“The other?”
“He works organized crime. Squeezing the rag. Knows where to find Bennie this time of day.”
They were in a cavernous, mostly empty restaurant off Missouri. The handpainted sign out front read only Chicken Ribs, with a primitive cartoon of a fox licking its lips. Those would be some mighty small ribs, Bill had said. He and Sanderson were eating slices of pie that looked to be about 80 percent meringue. Driver had coffee. He watched as a light-skinned man passed on the sidewalk wearing a t-shirt with We Are All Illegal Aliens in bold capitals front and back.
“I can’t seem to find a straight line anywhere in this,” Driver said.
Bill glanced out the window to see what he was watching. “Nature’s never been big on straight lines.”
“Or people,” Sanderson said.
Driver had assumed that once he had the handle, once he made his way to Capel, everything would tumble right back onto the guy in New Orleans, Dunaway. But it didn’t. The road curved, and you couldn’t see around the bend. Capel didn’t know Dunaway from hot mustard. Word came down, he said, “from one of the motherships,” and when Driver asked where the ship was harbored, he said Brooklyn.
Dunaway was from Brooklyn. Old connections? Or just work for hire?
Bill shook his head. “Conceivably they’d lend their guys, but they don’t hire out.”
“Calling in old markers, then?”
“Or favors. Borrow your tool for the day? Could be.”
Came in as a simple take-down, Capel had said. But then when he passed word up the line, he was told the situation had changed, he was to keep his men out there.
“What changed?” Sanderson said.
They sat quietly. Finally Bill spoke. “They have history with our friend here.”
Both looked at Driver. He nodded.
“A long time back. A man named Nino, big up that way. And his right-hand man.” Bernie Rose.
“You killed them?”
“Yes.”
“These guys don’t have short memories.” Bill peered out the window. An elderly man who looked like a weathered piece of rope had pulled his bicycle into the crosswalk, slammed down the kickstand, and walked away. He stood on the corner watching as one car, trying to avoid running into it, slewed into another.
“People will do anything to make their mark,” Sanderson said.
“Maybe just to prove to themselves that they’re alive.” Bill looked back. “But Bennie told you he sent word up the line. Never mind how the job came about. Source, Channels. Bennie sent word, it means that as far as he knew the job was done.”
“But it wasn’t. I walked away.”
“Right.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Sanderson said.
“Not the kind of sense you’ve been trying to make,” Bill said to Driver. “You can’t find a straight line because there isn’t one. There’s more than one and they don’t meet. They’re parallel.”
Cruising away cross-city, Camelback in his rearview mirror, Driver saw a billboard, one of those horrendous new digital ones that changed every few minutes. Jesus Died For Your Sins, it said, above a stylized figure that could be rabbi, priest, or big-hair preacher, hand raised in supplication. That went away to be supplanted by the close-up of a man who had the look of running-for-office about him. Probably born with the look, but he’d worked on it some. Wide face, sincere eyes, hair perfectly parted. Don’t Make A Move Till You Talk To Us, the legend read. Sims and Barrow, Attorneys at Law.
Driver laughed.
Shannon would have loved it.
Minutes ago, he was thinking about Bernie Rose. Now Shannon. Thinking about how almost everyone he knew was gone.
About Elsa.
That smile she got when he said or did something really dumb. Her voice beside him in the night. The drowned-dog look of her hair as she stepped out of the shower and the way she looked that last day, propped against the wall of the empty cafe, blood pumping from her chest.
The cell phone rang. Driver flipped it open.
Felix. “You know someone named Blanche?”
“No.” Driver pulled up at a light behind an ancient van whose rear doors were covered with stickers. They’d been there so long that none of them were legible. Shapes and blurred patches of color. “Yes.”
Blanche’s shoulders lying across the bathroom door’s threshhold, the pool of blood lapping toward him. Not much of her head left in there.
And he was back at the Motel 6 not far from here, standing again at the window thinking it had to be Blanche, no other way that Chevy was down there in the parking lot.
Then the shotgun blast.
Blanche and her accent, saying she was from New Orleans, sounding like Bensonhurst.
There it was: Brooklyn again.
“Blanche Davis,” Felix said.
“Not the name she was using.”
“Lady had a casual way with names. Blanche Dunlop, Carol Saint-Mars, Betty Ann Proulx. Pretty much a moving target, too. Dallas, St. Louis, Portland, Jersey City. Scams, hard hustles. Coupla hinky marriages in there. She got around.”
“And what, her name just popped up?”
“Not quite. Doyle had to kind of stick his finger in there and pull. You know.” Felix was quiet for a moment. “There’s more.”
“Okay.”
“Your man Dunaway?”
Driver waited.
“He’s in town.”
“Where?”
“About four feet away from me. Want to come say hello?”
Driver had gone less than a mile before traffic slowed almost to a halt as one of Phoenix’s epic dust storms rolled in. You felt it at the base of your throat, behind your eyelids, could barely make out the car in front of you, or road’s edge and the banks beyond. Dust burrowed in like guilt or regret, you couldn’t get away from it, couldn’t get rid of it. And Driver couldn’t get rid of thoughts of Bernie Rose. He sat in the landlocked car thinking about that last time, how Bernie had asked if he thought we choose our lives and he’d said no, what it felt like was, they’re forever seeping up under us.
“You don’t think we change?” Driver had asked as they walked out of the restaurant.
“Change? No. What we do is adapt. Get by. Time you’re ten, twelve years old, it’s pretty much set in you, what you’re going to be like, what your life’s going to be.”
Moments before he had to put Bernie down.
So maybe Bernie was right.
Driver pulled into the parking lot just as the storm abated. People would be sneezing wee mudballs and wiping dirt out of every crease and crack in themselves, their houses, cars, and property for a week.
Not a Motel 6, but its kissing cousin. Spiderwebbed asphalt patched with tar, roof drooping above the second-floor walkway, blinds cockeyed in windows. Three cars in the lot, two of them questionably mobile. A cafe and bar sat to other side, back a bit. Take a brave man to hit that cafe, but Driver guessed the bar did good business. Run-down apartments all around, bus stop across the street.
Room 109 was at the end, abutting a slump block wall with grout that looked like poorly healed scars and, past that, an abandoned convenience store, every possible surface scribbled over with tags.
Guy has money to burn, he winds up here? Driver thought.
