'Nobody seemed to know,' Cathy said. 'Mandy Rae had dumped her first husband – some old guy who pushed tools on an offshore drilling rig out of Morgan City, or somewhere down in coonass country – then hooked up with Enos, maybe in New Orleans, I don't remember exactly. But they came to town with kilos, not ounces, and it kept coming – more coke than any of us had ever seen, and shit even purer than yours. By the way, why don't we do a short line?'
'It's always the people's cocaine,' I said. 'That keeps it simple.'
'Good plan,' she said.
Afterward, Cathy's story drifted through those lost days, which seemed so happy at the time, and for many of the people it had turned out so sadly. Some people should never have a drink. I knew at least a hundred people who were alcoholics midway through their first teenage beer. They either survived or didn't. And the drugs.
Just after my forced resignation from the Meriwether County Sheriff's Department, I had been on a toot, during which I offered an anthropology graduate student a hit off my doobie before we made love. The next weekend the young woman, behind three hits of Purple Haze acid, had tried to fly out her apartment window. Luckily, she lived on the second floor and landed in a snowbank. She broke three ribs and lost the tip of her little finger to what she called an interesting case of frostbite. Three months later, arguing with her new boyfriend over where they were going skiing, she shot him in the butt with a.22 short to get his attention. When that seemed to have no effect, she shot herself in the thigh. They drove all the way to Bozeman before they decided prescription painkillers sounded better than bleeding all over the chutes above Bridger Bowl, so they checked into the ER. The boyfriend later died in a Mexican prison, but the young woman grew up to be the head of a chain of drug rehab clinics in California.
Nobody knows when or where addiction begins. I also knew I couldn't count the number of people who had done cocaine without either becoming hooked, going crazy, or losing their jobs. But the dozen or so who had gone down the hard way, went that way from the beginning, and ended very badly.
'Maybe it wasn't us or the, drugs or even the sex,' a sad-faced Cathy said, 'but the shitty moral force of all the whitebread assholes who tried to impress their will on us, make us behave, and live their frightened little lives.'
I nodded, but slowly because I didn't know.
'Maybe it's always been a religious war,' Cathy whispered, 'like the abortion thing.' Then she stood up, shouting, 'Well, fuck 'em. When they die and find there ain't nothing afterward, think how silly they'll feel.'
'I thought they were dead?'
'I've always hoped that there's just enough afterlife for the assholes, just a nanosecond where they understand that this is all there is,' she said.
'Here's to the final answer,' I said, raising my glass. We finished our drinks.
'I've got a client in about fifteen minutes,' Cathy said, then gave me a fierce hug and a kiss like a punch in the face. 'Kick ass and take names, cowboy.
'Thanks,' I said, then left.
Down in the Caddy I checked my voice mail. Except for six hang-ups, it was empty. So I went down to the Four Seasons, grabbed my gear, stuffed the Browning into a shoulder holster under my vest, and checked out. I drove out to the gun safe to pick up some more traveling cash, then headed the Beast toward the Lodge, for a shower, packing, and a change of clothes. The Caddy felt good under my hands and butt, as close to home as I got to feel these days. I almost felt guilty when I checked the mirrors for a tail.
But it was a waste of time. When I unlocked the door of my suite, the drapes along the south wall were open, flooding the room with smoky sunlight. Two large men in dark suits and darker glasses were outlined against the glare. Another slimmer one in a light suit stood a bit apart from them, leaning lightly on the heavy bag hung from the ceiling, the strong sunlight gleaming off his glasses and bald head. A dark-haired woman wearing a round, black hat with a wide brim and a half-veil that hid her face sat in one of my easy chairs, a slim cigarillo smoking between her red-tipped fingers. A low-cut black dress exposed a soft round cleavage that seemed to glow in the shadow of the hat. She smelled like money all the way across the room. Beside her, the bulk of an old, fat woman moldered in an electric wheelchair. She was also dressed in black and wearing a veiled hat covering a square, heavy face. Even through the veil, though, I could tell that her skin was riddled with pitted scars and hairy moles. Her hooded eyes glared angrily at me. The visible wings of her hair were so deeply black they had to be a cheap wig or an oil spill.
I had the Browning from beneath the vest with a motion so quick and smooth it surprised even me, my two- handed combat stance solid, the sights locked on the younger woman, hammer cocked, safety off. But I hadn't bothered putting a round in the chamber.
'Very nice, Mr. Milodragovitch,' the young woman said, her voice husky, tired, worn from smoke and drink, and deeply unimpressed. She spoke carefully, with a slight accent, as if English wasn't her first language. Maybe Spanish, I told myself. The old woman's eyes rose, glittered madly for a second, then dropped.
'Three days a week at the range,' I said, only lying a little bit. I'd been avoiding the range more often than I'd been there for months. Even with earmuffs my ears rang for hours after fifty rounds. Just as I'd avoided the heavy bag because my hands ached so badly after a workout. 'And clean living,' I added.
'You won't be needing that.' The woman tilted her head toward the corner of the room where a third man in a dark suit covered me with a shoulder-strapped mini-Uzi with a large suppressor on its barrel.
'You'll be the first, lady,' I said.
The woman nodded to the third man, who calmly draped the assault weapon back under his coat. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could see that the men in the dark suits seemed to be Latinos, Secret Service radio earplugs in their ears. They even had the easy but alert stances of real professionals, their faces in a bland, almost happy repose. They were on the job.
'Just calm down, Mr. Milodragovitch,' the man in the tan suit, Tobin Rooke, said, his thin lips barely moving.
I moved the Browning slightly, aimed it at the heavy bag, then pulled the trigger. Although the hammer falling on the empty chamber sounded as loud as a grenade in the closed room, nobody even flinched, or even moved until the echoes of the hammer died, when Rooke lightly touched the heavy bag as if it were swinging.
'Fuck all of you,' I said. 'Whoever the fuck you are.'
'I believe 'whomever' is the correct usage,' Rooke said so quietly that I nearly didn't hear him.
'I've been to college,' I said, charging the Browning and shoving it back into the shoulder holster. The next time I pulled it out, I wanted to have a round in the chamber. 'It's obvious I ain't gonna impress anybody unless I put a round up their nose. So what's the deal, lady? Since I assume you're in charge.' She nodded. 'A nice hat, too. I haven't seen a hat with a veil since the forties.' My mother had worn one just like it to my father's funeral, black gauze wreathed with expensive sherry fumes.
'Thank you,' she said without irony. 'I understand you are looking for the woman known as Molly McBride,' she added.
'Molly McBride?' I said, more than somewhat surprised. 'What's it to you?'
'I want to talk to her,' the woman said. 'She has something of mine, and since you don't have an actual client, I thought perhaps I might provide you one. If you would be so kind.'
I had no idea what to say at this sudden turn.
So the woman continued: 'I know you don't need the money, Mr. Milodragovitch, so I'm going to offer you something much more important.'
'What's that?'
'Your freedom,' she said quietly.
'Who the hell are you, lady? And what do you have to do with my freedom?'
She took a long drag on the little cigar, then blew a long, slow billow of smoke into the stolid air. 'I'm Mrs. Hayden Lomax,' she said, 'and this man, as you well know, is Tobin Rooke, the district attorney of Gatlin County, and he has an envelope containing a contract, a small check, a bench warrant for a material witness, the woman who calls herself Molly McBride, and a DA's special investigator badge and identification. Of course, he had to use your booking photo, so the picture's not too flattering, but it's clearly you.' She didn't bother introducing me to the old lady in the wheelchair.
