'Is he up there alone?'
'He was when I dropped him there,' he admitted grimly.
'You drove him up?' I asked.
'In the church van,' Walker muttered, finally ashamed.
'What's the rest of it?'
'Ah, hell, man, I think he's cooking crank, too. He's a crazy man. Always has been.' Then he began to explain like a lowlife talking to the law, 'You don't appreciate my problem, man. I owe him.'
'I know exactly how it is,' I said. 'He took the Tulsa bust and left you out of it, right? You better goddamn understand, I'd appreciate it if he didn't know I was coming to visit,' I said. 'And believe me, man, I'll tear this fucking church scam down around your ears.'
'Believe me, brother,' he said, 'I've regretted abandoning my daughter all these many years. I've spent many, many hours on my knees in prayer, asking for God's forgiveness.'
'Hey, man,' I said, 'people who actually give a shit do something about it. Praying is for people who ain't doing anything. As far as I'm concerned, you're an unforgivable asshole. And by the way, I am not your fucking brother.'
Jonas Walker nodded once, sadness heavy on his giant face, glanced once at Molly, then stepped into the church, slamming the heavy door, locking himself inside with his God and his memories. I didn't envy either one of them.
'What was that all about?' Molly wanted to know as we drove away in the fading light.
'That was a man's past coming home to roost on his shoulder like a dead crow,' I said, sliding out of my shoulder holster, then she shoved the rig into my war bag for me.
'That was my father, wasn't it?' she said.
'No. Your father is the man who raised you,' I pointed out. 'And much as I dislike Rollie, he wouldn't have given you up even if I had put his last hand into the fire.' Molly seemed to engender loyalty in even the worst of men. I suspected that even Jimmy Fish had been killed because he wouldn't give her up. At least not until he got her back. 'Rollie's your father.'
'You're right,' she said calmly as if suddenly cheered. 'Thanks. What now?'
'Let's find a place to eat that deserves your new wardrobe,' I said. 'Then I've got an all-night stakeout.'
'Sounds like a date,' she said. 'Can I come along?'
'Damn right it's a date,' I said, grinning suddenly as she kissed me, our faces hot in the cold rain, a fire that not even this cold Texas rain could quench. Whatever had happened between Betty and me, this wasn't part of it. 'Then tomorrow morning I've got to stash you somewhere so I can go to Montana. I don't seem to be doing any good down here.'
'Great,' she said, then punched me on the shoulder. 'I've never been to Montana. Went to Pocatello, Idaho, once, to ruin a state senator's life for a timber company.'
'Montana isn't the same sort of place,' I said, 'or this the same kind of job.' Molly turned her face to the rain- streaked window. 'Shit, I'm sorry,' I said quickly. 'Really sorry. You didn't deserve that. These people down here are making me into an asshole.' She didn't deserve my judgment. Molly was just another version of the capitalist success story: buy low, sell high, fuck the consumer. 'I could probably use some help with the driving,' I said by way of apology. 'Please.'
'You're going to drive? Why not fly?' she asked. She seemed to have forgiven my mean-spirited witlessness.
'Airplanes leave tracks,' I said. Then admitted, 'It's never a good time of the year to fly to Montana, and only February is worse than December. If the weather holds, we can make it in two hard days. Or three easy ones.'
'I could go for some easy times,' she said. 'Somehow I feel like I've earned them.'
'Me, too. Let's start with a decent meal,' I said, then dialed Jeffrey's to see if they'd had a reservation cancellation.
'Good idea,' she said, patting my leg again, leaving her warm hand on my thigh as we crossed town on our way to dinner.
Red called during dinner, so I stepped outside the restaurant to talk to him. He was fine, his mother was fine, and things had gone down pretty much as Fresno had recounted them, Red said, except he didn't point out how calm the Frenchman had been when he put the round in Jimmy Fish's head.
'Man,' he squealed, 'I seen some cold shit in Detroit, and I wouldn't have minded puttin' a pill in the little motherfucker's head myself, but that Frenchman was one cold piece of work.'
'I'll send you a check, Red, and you send me the phone.'
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. 'You done overpaid me, man,' he said, sounding hurt. 'We're cool.'
'I'm the old guy here, Red. I'll decide when we're cool.'
Austin was so full of pickups, I didn't think another one would look out of place in Albert Homer's neighborhood, and Tom Ben had told me in a hoarse growl that he didn't think he'd be needing his this night, so Molly and I parked it down the street from Homer's studio just after midnight. Just a couple of rednecks spooning. We changed locations a couple of times, and Molly proved to be a good companion on a stakeout. She didn't have any trouble holding her bladder and she held up her end of the hushed conversations. I wished for a touch of Billy Long's coke, which was still stashed in the foot locker. I had to make do with convenience store coffee that was almost thick enough to snort. Then maybe we got a little deep into our ruse toward false dawn. Molly saw the black van with its headlights off stopped in front of Homer's mailbox before I did.
Except for Molly's soft company, the night was a waste. The van sped away from Homer's so quickly that it was already on the Interstate heading south before it turned its headlights on, but by that time I was too far behind it to read the license plate or even tell what kind of van it was.
'Well, that was a waste of time,' I said.
'Not completely,' Molly said, her voice muffled against my leg as she slipped into an easy sleep, her breath warm on my thigh.
THIRTEEN
By the time we got back to Tom Ben's, the sun had risen to obscurity behind the avalanche of roiling, slate- gray clouds that filled the sky. When I parked the truck in front of the main house, the housekeeper, Maria, rushed out on the porch, waving her arms and shouting at me. I couldn't make out the Spanish but I could tell it wasn't good.
I jumped out of the cab, Molly right behind me. The housekeeper looked at us oddly, rumpled and sleepy in our fancy clothes. Inside, the old man was slumped in the recliner. He had his bib overalls on but only one boot, and his mouth gaped open and shut like a fish as he struggled for breath. The front of his shirt was soaked but his pale forehead was as dry and hot as a stove pipe. A thick string of spittle drifted down his chin. The gnarled fingers of his trembling right hand clutched the black stub of his pipe.
'He don't wake up,' the housekeeper kept moaning. 'He don't wake up.'
'Where the hell is everybody?'
'The bulls,' she muttered, 'the bulls are in the road. The men round them up…'
'Probably a case of raging pneumonia,' I said to Molly, 'but maybe he's had a stroke, too. I'm going to call a chopper. Get some blankets.'
The old man was still alive and, according to the paramedics, stabilized as the chopper took off from the front yard half an hour later. Even his color was better as soon as they got an oxygen mask on him. The distraught housekeeper fell back on the household routine. Before Molly and I could leave, we had to sit down to huge plates
