Fast Lane

Chapter 20

I was woken up the next morning by Marge shouting. “But . . . can’t you give me a break? . . . Look, I didn’t have any choice! . . . You know what you can do with your lousy job! . . . Yeah, just make sure you don’t bend over near a cattle ranch! . . . Because they’ll try milking you, you fat cow! . . . Drop dead and rot!”

She slammed the phone down and stared at it for a few seconds, then turned to me, still seething. “The dirty bitch can take her job and cram it. She was always jealous of me because the only thing that will touch her is her underwear. Even her vibrators go soft.”

She lifted her eyes to the ceiling and yelled, “Screw it!” Then she gave me her bared-fanged smile. “So, lover, what are we going to do to celebrate my being fired?”

I took some money from my wallet and handed it to her. “Why don’t you go buy yourself something nice?”

“I like that idea. Come on, get dressed and we’ll go shopping.”

“I’ve got some business to do this morning,” I said. “You go and I’ll meet you for a late lunch.”

She was going to say something, I knew she wanted to, but she held it back. Instead, she shook her head and muttered something under her breath.

The clock next to the bed showed that it was nine thirty. I had an eleven o’clock appointment. Marge gave me a long, cold stare, her mouth moving as if she were chewing gum, then turned on her heels and walked out the door.

* * * * *

A thin blond hawk-nosed man sat at a corner table in the lobby. He was dressed sharply in a cream-colored suit and a straw fedora rested on his head. He could’ve been Dutch or German. When he saw me he nodded.

I approached his table and, in a thick accent, he asked, “Johnny Lane?”

Along with his hawk nose, he had small fish eyes that were set off by a white paleness, making his face almost wax-like. I sat down across from him and returned his nod.

“Some identification, please.”

I handed him my passport. He studied it, and passed it back to me. He gave me the type of smile you’d see on a ventriloquist’s dummy. “On the phone you said you like to do some business. First, I need to know how you get my name.”

“From an acquaintance of mine, Tex Halley.”

“Tex Halley?” He frowned. “Yes, I remember. It went very smoothly. It is so much nicer when things go smoothly. All you want is new passport and identification. Very simple. Less messy than your friend wanted. Give you bargain. Only five thousand American dollars.”

I swallowed, feeling a hotness in my cheeks. “You told me it would be three thousand.”

He shrugged. “It is very hard to understand these things. Prices change daily. My costs tied to intangibles like politics and mood of officials, things very difficult to be precise about.”

“It might be difficult for me not to shove your head through that wall.”

He gave me a long look before exchanging glances with a heavy-set man standing by the bar, who nodded and cast his eyes down to the floor. By the way the man at the bar was standing I could tell he was aware of my every move. Hawknose turned back to me. “I hope you do not try something like that,” he said.

I saw the heavy-set man slip a hand into his jacket pocket. I didn’t care. “I’ll take my chances.” I braced myself because I meant it.

Hawknose frowned as he considered the situation. “There is no reason to take such attitude,” he said. “It is only business, right? Okay, I don’t want unhappy customers. We do it for four thousand and five hundred American dollars. Very fair, believe me.”

I didn’t say anything. Hawknose glanced towards the bar where the heavy-set man was showing off a toothless grin.

“Bien.” Hawknose nodded. “All agreed, no? Fair for everyone. You have photograph for me?”

I gave him a two-by-two passport shot.

He remarked that it was a good likeness and asked what name I wanted to use. I pulled one out of the air, and he wrote it on the back of the photograph.

“Where do you want to come from?”

“How about Canada?”

He shook his head. “No one believe you from Canada.” The heavyset man was frowning in agreement. “More believable if from American West. We make it Las Vegas, Nevada. You can be big shot high roller.”

“You make it that,” I snapped, “and I’ll roll your butt out the window.”

He blinked his fish eyes and shrugged. “You don’t like that, we use something else. How about Montana? We use that, then?”

“Sure.”

“Very interesting,” he added, “that you react like so. Why do you not like Nevada?”

“No reason,” I muttered, shifting a little. “Let’s get on with this.”

“Of course, of course,” he said. “Just curious, that is all. Why you react that way?”

“It doesn’t matter, okay?”

“Okay with me.” From the bar, I could see the heavy-set man, indicating it was okay with him also. “You pay me three thousand dollars now and rest when we deliver documents. Everything will be ready in one week.”

I tossed a wad of bills on the table. He sat back down and counted them, all two thousand dollars.

