Cutting Loose, page 22
“Is that right? Mack Travis called me just yesterday about him, looking for data. So I’ll tell you what I told him. Yes, I’ve heard of this guy. He deals in a big way over there. I know for a fact he has contacts in Sinaloa.”
“What I need is a connection to a guy named Phil. Yes I know―Phil who? All I have is the name and the fact that he deals. And knows Wetherspoon. He also has a small spread near Nashville. That’s it”
“That’s pretty thin.”
“I know.”
“All right.”
“I’d like to keep this between the two of us, Jack.”
“! hear you. Okay, leave it with me.”
Internal mail had dropped a letter in his inbox and it turned out to be official clearance to ask Dr. Fryxell to send the cranial X-rays of Lindemann. He phoned the surgery and asked the nurse on duty to pass on the message to Fryxell and to tell him the letter of authority would be in the mail.
His phone rang.
“Capps.”
“Yeah, Emmett, hi. Morry Lieber here. Salinas PD.”
“Sure, Morry. How’s it going?””
“I have something for you. I sent you a reconstruction of a face.”
“Right.”
“There’s a private organization out here that tries to track down missing persons. They put fliers out and got a hit. Her name is Lisa Marin. She wound up over here, Salinas way, but she lived in San Luis Obispo. We don’t have an actual photo yet, but the reconstruction is obviously good. Any use to you?”
“Sure is, Morry.”
“I’ll fax over what little we’ve got. But at least now she has a name.”
It was Lindemann, late of San Luis Obispo, who had killed her: that was certain. Sitting there at his desk, mulling over the events at Delaney, something occurred to Emmett: if Lindemann was still alive, then there was no evidence he had planted the bomb; and if he had not, then Monckton was the only other possibility. The manufacture and use of bombs was a male pursuit; he doubted Astaire was the perpetrator. Neither possibility, though, explained why Astaire and Monckton had left without Lindemann. That made no sense. To leave behind a close colleague was bizarre. It did not fit the notion of three people joined at the hip by their past and by political conviction. There was some other explanation for the fact that Lindemann was not in the car with Astaire and Monckton when they made their run for freedom.
How would Lindemann have reacted to being left behind? He would surely have been wild with fury. He had been lucky or smart to make his escape from Delaney on his own. Perhaps his reaction to that betrayal had colored his thinking down the years. The odds were that he would want his revenge. Perhaps Emmett was in a race with Lindemann.
He went home that evening with a takeaway Neapolitan pizza and some beer and later sat in his favorite chair, waiting for the Carson Show and trying to make sense of what all of this meant. If Lindemann was on the trail of Monckton and Astaire, and if he was anywhere close to them, that meant he was vulnerable.
Just as the Carson show ended, the phone rang. When he picked up, he heard a faint click on the line.
“Ma?”
“Yeah.”
Only his mother, also a Carson fan, would ring that late, just as the credits rolled.
“How’s Bea?”
“Bea is just fine, hon. The pills are great. She’s found level ground.”
“That’s good, Ma.”
“She’s a special person.”
“I know it. I’m glad you’ve found her.”
“Everything okay with you, hon?”
“Sure.”
“This life you lead drives me nuts, Emmett. It’s trouble all the way.”
“I can look after myself, Ma.”
“They all say that till they stop a bullet. Like that Moose guy.”
“You’re right. But it’s the job.”
“That’s my point. You take care. Look after yourself. You mean a lot to me.”
Emmett leaned back in his chair, stunned; that was the closest his mother had ever come to expressing a deep attachment to him.
“Likewise, Ma.”
When they finally hung up, he heard that click once more.
Next day, Pallomari walked up to Emmett’s office and they exchanged pleasantries for a while.
“So, yeah, I have thirteen names. That’s all I could link to Wetherspoon. And of those there’re only three I can find who have real estate. Two are in Montgomery County. The other’s in Dickson County.”
He handed over the list. The three with land were underlined.
