Mission Canyon (18 page)

My hand was stinging. I wanted to hit him again.

‘‘I’m out of here.’’ I started to walk away.

He put a hand on my arm. ‘‘So you’re going to judge me for screwing Mari when you have your own kinky thing going on?’’

‘‘I cannot begin to dignify such garbage with a response. ’’

‘‘This is really getting you hot, isn’t it?’’

‘‘Let go.’’

‘‘Hang on. Why don’t you give me a shot? It would be fun.’’ His tongue tapped against his teeth. ‘‘You want, I could even pretend to be like him. I’d like to see you when you’re really turned on.’’

‘‘Stop.’’

I tried to twist away from him. He gripped me around the waist, and here came his thigh, nudging between my legs.

‘‘Come on,’’ he said. ‘‘You know we’d be awesome.’’

I pushed him away. My vision was thumping. I turned and ran down the hill, and heard him behind me by the grave, laughing. I reached the road and kept jogging toward the cemetery office. After a minute I heard the Porsche start up. Kenny cruised up alongside me and rolled down his window.

‘‘The invitation remains open,’’ he said. ‘‘But if you mention this, to anyone, Mari will have you for lunch. She’ll rip out your kidneys and serve them to her dogs.’’

He pulled away.

I got a cab, wanting nothing more than to get home and scrub myself with a hard brush. But when I opened the gate I saw my cousin Taylor sitting on the doorstep. She had applied so much hair spray that she should have been wearing a warning sticker:
Keep away from open flame.
She was sorting through my mail.

She held up an envelope. ‘‘I didn’t know you had a gold card.’’

I took it from her. ‘‘What’s going on?’’

She stood up, brushing dust from the seat of her shorts. ‘‘We’re having lunch today. Remember?’’

I drooped. ‘‘I’m sorry, I forgot. Give me a minute; I’ll go spruce myself up.’’

I took her to Café Orleans, on the promenade at Paseo Nuevo, and we sat outside having po’boy sandwiches and iced tea. I felt perturbed and dirty from Kenny’s come-on. But Taylor seemed oblivious, talking about her job, her blueberry eyes sparkling.

‘‘Countess Zara lingerie, you’ve heard of it. I rep for the Dazzling Delicates line. I settle in, I’ll gin it up here.’’ She gazed at passing shoppers. "Y’all could surely use some pizzazz. And underwiring.’’

I stared absently. What did Kenny want to accomplish with his cry-and-grab act? If he thought he would get either sympathy or sex out of the encounter, he was perverse. He had subverted himself. His behavior was self-sabotaging.

‘‘What?’’ I said.

‘‘This new book you’re writing, is it like the last one? Missiles and mutants?’’ She was fluffing herself, adjusting her watch and bracelets, checking her manicure. ‘‘ ’Cause you know what would be great? Fewer bomb runs, more love scenes.’’

‘‘In this one the heroine conducts a running gun battle up in the Rockies.’’

‘‘Oh. Mountains, well, heights are good. Cliff scenes scare the dickens out of me.’’

‘‘She’s not on a cliff; she’s in the tunnels at NORAD.’’

‘‘Heights are better. Could she climb up on a roof to escape? I’d read that, even with the mutants.’’

‘‘No. My heroine would never run up on a roof. Nobody runs up on a roof to escape. No roofs.’’

She frowned. She sipped her iced tea, and dabbed at her lips with a napkin.

‘‘Going back in time, then. She could meet a Highlander and have his baby.’’

I didn’t hear the rest. For all I know, she outlined an entire trilogy. I was sinking into despondency, picturing life with Taylor as my self-appointed muse. It so depressed me that after lunch I went on a minor shopping spree, replacing my stolen cell phone with a shiny, happy little model that promised me text and games and a global positioning system that could alert the fire department if I needed help. Then I bought a two-pound box of See’s chocolates.

She was driving me home, still talking about underwire or NORAD, when her own cell phone rang. I dug it from her purse and answered for her.

‘‘Who’s this?’’ The man had a twangy Oklahoma voice.

‘‘Ed Eugene? It’s Evan Delaney.’’

Silence lay there like raw liver. ‘‘Let me speak to my wife.’’

I remembered him: a stringy man with a bland face and a magpie’s quick, dark eyes.

‘‘She’s driving,’’ I said.

He made a noise known to parents of teenagers as the
duh, stupid
sound, and said, ‘‘Hold the phone up to her ear.’’

Sourly, I did it.

