?What?s the trouble??
Mike had a lie ready for that too. ?Some assessment reports I had her working on. The state wants them yesterday.?
?Let me look up the number,? Jenkins said.
Mike exhaled. He was having some luck. The guy knew the principal but not enough to recognize it was the wrong voice. Also, it looked like Mike had made some good guesses about the situation. The husband didn?t know the wife was storming around Oklahoma blasting people with an army helicopter. Mike remembered this upper-class Jewish girl from Brooklyn. Back in the day, he and she had been a hot item. He?d told her he was an insurance salesman. And when he?d vanish for a week to kill somebody, he?d tell her he was visiting his brother or grandmother. Hired guns always found themselves lying to loved ones.
Jenkins came back on the line and gave Mike the phone number. ?If you talk to her, tell her to call home, will you? Her husband misses her.?
?I?ll tell her. One more thing. Do you have an address??
A pause. ?You need that??
?Sorry to trouble you, but I have to FedEx some things for her to sign and the guy is coming to pick up the envelope any minute.?
Mike thought he heard Jenkins stifle a sigh. ?Just a second.? Another pause and then he picked up the phone again and gave Mike an address.
?New Orleans??
?Yeah. Her family is loaded,? Jenkins said. ?Big house in the Garden District. Look, if there?s nothing else??
?I appreciate your time, Mr. Jenkins. I?ll tell Meredith to call home.? He hung up.
* * *
Mike drove down Interstate 35 toward Dallas, where he could catch I-20 east to Louisiana. It wasn?t long before his back and neck were sore again. He pulled into a rest stop, unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled his tie loose. He lathered some Bengay on his neck, massaged it in, but the real pain was along his spine, where he couldn?t reach. He got out of the car and walked around a bit, stretched. Too many hours in the car and still a long way to New Orleans. His back would get worse before it got better. He made a mental note to hit a drugstore for some pills.
He got back in the car, determined to make time. When he got to Dallas he realized it was no use. The white-hot pain had spread from his lower back to a spot between his shoulder blades. He was almost dizzy with it. His knees hurt only when he tried to run or jump, but the back pain burned constantly and was getting worse.
He found a Hilton, went in, and got a room. He wouldn?t be able to drive another mile until he worked out the knots in his back. At the check-in desk, he was bent almost in half.
?Do you need help to your room, sir?? asked the clerk.
?I can make it.?
Mike took the key, went upstairs without any luggage, and flopped on the bed. He dozed off and dreamed. It was night and he was among the grapevines again, fog. It was cold. People stepped out from between the rows, emerged from the fog, men, women, children. All of them had guns, all coming for him, crowding in, sticking the guns in his face. Mike went for the gun in his belt, but his hands wouldn?t work, cramping. He couldn?t grip the butt of his pistol.
All of his assailants fired at once, the vineyard exploding in fire.
Mike?s eyes flickered open. It took him a second to remember where he was.
He sat up, back still sore, clamped his mouth shut against a moan. He took a long shower as hot as he could stand it, and when he came out he put his boxers back on and grabbed the phone book. He flipped to the listings for escort services. One said classy & sassy, discreet and prompt.
Mike dialed the phone.
?Classy & Sassy.? The voice that answered was deep and rough, redneck accent. It sounded neither classy nor sassy.
Mike said, ?I need a girl over here as soon as possible.? Mike told him which hotel.
