Spiral (40 page)

But now he could more easily imagine something else. Constant fear. Unceasing tension. Sleepless nights. Unrelenting insecurity. Six months ago he had had no doubts that he would get away with it, but now, when he might be only hours away from accomplishing what he had planned, thought about, and desired for so long, it seemed to him that his connection to the affair might be the news on the front page instead of the assassination.

He was ashamed at his sudden pessimism, his—so obvious-fear. It seemed now, at the first sign of trouble, he was turning into a whimperer.

The next question: How much time would he have, after the assassination? That was easy to answer: He would have no way of knowing. Perhaps he had planned it wrong all along. Perhaps he was naive to think he could continue to live as he had always lived, the brains behind the perfect political assassination. It seemed obvious now that he should leave with Bias and Rubio. Only a fool woul stay behind. It was smart, cunning, to leave. Strike, and then flight. Isn't that what they were doing? Of course.

Then he thought of the obvious once again. If he had to get touch with Bias, why leave a note? Why not wait in person? He could talk with Bias when he came to make the pickup. It was stupid send messages when he could simply talk to him.

He slammed the doors of the Volvo, started the car, and roared to the down ramp, descending to the second level. Finding a spot with a clear view of the dead drop, he backed in—just in case—and cut the motor. He wasn't near the outside here, there was no breeze, and it was gloomy, but he felt safer. He would feel a lot safer after talking to Bias.

Chapter 40

C
ISSY FARRELL
sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed in Cappy's Cash Motel off the Gulf Freeway, picking at a fever blister at the corner of her mouth with trembling fingers which also held a freshly lighted Salem. Her eyes were puffy from crying and too much beer, and her bleached hair was stiff and sticking out on one side where she had nervously run her sweaty hands through it maybe a thousand times. She wore blue jeans, and one of Donny's plaid western shirts with snap buttons. Staring at a rerun on the black-and-white TV set, she watched Angel trying to lay a scam on Jim Rockford—she guessed, she didn't know because the sound was off. She reached down between her legs and lifted a Coors Light. Draining the last of the warm brew, she tossed the can off the edge of the bed with the others. An advertisement for an anniversary special of Country and Western's Greatest Hits came on after a Rockford fade-out and Cissy thought for a second she was going to throw up. She waited to see if she was and when she didn't she went back to picking the fever blister. Then she started crying again.

She fell back on the bed, unfolding her legs and letting them dangle over the end, her arms flopping out and scattering cigarette ashes. Scared and dead-ass drunk on the Coors, the same damn Coors she had gone to get in Donny's pickup and had come back with when she saw the two cars at Tucky and Ruby's. She didn't know what had made her suspicious, maybe because there was two of them, but she had stopped and sat there and looked at them and just had this feeling. So she turned around and drove back up McCarty. She didn't know what to do but she wanted to look at the cars again to make sure. She drove down Clinton to Mississippi, and got up on the East Loop North and drove in the goddamned traffic in the sun and looked across the sand fields and dried grass at Tucky and Ruby's. A bag of ice melted on the front seat beside her next to the sack of six-packs and she could still see the two cars from the Loop, too. So she kept driving.

Worrying about it all the way to Market, she got off the Loop there and drove to Wayside, where she stopped at a U-totem store. She tried to think whether it would be good or bad to call but after a minute decided what the shit she had to know and called. Nobody answered. It rang nine times before she hung up. Scared now. But she didn't know if it was the police or the Mexicans and she didn't know what to do either way because it just wasn't something she had figured on happening while she was out to get some beer.

She drove back to McCarty and passed by Stang at a good clip, looking down the street as she went by. The two cars were still there. During the next two hours she must of done that a dozen times. She drove out to her and Donny's place in Pasadena but didn't stop even though she didn't see any strange cars around. Maybe the place was staked out or somebody was waiting inside and her by herself she didn't want to get arrested or raped whichever way it was going to be.

After a while she had to pull over at a Texaco and get some gas because the goddam truck only got about ten miles to the gallon the way Donny had it rigged out. She paid for the gas and bought three packages of barbecue-flavored Doritos and crawled back in the truck. She popped the tab on one of the beers and tore into a bag of chips as she headed back to make another pass by Tucky's.

The cars were gone this time, so she turned in and went down to the house. She wished to God she'd of kept on driving. God Almighty damn.

Oh, God Almighty.

She ran outside slamming the door behind her and threw up at the pickup but she was so scared she grabbed at the door handle before she was through with it but couldn't get it opened and then did and jumped in and peeled out of there and threw up in her lap while she was driving. She was so crazy she didn't even start crying until she was nearly to Lyons, right at the East Freeway, and when she did start crying it sounded funny like it was a sort of hoot that didn't bring tears for a long time and she thought she wasn't going to be able to get sane again or hold the pickup on the freeway. She got on the Loop and drove around the entire city of Houston trying to get hold of herself and put her mind in gear. She didn't know what else to do and the driving helped keep her mind off the godawful horror back there.

She drove and drove in the late-day heat until the seat of her blue jeans was all soaked through from the melted ice and she might of even peed her jeans she didn't know and then she thought of checking into Cappy's Cash Motel. She did and paid in advance not even minding that she was still crying and that she had to turn her back on the guy at the desk who was a little leery of her anyway and walk out with him seeing her wet butt. It didn't matter, she just wanted get the hell in that room and lock the door and lie down and drink until she passed out because she didn't want to think about Tucky a Ruby and . . . She took all the beer and chips and turned on the TV and watched whatever was on and after a while they kept slipping no matter what she was watching so she turned the sound off and tried to read the lips, concentrating on them so hard her mind didn't have time for the other at all.

