Scratch Fever

12

NOLAN ALMOST missed the sign.

It was over to the left, a barn-wood sign about four by four, with the following words painted on in faded red: “THE BARN, Turn Right.” This was lit from beneath by two small floods.

He turned right, off the highway onto gravel. The road was narrow, its ditches deep, and to stay out of them, Nolan slowed to about thirty. He could see the structure up ahead, beyond the flattened cornfields, up to the right. It was stark in the moonlight, a barn with a tin shed growing out of it, like an outstretched arm.

In front of the barn was a graveled parking lot, and he pulled into it. There were no other cars in the lot. He got out of the little red Datsun, which he’d gotten from Sherry, tucking the silenced 9 mm, which he’d gotten from dead Sal, into his waistband. He hadn’t taken time to change clothes — he was still wearing the corduroy jacket and turtleneck and slacks he’d worn to Iowa City today, though that seemed like a year ago — and he felt less than refreshed.

The drive from the Quad Cities had drained him. He’d had a long day, too much of it spent behind the wheel of a car, and the rest poring over the books with Wagner and the Pier’s accountant, and drinking a little too much afterward. And then the shit had hit the fan, and he’d pulled the energy out of somewhere; the adrenalin had pumped and he’d managed to save that nice ass of Sherry’s and rid the world of that cocksucker Sal, whose body he’d dumped on a side road between the Quad Cities and Port City.

Right now he felt every one of his fifty-odd years, after a cramped hour-and-a-half in a small car, on a rolling, narrow two-lane highway, watching for speed traps, popping No-Doz to force his alertness to an artificial edge.

He stood and stretched and looked at the barn that was the Barn, letting the chill air have at him. Between the full moon and a number of tall posts with outdoor lights, the exterior of the structure was well lit, though its windows were dark. He didn’t bother trying the front, restaurant, entrance, but walked around to the side door.

He could see the rustic bar, with its booths and wanted posters, through the steel-cross-hatched window of die door; there were enough beer signs lit to get a look. Not a soul. He walked around the long tin shed — it seemed a block long — and found some more empty parking lot at the rear.

On the other side of the building, though, in still more parking lot, were several vehicles.

There was a big four-wheel drive, a Land Rover, two-tone tan; a snow plow; and a van.

The van was light blue with a painted logo on it that said “THE NODES.”

Jon’s group.

Jon’s van.

Nolan slipped out of his shoes.

It hurt to walk on the gravel in his goddamn socks, but it was quiet. The van had no side windows, but there were windows in back. On his toes (ouch — fuck!) he could peek in. He saw a lumpy bundle on the floor, a blanket over some stuff, he guessed. Could be a small person sleeping. He couldn’t tell.

He looked in the front windows; the driver’s and rider’s seats were empty. He quietly tried the doors on either side. Locked.

Now what?

Somebody was in the Barn. There had to be, or the owners were goddamn dumb. A big place like this, stuck between a couple of cornfields, full of booze and other inventory, not to mention furniture and fixtures — hell, there had to be a sleep-in watchman. Without one, you’d go broke in a week.

So somebody was in there — somebody who belonged to the tan Land Rover.

Which meant Nolan could go to a door and start banging his fist till somebody inside answered. And that somebody might know something about the abandoned Nodes van. Julie couldn’t have grabbed the whole goddamn band, could she?

He went to the nearest door, which wasn’t far from the parked Land Rover, and stopped.

Jon’s phone call had brought him here, but Jon was, obviously, in trouble. The kind of trouble Sherry had been in, no doubt, or worse. What guarantee was there that Nolan wasn’t walking into some setup right now? Knocking, announcing himself, could be very stupid...

He went to the Land Rover and lifted the hood.

It took about thirty seconds for the sound of the sticking, blaring horn to get a reaction inside the building. A dog barked; some lights went on; movement within. Nolan was waiting, his back to the building, to the right of the door, 9 mm in hand, as the man looked out — a big man, tall, wearing a hunting jacket over a bare chest and shiny blue pajama bottoms. He had a shotgun.

The man was only partway out, the door open, leaning toward the Land Rover and its blaring horn; he didn’t see Nolan, who was behind the partly open door. That was good.

Not good was the snarling dog on the other side of that door, a big dog, from the sound of it, who may not have seen Nolan but obviously sensed him, and knew exactly where he was.

Fortunately, the dog was unable to transfer its knowledge to his owner, who said, “Stay back, Queenie — I’ll let you know if I need you.”

But Queenie had a mind of her own, and as the man stepped out of the doorway onto the gravel, Queenie lurched forward.

Just as she did, Nolan shut the door on the bitch, hard, catching the snapping animal by the shoulders, lodging it there.

“Order it back!” Nolan said, shoulder pushing against the door. The dog, which had shut up for a second, caught by surprise and pain, was barking hysterically, trying to get its big German Shepherd head around to where she could bite off Nolan’s left hand, on the door knob. Above it all, the Land Rover’s horn was going as though this was a jail break.

The guy was standing there, his back to Nolan, but partially turned, glancing over his shoulder to see the gun in Nolan’s right hand. His own shotgun was slack in his hands.

“Order it back, I said,” Nolan said, straining against the door.

“Queenie,” the man said. “Get back.”

The dog’s snapping turned into a quiet growl.

“Get back, Queenie.”

The dog pulled back.

Nolan shut the door. Behind it the dog still growled. Even the blare of the Land Rover’s horn couldn’t drown it out.

The big man in hunting jacket and pajama bottoms twitched, as if about to turn.

Nolan said, “You can’t turn fast enough.”

The guy kept his back to Nolan but turned his head just enough to give Nolan a “Fuck you” look.

Nolan said, “Toss the shotgun. Toss it good.”

The guy tossed it.

“Go fix your horn,” Nolan said.

The guy walked slowly toward the Land Rover. Nolan followed. The guy lifted the hood, stopped the blaring. He shut the hood, then turned and looked at Nolan and said, “I’m gonna...”

“You’re going to shut up,” Nolan said.

The guy did.

“I’m not a thief,” Nolan said, which wasn’t exactly true, but in this case was. “I’m not here to cause you any harm.”

“Go to hell.”

“Lean back against the four-wheel. Put your hands on the hood.”

He did.

“What’s your name?” Nolan asked.

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t be stupid. This isn’t a contest.”

“Bob Hale.”

“You the watchman?”

He bristled. “I own the damn place.”

“No offense. This van here.”

“What about it?”

“It’s the band’s, isn’t it? The band that played here tonight, correct?”

“Yeah. Correct.”

“What’s it doing here?”

“I don’t know. I’m surprised it’s still here myself.”

Nolan was afraid of that.

“Some of ’em loaded some equipment in a trailer and left,” Hale was saying. “They said the other guy would probably be by tomorrow for his amplifiers and shit, which is still inside.”

“The other guy.”

“Jon. The leader. Had a chance to get laid or something and bugged out. He’ll turn up for his stuff tomorrow.”

There was a sound behind Nolan; he turned, quick, and saw the rear doors of the Nodes van open up.

“Get out slow,” Nolan said. He was standing with his back to the building, which he didn’t like doing, but it allowed him to keep an eye on both Hale, by the Land Rover, and whoever it was climbing out of the Nodes van.

“Let’s see your hands,” Nolan ordered. “Over your head.”

It was a girl. A young woman in a denim jacket and jeans. So the bundle under the blanket had been a small, sleeping person.

“I wanted to make sure it was you,” she said. She was staying near the van. A busty little brunette with a pretty, heart-shaped face.

“You’re Jon’s girl, aren’t you?” Nolan said.

“Not his girl, exactly,” she said, shrugging. “But I’m who you think I am. I think.”

“Toni, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said. She seemed surprised that he remembered her name. And a little pleased. “Can I put my hands down?”

“Yes, and come over here.”

She went to Hale.

“Bob,” she said, putting a hand on his arm, which was still leaning back so he could keep his hands on the Land Rover’s hood, per Nolan’s instructions, “this is a friend of Jon’s. I didn’t want to worry you before, Bob... but something’s happened to Jon.”

He looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Somebody’s kidnapped him, I think,” Toni said.

“Did you call the cops?” Hale asked.

“Can’t,” Toni said.

“Better be quiet,” Nolan told her.

“Why can’t you?” Hale asked.

Nolan raised his gun.

“Just asking,” Hale said.

Nolan looked at Toni. She nodded. He looked at Hale. He said, “Jon and I are involved with some people who wouldn’t like the police involved. You don’t want to know any more than that.”

“You’re right,” Hale said.

“I’ll put my gun away if you’ll take us inside and keep your dog off.”

“Okay.” Hale shrugged.

“Go get his shotgun,” Nolan told Toni.

She did.

Nolan broke it open, handed the shells to Hale, then handed him the empty gun as well.

He turned to Toni. “Get my shoes, would you?”

“You’re in your stocking feet!”

“That’s why I want my shoes.” He pointed to them.

She got them for him. He put them on.

Then Hale led them into the Barn, commanding his surly dog to heel, which it did, reluctantly.

Hale took them out into the bar, where he turned on some lights. The dog headed for a nearby pinball machine and curled up beneath it and slept; even in repose, it looked like a killer. Nolan asked Hale if he had some coffee. Hale asked if instant was okay and Nolan said fine.

While Hale got the coffee, Nolan got the story of what had happened here, from Toni’s point of view.

“When Jon never got back,” she said, “I went out and found the van was still here. I couldn’t think of anything to do but hope you got Jon’s message, and wait for you to show up.”

“So you waited in the van.”

“Yeah, but I fell asleep and didn’t hear you get here. Didn’t hear you prowling around, either. You say you tried the doors on the van?”

“The ones up front, yes.”

“And I slept right through it. I’m not very good at this, am I?”

“Well, you’re new at it. And I’m quiet.”

“Yeah, you sneak around in your socks. I didn’t wake up till that horn started in. Scared the shit out of me, too.”

“So Julie runs a gambling joint,” Nolan said. “That explains the Chicago connection.”

“What?”

Nolan shushed her, as Hale joined them in the booth with the coffee. The big man seemed almost friendly now. He had even taken the time to put some money in the jukebox; Charlie Daniels was singing something mournful at the moment. But it did serve to give a social flavor to this forced meeting.

And Hale clearly liked Toni; he looked at her with an obvious, though somehow childish, lust.

“Why’d you stay out in that van?” Hale asked her. “If I’d known you was in trouble, you could’ve come stayed in my pad.”

“I never thought of that,” she said with a straight face.

“Toni says this woman — this Julie,” Nolan said, as if he didn’t know who Julie was, “asked about Jon.”

“Yeah. She was interested in booking ’em over at her club.”

“His band, you mean.”

“Yeah. She has quite the place, over there by Gulf Port.”

“Tell me about it — the Paddlewheel.”

“I suppose I could. I could also call Julie, after you leave, and tell her you was asking about her, you know.”

Toni touched Hale’s arm again. “Please don’t.”

“You don’t want in this any deeper than you already are,” Nolan told him. It wasn’t exactly a threat.

Hale thought about that.

Then he said, “Okay, you convinced me. Ask me what you want and get out of here. I want to get back to bed. Listening to that dog is making me sleepy.”

Over under the pinball machine, his dog was snoring.

“You know,” Hale said, “you could just as easy killed that bitch of mine out there. But you didn’t. Maybe that says something about you.”

“Maybe it does,” Nolan said.

13

THE DOUBLE bed, covered by a garish green and red floral spread, came out of the wall at right; a TV and dresser with mirror were against the wall at left. There was just enough room between for Infante to pace.

It was a dingy little room, with smudged-looking yellow plaster walls and a green shag carpet speckled with dirt; over the bed was a picture of two horses running. Tacky, Infante thought. Just the sort of depressing room he didn’t need right now. But he had no choice but to be here; this was where that guy Harold said to come. Besides which, there wasn’t any other motel in Gulf Port.

