Cut and Run

14

Gooch slipped the hostess a ten-dollar bill and nabbed a large booth in the back of the Pie Shack. Whit sat across from him. The place had the treasured atmosphere of an old neighborhood cafe: mirrored walls, neon art of thick slices of pie on plates, coffee steaming up from a mug at every booth. The huge window by the booth that faced out into the lot was smeared with rain. Thunder sounded far off, a brief rumble.

‘Now we wait,’ Gooch said.

Whit glanced back at the doorway. ‘I shouldn’t sit here, by the window. She could see me. Run.’

‘I doubt she’ll know who you are after thirty years, Whit.’

‘I don’t know.’ He fidgeted in the booth, checked his watch. ‘She’s late.’

‘She’s going to be. At least fifteen minutes. If she’s survived this long working for a crime ring she’s going to be cautious. She’ll put us on the defensive.’

‘She’s not going to talk to me in a busy place.’ The Pie Shack was full. The two closest booths – there were no tables – were both occupied, one by three gay guys rehashing their evening at a local club, the other by a wine-happy quartet of women, laughing at themselves and digging through thick slabs of meringued pies, attempting to sober up with pots of black coffee. Both groups seemed wholly captivated by their own conversations. A riser of plants separated the booths from each other, obscuring views and dulling sounds.

Whit watched a Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows drive through the lot, mist rising from its tires. Then a pickup truck, then a Lexus.

‘Easy, boy,’ Gooch said. ‘She’ll talk to you. She has a nice-sounding voice.’

‘She’s probably more nervous than I am.’

‘She has reason to be. Sit at the counter and keep your back turned to the front door,’ Gooch said. ‘You won’t scare her off that way when she walks in.’ Gooch cocked a finger at him. ‘It’s gonna be okay, buddy.’

‘Thanks.’ Whit took a seat at the long, curving counter. Turned his back to the front door. He ordered a cup of decaf, dosed it with milk, and hunched his shoulders over the curl of steam. On his right a woman in a security-guard uniform plowed through an omelette doused in chili and cheese; she gave him a glance that showed she noticed his bruised face but said nothing. On his left a young man with three earrings ate butter-soaked waffles and read Sports Illustrated.

Whit stirred the milky swirl of his coffee. No mirror was mounted above the bar to let him watch arrivals and departures. But he heard the jingle of the door as it opened and closed, and each time the little bell tinkled he tightened his grip on his coffee cup. He tried not to care. He glanced over at Gooch’s booth; he could barely see the top of Gooch’s crewcutted head over the divider of fake ivy.

He had played out in his mind a thousand times what he would say to his mother. Why did you do it? What did we do wrong? How could you? I hate you. I forgive you.

The day she had left, his four oldest brothers had gone with family friends to see a movie in Corpus Christi. He and Mark, the littlest boys at two and three, had played in the backyard, worn themselves out playing chase while his mother sat and watched. She’d put them down for naps and, while they slept, she put her bags in her car, placed signed divorce papers on the dinette, and left Port Leo forever. He imagined that before she walked out the door she kissed him good-bye, cuddled him, told him she was sorry. She probably had done none of those things.

Sweat tickled the undersides of his arms, the backs of his legs.

The door jingled.

He waited, watched the hostess leading a young couple to a front booth. He relaxed a moment. Then he saw an older woman, her back to him, dressed in a rumpled suit and no raincoat, heading right for Gooch’s back booth.

‘I don’t know you.’ Eve Michaels slid into the booth. She clutched her purse close to her right side. My God, she thought, the guy was a bruiser. Built big and broken-mirror ugly. Hands as big as hubcaps.

‘I’m Gooch.’ He didn’t rise from the booth, wisely not making any move to scare her, but he did offer one of the plus-sized hands. She didn’t shake it. She had her hand on the Beretta, pointed at him inside the purse. She flicked her gaze to her left; the kitchen door was right there. In case she had to shoot and run.

‘That’s a very nice purse, by the way,’ Gooch said.

‘Thank you.’

‘What are you aiming at me? A. 357 Magnum?’ Gooch asked.

The waitress approached, took her order for coffee and lemon pie, and left.

‘Most women put their purse on the side that isn’t by the aisle,’ Gooch said. ‘You’ve got it right next to you, on the aisle, and your hand went in it as soon as you sat down.’

‘Like I said, Mr Gooch, I don’t know you.’

The waitress returned with the coffee, poured Eve a steam-kissed cup, refreshed Gooch’s mug, walked away. The booth of drunken women brayed loud and long at one of their own jokes.

‘Coffee doesn’t make you jittery, right?’ Gooch said. ‘I don’t want you jittery with a gun pointing at me.’ He sounded unconcerned. ‘I’d prefer you put both hands on the table.’

She didn’t. ‘James Powell?’

‘We can talk about him later,’ Gooch said. ‘Why does the mention of your name send Bucks into a tantrum?’

She decided he wasn’t a cop or a Fed. This wasn’t the place they’d pick. Not the words they’d use. ‘He’s a thief and he’s framed me.’

‘What did he steal?’

‘Tell me who you are before I say another word.’

Gooch glanced up and past her shoulder. ‘I’m not from your friends. Paul Bellini can lose every dime he’s got and I won’t care.’

She tightened her grip on the gun. ‘You’re not here about the money?’

‘Money. No. Love,’ Gooch said.

‘I don’t…’ she began and then a young man with a face much like hers slid into the booth next to Gooch.

‘Hi, Ellen,’ he said. His voice was steady. A little husky. Not cold but not exactly friendly.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

‘Still pointing the gun? At him or me?’ Gooch asked. ‘Really, Mrs Mosley, it’s time to let it go.’

Eve stared at the young man. Then, slowly, she put both hands on the table.