“What can you tell me about these three, Jack?”
“Okay―Phil Indelicato, mob-related but not actually made, there in Montgomery County. In the same county, Phil Donahue, inherited the place from his dad, he’s dirtyish, a couple of convictions for dealing, and Phil Schneider, who’s had a few places. He has one in Dickson County. He moves properties around to offset taxes.”
“Let’s start with Schneider. What can you tell me him?”
“He has amusement arcades. Used to work with Luke Collis, now dead.”
“Thanks, Jack. I’ll go with that.”
They talked for a while, but Emmett was eager to make a call. As soon as Pallomari left, Emmett looked up a phone number, then called Al Weiss, the lover-boy who had been photographed in the bed of primulas without his pants.
“Al?”
“Yeah?”
“Emmett.”
“Oh man, what? I thought that business was all squared away.”
“Relax. It is. I need some information.”
“Uh huh.”
“Luke Collis.”
“Jesus, what? I showed you the checks. My alibi is solid. Is this Buck Soto? He won’t leave it alone.”
“Like I say, relax. If you can help me here, it’ll look good for you.”
“Really? Okay.”
“So, Collis―he was from Nashville, am I right?”
“Sure.”
“He had some arcades over there. He was in business with a guy called Phil Schneider.”
“If you say so. I don’t know the name.“
“Uh, okay. I just thought, maybe . . .”
“I can check.”
“How?”
“Luke’s files are still here. I can take a look.”
“Great. I’ll hold.”
A couple of minutes later, Weiss was back.
“Yeah, I have something.”
“Call it out.”
“Yeah, address 25 Church Lane, Dickson County. D’you want the phone number?”
“Sure,” said Emmett, writing. “Great. And Al, I’ll put in the good word with Buck.”
“Thanks.”
That address was not on Pallomari’s list. Emmett knew he would have to make the trip to Nashville again to check for himself. He would need to inform Les Reeves as a courtesy to his colleagues over there and to ask for the use of a plain-wrap vehicle from their lot. He reached for the phone.
“Guy's checking out."
Fingers prised open an eye.
“Sir, m’saying. No medication, no plasma or whatever the shit, it’s the last round-up for this cowboy.”
“We know that. Damn it to hell.” Wetherspoon grabbed Monckton by his pajama jacket and shook the limp body.
“Sir, chill. Ain’t gonna help. He ain’t dead yet. Only way, let him rest up. He get some sleep, we come back, aks them tough ones some more. Then, okay, make him give it up. Take no shit.”
“We can give him a shot of amphetamine. There’s a shedload of the stuff back there. Wake Lazarus.”
“Yeah, possible that’ll work. Then again, mebbe it’d be too much for his system.”
“Fuck it.”
“Le’s try a few hours.”
Sol heard distant voices somewhere far away. The end was close. Wetherspoon had pounded him hard that day, shaking and hitting him, giving him no rest until sometime around noon he had passed out.
Much later, he retched and turned on his bed. He still had his watch, which said 11:30pm. They had not returned, and the sleep had helped. This was the last roll of the dice. If he slept on, it would all be over.
It took a while to open the bedroom door; his hands were shaking. He slowly carried the canvas bag and the metal container to the padlocked double doors and set them down; then, in the dark, he felt the lock. He had looked at it already and knew it was easy to open. This type had four numbered rollers and above the numbers was an angled, spring-loaded plate. He inserted a narrow blade, felt for the small legs between the numbers, moved the blade to the left, holding the shackle, then released it and the lock came open. In spite of his condition, it had taken no more than five seconds. Outside, moonlight showed him the Chevy beside what seemed to be a stable block.
He went to the far side of the car, put down the metal container, opened the canvas bag, and laid out his tools on the ground. Then he jimmied the door and pulled the lever to release the hood.