Infante had rolled in just after three and had driven around a little bit, checking it out, and found Gulf Port wasn’t a town at all, not really — just a collection of trailers and shacks, no business section or anything. If there hadn’t been a full moon, he wouldn’t have been able to see the town, hardly, which would have been okay with him.

Scattered along the outskirts of Gulf Port, though, were eight or ten bars, all thriving, and that explained it: Gulf Port wasn’t a town, it was a watering hole, a place to go when the bars across the river closed up at two.

The motel was down the road from a place called Upper’s, a big one-story brown brick country rock joint with a hundred cars in the lot. The neon sign in front of the motel said “EEZER INN” in pulsing orange. Cute, Infante thought. The woman at the check-in desk was chubby and about fifty-five, with a lot of makeup and perfume and a frilly white blouse unbuttoned enough to show the start of big, withering boobs. Sickening. Ex-whore, he supposed. She was reading a Harlequin paperback. She’d tried giving him a sexy smile as she handed his room key over to him, and it all but made him barf.

There were ten units in front and another ten in back, and about half of them were full up. He’d asked for one in back, and now he was pacing around inside the dreary little cubicle, feeling as unappealing as the desk clerk and as dirty as the room itself.

He hadn’t had time to grab any of his things before leaving. He was still in the black outfit he had worn with Sally when they went in after Nolan’s bitch. He felt dirty. He needed a shave. He considered taking a shower, but then he’d just have to get back in these sweaty clothes, and he couldn’t stand the thought of that.

He’d shower after his employers, the man Harold and the woman Julie, had come and gone. He had called them as soon as he got in the room, which was five minutes ago; they should be here any time now.

He stopped pacing. He sat on the double bed, with his back to the running horses. The silenced 9 mm in his waistband nudged him, and he took it out and put it beside him, on the bed. Then he sat leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, forehead against the palms of his hands. He felt very alone. He missed Sally.

“I’m going to kill that fucker,” he said. To himself. Through his teeth.

He sat up. He could see himself in the dresser mirror. He looked bad — scroungy. But he looked at himself, pointed a finger at himself, and said, “Understand? Kill the fucker!”

There was a knock at the door.

He got up, took the gun with him just in case, cracked the door (there was no night latch), and it was a sandy-haired man in dark-rimmed glasses, big — not tall, but big — and good-looking, in a rough way. He was wearing a yellow sports shirt and tan slacks. Smelled of Brut.

“You’re Infante,” the man said.

“You’re Harold.”

“Right.” The big man turned and motioned to somebody in the car pulled in next to Infante’s jet-black Mazda. The car was a cream-color Porsche. Which said class. Which also said money. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad crowd to be in with after all, Infante thought.

A woman got out. She was wearing black slacks and a silky blouse, tits flopping. Handsome enough woman, he supposed. Nice clothes, anyway.

The. guy went to her; he had a fluid walk, like an athlete. Put an arm around her. He was a muscular sort — big shoulders. Works with weights. Infante bet.

The two of them came in.

Infante closed and locked the door and stuck the gun back in his waistband and said, “This place is a dump, in case you missed it.”

The woman, Julie, turned to him and smiled. It was an attractive smile, not that he gave a damn. “I’m sorry we couldn’t do better for you,” she said. “Gulf Port isn’t exactly Las Vegas, you know.”

“That’s not the way I heard it,” Infante said.

“If you mean the Paddlewheel, it’s not in Gulf Port proper. It’s a few miles from here, on the river.”

“You wouldn’t think people running a classy place like that would stick a friend in a dump like this.”

The man, Harold, sat on the bed. “Infante, this is only temporary...”

“Put me up in the Holiday Inn across the river, then, back in Burlington. I’m allergic to cockroaches.”

Julie touched his arm, and he batted it away.

“Excuse me,” she said, searching his face. “You see, we need to have you close at hand. We need you here.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see.”

“I think we have mutual interests. Sit down, won’t you?” She gestured toward the space on the double bed, next to Harold. Infante sat down.

“Harold said your partner was killed,” the woman said.

“Yeah. Yeah he was killed. Goddammit.”

“This man Logan...”

“His name is Nolan.”

“Nolan, then. He did it.”

“Yeah he did it.”

“And you want even.”

“Of course I want even. What kind of guy do you think I am?”

She seemed to think about that for a moment, then said, “We’re going to pay you what we promised, even though you and your partner didn’t exactly... succeed.”

Infante sighed. “Look. I gotta admit something. Sally handled the business end. I don’t even know what you promised us. Sally was the brains, I have to say.”

The woman walked back and forth, slowly, thinking, smiling. “Then why don’t we just start over? Why don’t we pick a new figure? How’s ten thousand dollars?”

“Ten...”

“That’s a lot of money, isn’t it?”

“It sure...”

“Enough for you to disappear for a while?”

“Sure.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

“Do what?”

“Kill Nolan.”

“Try and stop me!”

“Oh,” she smiled, not pacing, stopping in front of him, “I’m not about to do that.”

Next to him, the big guy seemed glum. Sensitive face, Infante thought.

“Now,” she was saying, “when can we expect him to arrive?”

“Nolan? I’d say... couple days. Late tomorrow at the soonest.”

Harold said, “How do you figure that?”

“He’s got Family friends. He’ll want to check with ’em about who sent us. They’ll be able to find out too, pretty easy.”

“Couldn’t he do that with just a phone call?” Julie asked. “Couldn’t he be on his way here right now?”

“I don’t see how,” Infante said. “All he knows is two Family boys tried to kill him. He’s going to figure, at first, that he’s on the shit list for some reason. Which’ll send him off in the wrong direction. He’ll go to Chicago and hit on a few people in person till he finds out what’s going on.”

Julie was nodding. “You’re right” she said. “I know this man; that’s what he’d do.”

Harold said to Infante, “How long will it take him?”

Infante shrugged. “Once he knows the Family didn’t send us, he’ll find you. No question. He’s in tight with some pretty high-up people. A few phone calls, and they’ll have you cold.”

“Julie,” Harold said, “you’ve got Chicago connections. That’s how we got hold of Infante and his partner. Couldn’t you...”

“Sorry,” Infante interrupted, “but any connections you got are much smaller shots than the people Nolan’s tight with. The guy I work for, Mr. Hines, who is in the Bahamas at the moment, didn’t like it when this Nolan came to the Quad Cities, opening up a club. He complained and pretty soon there was a phone call. From a guy named Felix. He’s nobody you ever heard of, but what Sally told me is he’s like the corporate lawyer for the Family. And he told Mr. Hines that Nolan was a personal friend. So Nolan’s well connected, all right.”

“Shit,” Julie said. She wasn’t smiling now.

Harold said to her, “That means you can’t turn to your Chicago friends for help.”

“I don’t dare to, no, dammit,” she said. She had a hand on one hip and rubbed her forehead with her other hand.

“If Nolan’s connected,” Harold continued, “killing... killing him might cause you trouble. Family trouble.”

She shot the man a look that said he was saying too much in front of a relative outsider like Infante.

But Harold pressed on. “You could leave,” he suggested.

“Don’t be silly.”

“He’s right,” Infante said. “Just take off. Your boyfriend and me can handle Nolan.” Infante patted Harold’s shoulder. “We’ll let you know when the smoke clears.”

She laughed. “I told you I know this man, Logan, Nolan, whatever. He’s not easily handled. But he does have a weakness.”

“What’s that?” Infante said.

“Harold,” Julie said, “I’m kind of parched. Get us some Cokes from the machine, would you?”

Harold shrugged, rose; Infante watched the man walk to the door. Graceful for a big guy. He went out.

She sat on the bed next to Infante. She didn’t touch him, but kept her distance.

“Harold’s a bit squeamish,” she said.

“A lot of big guys are soft at the center,” Infante said.

“Harold has his strong points.”

“I bet he does.”

“I just don’t want him hearing what I’m going to tell you.”

“Okay.”

“Nolan’s got this friend. This close friend.”

“Yeah, so?”

“It’s this kid, about twenty. Muscular, curly haired little guy. Cute.”

“Yeah?”

“And they’re close friends. You catch my drift yet?”

“You mean... Nolan and this kid?...”

“Right.”

“He’s living with a broad, for Christ’s sake.”

“So what?”

Infante thought about that, said, “Yeah, right. So he’s double-gaited, so what about it?”

“So I got the kid.”

Infante grinned. “No shit?”

“None at all. I’m keeping him at a place just a few miles from here.”

“He’s your guest, only it wasn’t his idea, you mean.”

“Right. A friend of mine’s sitting on him.”

“I’m liking the sound of this. Go on.”

“I’m not leaving. Or hiding, or anything. I’m waiting for Nolan to show up, and then I’m going to use the kid on him.”

“How?”

“I’ll make Nolan an offer. He figures I owe him, from a past thing. And he won’t be thrilled I sent you and your partner after him. But he likes money. He can be bought. And he likes this kid.”

“So, you’ll settle up with him?”

“I’ll offer him money and give the kid back; all he has to do is just go away.”

“Will he buy that?”

“He’ll do what he has to to get the kid. And the money won’t hurt.”

“I take it he doesn’t know yet that you have this kid?”

Julie smiled. “We grabbed him before he had a chance to get a message out.”

“Where do I come in?”

“When I hand the kid over to him, you’ll kill them both. Any problem with that?”

“No. How’s it going to work, exactly?”

The door opened.

Harold was back with the Cokes. He passed the cans around, and everybody sipped at them. Julie took two slow drinks of hers, then put it on the dresser.

“I’ll be back in touch,” she said.

Harold looked a little confused.

She headed for the door, and Harold, looking back at Infante suspiciously, followed.

“Get some sleep,” she told Infante, and they were gone.

He sat on the bed. The gun nudged his belly again, and he took it out of his waistband and laid it on the bed, next to him, gently. Ten thousand dollars. He smiled.

He took his shower. Hot, steaming shower. He was starting to feel better. Every few minutes, though, he had a grief pang; he came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around him, and saw the empty double bed and couldn’t hold back the tears.

He sat on the edge of the bed and cried, his body trembling. Now and then rage would flood through him and he’d say, “Kill the fucker.”

He was doing this when another knock came at the door.

He rubbed his hand across his face.

So the woman was back. She ditched the hunk and was going to fill him in on the details. Fine.

He took the gun with him, just in case it wasn’t Julie, and went to the door and cracked it open, and it wasn’t Julie.

It was Nolan.

14

IT WAS well after four in the morning when Nolan let Bob Hale and his dog go back to sleep, and headed out for Sherry’s Datsun in the Barn parking lot. The girl, Toni, followed him. He opened the door on the driver’s side, and the girl grabbed his forearm.

“I’m going with you,” she said.

He didn’t say anything.

“I’m not going to argue with you. I’m going. And that’s the end of it.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You need me. I been to Gulf Port before — know my way around the bars. I know how to find Darlene. That’s the little cunt that tricked Jon into going out to the van for a quickie. She had to be in on it, or at least see what happened, see who grabbed him.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I can find her. I know she hangs around the bars in Gulf Port. Seems to me she might even live there; if not, across the river in Burlington. I can find her. And if you find her, you find Jon. So I’m going. You need me, and I’m not going to argue with you.”

“Get in,” Nolan said.

“What?”

“Get in. We’re wasting time standing here yakking.”

“I’m going?”

“Of course you’re going. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He smiled at her, just a little. “Get in.”

She got in.

It was only ten minutes to Burlington, a city on rolling hills overlooking the Mississippi, an industrial town of thirty-some thousand, whose various facelifts did not conceal its age. A freeway, lined with shelves of ivy-covered shale, cut through the old river town, and after paying the thirty cents round-trip toll, they were rumbling over the steel bridge, to Illinois and Gulf Port.

The sign just beyond the bridge directed them to the left, but the road curved around to the right, finally depositing them in a pocket below the busy interstate, where Gulf Port rested like a wound that hadn’t healed properly.

