'You know, sometimes you have to be as crazy as the people you deal with,' I said. 'Good old Annie didn't pull that punch or hesitate to sic her customers on me. And you saw the bruises on the inside of my thighs where Molineaux tried to kick me in the nuts. Violence was their choice, not mine. So to hell with them.'
'But you enjoyed it,' she said softly. Betty had assumed the stone face of a die-hard liberal, I thought, so I didn't say anything else, didn't remind her that she shot her rapist five times in the back as he left the bedroom.
'I fucking hate it,' I said. But knew she didn't believe me. Hell, I wasn't exactly sure I believed myself.
'Where are we going?' she finally asked.
'Houston Hobby,' I said. 'I'm flying to Vegas. I have to get there before they wire Molineaux's jaw together.'
'What about me?'
'I was hoping you'd drive the Caddy out to Vegas for me,' I said. 'Maybe I can wrap this thing up by the time you get there, then we can drive out to Big Sur, spend a few quiet days, cool out.'
'I think you're just trying to get rid of me,' she said stiffly. 'Why don't we just drive straight through?'
'I'm too beat up,' I admitted.
'All right,' she agreed, very reluctantly. 'But you leave all the firearms in the trunk. And all the coke. And that nasty little sap, too.'
'No problem,' I said.
'Listen,' she said. 'I'm only going to ask you this one more time. Drop this crazy stuff. Let's go home. You can dump the badge, and this silly chore. We can afford to fight them in court. Let the Lomaxes find somebody else to follow their crap around.'
'I'm sorry,' I said, 'but it's way too late for that. Try to remember what's at stake. Whatever Enos Walker did, he doesn't deserve to die for it. Dickie Oates has been in prison for a long time. If he doesn't get out soon, he'll never have a chance on the outside. And perhaps I should remind you that I'm a little old to start serving time.' I didn't have the heart to remind Betty that Ty Rooke had blown his nuts off with her pistol. 'I could run but I couldn't hide from myself.'
'I don't know. Maybe you're right,' she huffed tiredly, the days of drinking and the morning of adrenaline sapping her energy. 'I think you're absolutely insane, but I'll do this one last thing. But you have to promise me that you won't do anything until I get there. Just find the woman and wait. All right? Promise?'
'It doesn't always work that way,' I said.
'Promise, Goddammit.'
'Okay,' I promised. 'I'll try it your way.'
She didn't answer. Just looked at me. We pulled to the curb so Betty could drive the rest of the way to the airport, and I could unstrap the Browning from under my arm and repack my war bag. I made a point of showing her the bindle I had taken from Billy Long's desk, but didn't say anything about the one I had taken out of Sissy's cabin. As we pulled up to the departure area of the curb, I gave her one of the scrambled cell phones, then leaned over to kiss her cheek. It was as stiff as rawhide. She didn't turn her head.
'I'll call you when I get there.'
'Whatever,' she said. 'I may stop at home to spend the night.'
'Whatever,' I echoed, then kissed her cheek one last time, and climbed out. She drove away without looking back.
As I waited for the next Southwest shuttle to Dallas Love Field, I worked the phones. I called Carver D. He told me that Doris Fairchild seemed to be carrying somebody else's driver's license. Nobody caught it until after the lady in question had made bail through a Dallas firm, disappeared without a trace, forfeiting her bond. The real Doris Fairchild was a waitress in Big Spring. Lewis Poulis of Poulis Investigations, on the other hand, was the real deal, although a bit too good and clean to be true. Carver D asked me what I wanted him to do with the Lomax file. I told him to fax it to me at the Hyatt Regency in Dallas. 'Hayden Lomax is pretty much an open book,' he said, 'but Sylvie is a blank page.' Then he added that Hangas had mentioned that he still couldn't find Eldora Grace, and nobody seemed to know where she had gone. I wanted to call Gannon to see if he could check with the Caldwell County Sheriff's Department to see if Sissy Duval's body had been found but thought I'd best wait until he was home.
So I called the bar to check on my other business. Lalo Herrera informed me that the bar seemed to be attracting several on-duty and off-duty Gatlin County deputies, but I told him not to worry. I'd take care of it when I got back. Then I called Phil Thursby. He suggested that since I had the money, I might be better off fighting the case in court, instead of getting involved with Sylvie Lomax and whatever shifty shenanigans she had devised. I agreed with him. But the sorry truth was that I was having more fun than I had in years. When I talked to him, the sheriff of Bastrop County sounded happy, too. He didn't seem to mind that the woman had jumped bail or that somebody had abandoned a van-load of high-tech electronic gear in his county. He just hoped the FBI didn't bigfoot all over his treasure before he could get his paperwork through the court.
'Who'd the van belong to?' I asked.
'Texas plates were stolen off a wrecked van,' he said. 'And the VIN is on a hot list out of Howard County. Paperwork is top-drawer. It would have passed anything but a felony stop. Wonder what that little dyke was doing down in my county?'
'Up to no good,' I said.
'By the way, what was your name?'
'Hayden Lomax,' I said, then replaced the telephone in the hook.
When I got to Love Field, I cabbed to the Hyatt, picked up my fax from Carver D, checked in, showered, and changed clothes, had a room service lunch, then called Lewis Poulis, who agreed to see me as soon as possible. Perhaps because I used my own name. Then I called one of the national security outfits to arrange for a couple of bodyguards to escort me from the hotel to Poulis Investigations, then to DFW. I did a couple of lines of Sissy Duval's coke, which tasted surprisingly like Billy Long's personal stash, then grabbed my bag, dropped the key on the television, and went down to meet my protection. It was expensive and the paperwork a bore but at least I knew I'd get out of Poulis Investigations alive. As we drove away, in a Lincoln Town Car, the shoulders of the two hugely muscled salt-and-pepper bodyguards filling the front seat, their necks as thick as elephant legs, and their eyes as bright as foxes, I wondered why I'd never thought of doing things this way before. Asking for help turned out not to be as tough as it sounded. I asked them about the layout at Poulis Investigations, then asked them to stop at a hardware store on the way.
Poulis Investigations was located in an industrial slum not too far from Love Field in a cinder block building surrounded by a chain link fence topped with razor wire and security cameras. The bodyguards didn't say a word when we pulled up in front.'
'You picking up something, sir?' the driver asked.
'Delivering something,' I said. 'If I'm not back in an hour, boys, call the cops.'
The driver looked at me with a smirk. 'That won't be necessary, boss. We'll bring you out,' he said. 'These fucking guys are all ex-Army. Think they're tough because they're Gulf War vets.'
'They never played in Green Bay in December,' the other one growled, chuckling. 'By the way, sir,' he added politely, 'you might want to wipe your nose.'
Clean-faced and through the gate, I was ushered directly into the boss's office. The nameplate on Poulis's desk identified him as Col. Lewis Poulis, USA, Ret., and the large retouched photograph of an ex-president behind him suggested he was either a deeply committed Republican or an ex-CIA asset. Poulis was a small, compact man with a potbelly that looked as dyspeptic as his shaved head and smirking face. He looked as if he fancied himself as a pretty tough nut, but I could tell from the 8x10 photo of him in his dress uniform that he didn't wear any combat badges. I sat down in the padded chair across from Poulis, a chair subtly tilted forward to keep the person sitting in it slightly off balance. As if I needed anything to tilt me off dead center.
'You know who I am, Colonel,' I said, 'and you probably know more about me than I do, so you know what I'm here about.'
'Actually, sir, I don't,' Poulis said, exchanging his smirk for a smug smile.
'One of your operatives – Doris Fairchild, she said her name was,' I said, 'left a van full of electronic