This was a skill that went back a long way. His father had learned about explosives as a miner, and he had made a few extra dollars blowing up tree stumps for local farmers. That first time, standing beside his father, Sol felt a deep sense of satisfaction as the bomb exploded and the pieces were blasted into the sky. It began his fascination with science, and he took it easily and naturally. It was bombs, though, that particularly fascinated him. By the time he went to college, he had studied the subject in depth. There, he majored in physics, but an instinct told him to keep his interest in explosives to himself.
He took a screw-driver to the dashboard. This one would not need to be sophisticated. He had the mixture in the can, and there was gas in the engine. He had wiring; he had tape; he had tools.
At some point, much later, he opened his eyes and saw a scattering of stars. There were soft voices off to one side. He had lain down to rest and must have nodded off. He raised himself and looked through the side windows of the Chevy. Touchette and Wetherspoon were on the back porch, sitting on rockers, with a bottle on a table between them. A light was on over the back door. He would wait them out. They drank; they smoked. At last they stood and went back inside.
The sleep had helped. After another hour the job was done; but perhaps there was more.
He tugged the trunk-release under the dash and went round to the back and opened the lid. Under the blankets he could feel firearms. Among them was a double-barreled shotgun. He broke it open and felt the breech of the barrels; there were shells inside. He closed the trunk and took the shotgun, the bag, and the can back to the barn but he was not yet finished; in the workshop, with the light on, he clamped the shotgun in a vise and used a fretsaw to cut the barrels down. Then he locked the workshop door and, back in his bedroom, put the shotgun under his mattress. He sat on the edge of the bed, shaking. There was a strange metallic taste in his mouth he had never experienced before. This was endgame. Beyond exhaustion, unable to get under the covers, he lay down on the bed and instantly fell into the deepest sleep.
“Mr. Sol. You okay, my man?”
His eyes opened and he saw a blurred image of Touchette.
“Not too hot.”
“Listen, I’m gonna wipe your face.”
Soon he felt the damp coolness.
“Thanks.”
“That’s okay. Listen, I got your breakfast here but I’m guessing you ain’t ready for it right now.”
“No. Just leave it. And please, leave the cloth.”
“You bet.”
He slept again.
Next time, it was Wetherspoon looking down at him.
“We let you sleep the day away, Sol. So’s you could get your strength back. But now―listen to me, Sol―now it gets serious. Enough bullshit, Sol. Is this coming across?”
“Sure.”
Wetherspoon smacked him across the face.
“Just making sure you’re all the way awake.”
“I’m awake, Noah.”
“All right. This gives me no pleasure, Sol. Do we have to keep doing this?”
“No.”
“No? No what? Are my words getting through? Talk to me, Sol.”
Monckton nodded his head. “Okay, Noah, we’ll do it your way.”
“Uh huh. That’s good. So . . .”
“Give me a moment.”
He wiped his face with the back of his hand and waited for his heart to stop pounding.
“Yeah, okay.”
“I’m right here, Sol. Don’t keep me waiting.”
“She made herself a new life―Carey.”
“Keep going.”
“She’s using a new name. At first she called herself Marie James. Then . . . she got a job in a Walmart in a place called Fairfield. Started rooming with a family called Pruett. They became close. The Pruetts treated her like a daughter. She started using the name Pruett as her own.”
“Fairfield. Where’s that?”
“Near Eastham, Texas.”
“Near Eastham Unit?”
“Yes. They have a son who’s doing time there. Mack Pruett.”
“Okay. This is good, Sol. I remember the name Pruett from your files.”
“This is the truth.”
“So, where in Fairfield?”
“32 Bewlay Avenue.”
“Who’s in the house?”
“Just the Pruetts and Marie . . . Carey.”
“See, Sol? How easy that was? Why put yourself through all that grief? When it comes to it, we always put ourselves first. Jesus was crucified but the rest of us go by a lower standard. Ain’t that right, Touchette?”
“For sure.”
“I believe this story. It tallies. You wanted to save Carey. And I respect you for that. Don’t feel bad, Sol. It was inevitable. Touchette―whyn’t you get our bags in the car?”
