Chaingang

13

WATERTON

Royce Hawthorne felt like a ten-ton weight had been at least partially lifted from his shoulders. A weight in keys, actually, but it could have gone ten tons worth of bad.

The special unit would have been proud. It was so typical of their ways. As he drove in search of Happy, the memories of the two nightmare years he'd spent “away from home” played in his head like bad dreams.

Mary wondered if he'd been doing “detective work of some kind.” Sam telling her he'd joined the CIA. How could he tell anybody about what he'd been through? A world as far removed from the covert ops planners and need-to-know poli-sci majors of Langley as one could get. Yet, oddly, such a similar world, where case officers and informants and blackmail and twisted motives were a way of life.

He shrugged off the thoughts. Nothing would spoil his mood. The “Package” was now wrapped. In the care of the United States postal system and—presumably—safe and sound. His sinuses were aching and he pulled over and did some snort. So good. Good for me. Good for you. Umm good. Feel good. Real good.

Royce pulled off Quarry Road, northbound, and followed a dirt-bike trail for about half a mile. The roadhouse had been built to resemble a saloon in an old B-western: hitching posts, covered step-up porch, extended front wall, swinging doors—now permanently nailed open against the outer wall—and more bullet holes than a county road sign.

Called “2 Daze 3 Knights,” this place had begun life as a gay bar for rough trade, drawing patrons from as far away as Memphis. But the isolated location and access made it the perfect biker bar, and the guys on the two-wheelers promptly took it away from the gays. Now it was where the people of color hung. Jamaicans, Cubans, Colombians—mostly Latinos frequented the roadhouse now, with an occasional black of two in their company. The original cutesy name had long since been deep-sixed, and the only name now was a large painted CANTINA over the entranceway.

Royce made sure that Mary's dough was well hidden in the stash and he locked his ride, feeling very pale as he entered the bar with all those greenbacks in his pocket.

Happy and Luis were at a table in the corner with two other men, in a heated discussion. Royce went to the end of the bar and nursed a tequila until Happy made eye contact. Royce nodded. The man got up, Luis beside him, and sauntered over to the bar, leaving the other two at the table.

Happy, a.k.a. Fabio Ruiz, was twenty-something going on a hundred. Five feet one, but on a good day, Cuban heels with lifts brought him up to maybe five four. Long hair in a choppy, little-boy haircut that covered his forehead and most of his ears. Sulky mouth and cokey nose. A real hard-on.

“Yo, homes. Ju a long way from Wallyworld.” They all laughed.

“I hear ya."

“So. Ju wanna cold one?” Happy's accent had thickened perceptibly.

“I'm good. I brought something. You want it in here?"

“Less see—whatchew brought me.” Luis Londoño was on the other side, and real close—Royce realized. If he came out with something in his hand they didn't like...

“Here ya go.” He slid a thick package out of his pocket and into Happy's hand. Royce was surprised to see him casually open it right there. The guy behind the bar was making a show out of not looking anywhere near them.

“Nnn-hm.” The man made a little two-note humming sound of satisfaction.

“Happy?” Royce said in a quiet, hoarse voice, lowering it more and whispering, “I got a dude—really moving for me, mano."

“Uh-huh."

“You know I'm for real now, huh?” He felt like everybody in the bar was looking at his back.

“What's not to love?” it sounded like he said.

“I can move serious weight, if you can set me up."

“Whatchew call serious, amigo?"

Royce whispered a number in the crow's wing of oily hair over his left ear. He could see the kilos tumble into place like cherries on a one-armed bandit.

Happy made a little whistling sound. “Thass—"

“Same quality."

“—no prob-lemo."

“How much you nail me for?"

Happy did some mental math and whispered a figure in his ear. They haggled a little. Happy redid his math. Royce nodded, watching himself sell it in the mirror of the back-bar.

“Let's do it, then,” he said.

“Whatever makes everybody happy."

“How soon?"

“Whatever, bro. I set it up ASAP. Whatever it takes. All right?"

“Hey, Happy,” he said, pushing it a little behind the cocaine, “I ain't no ounce-pouncer now, am I, señor?"

“Chit no, jefe,” Happy laughed. “Ju drivin’ the heavy Chevy."

They said their good-byes, slap-dapped, and Royce patted Luis on the back and left. It was like patting a large tombstone.

“Hi, Royce. Come on in,” Mary told him, turning away when she saw who was at the door.

“Thanks, hon. I owe you big,” he told her, handing her the envelope of cash.

“Oh, sure,” she said, absentmindedly, but pleased to have her five thousand back. She glanced inside the envelope but didn't check it. “Any time.” She appeared to have no further curiosity about his bizarre loan.

“I put a couple hundred in—you know—for interest or whatever. If you're penalized more than that, let me know."

