Thursday's Child (29 page)

Beau sat on one of the beds and looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. “I say, fuck you,” he said in a dull voice. “Fuck you.”

“Okay. I'll get us some breakfast. Eggs, maybe. And pancakes. Everybody likes that.”

Beau just shook his head.

Gar picked up the phone.

Robert bent over the toilet and threw up again.

When there didn't seem to be anything left in his stomach at all, he wiped his mouth and left the bathroom. This hotel was even crummier than the one they'd been in last night. He couldn't go back there, of course, because maybe Beau would tell the cops about it. Not on purpose, of course, but they could probably get it out of him. After all, he was only a kid, and not used to being grilled by the fucking pigs.

Tonto had sure put up a hell of a fight, though, hadn't he? Robert felt a sort of crazy pride at the way Beau had handled himself.

He'd watched most of it from the darkness at the far end of the cul-de-sac. What else could he have done, against all those cops? Probably in the long run, it was the best thing for Beau anyway. What kind of a future would he have hanging around with a man on the run?

At least, Boyd was dead. That much had gone right. Robert didn't understand why he felt so hollow about it, though. Hell, he should be celebrating.

He leaned against the window and stared down at the street below. A drunk was crossing against the light and a cab nearly creamed him in the middle of the intersection. Robert shook his head. Idiot. The world was populated by idiots.

Of course, who the hell was he to talk? Here he was in a shitty hotel room all by himself. Every son of a bitch in the world was trying to kill him. He didn't have a job anymore, probably. His brother was dead. And now Beau wasn't even around anymore. This whole thing really sucked.

His life really sucked.

22

1

There were more cops to deal with in Los Angeles, of course. Like Wally Dixon, for one, who was even nice enough to meet them at LAX and drive them downtown personally. He had a few questions, naturally. Saul Epstein himself wasn't part of the welcoming team, although one of his lawyers and a Dr. Lieberman were. Gar's presence was politely tolerated by everyone, mostly, he figured, because Beau wouldn't talk to anybody but him. Still, he was trying to be very careful not to do or say anything that would make him persona non grata.

When they actually got into the interrogation room, it was a little crowded. The original group had been joined by a police stenographer and a clerk from Saul Epstein's law firm. Somehow, through a strange metamorphosis that Gar didn't really understand, it had become Us—meaning Beau Epstein and him—against Them. Meaning everybody else. The two of them sat side by side at one end of the table, confronting a wall of faces that seemed uniformly unfriendly. Even the lawyer and the shrink, ostensibly there to help, seemed to be a part of the Them contingent.

He was not quite sure when, in Beau's mind, he himself had turned from enemy into, if not exactly ally, at least no longer quite a foe. The breakthrough had come during the long flight across the country, when Beau had turned to Gar and politely asked, “Can I have a cigarette, please?” Gar gave him one, lit it for him, and they started talking. Gar was in the middle of an article about Disneyland in the airline magazine and Beau went into a long and detailed description of the day he'd spent there. With Robert Turchek.

“Nobody who was really bad would do that, would he?” Beau said at last. “I mean, it was just my fucking birthday. He didn't have to care.”

“Right,” Gar said. He didn't want to say anything to get Beau upset again.

That one word of mild agreement seemed to satisfy him. So now Beau was talking. But only to him. He still hadn't said a word to anybody else.

They had already been gathered around this table for nearly two hours and everybody's patience was wearing a little thin. Wally took a gulp of stone-cold coffee, grimaced, and looked at Beau. His eyes were as chilly as the decaf. “Turchek ever give you an idea where he might run for cover when things went bad?”

Beau, who was examining a hangnail on his thumb with complete interest, only shrugged.

Wally turned his glare onto Gar.

After a moment, Gar leaned over and spoke softly into Beau's ear. “Come on, kid, wouldn't you like to get the hell out of this room?”

