Drive

Chapter Twenty-two

Six a.m., first light of dawn, world stitching itself back together out there, reconstituting itself, as he looked on.

Blink, and the warehouse across the way reemerged.

Blink again, the city loomed in the distance, a ship coming hard into port.

Birds skittered from ragged tree to ragged tree complaining. Cars idled at curbside, took on human freight, pulled away.

Driver sat in his apartment sipping scotch from the only glass he’d kept. The scotch was Buchanan’s, a mid-range blend. Not bad at all. Big seller among Latinos. No phone service here, nothing of value. Couch, bed and chairs came with the rent. Clothes, razor, money and other essentials waited in a duffel bag by the door.

Just as a good car waited in the parking lot.

The TV, he’d found sitting beside garbage bags at curbside when he put out his own glasses, dishes and miscellaneous goods for pickup. Why not? he thought. Ten-inch screen, and pretty much banged to hell, but it worked. So now he was watching a nature program in which four or five coyotes chased a jackrabbit. The dogs were relaying: one would chase the rabbit a while, then another would take over.

Sooner or later they’d come after him, of course. Only a matter of time. Nino’d known that all along. They both had. The rest was no more than dancing, fancy footwork and misdirection, figure-eight of the bullfighter’s cape. No way they were going to just let this lie.

Driver poured the last of the Buchanan’s into his last glass.

Guests soon, no doubt about it.