He shrugged. “Bien,” he said. “Acceptable. We give you new identity in one week. Have you thought about old one?”

“What do you mean?”

“Very simple,” he explained. “If old identity were to die, make it less likely that new identity will be looked for.”

“I still don’t get it.” But I did-I got every damn bit of it.

“For fifteen thousand American dollars Johnny Lane could die in car accident.”

I didn’t say anything. Even though I knew where he was heading, it stunned me. Because maybe I had been-

“Body burnt beyond recognition,” he continued. “Wallet and passport left with body, and as far as United States concerned, Johnny Lane dies in tragic accident. No need to search for him. Very good bargain, believe me.”

“Who will you get to play me?”

“Does not matter. Body will not be examined closely. I make sure of that.”

From the doorway I could see Marge walking by. Her head turned, and as she caught sight of me she did a double take. With a nervous smile, she squeezed through the bar area and made her way to our table.

“I was just coming back from shopping and saw you sitting here, Johnny. I bought an itsy-bitsy bikini. Maybe we can go to the pool later and you can let me know what you think?”

She shot Hawknose a glance, and he shrunk back in his chair looking a little startled. She said nervously, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Just an old college buddy. Look, why don’t you go try that on? I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

“You better.” She pouted, but it was forced. She was uneasy with my company. She reached over and gave me a kiss, letting it linger. As she pulled away her eyes flashed. She gave Hawknose a curt nod, then turned and walked out of the lobby, letting her hips sway to an exaggerated beat as she moved.

“Excellent,” Hawknose exclaimed, nodding admiringly. “Very shrewd to bring her. Her body will be found only little bit burnt, yours like . .. . charcoal. It will be, as you say, open and shut case. Tragic jeep accident while riding to mountains. Very good, we do it for twenty-five thousand dollars.”

I shook my head involuntarily.

“No?” he asked. “I do not understand. Why you bring her then?” That couldn’t be the reason. But why had I brought Marge?

“I see.” He smiled. “Okay, let us not haggle. Twenty thousand dollars. We got deal, no?”

“No!” It couldn’t have been for our nightly tumbles, though. I never have any problems meeting gals for that. Just step in a bar and smile. But if I didn’t bring her for that, could it be possible I . . . .

Looking perturbed, Hawknose turned to the heavy-set man who shrugged and scratched his head. He was going to try to argue with me, but something about my look told him it was no use. “Okay. If you change your mind, contact me. We do it for same price. Trust me, nothing to worry about, but could be if you don’t get smart.”

He stood up and gave me a sour look, and then followed his associate from the lobby.

I ordered a drink, then another, and before long it would’ve been cheaper to have bought the bottle. Sometimes it’s hard to understand why you do certain things. You think it’s for one reason, but all you’re really doing is just playing along. Maybe deep down you understand, maybe not, but when the time is right it all comes straight out of you. You end up reacting like a cold-blooded automaton, doing what you were meant to do from the start. Maybe I had planned that for Marge. Maybe I just hadn’t realized it yet.

* * * * *

By the time I left the lobby I could’ve flown to my room because that’s how high I was. I guess I must’ve been wobbling a bit. When Marge saw me she turned up her nose in disgust and told me I was drunk. I grabbed a bottle of rye and made my way to the bed. I almost cried when I saw the bottle was already three-quarters empty.

“That guy gave me the creeps,” she said, wrinkling her upturned nose. “Who is he?”

“Santa Claus,” I said, taking a swig. “Going to be bringing us bag loads of presents. But you’ll only get yours if you’re extra good. What are you going to do to be extra good?”

“You’re stinking drunk!” She reached for the bottle, but I was quicker. “What are trying to do?” I asked her. “Make me spill some? That’s not being extra good.”

“I didn’t come here to lie around this crummy hotel room with you all day,” she said. “That’s all we’ve done and I’m sick of it!”

Not as sick as I was, I could guarantee her that. I took another swallow of rye, hoping it would dull the red-hot poker jabbing around in my stomach.

“I got fired!” she shouted, veins streaking down her neck. It made me kind of sad seeing that, because it made her look so damn worn-out, and she had no right looking that unattractive.

I guess it also made me a little mean. “You can hardly blame them,” I said. “You can’t say you didn’t deserve what you got.”

Her mouth gaped open. The black hole slowly closed and she took a step back. “That’s a pretty rotten joke.”

“What can I say? I’m only as good as my material.”

She studied me quietly and then took a step forward, apprehension pulling at her mouth. “Let’s not fight, Johnny. I’m sick of fighting. I want to do things with you, not just sit here all day and watch you get drunk. I hate this lousy fleabag hotel.”