Beau finally glanced at him. Then he quit playing with his thumb and stared at Dixon. “I don't know where Robert Turchek is,” he said quietly. “That's the truth, whether you want to believe it or not. I just don't know.” His face turned fierce for just a moment. “I wish to hell I did.” Then he seemed to wilt again and looked very young. “Can't I go to my grandfather's house now, please? I'm really tired.”

Wally gave up. “Go home, Beau,” he said. “We'll talk again in a few days.”

The lawyer and the shrink had been designated to take charge of Beau at this point and deliver him to the old man. Beau shot Gar a look that seemed filled with despair. Gar pulled him aside in the hallway. “You going to be okay?” he asked.

Beau nodded. He was wearing sunglasses and a Batman baseball cap. “I'm fine,” he said.

Gar didn't think he was, but this didn't seem to be the time or the place to argue the matter. Instead, he took out one of his business cards. “You stay in touch, okay? Give me a call if you have any problems. Or even if you just want to talk.”

Beau took the card, looked at it with only mild interest, then tucked it into his pocket. “He's not bad, you know,” he said again. “Robbie's a friend of mine, and I know him.”

“I guess it probably seems that way to you right now,” Gar said.

“See, the thing is …” Beau stopped, thought for a moment, then continued. “The thing is, I know he did some bad things. Killing people. But most of them sort of deserved it. Like the ones who killed my parents. Boyd killed Andy, Robert's brother, you know. But no matter what else he did, Robbie is my friend. He took care of me when I needed help.” Beau raised the sunglasses. His eyes were urgent. “You understand that, don't you?”

Gar just nodded. “You better go. I'll see you soon.”

“Will you?” Beau dropped the glasses back into place and glanced down the hall to where Lieberman and the lawyer were waiting impatiently. “I sort of feel like I'm going to disappear into some black hole and will never be seen again.”

“I'll see you soon,” Gar repeated, giving Beau a firm pat on the back.

Beau flashed him a sort of hopeless thumbs-up gesture and then walked away. Just before he reached the end of the hallway, Gar saw him pause to take a deep breath and straighten his shoulders. A moment later, he was gone.

Wally came over to where Gar was standing. “What do you think?”

“Well, I think he's telling the truth about not knowing where Turchek is,” Gar replied. “They never talked about what he'd do if it all went bad, because he never thought it would.” He paused. “I also think that even if Beau
did
know exactly where Turchek was, he'd never tell us.” He leaned more heavily on the cane. “I'm so damned tired. You're not going to charge him, are you?”

Wally looked disgusted. “With what? Being a fucking hostage? Suffering duress or whatever? I may not believe that and I don't even think you do completely, but that's the cover story. And Saul Epstein has a whole lot of pull.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately for me, Beau never walked into a bank carrying a gun like what's-her-name did. He's away clean.”

“Good,” Gar said.

“Well, maybe.” Dixon sounded grumpy. Cops got that way when there wasn't anybody to charge with anything.

Gar gave him a weary smile and limped away.

Beau was politely refusing to come out of his room.

He'd been in there for three days now. Harold or Ruth brought him his meals, and Saul came by once or twice a day to talk. They never seemed to have much to say to each other, so those visits didn't last long. Saul was suddenly into reminiscence, talking about Jonathan a lot. Beau didn't see the point. Was he supposed to be more like his father? Or less? Since he couldn't decide how everybody wanted him to act, he thought it was easier just to stay in the room.

He was standing in front of the mirror, combing his hair and wishing it would grow back faster so he could look like himself again, when there was a knock on the door. He put the comb down and turned around. “Come in.”

His grandfather opened the door, but despite the invitation, Saul didn't come all the way into the room, choosing instead to remain on the threshold. “I've tried to be patient with you,” he said. “But now I think we've had about enough of this foolishness. You will come downstairs for dinner this evening. Dr. Lieberman will be joining us. Seven o'clock.”

Suddenly Beau was tired of the bedroom and his own company. “Okay,” he said. “Seven o'clock.”

Saul looked a little surprised, but he didn't say so. He started to close the door again, then paused. “You will also please dress appropriately.”