On first impression, Gulf Port was nothing but bars. Bars with big parking lots full of cars and trucks. Even just driving by, it was clear just how rowdy these places were, drunks and loud music constantly tumbling out the doors. In the background, among trees that hid the river, he could make out the towers of a grain elevator, which seemed to be the only business of any consequence in Gulf Port that didn’t serve beer. He drove through the narrow, unpaved streets and found that this was little more than a trailer court, with an occasional sagging house thrown in for variety. No grocery store; no business section at all. He hadn’t even seen a gas station yet, though there probably was one among the bars.

“Shitty place to visit, and I wouldn’t want to live here,” the girl commented. It was the first thing she’d said since they left the Barn.

Nolan nodded. “Welfare ghetto, looks like.”

He drove back toward the bars.

“According to Hale,” he said, “these bars’ll be open till five. That doesn’t give you much time to spot this Darlene.”

“It should be enough. There’s a bar on the farthest end of town, about the nicest one. It’s called Upper’s. Turn here.”

He did.

“It’s down there. See the sign?”

He saw it: a standing metal sign that in blue neon said “UPPER’S” at the front of a large parking lot. He pulled in. The lot was eighty percent full. A few well- plastered customers, men in their twenties in jeans and western-style jackets, with the long hair that once would have branded them hippies but now probably meant young blue-collar worker, were pushing each other around and laughing, just outside the front door. The building itself was a low-slung brick building, brown, with a tile roof; a big place, despite being only one story. The front door was closed at the moment, but it didn’t entirely muffle the country-rock music within.

“She’ll be in there if she’s anywhere,” the girl said.

“If she isn’t?”

“If she isn’t, she’s in the sack with some low-life. That’s my guess, anyway.”

“Hooker?”

“I think a few beers is all she costs. But it’s possible she’s hooking.”

“How sure are you she lives here?”

“If she doesn’t, she lives back in Burlington. She and that dyke I told you about were at the Burlington gigs the Nodes played.”

“Okay. I want you to go in and see if she’s in there.”

“And?”

“And then we’re going to wait and follow her home.”

“Why don’t I just corner her in the ladies’ can or something?”

“Once we’ve talked to her, we’ll have to shut her up.”

The girl winced. “You don’t mean...”

“No, I don’t mean that. But we got to tie her up and gag her. Which if she’s hooking is probably part of her scene anyway.”

She smiled. “You’re funny.”

“A riot.”

“We’re going to get Jon, aren’t we? He’s going to be all right, right?”

“I don’t know. I’m not promising you anything.”

“He’ll be all right. I know he will.”

“Listen. Toni, isn’t it? You got to face something: he may be dead right now.”

She swallowed hard; her eyes looked wide and wet. Pretty little thing, Nolan thought.

“That’s the kind of people we’re dealing with,” he said. “I’m sorry it’s the case, but it is the case. Now. Go in there and see if that bitch is getting beers bought for her.”

She nodded, got out. She had a nice rear end on her, Nolan noted clinically.

He sat and waited. He was tired. He rolled the window down, and the cold air felt good. He’d trade his left nut for an hour’s sleep. But the stream of drunks and near-drunks coming in and out of the place, plus the country-rock music in the background, served to keep him from dropping off, and then the girl was back.

“She’s in there,” she said. Smiling like a conspirator.

“Fine.”

“What now?”

“We wait.”

“And follow her home.”

“Right.”

They sat there for ten minutes.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“I’m fine. Why?”

“You look like you’re ready to fall asleep.”

“That’s because I’m fifty years old and been up a like number of hours.”

“Well, I can watch for her. You sleep.”

“Thanks, no thanks.”

She patted his arm. “Jon’s going to be all right.”

He said nothing.

Five minutes later, a rather tall, heavily made-up girl with shaggy brunette hair, wearing a black down-filled jacket over a Marshall Tucker T-shirt and tight jeans, walked out arm in arm with a big, somewhat drunk guy in a cowboy hat, padded cowhide vest, and jeans.

“That’s her,” Toni said.

The couple swayed to a red truck, one of those hotrod pickups on the other side of the lot and the big guy stumbled behind the wheel as she got in on the rider’s side and they pulled out. Nolan followed.

It wasn’t far; in a “town” the size of Gulf Port, it couldn’t be. The trailer was one of half a dozen others on a desolate, somewhat shaded block two blocks from Upper’s. This apparently allowed Darlene to do her local bar-crawling without taking her car, because a several-year-old green Maverick was parked in front; rust was eating it. She guided the cowboy out of his pickup, up the couple of steps and inside.

“Well?” Toni said as they drove past.

“Let’s wait till the pickup leaves,” Nolan said.

“Shouldn’t we...?”

“We’ll talk to her by herself. We don’t need to involve any civilians. This is complicated enough as is. We know where she lives. We’ll come back later.”

“That guy’ll be there all night!”

“Right.”

He pulled over. “I’m getting in back,” he told her. “I’ll keep down. I want you to drive to that motel down from Upper’s and get a room. It’s the only motel in town, and they may be watching for me for Julie. So you get the room.”

She nodded, and they got out, and he got in back and she got behind the wheel.

Soon they were in the motel room, a dingy little yellow room with a double bed and a picture of a ship at sea over the bed. Toni appraised the latter and said, “At least it isn’t on black velvet.”

“What?” Nolan said.

“Nothing. What are we doing here?”

“I’m getting some sleep. You can do what you want.”

“But what about Jon? Shouldn’t we be...”

“If they’ve killed him, it won’t matter. If he’s alive, they’ll probably keep him that way. But if I don’t get a couple hours sleep, I’m liable to fuck up. Okay?”

“Don’t pretend to be such a cold fucker, Nolan. You aren’t fooling anybody.”

“Then I’m not fooling anybody.” He lay on the bed and closed his eyes.

“When should I wake you up?” she said.

“I’ll wake up in a few hours. Why don’t you sleep, too?”

“How can you sleep at a time like this?”

“It’s hard with you talking.”

“What about Darlene?”

“The cowboy’ll be out of there by noon, probably. We’ll call on her then.”

“What if she gets up before then? What if she leaves?”

“Where would she go? Church?”

“She could go somewhere in the afternoon. Shopping in Burlington.”

“She’ll be back, then. Are the bars open here on Sunday?”

“Yeah.”

“She’ll be back.”

“Yeah. I suppose you’re right. Nolan.”

“What?”

“Can I lay down on the bed?”

“There’s only one bed.”

“Does that mean yes?”

“It’s a double bed, isn’t it?”

“That means yes.” She lay down.

A few minutes went by.

“You’re not asleep yet, are you?” she asked him.

“Apparently not.”

“Am I bothering you?”

“No.” His eyes were closed.

“You’re tense.”

“I’m fine.” He rolled over on his stomach.

He felt her hands on his shoulders, on the muscles between his neck and shoulders. She began rubbing. “You are too tense,” she said. It felt good.

“Well, maybe I am,” he said.

“Does that feel good?”

“Keep doing it,” he said.

She rubbed. Then she untucked his shirt and reached her hands up under it and scratched.

“How’s that feel?”

“Good.”

“Just good?”

“Very good.”

“I thought you were human.”

“Why, is that news?”

“I just never knew a man who didn’t like his back scratched.”

She stopped and he turned over and leaned against his elbow and smiled at her. She was a cute kid; nice tits with the nipples poking at the Nodes T-shirt.

“Turn over,” he said.

She grinned and got on her stomach. He rubbed her back a while; then he reached his hand under the T-shirt and scratched her back. She made contented sounds, like a purring kitten.

He slapped her butt and she yelped.

“Looks like you’re human, too,” he said.

She turned over and smiled up at him; took his hands and put them up under her shirt, in front this time.

“Hey,” he said.

“What?” she said.

He didn’t pull his hands away; he liked them where they were.

“You’re Jon’s girlfriend,” he said.

“I’m not his girlfriend. I’m his friend.”

“Just a fellow band member, huh?”

“That’s right.”

She kissed him. Slow, sweet kiss.

He looked at her, pushed her away from him, hands still under her shirt; she had a scared look.

“I need to be close to somebody right now,” she said. “And I don’t think it would hurt you, either.”

She pulled her T-shirt off; her breasts looked just as nice as they felt.

He turned off the light. He took off his clothes, and she took hers off, too. They got under the covers and made love; it was slow and rather sweet. Like the kiss. She was right: it was exactly what he needed right now.

Afterwards, he sat up in bed and said, “Are you sure you’re not Jon’s girlfriend?”

“I care about him a great deal.”

“You’ve never slept with him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He shook his head, smiled disgustedly. “I been had.”

“Me too,” she said. “Listen, I’m thirsty.”

“There’s a pop machine a few doors down.”

“I’d rather have Cutty Sark.”

“I bet you would. Will you settle for a Coke?”

“Sure,” she said. “You don’t really mean you’re going to go get it for me?”

He shrugged. “You scratch my back...”

He put his clothes on. As an afterthought, he stuck the silenced 9 mm in his waistband.

“Do you need that?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“No,” Nolan said, meaning it. “I’m just being paranoid.”

The night air — actually early morning air — was still cold, and he still liked the feel of it, the alertness it gave him. He hadn’t managed to get any sleep yet, after all. But the girl had done him good. She had released some of his tension, though he found himself feeling guilty, as if he’d somehow betrayed Sherry. Which was crazy. He wasn’t married. But he didn’t suppose this Toni could understand how he felt, not with the strange sense of morality she and that generation of hers seemed to have.

As he was nearing the Coke machine, he noticed a car parked in the stall in front of one of the other rooms: a shiny black Mazda. Sporty little car, but it wasn’t the car that caught his eye — it was the license plate. Even though this was Illinois, most of the plates on the cars in the motel stalls were Iowa ones; this one was Illinois, specifically Rock Island County.

Infante.

Nolan had left his LTD home, with its Rock Island plates, for just this reason; he’d suffered the discomfort of Sherry’s little Datsun because its Ohio plates wouldn’t lead anybody to him.

But Infante was dumb. Which became even more obvious when Nolan found the car unlocked. He checked the registration; the car belonged to Carl R. Hines, Infante’s boss.

Nolan took the 9 mm out of his waistband.

He went to the door of the room the Mazda was parked in front of. He knocked.

Infante answered the door wearing a towel, which he held around him with one hand; in the other was the twin to Nolan’s 9 mm, but he was too startled and slow for it to do him any good.

Before Infante knew what was happening, Nolan slapped him across the face with the automatic, knocking him back into the room, the 9 mm’s twin tumbling out of Infante’s hands, leaving him sitting on the floor with the towel a puddle across his lap, rubbing his face and saying, “Shit! Shit!”

Nolan shut the door.

Infante said, “You fucker!”

“Shut up.”

Infante started to get up.

Nolan pointed the 9 mm at Infante’s head. “Keep your seat,” he said.

Infante’s eyes darted around, looking for his 9 mm.

“It’s under the bed,” Nolan said. “I don’t think you can get to it in time.”

“I’m going to kill you, you fucker.”

“I don’t think so.”

“How did you get here so fast?”

“Weren’t you expecting me?”

“Not for a couple days. I figured first you’d go to Chicago and check on why we tried to hit you.”

“That’s pretty smart — for you, Infante. But, no, I already know who sent you: a bitch named Julie, with a heart as big as all indoors.”

“She’ll kill you if I don’t, Nolan. She’s smart. Too smart for you.”

“We’ll see. Where’s Jon?”

Infante grinned. “Your lover boy?”

“My what?”

“Julie told me about you two. I’m gonna kill him, too. I’m gonna feed him your dead dick, first. He’ll like that.”

Nolan laughed. “Julie is smart. She’s been pushing the right buttons where you’re concerned, obviously.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. What was the plan, Infante? Was she going to wait for me to show up, then try to trade Jon to me, in return for leaving her the hell alone?”

Infante looked disappointed. “Maybe,” he said.

“And then she was going to have you hit us both.”

Infante grinned again. “Maybe.”

“Where’s Jon?”

“Fuck you, fucker.”

“Don’t tell me. I don’t want you to tell me. I’d rather tie you in a chair and burn the bottoms of your feet till you tell me.”

That made Infante nervous. “I tell you, I don’t know where he is. Somebody, some friend of hers, is keeping him. All I know is it’s not far from here.”

