Here Comes the Night (9 page)

The farm couple insisted on dropping off Erika in front of
her apartment, even though it was a little out of their way. She had slept
almost the whole drive in and was still trying to get her bearings when she got
inside her apartment.

She made a mental note that she would need to change locks.
It had been stupid to give Tony a key, obviously, but she couldn’t dwell on
that now.

She glanced at the clock. If she hustled she could just make
her breakfast shift. If she missed that on a Saturday without calling in, she
could get fired. And Erika had to keep that job. But she had to tell the Police
about last night, too, and the sooner the better.

Her blurry mind tried to work it out. The O.K. shift would
only be for a few hours. She was early-out after breakfast hours ended. Surely
she could hold herself together that long. Then she would go right to the
Police. She threw off her clothes for a quick shower.

She emerged in under five minutes, hair still wet, trying to
smooth the wrinkles out of her uniform as she came back into the studio area.

The night was giving way, creeping into gray just outside
her window.

Then she realized she wasn’t alone.

“I know I fucked up.” Tony sat there on the bed with a
contrite expression. “I know that. But, oh baby, I love you so hard.”

“I’ve got to go to work,” she said, reaching around him to
gather her things.

“Listen, don’t go. Let me make it up. Blow those grease
heads off.”

“What are you talking about? That’s where I work. It took me
a long time to get on there. I have to go.”

“Come on.
Have
to?
Have
to is me meeting my
P.O. in an hour, not you working at the O.K. Corral. I want to talk, baby.”

It would have been easier to say that she would see him
after her shift. Play along. But she didn’t know if she could tell him then, so
she went for it. “Tony, whatever happens, you can’t stay here anymore. I need
you to get your stuff and find somewhere else.”

“Just like that.”

“After last night…?” She sighed and forced a calm voice.
“Look, stay and get your things together. Maybe tomorrow or the next day, we
can talk somewhere else than here.” She was at the door, ready to go.

He walked to her and touched the cameo around her neck.
“Hey, just one more chance. You say when and where, okay?”

“Okay,” Erika said, too tired to fight him. She managed to
slip out the door before he could kiss her.

Tony quickly acknowledged to himself it was over with Erika,
but he needed to make sure she didn’t get any ideas about going to the cops and
spilling her guts. One way or another, she would be talking to him before the
day was over.

Down the hall he could hear other tenants’ bickering as he
moved into the tiny bathroom. He opened the medicine chest but couldn’t find
what he was after. “You bitch. If you hid my stash…”

He moved back into the sleep area and tore through her
drawers. “Damn you, Erika.”

He came to a locked drawer in her nightstand. He used his
pocket knife to jimmy it open. He pulled out a brown envelope with a return
address of somebody in Dallas called
Southwest Group Agency.

“What’s this shit?” Annoyed, he tossed it aside.

Underneath some more letters he found a small stack of
twenty dollar bills. “Ha. Holdin’ out on me.” He pocketed the money, then found
what he was after.

He pulled out a prescription bottle and swallowed a handful
of them dry. He tucked the bottle in his jean jacket.

“Now we’re talkin’,” he said, hitching up his jeans and
walking out. He didn’t bother to close the door.

The District Attorney had successfully rousted a sleepy
judge out of bed to get warrants for Buck Dearmore’s apartment and office. A
warrant for his Mustang had been phoned in last night after the car was
discovered.

In a celebrity case, Edgars and Horse knew they couldn’t
miss a trick. They had to proceed strictly by the book.

Buck Dearmore’s spacious three bedrooms were in an upscale
set of new high rises designed to introduce urban lifestyles back to downtown.
Even though they had to wake up his aging landlady, wearing a neon green caftan
and smeared makeup, she had been thrilled to open the door for them. In fact
she had jabbered all six stories up on the elevator about what a sweetie pie
Mr. Dearmore was, how he always tipped so generously at Christmas, what a
perfect tenant he’d always been.

Well, there
had
been that one time with some drunken
friends playing poker, but there’d been no damages, just complaints about the
noise. She just wished her daughter had found someone like him instead of the
horse’s ass she was stuck with now. Apparently, the landlady hadn’t turned on
the news yet that early Saturday morning.

The detectives listened politely and absorbed the
information. Then after unlocking the door, she stood in the doorway, hoping to
go in with them. Horse thanked her and said they could lock up themselves when
they were done.

Their first surprise was that somebody had tossed the place.
Not destructive vandalism, just everything thrown onto the floor, looking for
something. The carpet was littered with books, papers, anything in drawers. The
master bedroom was the same, all the drawers ransacked and clothes thrown to
the floor.

Edgars took in the total impression. “Somebody wanted
something real bad. This took a while.”