‘‘Hi, hon,’’ Taylor said. ‘‘She’s showing me around. . . . We’re by the beach; look, we’re waving at your platform . . .’’ turning to me, saying, ‘‘Wave.’’

I waved at the oil platforms in the channel.

She glanced at me. ‘‘He wants to say hi.’’

I said hi again, and he said, ‘‘So, who all went to lunch?’’

‘‘Taylor and I.’’

‘‘Really? You sure you didn’t introduce her to some of your men friends?’’

My God, he was checking up on her. Instantly, strangely, I felt protective toward her. ‘‘We’re doing girlie things.’’

But he had hung up. I looked at Taylor. She was keeping her eyes on the road.

She said, ‘‘Poor baby. He gets so lonesome out there, he’s desperate for every last detail.’’

Either she didn’t get it, or she was deliberately not getting it. ‘‘Everything all right?’’

‘‘Peachy keen.’’

But from that point she turned quiet. It wasn’t until she dropped me off that she said, ‘‘I almost forgot. While I was waiting for you to show up, a man came to see you.’’

‘‘Who?’’

‘‘An FBI agent.’’

I stared at her.

‘‘He showed me his badge and left a business card. Here.’’

She took it from her purse and handed it to me. Beneath the FBI seal it read,
Dale Van Heusen, Special Agent
.

She picked at a cuticle. ‘‘Why on earth would the FBI want to talk to you?’’

Why did the FBI want to talk to me? After Taylor dropped me off I stared at Dale Van Heusen’s card. I picked up my phone and dialed.

‘‘Jesse Blackburn.’’

‘‘Guess whose radar just painted me,’’ I said.

I told him, and he said, ‘‘Be a good citizen. Call and find out what he wants.’’

He said good-bye, and I dialed Van Heusen’s cell phone number. His voice mail kicked on. I was leaving a message when Nikki knocked on the door. I waved her in.

She said, ‘‘I met your cousin.’’

‘‘Sorry.’’

‘‘She wants to throw a bridal shower for you.’’

‘‘What? No.’’

‘‘Wants it to be a big surprise. She wanted the names of all your friends.’’

I was waving my hands. ‘‘Uh-uh. Noooo.’’

‘‘Wanted me to let her inside so she could check out your address book.’’

‘‘Oh, God. You didn’t, though.’’

‘‘But you did. I saw her coming out with you earlier, right?’’

I spun around, looking at the desk, where I kept the address book. I couldn’t see it. I scrounged on the desk, looking under papers and books. It wasn’t there.

Jesse couldn’t put it off any longer. It was nine thirty p.m. and the grocery store would be closing soon. He had no coffee, no milk, no eggs or oranges or shampoo or Raid bug spray to disperse the trail of ants that had been marching across his kitchen counter for the last two days. Mundane life demanded attention.

He backed into the parking space five minutes before closing time. He was the last customer in the store. He paid the lackadaisical checker and headed out into the darkness.

He turned down the curb cut and was unlocking his car when the silver Mercedes SUV pulled in and parked next to him. Right next to him, putting him between the two vehicles. A man got out. It was the fat man, Inflatable Sartre.

‘‘Told you we’d be back.’’

Jesse gauged it. The man stood in front of the SUV’s open door, blocking his path back toward the store. The Mercedes itself blocked the view of the checker inside. Sartre hitched up his jeans and stepped toward him.

One-on-one, okay.

Jesse backed up toward open space behind the cars. Sartre strolled forward. He must have weighed two-fifty, but his arms had the muscle definition of french fries.

He said, ‘‘You’re in a tight spot, bucko.’’

Not that tight, Jesse thought, just a few more feet and I’ll have room to swing, room to move into sight of the checker in the store.

The Corvette drove into the parking lot, stopping right behind him. Mickey Yago got out. Jesse felt it, the vibe like a dog whistle or a feedback loop, painful and electric. Yago sauntered toward him, blond ringlets swinging in the breeze.

He said, ‘‘Going somewhere?’’

I was cleaning out the refrigerator when Jesse called.

‘‘Ev, I need a hand.’’ His voice sounded thin.

‘‘What’s wrong?’’

‘‘I’m, ah. Shit.’’

My hand squeezed the phone. ‘‘Where are you?’’

‘‘Parked in front of your house.’’

I threw the phone down and ran outside. The Audi had angled to the curb, facing against traffic. I opened the door and leaned in.

‘‘Jesus, you’re bleeding,’’ I said.