“No. Take that back. It wasn't hardly anything."

“That's yours. I came out great. It's for the inconvenience. Don't give it back—I'll only waste it."

She didn't even hassle him about taking the two hundred back, so he knew she wasn't with it.

They sat at the kitchen table and he asked the usual question. She shook her head, telling him that Marty Kerns had called. Telling him the details of their conversation. As she did so, her pretty face registered worry, great anxiety, doubt, and suspicion—an assortment of quick despairs that blew across her attractive features like a chilling breeze.

Marty Kerns. There were three salient features about the good chief of public safety, or chief of police, as everybody in the town still called the office. He was tough, corrupt, and stupid. Royce decided he'd start trying to really help this woman—whom he'd just taken advantage of without a thought to any possible consequences.

“Marty Kerns isn't doing anything, Mary. Whatever gets done from here on, we're going to have to do—or some other law enforcement agency like the county or the Feds will have to do. Kerns couldn't find his fat ass without help."

There was a moment like the old times that flashed between them in that heartbeat of candor, and he read an unspoken question in her eyes. He imagined that she was asking him—you think something bad has happened to Sam, don't you? And he tried to answer her on the same wavelength.

“Listen,” he began, “let's start with what we know. Take it from the top. What was the biggest thing in Sam's life besides you? It was the land deal. Since the first time you told me about it, the thing has bugged me. Something doesn't play. Something wrong. I think that if we follow what Sam did in putting the land sale together, we might get some clue as to what happened."

“I ... uh ... don't have any better ideas,” she said, shrugging. Telling him that she thought it was useless.

“Go back to the beginning. When was the first time he mentioned the deal to you? Who was this guy—this Sinclair whatshisname? How did he get in touch? Let's start by calling the phone number in Virginia that Sam called."

She took him through the whole thing, step by step. The walk-in who called out of the blue one day about wanting to purchase rural properties, not sounding like he was anybody who would actually follow through. Then showing up a week later and meeting her husband at a restaurant in Maysburg. Describing Christopher Sinclair later to Mary as having “pink skin the color of a baby's tush.” The big cash offers that whoever he represented intended to make to ten local landowners. Whoever he was fronting for had done their homework. They knew how to make offers that would be extremely tough to decline out of hand. Something that no outsider should have been able to do without spending a lot of time in research, Sam emphasized.

There was supposedly going to be a major ecological research and development center located on this three- or four-hundred-acre circle out in the middle of nowhere. There were already rumors flying around the town about what the piece of ground was going to be used for.

She told Royce about the big cashier's check that the man gave Sam to present to Cullen Alberson at that initial meeting.

“Take me through the offers, Mary. How was it handled?"

“Well, Cullen was first. Sam took the money out to him that evening and got a done deal, as he called it. Got Cullen to sign his piece of ground over right then and there. All it took was a look at the numbers on the check."

“How much was the check for?"

“Fifty thousand dollars!"

“I shouldn't wonder. That's ten times what it's worth. My God!"

“Sam said it was way out of line. But that's how he knew Mr. Sinclair was a legitimate businessman, when that first cashier's check went through without any problems. Anybody with that kind of serious money, you know, they have a way of getting your attention.

“Next was Weldon Lawley. They sent a payment direct in the mail to him. I don't recall exactly—but it's all in the office papers. A few days later they deposited money here in town and had Sam finalize the deal with the Poindexters. And it went on like that until they had all the ground."

“I want to get all the contracts, copies of abstracts, deeds—everything that Sam kept on this deal, okay?"

“Sure.” They dug out the Alexandria, Virginia, phone number, and Royce dialed it. An intercept clicked on. It was no longer a working number. Directory assistance had no such party in any of the Alexandria or D.C. listings.

“I think we should go to all these people and talk to them personally."

“I already have—some of them."

“I know. But let's start from square one and try to put this deal together just as it happened. See if anything holds up a red flag, y’ know?"

“Okay. I want to put this money back. Let's go down to the office, if you want to, and we'll get all the stuff."

“Fine."

“Royce ... you don't need to waste any more of your time with this. I can ask around. I should never have got you involved. I'm sure you've got your work..."

“I have nothing but time. Come on,” he said, and they left the Perkins house. After the bank, they got the papers, then Royce dropped off Mary at home and took everything back to study overnight.

He wanted this to immerse himself in tonight. He did not want to have to be alone with the Royce Hawthorne who knew him so well, who knew what he'd become and what he'd chosen to do. He wanted no part of his own self-centered thoughts, and the last thing he wanted was time for any self-analysis. Tonight was not the night to look into his own soul. He would occupy his mind fully. So that he'd not accidentally look into himself and see the bottomless black hole that had once been a conscience.