“You bet.”
“Oh―and Touchette, we got more of that Jack Daniel’s? Sol here must have a dry throat.”
Touchette smiled. “We surely can’t have Mr. Sol with a dry throat. Be right back.”
Wetherspoon turned back to Sol. “You’re a nice guy, Sol. Everyone says so. No one has a bad word to say about you. But life is a cruel business.”
“Cruel for all of us, Noah. Cruel for you too.”
“We’ve had that conversation already.”
“Happy with who you are.”
“Exactly.”
Wetherspoon drew the chair toward the bed and sat.
“Quite the saga. The Delaney Three. And now the end is in sight.”
“Not quite.”
“Not quite? You gone, Carey pretty soon. It’s done and dusted.”
“And you cash in?”
“The Feebs will be happy bunnies, Sol. Like I say, they’ll overlook a lot to clear the case that was their worst nightmare. And there’ll be no evidence to connect me to you.”
“And you’re the guy who cracked it. Found Astaire. Every day will be Christmas Day.”
Sol smiled.
“You’re full of surprises, Sol. That smile right there.”
“Crazy how life works out. You can never tell.”
“It’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
“How long will you outlive me by, Noah?”
“There’s a question. I’ve got a lot of living left.”
“Okay. Then that’s the answer.”
“Always playing mind games, Sol. You never quit.”
Touchette came in with the bottle of Bourbon.
“Can we rustle up three glasses, Touchette?”
“Sure.”
Wetherspoon poured three shots.
“For you, Sol. And Touchette. Let’s drink to happy memories.”
“I like that toast,” said Sol, and sipped the whiskey.
“Mr. Sol,” said Touchette to Wetherspoon. “He always hangs like he’s the smart one in the room. Even now.”
“Sol’s view of life was formed way back. Am I right, Sol?”
“Could be.”
Sol sipped his whiskey again.
“So―death on me, Mr. Sol?” said Touchette.
“Maybe I was wrong about that.”
Touchette laughed. “There you go. You wrong about that. You’re sharp as a tack, sir, though, I’ll give you that.”
“Thank you.”
“Back there in Jed’s apartment―Mr. Cool.”
“Really?”
“But now, game’s over.”
“Drink up, Touchette,” said Wetherspoon. “We’re busy people.”
Sol Monckton stood in the middle of the barn doorway, looking out at them, then stepped forward into the yard. They had left the doors unlocked.
“Sure, come on out,” said Wetherspoon. “Why not?”
For the first time he saw the place in daylight. It looked neglected; the farmhouse needed paint.
“You’re cold,” said Wetherspoon, looking at his duster coat.
“Yes.”
“The weight you’ve lost.”
“Right.”
“Dying sucks, I guess.”
“Yes.”
“Come out here to see the sun go down?”
“For sure.”
Touchette, smiling, walked over to the Chevy beyond the stable, carrying a case and a shotgun, and stowed them in the trunk.
“Mr. Sol, I’ll give your best to Carey Astaire. Man, that broad is money on legs. And legit. Believe it?”
He laid a hand on the hood. “This damn engine. Gonna turn it over a time or two. Warm the sucker up.”
“Sure,” said Wetherspoon.
Touchette slid behind the wheel.
“Being that close to Astaire,” said Wetherspoon, watching him for a moment. “Not easy to see it all go south. Believe me, I get it.”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, Sol, what happens here, Touchette ‘n’ me clear up a couple loose ends.”
“Moment’s come.”
“Sure has. No more road.”
“You thought the other guy was the bomber,” said Monckton.
“What?” Wetherspoon cocked his head. “Uh―let me think, Max Lindemann?”
“Yes.”
“So, uh, who gives a shit? This guy, that guy.”
“Likely you do.”
“I do what?”
“Give a shit.”
“You think?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, it’s getting late, no one gives a rat’s ass who the bomber was.”
