Make them sorry, p.1

Make Them Sorry, page 1

 

Make Them Sorry
 



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Make Them Sorry


  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2018 by Sam Hawken

  Cover design by Lauren Harms

  Cover photograph by sanjeri / Getty Images

  Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Mulholland Books / Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

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  First ebook edition: August 2018

  Mulholland Books is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Mulholland Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

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  ISBN 978-0-316-55941-6

  E3-20180606-DA-PC

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Sam Hawken

  Discover More Sam Hawken

  For Mariann, who’s had Camaro’s

  back from the start

  Chapter One

  CAMARO ESPINOZA WAS on her tenth shot when the man across the table started to list. His eyes were wet and he leaned heavily in his chair, but he didn’t fall. Camaro lifted her glass. Whiskey burned all the way down.

  They had two bottles of Jack Daniel’s between them, both half empty. The man was named Waid, and he tipped the scales a hundred pounds heavier than Camaro. His round face was hazed with a bristly, semigrown beard, and he flushed pinker and pinker as they drank.

  She’d been at the place for an hour and did her drinking at the bar. The sign out front said THE ALL-NITER, and it was stacked from front to back with denim and leather, men and women, and assaultive rock guitar played at heavy volume on battered speakers. The parking lot was jammed with motorcycles and more than a few pickups with Harley-Davidson stickers. A Harley logo was like a club seal, worn on hats and vests and do-rags. Camaro’s T-shirt was emblazoned with the same, pulled tightly to her body over jeans and old motorcycle boots she’d worn since time out of mind.

  There were eyes on her. Waid had been the first one to come calling. He put his hand on her rear, and she locked up his wrist and twisted until he backed off. He laughed, and they had a couple of beers before he made another move. Camaro deflected him toward two bottles of Jack.

  One of the waitresses cleared a table for them and set up the shot glasses. Camaro took the first drink, an ounce and a half of Tennessee whiskey catching fire in her stomach. She put the glass upside down on the table between them. Waid did the same thing.

  As they emptied the bottles, drinkers and partiers closed around their table. Camaro didn’t know any of them, though some knew Waid. They cheered whenever he downed a shot, and cheered again when Camaro put away one of hers. They didn’t seem to care who was ahead, or who might remain upright in the end. Only the competition mattered, raw and unfiltered like everything else in this place.

  Waid leaned forward, arresting his slide from the chair. “Did I tell you how hot you are?” he slurred.

  “Drink,” Camaro told him.

  He sought out his bottle, and managed to pour a shot though his hands were as unsteady as the rest of him. He studied the glass, brought it to his lips. He swallowed and belched, and for a moment he looked as though he might vomit on the spot. He laughed instead. “Another one bites the dust,” he said.

  Camaro pointed at the table. Waid had issues turning his glass over. He brought it down sharply on the tabletop. His arm slewed and he upset the collection of upended glasses by his right hand. They hit the floor, the silvery tinkle of them on the concrete scarcely audible.

  “Damn it. I’m gonna lose count.”

  Her head was murky, and she felt heaviness in her limbs to go with the simmering heat below. She poured another shot, drank it, turned the glass over, and put it between them. She let herself sway backward in her chair. She didn’t fall. Someone loosed a rebel yell.

  “You’re pouring ’em on the floor,” Waid declared.

  Camaro shook her head. “I’m drinking ’em.”

  “She’s pouring ’em out!” Waid said to the assembled people. “You see it, right?”

  A woman pushed forward. She spilled halfway out
of a denim vest and wore no top underneath. The inky splash of a poorly drawn angel lay across one breast. “What’s the matter, Waid? You got a problem with her?”

  The man next to her cackled. The two of them teetered with beer bottles in hand. Camaro felt the ring of spectators close around the table.

  Waid scowled. “I’m only saying she don’t got the body for it. She’s cheatin’!”

  Jeers broke out. Someone pushed Waid and he nearly fell from his chair. He was slow to straighten, hanging on to the table with one hand. “Come on and quit,” said the woman with the angel tattoo. “Quit if you can’t take it.”

  “I’m not quittin’!” He grabbed his bottle and poured another shot. Amber liquid sloshed over the rim. Camaro didn’t object. Waid did the shot, roared through bared teeth. “I’m a goddamned machine, baby!”

  Attention shifted to Camaro. Everyone watched for the moment she could drink no more. Bass rolled from the speakers, pounding the barroom. The tempo merged with her heartbeat. She felt right.