“Yes, sir,” Beau said.

Saul seemed pleased as he left.

Beau thought about it all for a moment. Then he went to the closet to take out a clean shirt and a sport jacket. Instead of putting them on immediately, however, he began to search through the desk drawers. Finally, he found a large safety pin. Just the thing. Standing in front of the mirror again, he positioned the point of the pin and then, without giving himself time to think about it, plunged it through his lobe. It hurt a little more than he'd thought it might, but actually the sharpness of the physical pain, the
clarity
of it, was sort of a relief from the kind of hurt he'd been feeling lately. He used a Kleenex to wipe away a little blood that trickled out, and studied the effect.

He was pleased.

Now he would get ready for dinner with Saul and the shrink.

2

The bus had been crowded since Las Vegas.

Robert was sitting next to some kid who was studying film at USC. She seemed to think that the trip was a perfect chance to see Real Life, which meant striking up a conversation with an interesting stranger on a Greyhound bus. Robert was it.

He answered in monosyllables, which didn't discourage the fledgling female Spielberg at all. Robert wished he had a gun. More acutely, he wished that it were somebody else sitting next to him.

It was nearly 2
A
.
M
. by the time the bus pulled into the station in downtown Los Angeles. Robert grabbed his duffel and managed to be the first off. As he walked through the waiting room, he had to fight the feeling that everybody in the place was watching him. Nobody here knew who the hell he was, and most of the people who knew him probably didn't think he was dumb enough to be back in town.

Nobody would be able to recognize him, anyway. He was wearing an old army camouflage jacket, baggy jeans, and a cowboy hat. He hadn't shaved in a week, his hair was too long, and just to complete the picture, he'd lost about fifteen pounds unbelievably quickly.

The weight loss wasn't intentional; he just didn't seem to have much of an appetite lately. The damned headaches still came and went with regularity, and he was continuing to pop pain pills as if they were jelly beans.

Once he was away from the bus station, he found a twenty-four-hour coffee shop and went in. The only other customers were three hookers sitting in a booth at the back. Robert took a stool at the counter and stared at the waitress until she put down the
National Enquirer
and walked over. “Coffee and a burger,” he said, not bothering to look at the menu.

She nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

Robert took a quarter out of his pocket and started for the telephone. Suddenly he remembered what time it was. Too damned late to call anybody now. He sat down again.

So here he was, back home again.

A dumb move, yeah, but given the circumstances, what choice did he have? The things that he had to do here would take, maybe, three days. There were several safety-deposit boxes to empty out. He wanted to see Andy's grave one more time, to be sure that the headstone he'd ordered was in place. A few other loose ends to tie up. And, of course, he had to get in touch with Beau.

That last item was the trickiest.

Probably Beau would have wised up by this time and would tell him to go fuck himself. And that was all right, Robert figured. He just didn't want to leave things the way they were. The two of them should at least be able to have a proper good-bye. They owed one another that much.

Then, once all of these things were taken care of, he'd leave this city, probably forever.

The waitress set his plate down with a crash. The bitch was not very good at dealing with the public. She could kiss her tip good-bye, with an attitude like that.

Robert took a bite of the burger and chewed slowly, not really tasting it. Again, the first two items on the agenda were obtaining a car and a piece. Both necessities of life in this day and age. Especially for a man on the run.

Mickey kept stacking up the messages as they came in.

It seemed that just because he was in a bad mood, the world didn't stop. People kept losing their kids and they kept wanting him to find them. Especially since the word had gotten around about his work on the Epstein case. If he was good enough for old Saul, the reasoning went, he was good enough for almost everybody else, too.

The problem was his. Gar just couldn't make himself care very much.

Mickey stepped out onto the deck and watched him play tug-of-war with Spock. “You and your dog have a lot in common, don't you?” she finally said.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“He gets a hold on something and he won't let go either.”

Gar gave her a dirty look, mostly because he knew she was right.