“Trust me, you care.”
“You,” said Wetherspoon, his face cold, “are a sad piece of shit, half an inch from death.”
“What I need is a connection to a guy named Phil. Yes I know―Phil who? All I have is the name and the fact that he deals. And knows Wetherspoon. He also has a small spread near Nashville. That’s it”
“That’s pretty thin.”
“I know.”
“All right.”
“I’d like to keep this between the two of us, Jack.”
“! hear you. Okay, leave it with me.”
Internal mail had dropped a letter in his inbox and it turned out to be official clearance to ask Dr. Fryxell to send the cranial X-rays of Lindemann. He phoned the surgery and asked the nurse on duty to pass on the message to Fryxell and to tell him the letter of authority would be in the mail.
His phone rang.
“Capps.”
“Yeah, Emmett, hi. Morry Lieber here. Salinas PD.”
“Sure, Morry. How’s it going?””
“I have something for you. I sent you a reconstruction of a face.”
“Right.”
“There’s a private organization out here that tries to track down missing persons. They put fliers out and got a hit. Her name is Lisa Marin. She wound up over here, Salinas way, but she lived in San Luis Obispo. We don’t have an actual photo yet, but the reconstruction is obviously good. Any use to you?”
“Sure is, Morry.”
“I’ll fax over what little we’ve got. But at least now she has a name.”
It was Lindemann, late of San Luis Obispo, who had killed her: that was certain. Sitting there at his desk, mulling over the events at Delaney, something occurred to Emmett: if Lindemann was still alive, then there was no evidence he had planted the bomb; and if he had not, then Monckton was the only other possibility. The manufacture and use of bombs was a male pursuit; he doubted Astaire was the perpetrator. Neither possibility, though, explained why Astaire and Monckton had left without Lindemann. That made no sense. To leave behind a close colleague was bizarre. It did not fit the notion of three people joined at the hip by their past and by political conviction. There was some other explanation for the fact that Lindemann was not in the car with Astaire and Monckton when they made their run for freedom.
How would Lindemann have reacted to being left behind? He would surely have been wild with fury. He had been lucky or smart to make his escape from Delaney on his own. Perhaps his reaction to that betrayal had colored his thinking down the years. The odds were that he would want his revenge. Perhaps Emmett was in a race with Lindemann.
He went home that evening with a takeaway Neapolitan pizza and some beer and later sat in his favorite chair, waiting for the Carson Show and trying to make sense of what all of this meant. If Lindemann was on the trail of Monckton and Astaire, and if he was anywhere close to them, that meant he was vulnerable.
Just as the Carson show ended, the phone rang. When he picked up, he heard a faint click on the line.
“Ma?”
“Yeah.”
Only his mother, also a Carson fan, would ring that late, just as the credits rolled.
“How’s Bea?”
“Bea is just fine, hon. The pills are great. She’s found level ground.”
“That’s good, Ma.”
“She’s a special person.”
“I know it. I’m glad you’ve found her.”
“Everything okay with you, hon?”
“Sure.”
“This life you lead drives me nuts, Emmett. It’s trouble all the way.”
“I can look after myself, Ma.”
“They all say that till they stop a bullet. Like that Moose guy.”
“You’re right. But it’s the job.”
“That’s my point. You take care. Look after yourself. You mean a lot to me.”
Emmett leaned back in his chair, stunned; that was the closest his mother had ever come to expressing a deep attachment to him.
“Likewise, Ma.”
When they finally hung up, he heard that click once more.
Next day, Pallomari walked up to Emmett’s office and they exchanged pleasantries for a while.
“So, yeah, I have thirteen names. That’s all I could link to Wetherspoon. And of those there’re only three I can find who have real estate. Two are in Montgomery County. The other’s in Dickson County.”
He handed over the list. The three with land were underlined.
“What can you tell me about these three, Jack?”