“Yeah, well,” I said. “Honey, we’ve all got crosses to bear. You’re stuck in a lousy fleabag. And I’m stuck with a lousy fleabag.”

“You dirty drunken-” She pulled back and took a swing at me and then broke down crying. Her face got flabbier and more creased until it was looking worse than a sharpei’s rear. Even though neither of us moved, she seemed to be gliding away from me, her face shrinking to a small white point. And then there was nothing. Even the sounds of her bawling faded away.

* * * * *

I spent the next three days apologizing. She took it quietly, mumbling stuff about it all being forgotten, but making sure I knew how good and sore she was.

It took about all I had keeping her quiet at night, and I just didn’t have anything left to persuade her with during the day. By morning, I couldn’t do much else but spend my time curled on the bed trying to hold my stomach together.

Sometime Thursday afternoon whatever was heating up inside her boiled over. She slapped a bottle out of my hand and stood over me, glaring.

“Aw, Marge,” I said. “Why’d you go and do that? How many times do I gotta say I’m sorry? Come on, be a good little gal and get me that.”

“Lover, it’s time for you to get out of bed. You’re taking me out to dinner tonight. I made the reservations and I don’t want to hear a damn word about it. You better get up and take a shower.”

When a gal’s got murder in her eyes, you listen. As I was closing the door to the shower, she screamed, “And lover, my name’s Margo. M-A-R-G-O! Quit calling me Marge!”

* * * * *

The place Marge dragged me to was this marble mausoleum where you had to tip a half-dozen folks before you even sat down. Once you were seated the show really began; three attendants stood beside your table like propped-up corpses.

One guy seemed to be eyeing our water glasses, and I was pretty sure his job was to keep the water at a proper level. Another seemed to be there to keep our cigarettes lit. The third I wasn’t sure about, but I would’ve guessed if my balls got itchy he would’ve been ready with a finger.

Marge beamed through the dozen long-stemmed roses arranged in the middle of the table. “Isn’t this wonderful?”

“Just great,” I said. “I’m out twenty bucks and I haven’t even eaten anything yet.”

That dimmed her beaming a bit. She said, “I’m sorry about some of the things that were said. I know you haven’t been feeling well and I should’ve been more understanding. Can we be friends again?”

Her voice contained an almost desperate pleading, and it touched me. At least, it loosened me up. “Sure,” I said.

“Isn’t this great? This is supposed to be the best restaurant in Mexico City. I’m so happy we’re finally doing something. Maybe if you’re feeling better we can start doing more things together? Maybe we can lay off the alcohol?”

I looked at her small, pale face. A funny, tough smile was trying to contradict the anxiety in her eyes. I made my mind up about something, or, rather, I decided to quit trying to fight the inevitable. After a while the fighting wears you out and all you can do is step aside and let fate take its course. There was a reason I brought her to Mexico and it was time I admitted it.

“That’d be nice,” I said. “How about tomorrow we rent a jeep and take a ride to the mountains? Do a little sightseeing?”

“You mean it?”

I nodded. “When we get back to the hotel, I’ll get on the phone and make the arrangements.”

For the first time in days a soft easy smile broke out over her face. “Lover,” she whispered, “maybe I’ll let you do a little sightseeing tonight.”

“Sure, honey. We’ll have ourselves a little party.”

The waiter showed up, and while the food was being arranged in front of us I thought about the jeep ride we were going to take. It would be a tragic, senseless accident, one which there could be no explanation for. Looking at Marge I felt sincerely touched, and I was pretty sure her passing was going to leave an emptiness in my life.

Marge was all smiles over the food. “This looks delicious.”

I grunted and took a bite, and was almost floored. A fiery pain shot through me, almost singeing my brain. I stayed in my chair, but just barely. For a second I thought I was going to pass out and then I didn’t know what to think except that I had to get moving. I said something to Marge about finding a bathroom.

As soon as I got to my feet a dull nausea chilled me. I think Marge yelled for me to hurry back before my food got cold, and I mumbled something back to her.

I couldn’t move, at least not right away. My legs were cold dead stumps, as if they were disconnected from the rest of me, and I almost collapsed before I got ten feet from the table. The restaurant staff gave me funny looks as I staggered past them, but none of them got in my way. As I pushed through the door I doubled over. A cabbie looked up from his paper and I whispered something to him.

“Que?” he asked.

“Please,” I gasped. “Take me to a hospital.”