“I’m going to ask you a question,” Sam says. “I know the answer, but I have to ask.”
“Go ahead.”
“What happened to her car, her luggage, and so forth?”
Maybe tells him.
“You’re a natural,” Sam says.
“My turn to ask a question.”
“Okay.”
“Is your name really Sam Case?”
“Yes.”
“Why’s that a big deal?”
“Who said it was?”
“If it’s not a big deal, why haven’t you told me? You say you love me, want to have sex with me, want me to trust you, but you won’t tell me your name?”
“You call yourself Maybe. Because you may or may not stay.”
“I think you and Hailey had a thing. You told her your name.”
“Let’s move beyond this silliness. I want you, and I can tell you’re ready to be with me.”
“You’re pretty cocky.”
“And you’re pretty.”
“Are we going to meet?” Maybe says.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Are you married?”
He pauses. “Yes.”
Maybe pauses. Then says, “Have you told your wife you want to fuck me?”
“No. But she’s got a lover. We’ve lived apart for a long time. She’s actually trying to get pregnant, and not with me.”
“Bummer.”
“Is that all you’ve got to say?”
“No. I want you to pay me the balance you owe me, and the balance you owe Hailey.”
“What right do you have to her share?”
“I saved your bacon today. You were going to pay her anyway.”
“Okay,” Sam says.
“Okay?”
“It’s reasonable. Anything else?”
“Yes. I want you to bring the money in person.”
Sam thinks a minute. “How about tomorrow night, seven o’clock?”
“Where?”
“Your place.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Are you going to bring your wife?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Not this time.”
34.
Present Day… Donovan Creed.
George Best is furious about meeting me at PhySpa this late at night, but the only other option I offered was his house, with his wife present.
“You’ll do well to hold your temper,” I say.
“Why? Are you going to rip my ear off if I don’t?”
I point to a large item on the table between us. “Ever seen one of these?”
He looks at the industrial staple gun and shrugs. He’s not impressed.
I pick it up, stand, lean my weight on it while pressing it to the table top. When I click the trigger, George jumps at the sound. When I move the gun he sees the top of a steel staple resting flush against the table top.
George plays it cool. He puts a little edge in his voice and says, “What’s so important it can’t wait till tomorrow morning?”
“The bomb that went off at Landmark and Trace?”
“What about it?”
“I was there.”
He gives me a look of disdain. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
“I was a witness, not a participant.”
“So?”
“The bomb was detonated by a guy in a white van.”
I’m feeding George a little piece at a time, waiting for him to either fill in the blanks or keep saying “So?”
He says, “So?”
George isn’t a tough guy, but he’s no pushover, either. Pushovers don’t contact arms dealers and mislead them about a weapon’s effectiveness.
He’s sitting there, angry, arms folded in front of his chest, working hard to keep the anger out of his voice.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” I say.
He shows me his pissed-off look. Then says, “Why are you smiling?”
I’m smiling because I realize George isn’t fighting to hold back his anger. He’s trying to hide his fear.
I say, “Tell me the truth. How much trouble are you in?”
Instead of responding, he does something that takes me completely by surprise.
He bursts into tears.
35.
George isn’t just crying, he’s sobbing. He buries his head in his arms on the table, convulsing with each sob. It strikes me this could take a while. I check my watch and wonder if I should have eaten something on the way over.
George is sitting directly across from me, but all I see are his arms and the top of his head. He’s mid forties, appears to have a nice head of hair. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, which makes me wonder how many tears it could absorb if he was sitting up instead of allowing them to leak all over my table. Of course, I can’t complain about the table. I just put a flippin’ staple in the center of it. I pick up the staple gun and inspect it, take a minute to wonder how far it can shoot, and try to guess whether it would have the ability to penetrate over distance.
George continues to sob.
I wonder what Dr. Phyllis Willis would say if she saw this beautiful table with a staple in it. In truth, I was surprised the staple “took.” I’m not a wood expert, but I thought the table top was some sort of laminate. I figured the staple would make a loud sound, maybe crack the laminate or something, but had no idea it would actually penetrate the wood. Seeing George fall apart so easily, I’m starting to think I put a hole in a perfectly good table for nothing. Then again, it felt incredibly satisfying to pull the trigger and see the result. I find myself wanting to