“Okay―Phil Indelicato, mob-related but not actually made, there in Montgomery County. In the same county, Phil Donahue, inherited the place from his dad, he’s dirtyish, a couple of convictions for dealing, and Phil Schneider, who’s had a few places. He has one in Dickson County. He moves properties around to offset taxes.”
“Let’s start with Schneider. What can you tell me him?”
“He has amusement arcades. Used to work with Luke Collis, now dead.”
“Thanks, Jack. I’ll go with that.”
They talked for a while, but Emmett was eager to make a call. As soon as Pallomari left, Emmett looked up a phone number, then called Al Weiss, the lover-boy who had been photographed in the bed of primulas without his pants.
“Al?”
“Yeah?”
“Emmett.”
“Oh man, what? I thought that business was all squared away.”
“Relax. It is. I need some information.”
“Uh huh.”
“Luke Collis.”
“Jesus, what? I showed you the checks. My alibi is solid. Is this Buck Soto? He won’t leave it alone.”
“Like I say, relax. If you can help me here, it’ll look good for you.”
“Really? Okay.”
“So, Collis―he was from Nashville, am I right?”
“Sure.”
“He had some arcades over there. He was in business with a guy called Phil Schneider.”
“If you say so. I don’t know the name.“
“Uh, okay. I just thought, maybe . . .”
“I can check.”
“How?”
“Luke’s files are still here. I can take a look.”
“Great. I’ll hold.”
A couple of minutes later, Weiss was back.
“Yeah, I have something.”
“Call it out.”
“Yeah, address 25 Church Lane, Dickson County. D’you want the phone number?”
“Sure,” said Emmett, writing. “Great. And Al, I’ll put in the good word with Buck.”
“Thanks.”
That address was not on Pallomari’s list. Emmett knew he would have to make the trip to Nashville again to check for himself. He would need to inform Les Reeves as a courtesy to his colleagues over there and to ask for the use of a plain-wrap vehicle from their lot. He reached for the phone.
“Guy's checking out."
Fingers prised open an eye.
“Sir, m’saying. No medication, no plasma or whatever the shit, it’s the last round-up for this cowboy.”
“We know that. Damn it to hell.” Wetherspoon grabbed Monckton by his pajama jacket and shook the limp body.
“Sir, chill. Ain’t gonna help. He ain’t dead yet. Only way, let him rest up. He get some sleep, we come back, aks them tough ones some more. Then, okay, make him give it up. Take no shit.”
“We can give him a shot of amphetamine. There’s a shedload of the stuff back there. Wake Lazarus.”
“Yeah, possible that’ll work. Then again, mebbe it’d be too much for his system.”
“Fuck it.”
“Le’s try a few hours.”
Sol heard distant voices somewhere far away. The end was close. Wetherspoon had pounded him hard that day, shaking and hitting him, giving him no rest until sometime around noon he had passed out.
Much later, he retched and turned on his bed. He still had his watch, which said 11:30pm. They had not returned, and the sleep had helped. This was the last roll of the dice. If he slept on, it would all be over.
It took a while to open the bedroom door; his hands were shaking. He slowly carried the canvas bag and the metal container to the padlocked double doors and set them down; then, in the dark, he felt the lock. He had looked at it already and knew it was easy to open. This type had four numbered rollers and above the numbers was an angled, spring-loaded plate. He inserted a narrow blade, felt for the small legs between the numbers, moved the blade to the left, holding the shackle, then released it and the lock came open. In spite of his condition, it had taken no more than five seconds. Outside, moonlight showed him the Chevy beside what seemed to be a stable block.
He went to the far side of the car, put down the metal container, opened the canvas bag, and laid out his tools on the ground. Then he jimmied the door and pulled the lever to release the hood.
This was a skill that went back a long way. His father had learned about explosives as a miner, and he had made a few extra dollars blowing up tree stumps for local farmers. That first time, standing beside his father, Sol felt a deep sense of satisfaction as the bomb exploded and the pieces were blasted into the sky. It began his fascination with science, and he took it easily and naturally. It was bombs, though, that particularly fascinated him. By the time he went to college, he had studied the subject in depth. There, he majored in physics, but an instinct told him to keep his interest in explosives to himself.