Lying on her back, her sunken stomach rolling between sharp hipbones because she was a skinny lady, Cissy thought sure was going to throw up again or maybe have diarrhea. She didn't want to because it was nothing but Coors and Doritos which was all had had since then and it tasted like hell.

Goddamned how many hours now and how many beers? It been night hours and hours and some of the channels had test patterns. Then she opened her eyes and looked at the square light shade on the ceiling and a dark spot in its middle which was dead bug in a pile. Well it wasn't the police, so it must of been the Mexicans and if it was the Mexicans they would know Donny's truck and they would find her. She made a face to cry but couldn't she was so weak and dried-out but her body shook like she was.

Then she opened her eyes again because the idea of the gun behind the pickup seat popped into her head. Limp as a washrag she rolled over and hit the floor her face flat down smelling the dirt rug and feeling her top lip turned wrong side out against it. She thought she had bit her tongue too. Pulling her arms up to her shoulders she pushed herself up got her top half off the rug and looked at the pickup keys by the telephone on the little table by the bed and looking at them she tasted blood and felt the sting on the side tongue. Her arms folded and she hit the floor again but she didn't a thing it was as soft as a bed.

If she was lucky she would pass out and they could get her then because it wasn't going to be any good without Donny anyway. Goddam their souls. Despite everything she saw Ruby and Tuck again, like figures in the wax museum at Western World looking pretty real but not real enough because who could look real the way they were it was just too hard to believe. And then she saw Donny who didn't look wax at all but just dead which grieved her and she cried with her nose mashed into the shag rug and the taste of blood on her tongue where she had bit it good. Like the gun the thought of her momma popped into her head and she wasn't sure but she thought she had her hand up in the air going for the telephone, making great big sweeps at it trying to snag it off the table.

Chapter 41

WHAT
do you think?" Bias asked. They sat back a good way from the railroad crossing on St. Regis Place, a short street that lay parallel and next to the railroad track on its western side. He simply had wanted to look at the crossing awhile, watch cars go over it, which were few and far between this hour of the night.

"It looks good," Rubio said. "But I hope we don't have to wait too long."

Bias nodded in the darkness of the car, and they both stared at the crossing. He wondered what Rubio was thinking. He wondered if, when the time came, now or in the far future, the Indian would have prescience of his own death. If fate had chosen it to be during this operation, had Rubio already glimpsed the finality of that decision? How did such a thing happen?

"Let's get some coffee and go over the maps," Bias said.

He started the rental car, drove to San Felipe, and turned left. Passing under the West Loop, he braked a block from Post Oak Boulevard and pulled into a small Steak 'N Egg Kitchen. The place was empty, and they chose a booth with a window that looked out onto the lighted skyscrapers thick as a mountain range toward the Galleria. After the waitress brought their coffee, they both took out their enlarged copies of the Key Map pages of River Oaks and the Post Oak area. They each took the caps off fine-point felt-tip pens, and Bias began calling the street names followed by a second name. They wrote the second name over the original, renaming each street within the immediate vicinity of the railroad crossing. According to Bias' strategy, Rubio would begin watching Gamboa's movements early in the morning. He would stay with him all day while Bias hovered in the area around the San Felipe crossing. They would not communicate over their radios unless Gamboa entered an area within a certain number of blocks within the vicinity of the crossing. If it looked as if Gamboa might be heading for the crossing, Rubio would begin transmitting one-word coordinates beginning with the direction opposite that in which the limousine was actually moving. That is, if Gamboa was going west on San Felipe and was at Claremont heading toward Larchmont, then Timberlane, then Weslayan; Rubio would say: "East-Smith-Jones . . . Bailey . . . Glenn . . . Sayle," calling out the code name of each cross street as the limousine approached it.

By this method, Bias would have time to position himself in such a way as to see the exact instant when Gamboa's limousine would be directly over the rail crossing, and the twenty-five kilos of RDX.

Over fresh cups of coffee, they rehearsed the routine several times, Rubio calling out with his lisping pronunciation the direction and new street names, executing surprise turns, leaving the designated "alert" vicinity and then returning, while Bias followed him on his own map. After numerous trial runs, they each studied their maps in silence until Bias asked, "Any questions?"

"No."

"All right," Bias said. When Rubio was satisfied, Bias knew there would be no mistakes. Gamboa's men would never break the code. The Indian stayed alive by his intimate understanding of each operation. "Let's go back to our hotels and try to get some sleep. When do you want to be in place?"

Rubio thought. "No later than seven o'clock. Just to be sure."

"Good. Then I'll check with you by radio at seven o'clock."

"Bueno."

Bias got up and walked out of the diner, leaving Rubio to pay. He crossed San Felipe to the parking lots of Post Oak Plaza, where another rental car was waiting. Unlocking the car, he became aware of how the tension of the past several days had sapped his energy. He had not had time for his daily workouts at a gym, and he was feeling small and shrunken from within, his shoulders seeming narrow and tight.

Sitting behind the wheel, he leaned forward and looked at this second city within the city: the complex of banded lights composing the buildings of Post Oak Central, which were separated from one another by emerald sheets of lighted lawns; the office towers and hotels surrounding the core of the Galleria and sparkling like chunks of pyrite; and then beyond them, looming above it all like an awesome mother ship, the inner-lighted monolith of the Transco Tower.

It was beautiful, this second city. Unreal and overpowering. So far away, in geography and in spirit, from the steep, dry gorges of the Barranca de Oblatos and the Rio Santiago, so far from the broad night sky of the Jaliscan desert with its smaller lights, more intricate, more delicate, but made large in the mind from their fullness of symbol and myth.

He pushed himself away from the steering wheel and started the car. He had not thought about his route, just making the turns to get to the Southwest Freeway, which would take him back to Montrose. The traffic light caught him, and he recognized the intersection with a numb uneasiness.