“Is that the truth? Believe me, I’d get a kick out of burning your fucking feet.”

“It’s the truth! I don’t know where the fuck he is.”

Nolan nodded; he believed Infante. Goddammit.

And Infante whipped the towel off his lap and at Nolan’s face, and it stung, stunning him, and the naked Infante was on him, and Nolan went over backwards.

Then Nolan was on his back, and Infante’s hands were on Nolan’s throat squeezing, and the world was turning red.

“You shouldn’t have killed Sally, you fucker! You shouldn’t have killed Sally!”

Nolan fired the 9 mm, and Infante took it in the gut; his hands loosened around Nolan’s neck, and Nolan pushed him off. Infante lay on the floor like a fetus, clutching his stomach, looking up at Nolan, dying.

“You shouldn’t have killed Sally,” Infante whimpered.

“You shouldn’t have killed my dog,” Nolan said.

15

BY midafternoon, Jon wasn’t afraid of her anymore.

She was really just this poor, sad person, Ron was, somebody who got stuck with the responsibility of her family in such a way that it, well, made a man out of her. She wasn’t stupid, though smart wasn’t the word for her, either. Just this poor, uneducated, pathetic case, who he’d feel very sorry for if she didn’t have him handcuffed to a bed in what was apparently an old house out in the country somewhere.

He guessed he’d been raped. It was a new experience for him, maybe even a learning experience: he understood better what women had been going through all these years. Still, he had a hunch he could put up with being raped better than most women would, as long as it wasn’t a man doing it.

If he’d been pressed about it he’d have to admit that he’d found some enjoyment in it This strange, hungry, mannish woman sitting on him, grinding, coming like crazy, which was the good part: that made her beholden to him, in a way. Afterwards, still on top of him, she’d smiled and stroked his cheek and then suddenly her face had fallen and she seemed embarrassed or something, and got off him and ran out of the room, scooping up her clothes as she went.

She came back in T-shirt and jeans, with breakfast.

“It’s afternoon,” she said, shrugging, “but I figured maybe you oughta have something to eat, and... I don’t know... this seemed right.”

She’d made him sourdough pancakes and link sausages and American fries. On a nice plate, with a big glass of orange juice. It looked great. She had it on a tray, which she handed him.

“How about undoing this?” he said, nodding toward his cuffed hand.

She shook her head no. “Can’t do that.” She seemed embarrassed about that, too.

She went over and let up the shade, and sun came in.

He ate the breakfast.

“This is terrific,” he said.

She sat on the edge of the bed, watching him, smiling just barely; saying nothing.

When he was done, she took the tray away and was gone for over an hour. At one point he heard water running. Was she taking a bath? Then he heard a hair dryer.

When she returned, she was wearing a white peasant blouse, lacy in front with long sleeves; and jeans. She had a little makeup on: pale lipstick; blush on her cheeks. Her head was a mess of curls: ducktail no more; she had hot-curled her hair, evidently, after washing it. The perfume she had on was a little strong, an evergreen fragrance, like a room deodorizer, and it hit him as soon as she stepped in the room. But it wasn’t an unpleasant smell, and he found it kind of touching.

She came over and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Who are you, anyway?” she asked.

“My name’s Jon. I play rock’n’roll. You know that.”

“No,” she said, not looking at him, still embarrassed, “tell me about you. I want to know about you.”

He told her about himself. About living with various relatives while his mother, the “chanteuse,” worked the Holiday Inn circuit or whatever; about his aspirations to be a cartoonist, which really seemed to interest her.

“My brother used to read Spider-Man,” she said, grinning. “I still got some of the books.”

“No kidding?”

She got up and went over to the dresser. She opened a drawer and took out a three-inch stack of comics, then came back and sat on the edge of the bed and put them in Jon’s lap.

They were early issues of Spider-Man, The Fantastic Four, The Avengers, well read but not in bad shape; not the very first issues, but within the first twenty of each. Toward the bottom of the pile he found Amazing Fantasy 15, which had the first Spider-Man story.

“Do you know what this is worth?” Jon said, holding it up for her to see the cover, which showed Spider-Man dragging a bad guy to justice in the sky.

“I’d never sell it.”

“It’s probably worth five or six hundred bucks.”

She shrugged. “It was my brother’s. I wouldn’t sell it.”

“Well, if you ever need a few bucks, these books are worth something. Particularly the Amazing Fantasy.”

“You can have it if you want”

“I can have it?”

“Sure. My brother would want you to.”

“Ron. I might not be alive tomorrow.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Let me go, Ron. You can’t keep me here like this.”

She frowned. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He let it pass. For the moment.

“Listen,” she said. “Before, when we... you know.”

“Yeah?”

“It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He smiled. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“You mean, you... liked it?”

“I liked it.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“No.”

“You’re not just trying to get on the good side of me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She sat there and thought about that.

Then she undid his pants again.

She stayed beside him in bed a while, curled up next to him in peasant blouse and panties, till it got dark. This time of year it got dark early, so it was probably only about five or five-thirty. He hadn’t been here a full day yet, and to his knowledge, Julie hadn’t been in contact with his keeper yet, either. As Ron lay sleeping beside him (or pretending to be asleep, he didn’t know), he considered again the possibility of overpowering her. He could slip an arm around her neck, but unless he was prepared to kill her, that wouldn’t do him any good. Not unless the key to the handcuffs was in the pocket of those jeans of hers, tossed over on the dresser. And there was no guarantee he could drag himself, by somehow dragging the bed with him, over there to find out. And the way she was softening to him, maybe keeping up the good behavior was the best way to go. But just how long he could — well, keep it up — he didn’t know.

Pretty soon she rose and stretched and smiled at him, without embarrassment now, and went and put her jeans on, moving with a lack of shame and a confidence that seemed more like the old Ron, but not at all masculine.

At the doorway she stopped and turned and said, “I’m not much at cooking, except breakfast and sandwiches and that. I usually eat my meals in the kitchen at the Paddlewheel. It goes with the job. But I can stick a TV dinner in the microwave for you.”

Somehow it seemed incongruous to him that she would have a microwave.

“That’s fine,” he said. “Anything.”

She was on her way out when he called to her. “Ron?”

“What?”

“I want you to let me go.”

She sighed.

“Things are going to get rougher than you know,” he said. “I wasn’t lying about the bank robbery. I wasn’t lying about Julie trying to kill me that time. And I wasn’t lying about my partner, either.”

“He’s a real bad-ass, this partner of yours?” There was no sarcasm at all in Ron’s voice.

“That’s one of the best descriptions of him I ever heard,” Jon said.

She stood poised in the doorway like something in an arty photo. Then she said, “I’ll think about it,” and was gone.

He grinned at the door, which Ron had halfheartedly pulled shut. Only partially shut: he could hear her footsteps on the stairs very clearly.

He felt good, considering. She was going to let him go, he knew it. He’d won her over. He felt like Burt Reynolds. He’d fucked her over to his side; turned the dyke into a woman. What a man. He sat there, grinning, handcuffed.

A few minutes later, there was a banging sound downstairs: somebody at the front door. Pounding the hell out of it.

He heard the door being opened.

Ron’s voice said, “What is it?”

“Things are falling apart, Ron. I need you. I need your help.”

A woman’s voice.

Jesus fuck. No.

Julie.

“Come in, come in,” Ron said. “Is it raining out?”

The door shut.

“Drizzling,” Julie said. “Cold. Icy. Maybe snow, I don’t know. Listen, that kid.”

“What about him?”

“I’m going to have to go away for a while.”

“Yeah?”

“But I’ll be back. I’ll be back for you, Ron.”

“You will?”

“I’m dumping that asshole Harold, and we’re going to be together, you and I. But first I have to go away for a while.”

“I don’t understand...”

“I’ll have five thousand dollars in cash for you, in just a few minutes. I’m going to the club to get it, before I leave.”

“Five thousand dollars?... For me? Why?”

“It’s time.”

“Time?”

“You said you could make that kid disappear for me, any time I wanted. Well, it’s time. And I want it.”

“What?”

“You to kill him, what do you think?”

“Kill him? I don’t know... I don’t mind sitting on him for you, but...”

“Ron! What’s the matter with you? You said last night you’d as soon cut his throat as look at him! Since when did you care whether some goddamn man lived or died?”

There was silence.

“I want more,” Ron said.

“What?”

“I want more than five thousand. I want ten.”

“Well, Ron... we’ll be together...”

“Maybe we’ll be together and maybe we won’t. I want ten.”

“Okay. You got it.”

“You go get the money. It’ll be done when you get back.”

“No. You do it now, Ron. I want it done now.”

He could hear the shrug in Ron’s voice. “All right.”

He struggled with the cuff his wrist was in, as he heard her footsteps on the stairs, but it didn’t do any good, it didn’t do any goddamn fucking good, and then she was in the doorway, with a .38 in her hand.

She shut the door behind her.

“You bitch,” he said, his free hand a fist.

He didn’t have to swing it: his words struck her like a blow.

“Please, no,” she said. Whispering. Her eyes looked wet.

She set the gun on the nightstand.

She fumbled in her front pocket The jeans she wore were tight; she had trouble finding it but then she brought it out: a small key.

She unlocked the cuff at his wrist.

“We’re only one floor up,” she whispered. “There’s just ground under the window, not cement or anything. Hang out the window and drop.”

“Ron...”

“I’m going to tell her you got away. I came up here and you were gone. I’m going to tell her I had you tied, and you got loose. She doesn’t have to know about the cuffs.”

She was undoing the cuff at his ankle.

He got up; she helped him. He was dizzy. Hard to keep balance. He started unsteadily toward his shoes.

“Never mind that,” she said irritatedly, pushing him toward the window.

He grabbed her by the small of one arm. Looked at her. Touched her face.

“Get out of here,” she said.

She opened the window for him, and he climbed out into the darkness, hanging by the sill, facing toward the house, and the night air felt cold, the drizzle felt good. He dropped.

The ground was hard, and one of his ankles gave, twisted. Fuck! He fell backward but was up in a second, and hobbled across the cold ground, wishing he had his goddamn shoes. This wasn’t as clear a night as last night, but he could still make out the general shape of things. The old two-story farmhouse. The bare yard going back to what was apparently a plowed cornfield. Trees off to the left, which he was heading toward now.

His ankle hurt like hell, but he was so glad to be out of there and maybe, just maybe get out of Julie’s grip, that the pain felt good, as good as the cold, wet air. The pain meant he was alive.

Then he was in the trees, and he could see the road: there were trees on either side of it, so it would be easy enough to head for cover if a car came. And since a car could mean Julie again, he didn’t dare flag one down, so he hobbled in the road, because with his turned ankle it was better than moving through the trees and bushes and high grass. And he heard a noise behind him, back at the farmhouse. Something that could have been a shot.

He stepped up the pace, coming as close to running as a guy with a bum ankle can get; sort of a drunken jog.

Pretty soon headlights were coming up behind him, and he headed to the right, into the trees, and dropped to his stomach in the tall, wet grass; the car slowed, as if the driver had thought she (and this was certainly a she: Julie) had seen something moving in the road ahead but wasn’t sure. Then moved on.

He waited what seemed forever and was possibly a couple minutes.

Then he made his way back to the road. He listened very carefully before he started his drunken jog again, listened for an idling motor, in case Julie had pulled over and cut her lights up ahead. He heard nothing, except the sound of the rain — the drizzle had already turned to rain — against the ground, the trees, the road.

He started moving again.

Should he stop at a farmhouse? There’d surely be one soon. He didn’t know if he could come up with a story that could get him safely out of this area without the cops getting into it. A guy with no shoes, looking bruised and beat-up, coming to a farmer’s door for help? Assuming he didn’t get shot first, what could he say?

Better to get to a town, if that didn’t take forever; if luck had headed him the right direction down this road, he might end up at Gulf Port before long. A tavern there would ask no questions about his appearance, and he might even be able to bum a dime to try to call Nolan again.

