“Don’t,” warned Ames.
Matt didn’t.
“Get in your car,” said Lew very calmly. “And drive up I-75 as far north as you can go with the gas you can buy. Do not stop in Kane. Do not return to Sarasota. Do not return to Florida. We will find you and my friend here will blow your heads off. Now, the guns. Slowly put them on the ground and get into your car.”
They did as they were told. Lew picked up the guns. Lew had already searched the Manteen brothers’ car. No guns, no drugs, no alcohol.
Matt was in the passenger seat, Chet in the driver’s seat, his arm resting on the open window. Ames, gun at his side now, stood next to the car looking down at Chet who had tilted his hat back.
“If we come back, you old fart, you’ll be long dead of old age,” said Chet.
“Be best if your brother drives,” Ames answered.
“Why?” asked Chet.
Ames lifted the shotgun high and brought it down hard in one move.
“Your arm is broken.”
Chet screamed in pain.
“Move over and drive your brother to a hospital,” said Ames to Matt. “Maybe up in Tampa. Atlanta if he can make it.”
Chet, moaning, rolled into the passenger seat as his brother came around and got behind the wheel.
“You break my arm too and who’s gonna drive us out of town?” Matt asked, voice quivering.
“Just you drive away,” said Ames.
“If you stop at an emergency room-” Lew began.
“In Atlanta,” added Ames.
“-your brother broke his arm in a baseball game,” said Lew.
“We don’t play baseball,” said Matt.
“And it doesn’t look like your brother’s gonna take it up now,” said Ames. “Drive.”
Matt drove. Chet moaned. The car pulled out of the motel driveway and made a screeching left turn, just missing a red truck.
“Should have killed them,” said Ames at Lew’s side. “They were going to kill the girl.”
“I’ve seen enough dead people,” said Lew.
“So have we all,” said Ames.
Earl Borg answered the phone on the third ring. He could have answered the sound at the first ring. He had it on the small table next to his almost silent treadmill in his office-den. He had been running and listening to Bach’s violin concerti. Blindness had gradually turned him into a lover of classical music. Before his loss of sight he had no interest in music of any kind. Now, he had speakers in every room and his stereo system had access to almost three dozen commercial-free classical music stations in addition to the huge collection he had accumulated.
Blindness had also made Earl Borg acutely aware of texture. All the furniture in his apartment was chosen not by color but by how it felt and smelled. He had a decorator, who kept him from forgetting that other people were only barely aware of what he felt and smelled.
Pebble stone and mosaic tabletops, leather chairs, fine shelf-sized marble and wood sculpture were always within reach.
It was good, he frequently thought, to be able to afford everything he wanted. All it took was good investments and years of barely legal and quite illegal business deals.
At the first ring, Borg had pressed the cool-down button on the treadmill. On the second ring, he had muted his sound system. On the third ring, he picked up the phone.
“Yes?” he said.
“She’s safe,” said Lew.
“Did they-?”
“No, they didn’t touch her.”
“Good. Are they dead?”
“No.”
“I would have preferred them dead,” said Borg. “I thought I made that clear.”
“You gave me wiggle room. I wiggled,” said Lew. “We did break Chet’s arm.”
“That’s some satisfaction.”
“They’re on their way to the Georgia border and when they cross it, they won’t be back.”
“No, they won’t. I’ll get someone else to find them and complete the job.”
“You want to see your daughter?”
“No,” he said. “Take her to her mother. There’ll be two blank checks signed by me at your office by five o’clock, one for you, one for that charity.”
“I don’t need money,” said Lew.
“You’re rich?”
“Financially comfortable,” said Lew.
“Financially but not otherwise?”
Lew said nothing.
“The checks are drawn on a new account that has exactly forty thousand dollars in it, the amount those two idiot spawn of mine wanted. Divide it between the two checks any way you like. Goodbye.”
Borg hung up.
Lew looked across his desk at Lilla. Ames was standing behind him, Darrell Caton at his side.
“I got it,” Lilla said, hugging herself. “He doesn’t want to see me.”
“You’re better off,” said Darrell.
“He can’t see you and he doesn’t want you to see him,” Lew said.
Lilla looked young, younger than thirteen, only a little older than the kid in the hog-dog circle, the kid who had lost a brother named Fred. Earl Borg was certain Fred was not his son.
“Your father’s a blind man,” said Ames.
“Blind?”
“Doesn’t want you to see him like that,” said Ames.
“Yeah,” said Darrell, “like he’s Jesus Christ on wheels.”
“He’s a mean bastard,” she said.
“That too,” Darrell agreed.
“You don’t even know him,” she said, turning to face Darrell.
“No, do you?” Darrell shot back.
“Take me home please,” she said.
“Never saw my father either,” said Darrell. “Don’t think I missed much.”
Darrell smiled at her.
“Great,” Lilla said, sitting back in the corner. “Now I’m bringing a black boyfriend home to Kane.”
Darrell laughed and said, “Fonesca, this girl is funny. What you say we stop at Denny’s or something before we take her home?”
And they did.
17
Lew and Ames had driven Lilla back to Kane and dropped Darrell at home.
When Lew opened his door, the almost-full moon was balanced on the tops of the low storefront and office buildings across 301.
Behind him, as he closed the door he could hear Ames’s motor scooter chug out of the DQ parking lot.
Lew undressed, put on clean, blue jockey shorts and an “LOVE SCHNAUZERS” T-shirt that he had picked up at the Women’s Exchange. Lying in bed, pillow upright against the wall, he opened Mountains of the Moon, the
