The Wrong Goodbye

17.

“I don’t see why you had to do it, is all.”

“I told you, Gio —he would have been a liability.”

“A liability! A liability how? Maybe if you’da taken a sec to properly explain the situation, he’da wound up on our side!”

“Explaining the situation to his satisfaction was going to take a hell of a lot longer than ‘a sec’ —and chances are, he wouldn’t have believed me anyway.”

“I believed you fine,” he said, his tone that of an insolent child.

“Yeah, but you I brought back from the dead —and in another body, to boot. That goes a long way in the convincing-you department.”

“Still,” Gio replied, “you didn’t hafta to get all drastic.”

“I’m sorry —is the hell-bound mob enforcer going soft on me?”

Gio bristled. “I ain’t going soft —I just liked the guy, is all.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Gio —it’s not like I killed him. And once we get to where we’re going, I promise I’ll let him out of the trunk, OK? I just can’t have him making trouble if we run into any more cops.”

Gio muttered something, but I didn’t catch it.

“I’m sorry —what was that?”

“I said he’s probably hot in there. We shoulda given him a bottle of water or something.”

“The guy is bound and gagged, Gio —what the hell’s he going to do with a bottle of water?”

“I guess,” he said, but he sounded unconvinced.

“He’ll be fine. Besides,” I said, glancing down at the real estate circular —picked up at a convenience store a few miles back —that sat open on my lap and then back up at the street before us, “it looks like he won’t be back there much longer; we’re here.”

Here, in this case, was Cuesta Verde Estates, a tidy little development a few minutes north of downtown Las Cruces —or, at least, it would have been a tidy little development, if the project hadn’t been abandoned years back when the market tanked. The ad in the circular promised “SEVERAL UNITS AVAILABLE! PRICED TO MOVE! FINISH TO SUIT!" —all music to a would-be squatter’s ears. I counted twenty-four homes on the single, winding drive, ranging in state from finished, just inside the charming flagstone sign that marked the entrance of the development, to skeletal frames draped in Tyvek and sheets of plastic as the pavement gave way to fifty feet of dirt track before vanishing into the desert beyond. Only the first three or so looked to be occupied. The rest sat vacant, their many FOR SALE placards swaying gently as one in the warm desert breeze. I checked the clock in the dash. It was barely 2pm. That meant what few people actually lived here were likely all at work or school or wherever.

For now, the neighborhood was ours.

I piloted the Cadillac down the empty street, past the well-tended yards of the occupied houses, and into a stretch marked by heat-cracked earth and overgrown by desert scrub. Here and there, the pavement jutted a couple feet to the left or right of the main drive, and the curb followed suit, curving to accommodate these tiny on-ramps to nowhere. They were no doubt intended to allow for future development should the need arise; I’m sure whoever plotted out Cuesta Verde saw modest taupe houses on every tenth of an acre for miles around, on streets named Mesa and Arroyo and the like. Now those preparations for expansion were nothing more than a painful reminder of headier times too far gone to even hope that they’d return.

“There,” I said, nodding at an unfinished house around the bend from the entrance to the development, obscured from view of the occupied homes by the two that came before it. “That’s the one.”

Gio heaved a sigh that sounded like a balloon deflating. “I still don’t see why we can’t stay at a motel.”

I shot him a look that would’ve made a small child cry. Gio just blinked back at me from amidst a pile of crumpled cellophane wrappers and empty Coke cans —his face full of crumbs, his expression blank. “Well, for starters, I just spent the last of Ethan’s cash on food —food that was supposed to last the three of us at least a day. And I’m sure the cops’ve flagged Ethan’s credit card accounts by now, which means we even try to get a room, they’ll be on us in minutes. Then there’s the matter of the stolen Caddy and the pissedoff Texas oilman in the trunk, which as far as I’m concerned makes parking anyplace where there’s witnesses a pretty crap idea.”

“Hey, it ain’t my fault I ate all that shit —this dude you stuck me in was fuckin’ hungry. ’Sides, Roscoe’s gotta have a little dough on him, right?”

“Not a dime. I checked his wallet —plenty of plastic, but any cash he had went the way of the G-string last night.”

“Figures you’d kidnap the only oil exec on the planet that ain’t carrying a fat wad of bills. So fine, a motel’s out, but that don’t mean we gotta stay in a total shithole —I mean, they’re trying to sell these places, right? Which means they gotta have a model home around here somewhere. You know, with lights and AC, and running water so I could maybe take a shower? I mean, this place ain’t even finished —it’s like a fucking tent with siding.”

“Yeah, but it’s out of sight, and it’s got a garage where we can stash the car. The model home was around front, near the ones where people live, and it didn’t have a garage —you think nobody’s going to notice if we move in?” I shook my head. “I’ll tell you, man —it’s a good thing you had a deal with a demon to fall back on, ’cause on your own you’re kind of lousy at being a criminal.”

“Geez, Sam, didn’t nobody ever tell you words can hurt? Like, imagine for example I said, ’Funny, you talkin’ smack about how I do my job, ’cause from where I’m sitting, it looks like you suck so bad at doing yours that you had to come beg me for help’? That’d kinda sting, wouldn’t it?”

“Cute,” I snapped. “Real cute. Now how about you work off that bag of Funyuns you devoured by getting that garage door open so we can park this boat inside, huh?”

“Wow,” he said, hauling himself up out of the bench seat and trotting up the driveway, “sounds like somebody needs a hug.” Gio’s tone was pissy, but I caught the hint of a smile at the corner of his lips as he yanked up the garage door and beckoned me in. Despite myself, I wound up grinning back at him. Then he flipped me off.