But he felt sure Nolan would be on the way. He just didn’t know how to connect up with him.

Up ahead there was a curve in the road. He got off to the side, so he could make a quick move off into the trees if a car came unexpectedly around it. And just as he jogged around the bend, the beams of headlights hit him like a spotlight, and he knew he’d never make the trees in time.

16

WHEN NOLAN got back to the motel room, the girl was asleep.

He sat on the bed next to her and watched her. She looked young. Very peaceful, her breasts rising, falling, with an easy rhythm. He hated to wake her. He hated to let her in on what had just happened. But he couldn’t think of any way around it.

For one thing, it wasn’t fair to her not to let her know what was going on here. She had to know just how rough it was getting, so she could have the option of getting out He hoped she’d decide to stay; he could use her help.

He shook her, gently.

“Oh,” she said, scratching her head, her brown hair a pleasant mess. “I was dreaming.”

“What about?”

“I don’t remember. But it wasn’t a nightmare.”

“That’s something, anyway.”

“Right. Didn’t you go to get me a Coke?”

“Yeah. I forgot it.”

“That’s all right. I probably shouldn’t be putting any caffeine in my system anyway, not if I want to get some sleep. What’s that on your shirt?”

Nolan looked down at the front of his turtleneck. “Blood,” he said. “Powder burns.”

“Jesus. What’s going on?”

“There are some things you need to know. Sit up.”

She did, and he told her about Sally and Infante breaking into his house, how they tortured Sherry, how he came in on them, killing Sally. She listened with a wide-eyed expression that tried to be interest but was mostly fear.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she said. No anger, just curiosity.

“I didn’t want to scare you off,” he said. “I thought I could use you.”

She managed a smirky little smile, smoothing a hand over the bed. “I see.”

“That isn’t what I mean.”

“I know it isn’t.”

“Telling you about my killing Sally makes you an accessory after the fact,” he said. “That’s the main reason I didn’t tell you. There’s always a chance, in a situation like this, that you can end up in the hands of the cops. So you were better off ignorant. I wanted your help, but I wanted to protect you, too.”

“You didn’t get blood on your shirt from killing Sally. That’s new.” She reached her finger out and touched the front of his shirt, like a kid checking if paint was dry. “That’s wet.”

He told her about spotting Infante’s car, about the confrontation in the motel room.

She looked ill.

“This screws things up a little,” he said. “I didn’t intend killing Infante — not at the moment, anyway. I wanted him alive, so I could use him, to get to Jon, and handle Julie, as well. Dead, he’s a problem.”

“Why?”

“When Julie tries to contact him and finds him gone, she may figure I’m in town, which takes away the edge I need.”

“What can we do about it?”

“Well, if Julie finds Infante’s body in his room, we’re as dead as he is.”

She nodded. “And so is Jon.”

“Right. We’re better off if we get rid of the body.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“There isn’t much to it, really.”

She shuddered. “Yeah, I know. It’s the second body you’ve dumped today, after all.”

Nolan shrugged. “It’s got to be done.”

“Well, give me a second.”

“It’s almost five. We better get this done while it’s still dark.”

She got out of bed and followed him out of the motel room. Neither one wore a coat, and it was cold. There was no one around; the sky was just hinting at dawn.

Nolan handed her some car keys. “These are to that little Mazda over there. It’s Infante’s. Back it around, right up to the edge of the sidewalk in front of the door to his room, and open the trunk.”

She nodded, and went to the car, and did as she was told.

Nolan unlocked Infante’s room, silenced 9 mm in hand; it was faintly possible that Julie might have showed up in the few minutes he’d been back at his own room, explaining things to the girl.

But there was no one in the room except Infante, and he was just a sprawl of leaking flesh on the carpet by the bed. Nolan took the spread off the bed and rolled Infante up in it; it was harder than it sounds. Then he went to the doorway, and the girt was standing by the open trunk.

“Nobody’s around,” she said, glancing from side to side, her breath visible in the air. “You need any help in there?”

“No.”

“Good,” she said, hugging her arms to herself, shivering, only partially from the cold.

Nolan went back and lifted the mummylike Infante into his arms, carrying him like a bride over a threshold, only Infante was going out, not in. When the girl saw the bundle in Nolan’s arms, she covered her mouth.

“Shut the door,” he said.

She shut the door to Infante’s motel room.

“Go get the other car.”

She walked down toward the Datsun. Briskly.

He laid Infante in the Mazda trunk, which was empty except for a spare tire. He had to stuff Infante in there, and bend parts of him around, as though he was fitting a piece into a puzzle, but the wrong piece. Infante would have been uncomfortable, had he been alive. Nolan shut the trunk.

The girl was there with the Datsun. It had frost on it, as did the Mazda.

He went over to where she was leaning out the rolled-down window and said, “Just follow, me,” and got behind the wheel of the Mazda.

He led her down a country road lined with trees on either side. About fifteen miles out of Gulf Port, Nolan pulled the Mazda into an access inlet to a cornfield. The field was flattened and desolate looking. There were no farmhouses or barns in sight. Nolan took a handkerchief and wiped everything he’d touched: steering wheel, trunk lid, even the car keys, which he pitched out into the field. Then he left the Mazda where it was and joined the girl in the Datsun, waiting in the road nearby, motor running.

“Turn around as soon as you can,” he said, “and head back to the motel.”

She nodded.

When she was pulling into the stall in front of their room, Nolan said, “Now let’s check Infante’s room again.”

“Why?”

“Don’t want to leave a mess.”

They got out of the car. Nolan went down and unlocked Infante’s room. She followed him haltingly inside. There was a reddish-brown spot about the size of a saucer, but not as perfectly round, on the floor by the bed.

“Get a towel,” Nolan said, “and get it wet and soapy.”

“You want me to clean that up?”

He just looked at her.

She frowned. “Woman’s work is never done,” she said, and went into the bathroom.

Nolan looked under the bed. The twin to the 9 mm was there. He reached under and got it.

By this time, the girl was on her hands and knees scrubbing. She stopped for a moment, looked at the reddish-stained towel in her hands, and said, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“That’s good enough,” Nolan said, nodding toward the spot on the floor. “You don’t want to rub it bald.”

“I’ll get another towel with just water and kind of rinse the area.”

“Good idea.”

Nolan went to the dresser and found a notepad and pen. He wrote the following on the top sheet: “Got hungry and bored. Going to Burlington for some food and a movie. Be back in a few hours.” He didn’t sign it, but left it out on top of the dresser. The girl looked at it.

“You think that’ll hold ’em off for a while?” she asked.

“It might.”

He went to the phone. He dialed the desk.

“I’m in room thirteen,” he said. “I’m just getting to bed now, and I don’t want to be disturbed. So don’t bother sending a maid around at all today. I’ll be sleeping.”

“Sure,” a disinterested female voice on the other end said.

“You write this down or something. I don’t want to be disturbed, got it?”

“I got it,” the voice, now irritated, said.

“There’ll be a tip in it for you.”

“Oh! Well, sure. I’m writing it down now.”

“And hold my calls. I’ll pick up any messages at the desk later. Just say I’m not in.”

“Glad to. My name’s Frances, by the way.”

“Fine, Frances.”

“So you’ll know who to tip.”

“I’ll remember, Frances.”

He hung up.

“Is that going to work?” the girl asked.

“It might. Take another towel and wipe off anything we touched. I never knew anybody who actually got nailed by fingerprints, except on TV. But I don’t want to be the first.”

He gathered Infante’s clothes and the damp towels used by the girl to clean the blood up, and on the way back to their motel room, dumped it all in a trash barrel, shoving it under some other garbage.

“The sun’s up,” she pointed out.

“So it is,” he said. “Let’s get some sleep.”

It was late morning when he woke and found her sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Are you okay?” he asked her.

“I don’t know. I don’t feel so good.”

“How so?”

“My stomach hurts. I feel kind of weak.”

“You’re hungry.”

She made a face. “Please. I dreamed I cleaned up blood with a mop and bucket all night.”

“All morning. How long since you’ve eaten?”

“I don’t know. I had lunch yesterday. I never eat a meal before a performance, so...”

“So you haven’t eaten for a long time. You’re hungry. Here.” He dug in his pocket for some money and gave her two twenties.

“What’s this for?”

“I want you to drive over to Burlington and find a MacDonald’s or something. Someplace where you can get a breakfast to go. Eat yours there, if you like, but bring me something.”

“How can you eat at a time like this?”

“The same way I can sleep, or screw.”

She gave him a long, sarcastic smile, then said, “Forty bucks for breakfast is gonna buy you a truckload of Egg McMuffins, you know.”

“I also want you to stop at one of those big discount stores and pick me up a shirt. Something similar to this, but without the blood and powder burns.”

“Anything else?”

“Some clothesline.”

“Clothesline?”

“Just enough to tie somebody up with.”

She grinned. “Got ya.”

“And get some toiletries. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, a shaver, shaving cream. Like that.”

“Okay.”

“Go.”

She went — slowly, glancing back at him, afraid to go out on her own, he guessed. But she went.

He lay back on the bed and slept till she got back.

When she did, they both ate breakfast; she had waited to eat hers with him. It was MacDonald’s, some pancakes, sausage, eggs. Cardboard food, but since neither of them had eaten for many hours, they wolfed it down.

Nolan took a shower, used the toothpaste. Shaved.

The shirt’s a little big,” he said, getting into it, “but it’ll do.”

“I got extra-large,” she said.

“I take a large.”

“Are you complaining?”

“No. I’m grateful.”

“Well. You better be.”

“Where’s my change?”

She shook her head, and got the change out of her jeans, then handed it to him.

“It’s almost two,” she said. “Shouldn’t we be checking on our friend Darlene?”

“Take a shower first.”

“Don’t be shy, Nolan. If I stink, say so.”

“You’ll feel better. Clean up, and we’ll go.”

When they did, they found the cowboy was still there; the red hot-rod pickup hadn’t moved an inch.

“Shit,” Nolan said, slamming the heel of his hand into the steering wheel.

“What now?”

“This is getting messy. I don’t want to involve anybody else. I want the girl by herself.”

“They’re probably still asleep. It was after four in the morning when they got here, and they probably didn’t get to sleep till five or six.”

Nolan nodded. “Good point. We better just wait.”

There were a few people out walking around on what was turning into a dreary, overcast Sunday afternoon. Some kids playing, none of them wearing warm enough clothing, considering the chilly weather — looking a bit ragged, in fact. A woman in a parka walking a shaggy mutt. An occasional blue-collar hippie on a motorcycle. Just enough action to make it awkward to park somewhere nearby and watch and wait.

“Back to the motel,” he said.

“Jesus, I’ll go stir crazy.”

“It’s okay. We can keep an eye out the window and see if Julie or somebody shows up knocking at Infante’s door. That’d get us to Jon, too, you know.”

She sighed. “I’m getting worried.”

“Don’t be. Wherever Jon’s being held, it’s likely we’ll want to wait till after dark to get him anyway.”

“After dark? Jesus!”

“It’s dark by late afternoon this time of year. Don’t worry. If he’s dead, he’s...”

“Dead. Yeah, I know. You’re real comforting, Nolan.”

Nolan watched a football game on TV, with the sound down; the girl sat by the window near the door, peeking through the partly drawn curtains, watching for anyone who might pull into the motel lot. It was a quiet afternoon. The only action was a few people checking out late: a couple in their twenties, dressed in an expensively casual way, walking arm in arm toward a Corvette, in an easy, worn-out fashion that bespoke a fun-filled night before; some college kids — guys — heavily hung-over, shambling out to a station wagon like the survivors of a train wreck. Otherwise nothing — no Julie. Nothing.

At five they went back to Darlene’s. It was misting out; it was dark already. The red pickup was gone; but her rusting green Maverick was there. And so, presumably, was Darlene.

As soon as they got out of the car, they could hear it: a loud buzzing sound coming from within the trailer. Nolan and the girl exchanged glances, the girl shrugging, indicating that she had no idea what the sound was, either.