‘‘You’ll have to get the chair. My hand’s bunged up.’’

I looked at his wrist. Gingerly he turned it over, trying not to rotate the joint. When I reached to touch it, he shied away. The dirty scrapes on his palm and elbow matched those running down the side of his face.

‘‘You fell,’’ I said.

‘‘I met Mickey Yago.’’

I found it hard to breathe. Fear and anger wound themselves around my chest.

‘‘Is your wrist broken?’’ I said.

‘‘No. But putting weight on it hurts like hell.’’

I retrieved the wheelchair. Getting out of the car proved awkward for him, and when his hand hit the door frame he hissed through his teeth. His wrist was visibly swollen, sprained at the least.

I said, ‘‘How did you drive?’’

‘‘Screaming.’’

He tried to grip the push-rim and gave up. Tried to push with his left hand alone and veered to the right. He closed his eyes, took a couple of breaths.

‘‘You’re going to have to do it,’’ he said.

The chair had no handles. It wasn’t meant to be propelled from behind. It was supposed to be another set of legs. I knew he had to feel humiliated. I wrapped my hands around the low seat back and started toward the house.

I said, ‘‘You going to tell me?’’

‘‘Yago arranged a welcoming committee at the grocery store. Tub o’ lard supreme, black clothes, wussy chin beard. Drives a Mercedes SUV.’’

‘‘Win Utley.’’

We reached my front door. Inside, I steered into the bathroom. He turned on the water and started rinsing his hand in the sink, while I got hydrogen peroxide and gauze pads. His white shirt was covered with dirt and what looked like food.

I said, ‘‘What’s all this?’’

‘‘Milk and tomatoes. Utley went for me when I threw my groceries at him.’’

He fumbled with the gauze and with the spool of medical tape, tearing it with his teeth. Gently I took it from him and started fixing a bandage.

‘‘He went for you?’’ I said.

‘‘I think it was the cantaloupe that hurt him. Or maybe the bottle of bleach.’’

The bandage went on. He winced.

I said, ‘‘Let’s go to the emergency room, have this wrist looked at.’’

‘‘I’m not spending the evening at the ER.’’

‘‘What if it’s broken or dislocated?’’

‘‘It isn’t.’’

‘‘You don’t know that. You look like you fell hard.’’

I smoothed his hair back from his face, examining the lacerations on his cheek and forehead. He took my hand and lowered it to his lap.

‘‘Evan, I’m not made of glass.’’ His eyes were hot blue under the lights. ‘‘I didn’t hurt the wrist hitting the ground. I hurt it hitting Utley’s face.’’

I looked at him. ‘‘How many times?’’

He nearly smiled. ‘‘Once. He walked right into it.’’ His face sobered. ‘‘He responded by giving me a big shove. Would have just sent me backward, but Yago was standing right behind me and he flipped me over.’’ His voice ebbed. ‘‘He put his boot down across one of my arms, and Utley knelt on the other one. They pinned me.’’

The image of him spread-eagled on the asphalt caused my stomach to squeeze.

‘‘What do they want?’’ I said.

‘‘Let’s get out of the bathroom.’’

With his left arm he tried to back up, swerved into the tub, said, ‘‘Suck.’’ I did the backing, and got into the living room. I crushed some ice cubes in a Baggie and gave it to him.

He wrapped it around his wrist. ‘‘Okay, fine. I’m going to physical therapy in the morning anyway. I’ll get the PT to check it out.’’

The physical therapist was not a doctor, but I knew this was the best I could hope for. I did not mention the word
X-ray.

I said, ‘‘What do they want?’’

‘‘Money.’’

‘‘How much?’’

‘‘Two hundred thousand dollars.’’

I stared. ‘‘My God.’’

‘‘And they want it in forty-eight hours.’’

I sank down onto the sofa. My vision was throbbing. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Because they’re extortionists, Evan. That’s their game.’’

‘‘You have to tell the police.’’

‘‘I have. After Yago and Utley drove off, the clerk in the grocery store saw me in the parking lot. He called the cops.’’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘‘But Lieutenant Rome already thinks I’m mixed-up with Brand. He’ll consider this demand from Yago as more proof of a falling-out among thieves.’’

The wind was picking up. I heard the bushes shimmying outside. I felt an awful premonition, a sense of foreboding.

‘‘And if you don’t get the money? Then what?’’

He adjusted the ice pack on his wrist, not responding. The dryness in my throat worsened.