“Clearly,” Horse concurred.

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t here. Whole place is tossed.”

“This complicates things,” Horse observed.

“Yeah,” Edgars said. “Was he running away from whoever did
all this?”

“Makes as much sense as anything else so far. So,” Horse
said, looking around, “nice place if you ignore the clutter.”

“Must have a decorator,” Edgars observed. “No jock would
know how to put together a place that looked like this.”

Horse nodded in agreement. He had shaken off what would have
normally been some awe at seeing the football star’s living quarters up close
and personal. The place was spacious and surprisingly impersonal. There was
leather furniture and Greek statues, decent small copies of classical figures.
Perhaps a concerted effort to look more cultured than sporty.

His bedroom had a dark mahogany four poster and a second
flat screen. The only room that really looked lived in was a game room complete
with billiards table and low hanging green lamp. The stainless steel kitchen
was extended off the game room, creating a studio effect.

“Looks just like my place.” Edgars grinned.

“Yeah,” Horse guffawed. He’d seen Edgars’ midtown apartment,
early poverty and unchanged sheets. “Where’s all the O.U. memorabilia?”

“Just what I was wondering.”

“Down at his office, remember?”

“A celebrity banker for people to rub shoulders with ,”
Edgars mused.

After nosing around another half hour, they agreed there
seemed to be no signs of violence, nothing that raised any flags. Not even the
odd piece of lingerie lying around.

“Let’s go over to his office then. There’s nothing here,”
Edgars said.

His cell beeped and he listened for a minute, then clicked
it closed. “The station got hold of his secretary finally, and she confirmed he
was at work until just after 5:00 on Friday. In the scheme of things, that’s
way later than the usual banker’s hours.”

By the time they got downtown they decided something on
their stomachs wouldn’t hurt. They’d been at it for hours since they’d been
rousted out of bed, running on nothing but bad coffee out of Styrofoam.

The O.K. Corral was just across from the bank, so they
decided to make it a fast one.

The brisk walk to work perked Erika up. The air quality in
Stockyards City was still excellent, if you could put up with the occasional
whiff of cow manure.

She hurried into the O.K. Corral. Her uniform needed
pressing, and she didn’t have anything to help the wreck that was her face
except for a little lip gloss, which she smeared on before she clocked in.

Greetings were murmured among the waitresses who were
already brewing coffee and slicing lemons for the tea. At least she was on time
for prep. Everyone hated the waitresses who never showed up early enough to set
up the station, but were always there just in time to start taking orders and
pulling in the tips.

As she moved from table to table in the dining room, setting
out the perfunctory knife, spoon and fork wrapped in cheap paper napkins, she
visualized exactly how her day had to go.

She would somehow get through the hungover customers and her
regulars, remembering what their “usual” was. With the crushing pace of
Saturday morning, where the kitchen turned out a breakfast plate every 90 seconds,
at least it would fly by.

Then the minute she finished her shift, she’d go home,
change clothes, take the bus to the police station and tell them everything.

Angie’s cab dropped her at her BMW, and she tipped him five
bucks. After she got in, she wasn’t sure where she wanted to go. Her hands were
shaking as she inserted the keys and started the engine.

Finally she just drove aimlessly down Exchange, as though it
might yield clues to the lost night.

As she drove by the hash house across from the bank, she saw
their inside lights go on, and the doors open for breakfast. A line of eager
beavers packed into the place with their newspapers.

Her stomach growled with hunger. The heavy yogurt hadn’t
settled her stomach at all. Maybe just a bite of toast and some more coffee
would the trick. And she’d have a good vantage point of the bank. She wasn’t
sure how else to get information at this point.

She pulled into the O.K. Corral parking lot and got out. As
Angie looked up, the sun peeking over the bank caught her in the eyes and made
them start to water.

A dumpy hostess motioned her to the counter since she was by
herself. A country-girl-type waitress handed her a menu and asked, “Something
to drink?”

Angie said, “How about a triple expresso?”

“Sorry,” the waitress answered, “we just have regular
coffee.”

“Then give me that.”

“Okiedoke. I’m Erika and I’ll be taking care of you this
morning.”

Looking at the menu with its color-saturated photos of
sunshiny fried eggs and bacon made Angie a little nauseous. She had worked with
a hypnotist for years to keep her petite figure. Images that once she would
have seen as “finger-lickin’-good” had been reposited in her mind with negative
side effects. Now they looked almost evil to her.

She couldn’t remember when she’d allowed herself to even
consider ordering an entire meal. Even if she was famished with an empty
stomach, a picture of gravy-soaked chicken fried steak could make her throw up.