He took a screw-driver to the dashboard. This one would not need to be sophisticated. He had the mixture in the can, and there was gas in the engine. He had wiring; he had tape; he had tools.
At some point, much later, he opened his eyes and saw a scattering of stars. There were soft voices off to one side. He had lain down to rest and must have nodded off. He raised himself and looked through the side windows of the Chevy. Touchette and Wetherspoon were on the back porch, sitting on rockers, with a bottle on a table between them. A light was on over the back door. He would wait them out. They drank; they smoked. At last they stood and went back inside.
The sleep had helped. After another hour the job was done; but perhaps there was more.
He tugged the trunk-release under the dash and went round to the back and opened the lid. Under the blankets he could feel firearms. Among them was a double-barreled shotgun. He broke it open and felt the breech of the barrels; there were shells inside. He closed the trunk and took the shotgun, the bag, and the can back to the barn but he was not yet finished; in the workshop, with the light on, he clamped the shotgun in a vise and used a fretsaw to cut the barrels down. Then he locked the workshop door and, back in his bedroom, put the shotgun under his mattress. He sat on the edge of the bed, shaking. There was a strange metallic taste in his mouth he had never experienced before. This was endgame. Beyond exhaustion, unable to get under the covers, he lay down on the bed and instantly fell into the deepest sleep.
“Mr. Sol. You okay, my man?”
His eyes opened and he saw a blurred image of Touchette.
“Not too hot.”
“Listen, I’m gonna wipe your face.”
Soon he felt the damp coolness.
“Thanks.”
“That’s okay. Listen, I got your breakfast here but I’m guessing you ain’t ready for it right now.”
“No. Just leave it. And please, leave the cloth.”
“You bet.”
He slept again.
Next time, it was Wetherspoon looking down at him.
“We let you sleep the day away, Sol. So’s you could get your strength back. But now―listen to me, Sol―now it gets serious. Enough bullshit, Sol. Is this coming across?”
“Sure.”
Wetherspoon smacked him across the face.
“Just making sure you’re all the way awake.”
“I’m awake, Noah.”
“All right. This gives me no pleasure, Sol. Do we have to keep doing this?”
“No.”
“No? No what? Are my words getting through? Talk to me, Sol.”
Monckton nodded his head. “Okay, Noah, we’ll do it your way.”
“Uh huh. That’s good. So . . .”
“Give me a moment.”
He wiped his face with the back of his hand and waited for his heart to stop pounding.
“Yeah, okay.”
“I’m right here, Sol. Don’t keep me waiting.”
“She made herself a new life―Carey.”
“Keep going.”
“She’s using a new name. At first she called herself Marie James. Then . . . she got a job in a Walmart in a place called Fairfield. Started rooming with a family called Pruett. They became close. The Pruetts treated her like a daughter. She started using the name Pruett as her own.”
“Fairfield. Where’s that?”
“Near Eastham, Texas.”
“Near Eastham Unit?”
“Yes. They have a son who’s doing time there. Mack Pruett.”
“Okay. This is good, Sol. I remember the name Pruett from your files.”
“This is the truth.”
“So, where in Fairfield?”
“32 Bewlay Avenue.”
“Who’s in the house?”
“Just the Pruetts and Marie . . . Carey.”
“See, Sol? How easy that was? Why put yourself through all that grief? When it comes to it, we always put ourselves first. Jesus was crucified but the rest of us go by a lower standard. Ain’t that right, Touchette?”
“For sure.”
“I believe this story. It tallies. You wanted to save Carey. And I respect you for that. Don’t feel bad, Sol. It was inevitable. Touchette―whyn’t you get our bags in the car?”
“You bet.”