I drove into the waiting garage, shaking my head as Gio slid the door shut behind me.

God help me, I thought, I’m actually starting to like this guy.

“Looks like we’re clean,” Gio said. “For now, at least. Gotta say, Sam, in my line a work, I’ve swept for bugs a time or two —but before today never the creepy crawly kind.”

I was sitting cross-legged on the bare plywood subfloor of our new squat, reading the copy of the Las Cruces Sun-News I’d picked up on our snack run by the light of the afternoon sun. Or, rather, that’s what I was trying to do. Gio’d barely given me a moment’s peace. Reading near Gio was like reading in the company of a dog —he couldn’t seem to comprehend that what looked like me just sitting there ignoring him was me actually fucking doing something.

I’d kept him busy a few minutes checking the house for Deliverants —but it was a small place, and wide-open on the inside, so it didn’t take him long. The fact there weren’t any was heartening. I guess my buddy the bug-monster figured he’d give me a little latitude to go along with my marching orders.

Not like that latitude was going to do me any good if I couldn’t find five quiet minutes to formulate some kind of workable plan. I’ll tell you, between Gio’s yammering, and Roscoe screaming his fool head off in the bathroom, it was a miracle I didn’t kill them both. I mean sure, I’m not strictly speaking supposed to dispatch folks willy-nilly, but it wasn’t like the water I was in could get any hotter.

Least, that’s what I thought at the time. One of these days I’m going to learn that when I think to myself it really couldn’t get much worse, I am never, ever right. Much worse is sort of hell’s stock in trade, and I’m an idiot for forgetting that, even for a moment.

“You figure this Danny jackass has got a plague of locusts on his tail, too?”

I shook my head. “Crows.”

“Come again?”

“The creatures stalking Danny would be crows.”

Gio snorted. “Gotta tell you, dude: you wound up with the shit end of that stick.”

“You think?” I asked. “Seems to me, I’d rather run into a bunch of pissed-off insects than an equal number of angry crows. Those fuckers are smart, and nasty when pressed.”

Gio fell silent then, for like a whopping ten seconds. I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

“So what exactly are you looking for?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I snapped. “I’ll find it when I see it.”

“This research shit would go a hell of a lot faster if you had an iPhone, you know.”

“Phones should have cords,” I said, “not television screens.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me a woman’s place is in the home, right? I know you’re older than you look, Sam, but you might wanna try gettin’ with the times —it’s a brave new world out there! Besides, everybody says print is dead anyway.”

“Yeah, well so am I —and for that matter, so are you. So how about you make like it for a bit and clam up so I can read?”

Gio raised his hands as though surrendering. “Hey, you wanna be a crotchety old fogy, that’s your business. I’m just saying a little Google access would make your life a whole lot easier.”

“Hey, I’ve got no problem with technology, but a Google search can’t help me any if I don’t know what it is I’m looking for. And all I need to make my life a whole lot easier is a few minutes of peace and quiet.” I nodded toward the bathroom, where old Roscoe was shouting himself hoarse. “You think maybe you could shut him up?”

“I ain’t about to whack him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What are you, new? If I wanted Roscoe dead, I would’ve killed him myself back at the barn. I was thinking something more along the lines of bringing him a beer and a bite to eat from what’s left of our stash. And toss me that pack of smokes, while you’re at it.”

“Aw, come on, Sam —you’re not really gotta light up in here, are you? Didn’t nobody ever tell you secondhand smoke kills? The last thing I need right now is lung cancer on account of your nasty-ass habit.”

“You’re kidding me, right? You’re worried about lung cancer? Gio, you’ll be lucky if you last the fucking week —and if by some miracle you’re walking around in Mr Frohman’s body any longer than that, it’ll be your heart that gets you, not your lungs.”

Gio looked nonplussed. “Still, dude, it’s all of our house. Can’t you take it to the porch or something?”

“Gio, this house isn’t any of ours —and if I drag my ass outside to smoke, somebody might see me and call us in. You want to spend your last days on this earth in jail?”

At that, he looked chastened. “I’m just sayin’ —a little consideration for your fellow housemates would be nice. Besides, it’s the twenty-first century —who smokes anymore?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Toss me my fucking cigarettes —I’ll crack a window, and blow the smoke outside, OK?”

“You know what? Go ahead. Not like you give two shits about anybody but yourself.”

He chucked the pack at me, and then sulked over to the bathroom door, a gas station burrito and a Santa Fe Pale Ale in hand. I unwrapped the pack and tapped out a cigarette. Then I fetched a matchbook from my pocket and struck one alight. But as I raised it to my waiting cigarette, I paused.

Lung cancer? Seriously? Guy was off his fucking nut.

I sat like that a minute, marveling at Gio’s unrelenting ridiculosity, the match flame a scant inch from my unlit smoke. Eventually, the flame guttered and died. I thought about striking another, but something stopped me.

Ah, fuck, who am I kidding? Someone stopped me. That’s right —the bad-ass soul collector skipped a much-needed smoke to spare a damned man’s feelings. Least I hope that’s what it was. Better to admit that I’m a marshmallow than that I was swayed by the dumbest argument this side of the devil made all the dinosaur bones and stuck them in the ground to deceive us.

Jesus, am I going soft? I mean, shit —if I want a smoke, I should just have one, right?

Right?

Eh, I thought. Maybe later.

Then I shook my head and set the pack aside, cigarette and all.