Yet in her weakened state this morning the thought of dry,
crisp bacon sounded good. With rye toast. Surely she deserved that much after
the night she’d had.

Erika couldn’t place the woman at the counter, but she
seemed familiar. That happened a lot waiting tables. Sometimes you remembered
people because they ordered the same thing all the time. And it’d be like,
here
comes soft poached eggs with green chili sauce and double bacon.

This woman wasn’t one of those. Sometimes you remembered
them because they were such good tippers, like Buck Dearmore and some of the
other bankers, or miserable tightwads, who’d leave you a nickel and a penny on
a $5.94 ticket. That wasn’t ringing a bell with this one either.

Then, as she was putting down her coffee, it hit her. She’d
seen her on the social pages of the paper. Gordon Wesner’s wife. “His beautiful
young wife,” people would say, but only to appear courteous, she’d heard. It
was common knowledge that he had returned several years ago from a Key West
bankers’ junket with her on his arm, looking like a million dollars. Three
months later they were wed.

Erika hadn’t been able to find out much about her.
Apparently, Mrs. Wesner knew how to slip the Google network.

Erika put down the coffee for her. “Want to order now?”

“Maybe in a minute,” she said. “When I finish my coffee.”

“Sure thing,” Erika said. The woman’s hands were immaculate,
with silk wrapped French nails that cost a small fortune to maintain. Erika
looked at her own hands, calloused, with stubby nails too short to be cleaned
by anything other than a scrub brush.

She envied Mrs. Wesner’s creamy, ivory complexion, almost
translucent. Erika thought her own face looked like a moon crater without
serious make-up.

Like today. Erika pulled up a sagging bra strap and moved to
the next customer.

Twigs and the entourage managed to slip out of the bank
clean only moments before Johnny’s backup arrived. Not a word was spoken in the
SUV as they drove as fast as legally possible to get away from the Cowtown
vicinity. Covered by the rancid hood again, Buck dared not utter a sound.

When they got back to the garage, they hustled Buck inside.
He heard the little fridge open and beer bottles being opened.

Twigs ripped off Buck’s hood and whacked him upside the
head. “I ought to cut off your whole fucking arm for that back there, jerk
wad.”

“That was too damn close for comfort,” Meatface added. He
was still wearing Buck’s red and white football helmet.

Buck mumbled back through a splitting headache, “I knew that
guard.”

“Yeah, cry me a river,” Twigs hissed. “The only thing that
nearly got him killed was you, playing the
big man
.”

Meatface, testing if Twigs was being literal a few moments
earlier, offered, “I could take his arm off for you, if you want.”

But Twigs was no happier with him, hitting his helmet with
her gun barrel. “And you, wearing around a goddamn helmet on the job? What is
this,
Everybody loves Fuckface?”
Meatface ducked his head in
embarrassment and removed the helmet.

Things got less testy once they’d opened a bottle of
tequila. Then everyone sat around, sipping at the booze and sorting out the
garbage bags of loot. Meatface and Jorge unloaded the cash from Gordon’s safe
onto the floor. This improved everybody’s mood.

Counting and stacking bills gave them something fun to do
while they waited to call their boss. The close call at the bank seemed to fade
in the background as they realized how rich they were about to be.

Buck, whose pain had returned in nauseating waves, tried to
sit motionless, because the slightest movement set off an unbearable ache in
his finger, shooting clear up through the top of his head. Even though they’d
been in a rush after the encounter with Johnny, Meatface had quickly landed a
couple of hard punches to Buck’s middle that felt like a broken rib.

Not that anybody noticed. At this point, they were ignoring
Buck like decomposed roadkill.

Jorge’s jaw was so swollen the skin was taut over it, but
his droopy red eyes indicated he’d medicated himself enough that he barely
realized how much pain he should be in. And there were no mirrors around to
remind him. He slurred to Twigs. “You taking off somewhere to party now?”

“Soon as we get rid of him,” Twigs said, motioning to Buck.

Meatface mimed someone holding an AK-47 to Buck’s head and
did a throaty whisper,“Say hello to my little friend,” in a surprisingly decent
rendition of Al Pacino.

“Just one question, Bucko,” Twigs said. “Who in hell was
calling Gordon Wesner’s office in the middle of the night? Huh? Got any notions
about that?”

Buck avoided her gaze. He knew Angie would be the most
likely, which meant somebody got her out of police custody pretty quick. At
least that part was a relief. He felt Twigs poke him with one of her long
fingernails.

“What do you say, hotshot?” Then as he ducked his head away,
Twigs laughed. “Yeah, he knows who it was. You’re in up to your neck, aren’t
you? Poor little jock boy.”