“Oh―and Touchette, we got more of that Jack Daniel’s? Sol here must have a dry throat.”
Touchette smiled. “We surely can’t have Mr. Sol with a dry throat. Be right back.”
Wetherspoon turned back to Sol. “You’re a nice guy, Sol. Everyone says so. No one has a bad word to say about you. But life is a cruel business.”
“Cruel for all of us, Noah. Cruel for you too.”
“We’ve had that conversation already.”
“Happy with who you are.”
“Exactly.”
Wetherspoon drew the chair toward the bed and sat.
“Quite the saga. The Delaney Three. And now the end is in sight.”
“Not quite.”
“Not quite? You gone, Carey pretty soon. It’s done and dusted.”
“And you cash in?”
“The Feebs will be happy bunnies, Sol. Like I say, they’ll overlook a lot to clear the case that was their worst nightmare. And there’ll be no evidence to connect me to you.”
“And you’re the guy who cracked it. Found Astaire. Every day will be Christmas Day.”
Sol smiled.
“You’re full of surprises, Sol. That smile right there.”
“Crazy how life works out. You can never tell.”
“It’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
“How long will you outlive me by, Noah?”
“There’s a question. I’ve got a lot of living left.”
“Okay. Then that’s the answer.”
“Always playing mind games, Sol. You never quit.”
Touchette came in with the bottle of Bourbon.
“Can we rustle up three glasses, Touchette?”
“Sure.”
Wetherspoon poured three shots.
“For you, Sol. And Touchette. Let’s drink to happy memories.”
“I like that toast,” said Sol, and sipped the whiskey.
“Mr. Sol,” said Touchette to Wetherspoon. “He always hangs like he’s the smart one in the room. Even now.”
“Sol’s view of life was formed way back. Am I right, Sol?”
“Could be.”
Sol sipped his whiskey again.
“So―death on me, Mr. Sol?” said Touchette.
“Maybe I was wrong about that.”
Touchette laughed. “There you go. You wrong about that. You’re sharp as a tack, sir, though, I’ll give you that.”
“Thank you.”
“Back there in Jed’s apartment―Mr. Cool.”
“Really?”
“But now, game’s over.”
“Drink up, Touchette,” said Wetherspoon. “We’re busy people.”
Sol Monckton stood in the middle of the barn doorway, looking out at them, then stepped forward into the yard. They had left the doors unlocked.
“Sure, come on out,” said Wetherspoon. “Why not?”
For the first time he saw the place in daylight. It looked neglected; the farmhouse needed paint.
“You’re cold,” said Wetherspoon, looking at his duster coat.
“Yes.”
“The weight you’ve lost.”
“Right.”
“Dying sucks, I guess.”
“Yes.”
“Come out here to see the sun go down?”
“For sure.”
Touchette, smiling, walked over to the Chevy beyond the stable, carrying a case and a shotgun, and stowed them in the trunk.
“Mr. Sol, I’ll give your best to Carey Astaire. Man, that broad is money on legs. And legit. Believe it?”
He laid a hand on the hood. “This damn engine. Gonna turn it over a time or two. Warm the sucker up.”
“Sure,” said Wetherspoon.
Touchette slid behind the wheel.
“Being that close to Astaire,” said Wetherspoon, watching him for a moment. “Not easy to see it all go south. Believe me, I get it.”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, Sol, what happens here, Touchette ‘n’ me clear up a couple loose ends.”
“Moment’s come.”
“Sure has. No more road.”
“You thought the other guy was the bomber,” said Monckton.
“What?” Wetherspoon cocked his head. “Uh―let me think, Max Lindemann?”
“Yes.”
“So, uh, who gives a shit? This guy, that guy.”
“Likely you do.”
“I do what?”
“Give a shit.”
“You think?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, it’s getting late, no one gives a rat’s ass who the bomber was.”
“Trust me, you care.”
“You,” said Wetherspoon, his face cold, “are a sad piece of shit, half an inch from death.”
