give it to me, exactly. She took off in the middle of the night and she left two envelopes on the table—one for me, one for you.”
“And what was in yours, boy?”
“A kind of apology, I guess you could say. For taking off without saying goodbye. But yours is fatter. Could be money in it, I don’t know. Maybe photographs. Says Urgent on it. You want me to open it?”
“No, I do not.”
“Okay, fine. Just give me an address, I’ll drop it in a mailbox. Wish I’d never met either of you.”
Bill chuckled. “Burned your ass good, did she?”
“Fuck you.”
“Okay, kid, where you at right now, you in Dallas?”
“Yeah, but I’m leaving in about forty-five minutes.”
“Fine. Bring it to me over at the Hyatt Regency. Room 3114. Keep in mind, if you try any funny stuff, you will pay the price.”
The shower had one of those expensive rainforest heads, and there was a basket full of soaps and shampoos. Big soaps. There was a bidet, and a sparkling marble floor. Yes, it looked like Mr. Bullard earned himself a good dollar.
When he came back out, Bullard was still on his cell out on the balcony.
Zig took a gander at the other room. King-size bed with a big fluffy duvet, another flat-panel TV, must have been fifty inches, and hotel robe and slippers. The Gideon Bible was open on the bedside table. Did anyone actually read those things?
An eight-by-ten picture lay on the bed, a hot-looking girl in tank top and jeans. Zig recognized her from Clem’s description—green eyes, dark hair, kind of a fuck-you expression on her face. He could see why this guy was obsessed with her. Body like that, yes sir, Zig could definitely work up an interest quite aside from the financial. He was equipped for all kinds of eventualities.
No female stuff anywhere in the room. No way she was staying here. So, if Bill knew where the hell this Sabrina was, where the hell was she?
Zig went back to the other room. He examined the round table where a white laptop was open, the screen dark. Zig glanced over at the balcony and casually pressed a key. The screen lit up with a map. He bent to look closer.
“What the hell you think you’re doing?” Bullard said.
Zig grinned. “I see the Lord has opened his own website here, Mr. Bullard. ‘Find My Girlfriend dot com,’ is that what it’s called? Let’s see, what’s this do?”
He hit Update. The map shifted and the red arrow took a step east on 80.
“Get away from there,” Bill said. “I’m not joking now.”
“Okay, okay, I’m cool.” Zig backed away from the laptop, hands raised in the air. “Nice to see you and the Lord communicating by cyberspace.”
“The Lord communicates through whatever media He pleases. Now tell me—you ain’t no private investigator, so why you so all-fired interested in where Sabrina is at?”
“I told you, I need to ask her some questions. Beyond that, I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Bullshit.”
“Tell me something, Bullard. You’re a religious man. You imagine you’re a good influence on that girl?”
“I know I am. Sabrina suffered a godless upbringing. I’m doing my best to rectify that.”
“I see. You think you’re straightening her out?”
“Yessir. I have opened her heart on several issues. But there is none so blind as he who will not see, and she is still resistant in many ways.”
“You advise her on the Ten Commandments? ‘Thou shalt not steal’ and so on?”
“I prefer to focus on the positive. The benefits of prayer and good works.”
“Because it seems like she doesn’t get the part about not stealing.”
“What’re you talking about, peckerwood?”
“It seems your little sweetheart ripped off Mr. Maxwell and his nephew. Relieved him of every last cent.”
Bullard took a step forward, a manoeuvre that seemed to double his size. “You’re lying to me.”
“I swear.” Zig raised a hand. “Hand me that bible and I’ll swear all over it that she ripped them off. My associates saw them crying in their beer about it, and they don’t have a clue where she is.”
“And you want to get your hands on what she took, that it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Bill drew his thirty-eight, ugly little black thing poking out of his fist. “You ain’t going near Sabrina. I won’t abide it.”
“Okay, okay. Take it easy, Mr. Bullard.”
“I will see you dead before I let you go near that girl.”
“The way I hear it, it isn’t me you have to worry about, it’s that Maxwell kid. Last we saw, she couldn’t keep her hands off him.”
This was pure invention, and Zig realized immediately that he had overplayed. Bullard swayed as if he had been struck. He fired blind, catching Zig in his left arm.
Zig spun and fell. He rolled over and at the same time pulled out his own automatic. He fired up at Bullard and a spot appeared on his cheekbone about the size of a red dime.