Nolan went up and knocked on the door, Toni at his side. He had a Bible in his right hand, supplied by the Gideons to the motel room and by the motel room to him. In his left hand, held at the moment under his jacket, was the 9 mm.

He kept knocking till the buzzing stopped.

She opened the door about halfway, looking down at Nolan (it was three steps up to the door of the trailer) with sultry, suspicious, and heavily made-up eyes. Her hair was piled high and tousled, in a calculated way, and she had on a black T-shirt with white lettering that said “STIFF RECORDS” curved over the smaller “WORLD TOUR,” curved in turn over a globe, underneath which it said: “WE CAME, WE SAW, WE LEFT.”

“What do you want?” she said. Her voice was flat, disinterested, her expression a bored smirk.

“We’re with the Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Nolan said, showing her the gun in his left hand, which was hidden from view from any passersby by the Bible in his right hand.

She tried to shut the door, but Toni hopped up the steps and pushed against it with a shoulder and held it where it was, smiling at Darlene, who immediately recognized her and, after a moment, retreated into the trailer. Toni went in first and Nolan came after, shutting the door and locking it behind him.

Nolan kept his gun in hand, but tossed the Bible over on the counter in the kitchenette, which was off to the right, where a pile of unwashed dishes and beer cans and such indicated that a slob lived here. The living room was barely furnished at all: just a couch against the facing wall, a component stereo spread out on the floor over at the left, with a few big, brightly colored pillows scattered around as if the place had been ransacked. There were LP’s scattered, too, and rock group posters taped to the walls. Nolan didn’t recognize any of the groups; they were just so many sullen faces staring out at him. The only poster he recognized was a country performer, Willie Nelson.

In the middle of the floor, standing on newspapers, was a gray poodle; at the poodle’s feet were clumps of its hair, and a clipper on a long black cord lay on the papers nearby, as well. That explained the buzzing: Darlene had been giving her poodle a haircut.

And the poodle was going nuts, barking, yapping.

Nolan walked over to it, pointed a finger at it, and it sat and shut up and looked up at him and whimpered.

“Some watchdog,” Darlene said, sitting on the couch, trying to be sullen, like the faces on the posters around her. But her fear was showing. There was a pack of cigarettes on the couch next to her, and she lit up.

“You’re the bitch that sings with the Nodes,” Darlene said between puffs, “that much I know. Who’s the guy with the gun and the Bible? And what’s it all about, Alfie?”

Toni went over and grabbed a bunch of the front of Darlene’s T-shirt and pushed her back against the wall. Darlene, startled, dropped her cigarette and her sullen pose; the fear in her wide, mascara-thick eyes was as apparent as the whimpering dog’s.

“You’re the bitch,” Toni said. “The bitch who set Jon up.”

Toni let go of her, and Darlene slid back down onto the couch, where she fumbled for her cigarette — and her pose — and said, “Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Tell me about last night,” Toni said. “Tell me about Jon and the van.”

Darlene found a nasty little smile somewhere. “Will the Jehovah’s Witness get embarrassed if I said I gave the kid a blow job, and sent him on his way?”

“You’re lying.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Toni swung a small, sharp fist at Darlene and sent her sprawling across the couch. Darlene, on her side, felt her mouth.

“I’m bleeding,” she said.

“Maybe it’s just that time of the month,” Toni said. She had a much more convincingly nasty smile than Darlene had mustered. Toni, taking the lead, amused and pleased Nolan.

“You fuckin’ assholes,” Darlene said, sitting up, trying to act mad but coming off scared. “I don’t know what the fuck this is about, but you better get your asses outa here. My boyfriend’s gonna be back any minute.”

Toni and Nolan exchanged glances. Nolan shook his head no.

Toni said, “You’re bluffing.”

“Eat it.”

“You set Jon up. We want to know what really happened last night. We want to know who’s got him and where he is now. And you’re going to tell us.”

Darlene blew a smoke ring; she seemed to be getting her act together finally.

Toni motioned to Nolan, and they went over to the kitchenette area, Nolan keeping the gun pointed Darlene’s way. The poodle was sitting in the midst of the papers, staring up at Nolan.

“I think I can make her talk,” Toni whispered.

“You’re doing fine.”

“You don’t mind if I handle this?”

“No. I’m enjoying myself. I’m not into knocking women around, but I don’t mind watching one knock another one around.”

“How about tying her up few me?”

“Fine.”

Nolan got a kitchen chair and dragged it into the living room area; the poodle scooted away, running down the narrow hallway toward the bedroom to hide.

Toni pointed at the chair. “Sit in it,” she told Darlene.

Darlene just sat on the couch and smoked her cigarette.

Toni grabbed her by one arm and slammed her down in the chair.

Nolan picked up the cigarette Darlene had just dropped and put it out in an ashtray on the floor near the couch. Then he took the small bundle of clothesline out of his jacket pocket and tied Darlene into the chair, and she swore at him. He ignored her; he sat down on the couch. The poodle skulked back in. It jumped up on the couch and lay next to Nolan and looked up at him pathetically; he scratched it around the collar a few times, and it rested its head on his leg.

“What’s your dog’s name?” he asked Darlene.

“Quiche Lorraine,” she said.

“What kind of name is that?”

Toni explained. “It’s from a song.” She jabbed a finger at Darlene’s STIFF T-shirt. “Really, Darlene, you should make up your mind. You can’t be into both the B-52’s and Willie Nelson. It just doesn’t make sense.”

Darlene didn’t respond; she looked nervous. Being tied up didn’t agree with her.

“I suppose you like to be flexible,” Toni said. “It’s nice to be able to come on to guys in both camps. Shitkickers and rock’n’rollers, too. But I really think you should make up your mind, one way or another. I’m going to help you.”

Toni reached down for the poodle clippers. She hit the switch, and the buzz filled the room.

“What are you doing?” Darlene shouted.

“I’m gonna give you a poodle cut,” Toni said.

“No!”

“Sure. It’ll be real punk. A skinhead, like in England.”

“You fuckin’ bitch!”

Toni grabbed a handful of the shaggy hair on top of Darlene’s head and held her that way as she got behind her and started to shave at the base of her neck.

“Stop it! Stop it! I’ll tell you what you want to know! Just stop it!”

Toni switched the clippers off but left the flat, wide nose of them against the base of Darlene’s neck.

“What happened last night?” she asked.

“You... you know who Ron is?”

“That dyke you hang around with.”

“Yeah. She paid me a hundred bucks to get that Jon to come out to the van.”

“And?”

“She hit him over the head and put him in the back of her car.”

“A hundred bucks. You helped kidnap somebody for a hundred goddamn bucks?”

Darlene managed to shrug, despite Toni’s grip on her hair. “It wasn’t kidnapping. She said somebody had it in for the kid and was paying her to rough him up or something. That’s all I know.”

Toni looked at Nolan, who was still on the couch, the poodle beside him.

Nolan said, “Can you tell us where this Ron lives?”

Darlene turned her head, which, tied in the chair as she was, was all she could turn, and looked at Nolan and said, “Sure. Why not.”

Toni let loose of Darlene’s hair but stood by, clippers in hand, as Darlene gave Nolan directions.

Then Nolan went to the kitchen, poodle following along after him, and found an unused dishrag in a drawer. He gagged Darlene with it. He made sure the dog had bowls full of food and water, and he and Toni left.

“That was smart,” Nolan said, getting in the car, behind the wheel.

“What?”

“The poodle clippers. How d’you know that’d do the trick?”

“She’s vain as hell. Didn’t you notice? Sunday afternoon and she’s got her makeup on, to the hilt. What for, just to give her pooch a trim? That’s vain.”

“Would you have done it?”

“Skin her? With pleasure.”

They drove out of Gulf Port and down that same tree-lined road they’d been down earlier, to dump Infante. As they drove, Toni filled Nolan in on what little she knew about Ron. Nolan was doing barely forty; the mist was turning to rain, and visibility was poor. As they were coming around a curve, Nolan saw a figure, caught in the glare of his headlights, scurry off toward the side of the road, toward the trees.

“That’s Jon!” he said.

He hit his brakes, threw it in park and jumped out.

“Hey, kid! It’s me.”

The figure stopped, turned. Across the darkness and through the rain a voice came back uncertainly: “Nolan?”

“Yeah.”

Jon ran to him, grabbed him by the forearms.

“Nolan! Nolan!”

The kid was in T-shirt and jeans and socks; his face looked bruised, and his clothes were wet and dirty.

“You look like shit,” Nolan said.

“You look great!”

The girl was out of the car now, and had run to Jon. She hugged him, and he hugged her back.

“Get in the car,” Nolan said, “both of you.”

They got in the car, Toni in back.

Quickly, Jon told Nolan what had been happening.

“You figure Julie passed you on the road here, then?” Nolan said.

“I didn’t see the car, but it had to be her.”

“She’s probably headed for the Paddlewheel. To grab some money and run.”

“I want you to drive down to that farmhouse, Nolan.”

“Why?”

“I think I heard a shot. I want to check it out.”

Nolan glanced at Jon.

Then he said, “Okay. There’s a gun in the glove box.”

Jon opened the glove compartment and took out the long-barreled .38. There was a box of shells, too, but the gun was loaded already, and Jon didn’t bother with them.

Leaning forward from the back seat, her hands on the seat between Nolan and Jon, Toni said, “Let’s leave. Let’s get out of here. Let’s go home.”

Jon turned and said, “We can’t. If we don’t catch up with Julie now, she’ll just turn up again sometime, and we don’t need that shit.”

“He’s right,” Nolan said. “We’ll keep you out of it as much as possible.”

“Gee, thanks,” the girl said.

There was a gravel driveway leading into a larger gravel area next to the farmhouse; a barn and silo were off to the right. Nolan pulled in. There was only one car around: a vintage fifties Ford. The farmhouse was peeling paint — looked a bit run-down — but it was no hovel. There was a porch. Nolan, gun in hand, walked up the steps, and Jon followed. Toni stayed in the car, behind the wheel, windows up, doors locked.

The front door was ajar.

They went in; prowled the bottom floor, found it empty, not touching anything (though Nolan did pocket a ring of keys from a table). There was a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, a barely stocked pantry. Everything was neat, though the furniture was rather old, worn. There were a number of family portraits displayed. Unlike Darlene, Ron wasn’t a slob, at least.

Upstairs, in the room Jon had been kept in, they found Ron. She was on the floor, in her peasant blouse and jeans, between the bed and the dresser. She was dead.

There was a gun in her hand, and she had a head wound. In the right temple, out the left.

“Julie never stops maneuvering, does she?” Nolan said, bending over the body.

“What?” Jon said. He looked shaken.

“Faking this as a suicide. I don’t think that’s a close-range wound. I think Julie shot her from the doorway. That’s judging from the angle of it, the powder burns, the entry and exit wounds. But the local people may not figure it out immediately. Hard to say.”

Nolan rose.

Jon knelt over the body. He touched the dead woman’s cheek. He closed her eyes.

“Kid. Let’s go.”

“Yeah. Okay, Nolan.” He rose, slowly.

“You might as well put on your shoes.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.”

His shoes were between the body and the dresser. He got them, then sat on the edge of the bed and put them on. The kid had been through a lot, Nolan thought. Maybe the girl was right; maybe they should just get the hell out. Go home.

Next to Jon on the bed was a stack of comic books.

“It never fails,” Nolan laughed. “You always manage to turn up some funny-books, don’t you?”

Jon looked at them. He picked them up and took them with him as they left the house. He held the comics under his shirt to protect them from the rain, as they went to the car.

Toni climbed in back and Jon got in front on the rider’s side. Nolan took the wheel again. Jon handed the comics back to Toni. “Put those on the floor or something, will you?” he said.

“Okay,” she said, smiling.

Both she and Nolan were amused by Jon’s managing to come away from this situation with a stack of old comics.

“Any of these valuable ones?” the girl asked, kidding him.

Jon didn’t seem to pick up on the kidding. “Very,” he said.

“What are you going to do with ’em?” Nolan asked. “Sell ’em?”

