Black Light

“Mr. Bama, you’ve never talked to a more available man.”

“They do grow ’em good in Oklahoma City, then,” Bama said.

He put down the phone in his little office, took another sip of rancid bar coffee and then felt something very strange upon his face.

By God, it was a smile.

He was happy. He was as happy as he’d been in, say, years. Other than the success of his children, nothing filled him with more delight than a good challenge. And, oh boy, was this Bob Lee Swagger proving out.

He tried to apply his purest intelligence to the problem.

The key was what time they left that visit to JFP. If they left soon, they could easily make it back to Blue Eye before dark, which was not good, because he didn’t think he could manipulate his elements and set up what he had in mind fast enough. And everything had to be in place. If they came back later, it would be a night drive. He didn’t like that at all. He did not want to set up an after-dark hit. Too tricky on the open road. In the city was a different matter, but on the open highway, in the country, at night with a tricky bastard like Bob Lee Swagger, it got real iffy and if the thing fell apart, who knew when he’d get another chance?

So: hope they spend another night in Okie City and come back in the morning. That gets them into the area around midafternoon, which would give him plenty of time.

So: assume they’ll come back to Blue Eye from Oklahoma City tomorrow. Next question: which route would they take? Any normal man would do the normal thing, the dogleg: take U.S. 40 like a shot over to Fort Smith, then veer south on the parkway that Hollis had named for his daddy down to Blue Eye. Or maybe, out of sentimentality, Bob would pass up on the new road and choose the slower, more awkward Route 71; his father had died on that road, maybe he would too. But he doubted Bob would feel that sentimental. Bob’s nature was essentially practical; sentiment was for late at night, when the day was done.

Red wished he knew how they’d got there in the first place; Swagger wasn’t the kind of man to come the same way twice. He pored over the map, wishing he had something more expressive, more revealing. He wanted data, information, numbers, facts, he wanted to drown himself in them.

He saw quickly enough that there were really only two other routes into Blue Eye. Both were more or less direct east-west roads, though much smaller than the Fort Smith route. Both involved dropping down from U.S. 40 to McAlester, then heading east on a two-lane blacktop to Talihina. Shortly thereafter, they diverged: One, Oklahoma 1, followed the crest of the Ouachitas from Talihina fifty-seven miles into Arkansas, where it turned into Arkansas 88. It would be a high road, a couple of thousand feet up, with plenty of visibility. It was called, combining the names of the towns on either of its ends, the Taliblue Trail, and the state had designated it as a beautiful road, with mountain vistas on either side. He had driven it himself in a Porsche he once owned and had a goddamned great old time.

The other road, Oklahoma 59, crossed Oklahoma 1 at about the halfway point, then became Route 270 as it cut east and ran parallel to 1/88 on the valley floor beneath it, eventually linking up with 71 a little above Blue Eye. He realized that was the road off of which Bob’s Blue Eye property lay, where the man now had his trailer. Maybe he’d go that way and set up again at his trailer. That was the logical way. Or was it?

He looked at it: very simple. High road or low road. He didn’t have enough people to play it both ways, at least not under the mandate of maximum firepower.

High road or low road?

And then he knew the answer.

He’s a sniper. He’s a shooter. He works by seeing. His whole life is built on seeing. The input he gets from the world is all visual information, which he processes and from which he makes his decisions. He sees and he likes to see things a long way off. He doesn’t like surprises. He likes to be the surprise.

The high road.

A plan formed in his mind. Three cars and a truck, coming from different directions, snaring Bob in the middle, ramming him off the road, burying him with full automatic fire. Ten men firing full automatic in the first second after the crash.

The phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Sir?”

It was the lawyer in Oklahoma City.

“Yes?”

“They just left.”

Ray looked at his watch. Jesus, it was after five. They weren’t going to drive home tonight. He’d won!

“Good work.”

“Sir, we found the rooms they rented. The Holiday Inn, near the airport.”

“I told you—”

“Very discreet, Mr. Bama. No direct inquiries were made. We were able to get into the chain hotel computer directories. They reserved their rooms for two nights. Checkout time ten

A.M

. tomorrow.”

“Good work,” said Bama. “Are you looking for a job?”

“Mr. Bama, I’m very happy where I am.”

“The check is in the mail, then.”

“I know your word is good.”

“It’s good in every city in this country,” Red said, hanging up. He quickly dialed Jorge de la Rivera.

“Yes?”

“The team is ready?”

“Yes sir. All stood down, relaxed. The girls you sent over went over real nice. They all been fucked or sucked, they all been fed, their weapons are cleaned.”

“Here’s how it’s going down. It’ll be tomorrow, midafternoon, on Oklahoma 1, about ten miles east of the 259 crossroads. It’s called the Taliblue Trail. Nice high mountain road, not heavily traveled, should be nice and private and wide open. You site your cars in opposite directions and let him get in the middle, then you close in on him so he’s got no place to run. You’ll want to take him off the road and get the guns working overtime right away. You want to bury him. You’ve got the advantage of both surprise and firepower.”

“It sounds very good. Muy bueno. Easy to do. We get him for you. But sir—how will we know he’s coming?”

“Oh, I’ll let you know over the radio. I’ll be watching.”

“You’re going to get involved in this, Mr. Bama?”

“You can’t miss me,” he said. “Just look up. I’ll be the one in the airplane.”

25

S

am woke in a fog after a dreamless but restless night. He had the nagging feeling that something important was scheduled for today. Was he due in court? Did he have to file a motion? Was some defense lawyer deposing him for an appeal? But nothing snapped into clarity and the goddamned maid had forgotten both the coffee and to pick up. That woman was getting sloppier and sloppier. He had half a mind to fire her, but he couldn’t remember her name. Then he remembered that he did fire her— twelve years ago. Then he remembered Mrs. Parker.

That was the woman he should have fired. When did the colored get so uppity? They had no respect anymore. It was a case of the rules simply eroding away until nothing was left but chaos and anarchy. Then he remembered little Shirelle.

He got up, straggled through a shower and got dressed, remembering his undershirt, forgetting his underpants. It went on like that for several hours: he felt a deep and mournful pain that he was not all there, he