Abatangelo’s sense of Frank was that he resembled any number of goofs he’d come across over the years, in prison and out. The kind that never mean any harm but always end up making somebody suffer. The kind that always forget and never learn. Run? Hell yes. And take Shel with him.
“I’d say that’s a distinct possibility.”
“He won’t be doing himself any favors if he does.”
“It’s been my experience,” Abatangelo said, “that the people who crow loudest about standing tall are the ones who’ve never had to do it.”
“I’m not saying he’s a suspect.”
“But he’ll do. Especially if he runs.”
“What will it take,” she said, “to get you to tell me the rest of what you know?”
“A little more time.”
“How long?”
“I wish I knew.”
She sat there a moment, then gathered her keys and bag and rose from the table. Extending her hand, she said, “Next time, if there is a next time, please don’t go to so much trouble to lie to me. It only makes you sound like a loser.”
He took her hand, gripping it cordially, but said nothing. She turned, then, and exited Zippy Donuts, crossing the parking lot to her car. It was a station wagon, several years old, the sort a mother would drive.
It brought to mind the issue of children again. Not hers. Not the Briscoe brothers. He recalled what Shel had said, about her and Frank and a baby boy. A boy that got murdered. He pictured Shel holding the child, cradling him, and then discovering that the boy was dead, the body sprawled bloody and lifeless in her arms. Beaten with a hammer, he thought. Good God.
He gathered his things. It was time to go; he had some pictures to develop.
Chapter 12
Frank figured Roy would drive straight for Rio Vista to a veterinarian the brothers always talked about in the context of gunshot wounds. Frank chose a different route, taking back roads empty this time of night, and down which a bullet-riddled Mercedes diesel with shot-out windows, no taillights and only one good headlight would draw scant notice. Just under an hour later he arrived at the gate leading to the ranch house. No one was stationed there. All was still. Even so he parked the car in the culvert and slinked in, thinking he could dive into the grass and hide if he heard a car coming in or out. No one came. He reached the ranch house without incident and studied it from a distance for a while. It was dark, but that could mean anything. No one there. Everyone there, waiting. Waiting for me.
But they think you’re dead, he told himself. They think Snuff killed you.
He checked the yard for other cars, but none were there. The barn they used for a garage stood open, and only his truck was parked inside. Where was Shel? Getting closer to the house, he circled it twice, crouching beneath the windows, listening. No sound from inside. Finally, he went up the back steps and tried the door. It was locked. You don’t set up an ambush, he thought, then lock the door. He felt above the door frame where the extra key was hidden, found it and opened the door. The kitchen was dark. He was still fishing for the light switch when the phone rang.
Run, he thought. Now.
Instead, he turned on the light. No one came forward to kill him all over again, and on the tenth ring the phone went quiet. He staggered to the breakfast nook and collapsed.
A newspaper cluttered the table, someone had tried the crossword, and beside it sat an ashtray filled with menthol butts. Rowena, he thought. Her and her boy, Duval, they must still be at their movie. Waiting for Roy to show up.
A checkerboard and a cigar box full of chess pieces that belonged to Duval sat next to the newspaper. The boy was always going around asking everybody if they played chess. Frank had told him once, “I know how the pieces move.” The kid had said, “That’s jailbird chess.”
The phone rang again. It occurred to Frank it might be Shel. She should be here, she was here when I left. Maybe it’s somebody who knows where she is. He crossed the kitchen, let the phone ring one more time, then reached out cautiously for the receiver, thinking: If it isn’t her, hang up.
A car was coming. He stood there, one hand in the air, his head turned to the sound of the car as headlights broke the hill. Lurching to the window, he pushed the curtains aside and saw at once it wasn’t Shel. A gun, he thought. You survived fucking World War III and never once thought to bring back a gun. He stood there, pounding the sides of his head with the heels of his hands as the car came to a stop outside and a single man stepped out.
Frank looked for a place to hide. It was too late to turn out the light. He’d probably already been spotted through the curtain. To come this far, he thought, survive Roy’s killfire and Snuff’s manic blazing away and the sneaky drive home in the chewed-up Mercedes, only to be caught like a dog.
The driver of the car eased the back door open, calling out, “Lonnie?”
The voice was a stranger’s. Not Roy. Not Snuff or Tully. A stranger who seemed nervous. It was a setup. It was cops. Frank sat there, unable to get a word out.
“Who’s… come on, hey,” the voice said.
Frank cleared his throat. “Yeah?”
The door closed. Hesitant steps sounded in the hallway to the kitchen, and then the man appeared. Young man. Frank had no idea who he was.
“I was looking for Lonnie,” the guy said. He eyed Frank’s muddy clothing, his eyes darting around like hummingbirds. “Lonnie Dayball. He here?”
Dayball’s supposed to be here, Frank thought. That’s what this means. Get out.
“Lonnie ain’t here,” he said. “And you?”
The guy said his name, still standing in the doorway. The name meant nothing to Frank, he forgot it instantly. He wondered if the guy was armed. The guy pointed across the room. “I know you?”
This is it, Frank thought. He makes me, he runs out of here, finds Dayball.
“No,” he said. “Don’t think so.”
“I’ve hung Sheetrock with the brothers. You?”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Must be. Gotcha.”
“You’re not…”
“Not what?”
The guy wiggled the finger he was pointing, like that helped him think. “There’s a guy lives here, name’s Frank Maas. You’re…”
Frank grimaced and shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “My name’s Mick. Mick Spielman.” It was the name of a kid Frank had gone to grade school with. He’d died in a car accident in fifth grade. Frank had used the name on and off over the years, when the need arose.
“Glad to meetcha,” the guy said.
“Same.”
“You know Frank? Frank Maas.”
“Know him, no,” Frank said. “Saw him tonight, though.” Taking a risk, he added, “Don’t think he’ll be coming back here.”
The guy laughed a nasty little laugh and relaxed a little. He leaned back against the doorjamb and nodded at Frank’s clothes. “So that’s it.”
Frank looked down at himself, as though surprised at the state he found himself in. He said, “What?”
“That thing with the nacho niggers.” There was a conspiratorial little wink in his voice. Like he wasn’t supposed to know. His eyes were eager.
“Yeah,” Frank said.
“And that fucked-up Mercedes out there.”