“I wouldn’t sell them. I wouldn’t ever sell them.” Jon opened the glove compartment and took out the box of .38 shells; he stuffed a handful of the shells in his pocket, put the box back.

“Let’s go find Julie,” he said.

17

SHE would have to run.

There was no other choice. Nolan was here; his breath was on her neck; and this time he wouldn’t go soft and spare her, like that time at the cottage. This time he would kill her.

She knew that, and she could accept it, and she would eventually deal with it — deal with him — but now she had to run. She didn’t even know where she would go. Mexico, she guessed. Money still went a long way in Mexico. And when some time had passed, she could hire somebody to do Nolan, and Jon, as well. Some other expatriate American, maybe, who could sneak back in the country and get it done.

Or something. There’d be some way out of it. There always was. Plenty of options.

But right now, running was the only option she could come up with.

The Porsche slid going around a curve, and she slowed down; the blacktop was slick with rain. Don’t panic now, she told herself. But the rain and the darkness, crowding her on the narrow blacktop that led to the Paddlewheel, seemed to be on Nolan’s side.

She had been so sure she was on top of this Nolan situation, it made her smug; so sure she was in control of things, it made her complacent. When she thought about how she’d spent the morning and afternoon, she could kick herself: sleeping till noon, sitting in Harold’s study with a gin and tonic, explaining to him her plans for Nolan, playing down the role of that slug Infante. (In the version she told Harold, Infante would be on hand only as protection, in case Nolan didn’t uphold his end of the swap she would propose.)

Still, Harold had seemed morose; it was almost as if he had seen through what she told him, that he knew she really intended having Nolan and Jon killed. He had sat in his study all afternoon, listening to an old Beatles album, Revolver, he seemed to enjoy feeling sorry for himself, and the world, his lips moving to the lyrics of “Eleanor Rigby,” for Christ’s sake. What a jerk. She didn’t know why she’d put up with him for so long.

On the other hand, there was a part of her that liked him and his self-pitying ways. He wasn’t a stupid man — he certainly came in handy at the club, doing the books, handling the staff — and she liked having a big, reasonably competent man around, who depended on her, whom she could mother into submission. She’d always had a knack for finding men who needed a mother in a woman, and having all but raised most of her brothers and sisters, she was used to playing mother — though it occasionally struck her as ironic that she had never spent enough time with her own kid to really qualify in that department.

So as Harold sat in his study, listening to old Beatle records, she felt a weird mixture of contempt and affection for him — a man his age, sitting there feeling sorry for himself, losing himself in memories of high school. It was fucking pathetic...

Around three she had called the motel to talk to Infante. She needed to go have a talk with him, alone, without Harold around, to fill Infante in on what her plans really were where Nolan and Jon were concerned. But the woman on the desk said Infante was out. It struck Julie as strange, but not suspicious, particularly, at least not at first. When she called back around quarter to five and got the same response from the desk clerk, she put aside her gin and tonic and her book on refinishing antiques and grabbed her coat. She stuck her little pearl-handled automatic in her purse and told Harold she would be back soon.

She knocked on Infante’s motel room door and got no answer.

The woman at the desk, a thin, plain woman about forty, doing the crossword puzzle in the Sunday paper, shrugged without looking up, saying all she knew was the night clerk had left a note saying the man in room 13 had requested not to be disturbed, and that if anyone called, to say he was out. Julie asked to speak to the night clerk, and was told she wouldn’t be on duty till midnight. When Julie insisted, the woman gave her the night clerk’s phone number, and she called her from a booth outside the motel.

“That’s right,” a sleepy female voice said. “He wasn’t really going anyplace. Just wanted some sleep. Like I do. Do you mind?”

“So he wasn’t going out?”

“I was supposed to say he was out and take messages.”

“I see. Tell me. Did anybody check in last night after two?”

“Everybody checked in last night after two. Couples, mostly. Get the idea?”

“Any singles? A man maybe?”

“No single men. There was this girl.”

“Girl?”

“Pretty brown-haired girl. Not real big.”

“What was she wearing?”

“I don’t know. T-shirt and jeans, I guess.”

“Do you remember anything specific? There’s money in it if you do.”

“Well. The T-shirt had the name of a rock group on it.”

“Oh?”

“Not some big group, like Kiss or something. A band from around here, whose name I recognized.”

“What was it?”

“The Nodes. Ever hear of ’em?”

Julie went back to the check-in desk and, for twenty bucks, the clerk tore herself away from her crossword long enough to give her the key to room 13. There Julie found a note, presumably from Infante, saying he’d gone out for a bite to eat and a movie. She looked around the room carefully. She noticed two things: there were no towels in the bathroom, and there was a damp spot on the floor near the bed.

She was driving back to the house, down the tree-lined country lane along which Ron also lived, when she noticed a car, apparently abandoned, pulled into one of the access inroads to a cornfield. She must have passed it before, on her way to the motel, but hadn’t noticed it. Now she did: a Mazda. Infante’s car.

She stopped and got out and had a look, not touching anything. It was empty; the keys weren’t in the dash. But she had a feeling the trunk wasn’t empty.

She got back in her Porsche.

Somehow that kid Jon had gotten a message to Nolan. Maybe there was another phone at the Barn, one she hadn’t known about. Maybe Jon had used Bob Hale’s private phone. That was probably it. Damn! Whatever the case, the kid had obviously got to Nolan, because Nolan was here already; Infante was dead, most likely; and she was shit out of luck.

She pulled into the driveway of her house and stood poised in front of the pillared structure like the heroine on the cover of a gothic paperback. There was no sign of Nolan yet. The only other car around was Harold’s Pontiac Phoenix, in the garage, where it was supposed to be. She went in the back way, through the kitchen, gun in hand. But there was nobody in the house except Harold, still sitting in the study, listening to Beatle records: “All the lonely people...”

“What are you sneaking around for?” he asked, turning down the stereo, eyeing the little automatic in her hand.

“He’s here,” she said, putting the gun back in her purse. “Nolan’s here.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She went upstairs and started packing a bag. He was at her side as she did.

“I’ll get in touch with you,” she said. “It may be a few months.”

“I’m not going with you?”

“No. The Paddlewheel is too good a thing to throw away. We’re going to try to hold onto it. You’re going to hold onto it for me.”

“Where will you be?”

“I don’t know yet. And when I do know, I won’t tell you. If you don’t know, you can’t tell anybody.”

That hurt him. “Tell anybody? What...”

“Look. Nolan will show up, and when he does, the less you know, the better, because you’re probably going to have to take some heat from him. But he’s not going to kill you or anything.”

“Well, that’s nice to know.”

“Harold. Just play dumb. You can handle it.”

“Your confidence in me is overwhelming.”

The bag was packed.

She put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll come through for me. You always have.”

He smiled wearily; he nodded.

“Now,” she said, carrying the bag out of the room, heading down the stairs, Harold trailing after, “you go to the Paddlewheel. I’m going to need that getaway money.”

“The hundred thousand?” Harold said.

“Yes. I can live a long time on that.”

She was at the front door. He grabbed her arm. Softly.

“Don’t leave me,” he said.

“Harold,” she said, pulling away, “I’m not going to leave you. I’m just getting my butt out of here before it gets shot off. I’ll be back. I like my life here. I’m not giving it up easily.” She kissed him on the mouth, hastily, and said, “I’ll meet you at the Paddlewheel in twenty minutes, half an hour.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Ron’s.”

He grabbed her arm again, hard this time. “Why?”

“To tell her to let that kid go, that’s why. That should cool Nolan off a little.”

He let go. Licked his lips nervously. “Oh,” he said.

“See you at the club.”

The person who answered the door at the farmhouse seemed to be Ron, but Julie couldn’t be sure. It was a not unattractive woman with makeup on and a peasant blouse and jeans; also a choking cloud of perfume. Yet this apparently was Ron.

And Ron’s attitude didn’t seem to have changed: she was more than willing to kill the kid, for a price.

Only when she went upstairs to do it, she was gone too long, and Julie followed up after her.

Ron was alone in the room. She was busy undoing handcuffs that were hanging on the bedposts. Her gun, a long-barreled revolver, was on the nightstand. The window was open; cold air was coming in.

Ron seemed startled when she noticed Julie in the doorway.

“Little bastard got away,” she explained.

“I see,” Julie said.

“I don’t know how he got out of these things,” she said, taking the handcuffs over toward the dresser, turning to lay them on top of it, facing a mirror all but obscured by taped-on pinups of Elvis Presley and others.

“Neither do I,” Julie said, and picked up the revolver and shot Ron through the head.

She put the gun in Ron’s hand; with some luck, it would pass for suicide. Ron would just be that sullen lesbian who finally ended it all.

And now Julie was pulling her Porsche into the unlit Paddlewheel lot. Harold was already there; his Phoenix was over by the front door. They were closed Sundays, so there was no problem with staff or customers being around. There was no sign of Nolan, though that didn’t mean anything. She got the little automatic out of her purse. Her suitcase was in the trunk; she was ready to go. All she needed was her money, and no Nolan.

She walked to the front door and unlocked it, glad Harold hadn’t left it open. At least he was thinking. She went in, locking the door behind her. Harold had turned on a few lights, just enough to for her to navigate, and to get a look at some of what she was leaving behind.

She walked through the entryway, past the hat check area and the rest rooms, and stood for a moment at the top of the few steps that led down into the dining room. It was a big room, full of tables with red cloths and candles; a mural of a paddlewheel boat extended along the wall at left; and a huge picture window stood across a room from her — with a magnificent river view — though with this rainy, murky night you couldn’t see much of it now. The room otherwise had been left the natural (though sandblasted) brick of the warehouse it had been; the kitchen was off to the left.

She was proud of what she had accomplished here. When she took over a year ago, the restaurant had barely been breaking even, though of course the casino downstairs (which then as now was open on Friday and Saturday nights only) had been doing a good business. If she hadn’t seen the potential of the place, that time Harold brought her here to eat when she was staying with him after the Port City robbery, she wouldn’t be in this mess, she supposed; she wouldn’t have settled so dangerously close to where she lived before. But she’d seen the potential, all right. And found from Harold that the original owner — a guy named Tree, with mob connections — had moved to Des Moines to open a similar place, leaving this one to be run, rather incompetently it seemed, by hired hands. So she’d approached Tree and his Family friends with an offer to buy controlling interest in the place, and she had really made a go of it. She was, it turned out, a natural businesswoman.

And that was the surprise, really; all those years she was working in a beauty shop, waiting for some rich fucker to come along and make her life easy, it never occurred to her that she might want to work, that a life of luxury was a bore and the challenge of making money was almost as good as spending it.

Oh, she liked eating well and living well; she liked her fancy house and her antiques.

But what she really liked was her role as owner of the Paddlewheel; she liked that as much as the money that came with it. And she wasn’t going to give it up. She’d be back. She would be back.

She headed down the stairs, a stairway enclosed only from the railing down, and crossed the small casino room, with its card tables and several craps tables and one roulette wheel, and slots off to either side, and walked toward the bar, off to the right of which was Harold’s cubbyhole office.

He was sitting behind his desk; the money was on top of it. Stacks of money packets, still in their bank wrappers.

“Put that in something,” she said.

His eyes looked sad, like a basset hound with glasses. “I don’t have anything.”

“There’s a paper sack lining your wastebasket. Use that.”

He nodded, emptied his wastebasket on the floor, removed the sack, and started filling it with the packets of money; he looked like a bag boy at a supermarket.

“What about Ron?” he asked.

“Dead,” she said.

He flinched, but he kept dropping packets in the sack. “What happened?”

“The kid got away. I don’t know how he managed it. He killed her before he left. Put the gun in her hand to try to make it look like suicide.”

“My God. So they’re both loose?”

“I wouldn’t sweat the kid. He’s probably wandering around a cornfield somewhere. It’s Nolan who’s the threat. Okay, that’s good. Hand it here.”

He handed her the sack. The desk was between them.

“I have to go,” she said.

“I’ll miss you,” he said.

“I’ll miss you, too,” she said. Meaning it.

“You will be back?”

“I’ll be back,” she snapped. “I’m no idiot. This is a good gig.”

“Yes. Right.”

She leaned across the desk and gave him a big, long kiss on the mouth. She smiled at him. She really did hope he could live through whatever Nolan might do to him. “I’ll be back before you know it, lover.”

He mustered a pathetic, self-pitying smile. “Do that,” he said.

“Are you going to stay here for a while?”

“Yes. I’m going to work on the books.”

“He’s liable to show up any time. Nolan, I mean.”

“Okay.”

“You have a gun?”

“No.”

“Good I don’t want you to. I don’t want you getting into it with him. You have to be just some poor innocent sucker I involved in this, as far as he’s concerned, understand?”

He nodded.

“Okay, then. Take care of yourself.”

“You too.”

He was still standing behind the desk when she left him.

Approaching the stairs, she heard the sound of footsteps above. Faint, but definitely footsteps. She ducked around the side of the stairs, knelt so that the enclosed part of the stairway hid her. She put her sack of money down. She still had the automatic in her hand.

Somebody was coming down the stairs.

It seemed like a year before the figure emerged at the bottom. He’d been looking around the room, slowly, as he came down, apparently.

It was Nolan, of course.

She wished she had a bigger gun, but the automatic would have to do. She grabbed it by its short barrel and clubbed him on the back of the head with the butt, and he went down.

18

NOLAN EASED into the Paddlewheel lot. Over to the left a Porsche was parked; a Pontiac was parked up near the front door. No one in either car, apparently. Nolan put the Datsun in park, leaving the motor on, the car turned sideways so that it blocked the exit of the lot. The rain wasn’t coming down hard, but it was insistent, pattering the roof of the car as if the sky was slightly leaky.

“I’m going in,” Nolan said.

“I’m going with you,” Jon said.

“No.”

“Nolan...”

“I know. You’re pissed. You been put through the mill, and you’re pissed. That’s just what I need right now: you — acting like a psychopathic nut.”

Jon didn’t say anything; he affected a sort of scowl; it came off more like a pout.

It was deceptively peaceful, sitting in this car in the rain, rain shadows from the streaky windshield throwing abstract patterns on their faces. Rain dancing on the car roof. Contemplative. And underneath it, a current of something not at all peaceful.

Leaning up from the back seat, the girl said, “How do you even know they’re in there? Maybe they took some other car and left these behind.”

“You’re right,” Nolan said. “They could even be outside there in the bushes, waiting for us to get out of the car.”

“Oh, nice thought,” the girl said, her sarcasm not quite masking her fear.

“Going in after them is probably a bad idea in the first place,” Nolan said. “The smart thing might be to wait outside for them. If they’re in there, they’ll have to come out sooner or later.”

“Then why not wait?” the girl asked.

“Impatience,” Nolan said, shrugging. “Also, as you say, we don’t know for a fact they’re in there. You know what’s on the other side of that building? The river. Which means they may have hopped in a boat and gone to Iowa already.”

“Or,” Jon said, “they might be inside, getting that money together I heard her and Ron talking about, and then go for a boat ride.”

Nolan nodded. “Except I think Julie’ll go and leave that big boyfriend of hers behind for me to play with.”

“Yeah,” Jon said. “You’re probably right.”

“I think she’s in there,” Nolan said. “This has all been breaking too fast for her to be anywhere else.”

“Won’t that place be locked up?” the girl asked. In the rain, with its sign off, the building across the graveled lot looked much more like a warehouse than a restaurant.

Nolan reached in his pocket for the ring of keys. “I got these at that farmhouse,” he said. “Jon said that Ron was a night watchman of sorts at the Paddlewheel. With any luck at all, these’ll get me in.”

“You want this?” Jon asked, holding the long-barreled .38 out to Nolan in his palm, like an offering.

“You hold onto that,” Nolan said, picking up the 9 mm from the seat between him and Jon. “I’ve got over half a clip left in this, and a spare, so if I have to exchange a few rounds with ’em, I can.”

“Jesus,” the girl said.

“But if you hear gunfire, you’ll know it’s them, not me,” Nolan went on, pointing to the silencer attached to the automatic. “So you may have to come in and back me up.”

“Where does that leave me?” the girl said.

Nolan turned and looked at her. “Just get behind the wheel and stay with this car blocking the way as long as you can. If Julie and her boyfriend come piling out of there with guns in their hands, before us, you got my permission to haul ass out.”

“Why don’t we just leave?” the girl said. “Why don’t we just go home? This is crazy.”

“I’m sorry you’re involved in this,” Nolan said. “But I told you I could drop you at a bar or motel or something, and you said no. So just keep your eyes open, and pitch in if you’re needed.”

Nolan got out of the car. So did Jon. He came around to Nolan’s side. Nolan was looking around, looking for movement; he hadn’t been kidding when he’d told Toni somebody might be waiting in the bushes. The rain was coming down harder now — not a downpour, but they were getting wet standing there.

“You’re going to have to do it this time, Nolan.”

“Kill her, you mean? Yeah, I know. I’m not nuts about shooting a woman, even if it is Julie. But that bitch is the fucking plague.”

“It has to be done. You’re sure you don’t want me with you?”

Nolan smiled, put a hand on the kid’s damp shoulder. “You’re my insurance policy. Come in if you hear shooting. Otherwise, stick with the girl. Let’s get her out of this alive, what do you say?”

“I’m for that,” Jon said, smiling.

“I’m going in a side door,” Nolan said, pointing off to the left of the brick building. “Bob Hale gave me a rough layout of the place. The kitchen should be over there. I’ll leave the door open, in case you have to follow me in.”

“Right.”

“See you in a few minutes, kid.”

“See you.”

Nolan headed across the gravel at a slow jog. The gravel extended around the side of the building, where he found two doors, the first having no window, the second, down a ways, having a window with a grillwork through which he could make out what seemed to be the kitchen.

He started trying the keys on the ring; the fifth one opened the door. The Yale lock made a click that sounded loud as a gunshot to him, but he went on in, not hesitating, standing just inside for a while, leaving the door ajar, listening to see if his coming in had attracted anybody’s attention. He stood there a good three minutes and heard nothing.

He was in a kitchen, all right, a big room with natural brick walls, but appointed white; it seemed spotless, too, though there wasn’t much light in here to tell, just a small fixture on the wall inside the door, left permanently on, apparently. He moved past a row of stoves and pushed open a door that led into a small service area; he managed to avoid bumping into the trays on stands lining the wall, full of silverware, condiments, and the like. At the next door he listened for another minute or so, heard nothing, then pushed it open and went on into the big dining room.

There were some lights on. Just enough to get around without stumbling into things. And enough to get a look at the place, and see what it was that Julie was trying to hold onto. It was a nice layout, reminding him just a little of the Pier. The steamboat mural and the river view made this dining room a natural; with decent food, you couldn’t fail here.

He walked as softly as he could, but the floor wasn’t carpeted; it was a waxed wood floor that wanted to echo your footsteps. He knew there were two other levels, but Hale had told him he thought Julie’s office was upstairs, and her boyfriend’s down. Since they’d be together, most likely, it seemed to Nolan a toss-up as to which office they’d be in. Hers seemed slightly more likely, so he decided to check the downstairs first and get it out of the way.

He went down the stairs slowly, looking the casino room over — nothing elaborate, a small setup designed probably for the weekend trade. And he listened. Across the room, down by the bar, to the right, a door was partially open; lights were on within.

This was it, then; soon it would be over.

He stepped off the last step and stood there, looking toward that partially opened door, and something slammed into the back of his head.

He went down, not out, but while he didn’t lose consciousness, exactly, he wasn’t exactly on top of things, either.

By the time he knew what was what, he was sitting up, rubbing the back of his head, and Julie was pointing two guns at him, one of them his. Or Sally’s, actually: the silenced 9 mm. The other gun was a little .22 automatic that looked like a toy, the sort of toy the PTA would like banned.

She was smiling, and he’d never seen anything quite like it — nothing as beautiful, or as ugly, as that smile.

She was standing over him, just a few paces away, wearing designer jeans and a suede coat, open in front to reveal a pale green blouse and the shelf of her breasts. There was a purse tucked under one arm, and a paper sack at her feet; the top where the sack had been twisted shut had loosened up, and packets of money were peeking out

She was stunning: the brown hair frosted blonde; perfect features, with subtle makeup; tits he wanted to touch, even as he sat there knowing she would kill him, any time now.

Well, he thought. Might as well play out the hand...

“Where’s Jon?” he demanded.

She shrugged. “He got away from me. He’s wandering around the countryside, as far as I know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Listen. I don’t give a damn about you, or the money you took that was partly mine. I just want that kid back.” He started to get up.

“Stay put,” she said. Pointing the 9 mm at his head.

From the doorway down by the bar, the boyfriend came out and walked across the empty casino room, moving slowly between the various tables; a big, sandy-haired man with glasses, and a face that was the saddest thing Nolan ever saw.

Julie turned and smiled at him as he came up beside her; she handed him the toylike .22, keeping the silenced automatic for herself.

“Harold,” she said, “I don’t think I’m going to be leaving after all.”

“You’re going to kill him?”

“I’m going to take him up to the kitchen,” she said. “It’ll be easier to clean up afterwards.”

“What about the boy?”

“Jon? He’ll show up, probably. Eventually. I’m not worried about him. I’ll handle it when the time comes.” She looked toward Nolan with respect in her smile. “This is the guy to worry about. But not for much longer.”

Nolan said, “Isn’t it a little messy, a little dangerous, shooting me on your own property? In your restaurant? Why not take me out in the boonies somewhere?”

“You’d do anything to buy a little time, wouldn’t you, Nolan?” she said.

“You killed Ron, didn’t you?” Harold said to her.

“What?” Julie said, not following him.

Nolan picked up on it. “That’s right. I just came from there, that farmhouse. She wanted Ron to kill the kid, but Ron wouldn’t do it let him go instead. Then your princess here shot Ron in the head and faked it up like suicide.”

She looked at Nolan, just a little amazed.

“Get up,” she told him. “We’re going to the kitchen.”

Nolan rose. “She’s the plague, Harold. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Everything she touches turns to dead.”

She turned to Harold and smiled like a madonna. “You stay down here. I can take care of this myself.”

Harold said, “I love you, Julie.”

“I know you do, Harold.”

He shot her in the right eye.

It knocked her back, left her sprawled across the bottom few steps of the staircase, a tear of blood tracing her cheek under where her eye had been. She looked at Harold out of the remaining one, or seemed to, anyway.

Nolan let out some air. Cautiously, he reached down and picked up the 9 mm, which Julie dropped when she died.

“Thanks,” Nolan said.

“Don’t mention it” the big man said, and turned the toy .22 on himself and looked down the barrel and watched death come out.

19

CRACKING sounds, first one, then another, seconds later; gunshots, Jon was sure of it. Faint, but gunshots.

Despite his turned ankle, he ran, 38 in hand, Toni calling out behind him, telling him to be careful. He found the door to the kitchen open and almost ran into Nolan, coming through the service area beyond the kitchen.

“Nolan! Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

Nolan had a paper bag in one hand.

“What’s that?” Jon asked.

“A sack full of money.”

“No kidding? How much?”

“I don’t know. Want to sit down and count it?”

“Maybe we ought to get out of here.”

“Yeah.”

Going through the kitchen, Jon said, “What happened?”

Nolan told him quickly; he was finishing his story by the time they reached the Datsun in the lot. When they got in, Nolan taking the wheel, Toni climbing in back again, Jon started telling her the story and was finished by the time they were going over the old rumbling metal bridge into Burlington.

“Killed himself?” she said, not quite believing it.

“That’s right,” Jon said. “Poor bastard killed himself.”

“No, he didn’t,” Nolan said.

Jon looked at Nolan.

So did Toni.

“Beauty killed the beast,” Nolan said.

Nolan handed the guy in the toll booth the round-trip token and drove on.