  She poured a shot. Waid regarded her with glazed eyes. She held up the glass between them, put it to her lips. Head up and back. Whiskey down. The glass rang when she slapped it onto the table. “Did that one go on the floor?” she asked.

  Waid didn’t answer. Pouring another measure took all his concentration. His tongue protruded from between his teeth as if he were a child doing a complicated math problem. He put his bottle too close to the edge of the table. It started to fall. The woman with the angel tattoo caught it. She and her boyfriend laughed at him. His pink face flushed a deep red. He drank.

  Camaro waited. Waid extended his arm, hand gripping the glass. He turned it upside down, held, cracked the glass onto the table. He laughed, he hiccuped, and was violently ill.

  Waid lurched out of his chair, heaving. He tripped over his own feet and into the arms of a trio of heavyset men nearly as drunk as he was. They went down, arms and legs tangled. Cheers turned to hysterical laughter before the ranks closed up and Camaro was alone at the table.

  She rose from her seat. Someone drew her arm across his shoulders. Camaro let him whirl her, the room tilting, her senses askew. She fell into the hands of a couple of women who shouted congratulations into her face. She fell through to another table, pitched into the lap of a man drinking rum and Coke with a couple of others wearing leather cuts.

  “What the hell?”

  Camaro looked the man in the face. She was slow to focus, but she made out even features, a youthful look, and sandy hair. The man had only a patch of hair on the point of his chin, no beard, no mustache. Two silver loops of fine wire pierced one earlobe.

  “You okay, lady?”

  Camaro glanced around at the other men at the table. They were all the same: early thirties at most and not so rough. Weekend bikers who rode shiny bikes they probably never got their hands dirty fixing themselves. “I’m fine. I need my bottle,” Camaro said.

  “Looks like you need to lay off,” the man said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “It’s—”

  “No, I don’t want to know. Let me up.”

  “I’m not holding you down.”

  Camaro made it back to her feet. The man held her wrist and kept her from falling. She looked more closely at him. “Help me find my bottle,” she said.

  The man looked toward his friends, but followed when Camaro pulled him. Together they pushed through to Camaro’s table. A bar girl in a tube top collected the remains of the drinking game. Someone had their hand on Camaro’s bottle. She snatched it away from them, and cradled it. She drank straight from the neck.

  “Take it easy with that. You’re drunk,” the man told her.

  Camaro kissed him on the cheek. “Not as drunk as I’m gonna be.”

  “You need me to call you a cab? How about you come sit at my table for a little while?”

  “That’s cute,” Camaro said. She took his hand. “Follow me.”

  She led him through the assembled throng, underneath a nest of speakers, punishingly loud at close range, to a calmer outlet ending in a door lit with a red EXIT sign.

  Camaro found the ladies’ room and pushed through the door. The man behind her said something. She ignored him. In the small restroom there were three stalls and two sinks. A pair of women stood at the sinks, reapplying makeup in the cracked mirrors. Two of the stalls had visible feet below the closed doors.

  “Hey, this is the ladies’ room!” one of the women called out.

  “I’m only…I’m sorry,” said the man.

  She dragged the man after her into the unoccupied stall and pushed the door shut when they were both inside. The mostly empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s went on the toilet tank.

  She grabbed him by the leather of his cut. They kissed in the close confines of the restroom stall, while outside the two women at the sinks complained. The air smelled of hairspray and sweat.

  “Wait,” the man said when they broke. “One second.”

  “Shut up and take my shirt off,” Camaro told him.

  Chapter Two

  THE POLICE CRUISER lit her up ten minutes after she left the All-Niter. Camaro wavered on the back of the Heritage Softail she rode but got to the side of the road. She killed the engine and removed her helmet. A sluggish breeze stirred the hair from her shoulders. In the dark, honey brown was the color of deep, old wood.

  She stayed in the saddle as the cop approached. She was careful bringing out her wallet, careful again when extracting her license from its plastic holder. She felt steadier now than she had an hour ago, but only a little.

  The cop was young and Latino, with perfect black hair and a spotless uniform. His name tag looked new. He shone his flashlight into Camaro’s face. She winced, but didn’t look away. “What’s the problem, Officer?” she asked.

  “Do you know how fast you were going, ma’am?”

  “I don’t know. Thirty-five?”

  “Fifty. The speed limit is thirty. That’s a school zone back there.”

  Camaro resisted looking over her shoulder. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “The school zone still counts. License and proof of insurance, please.”

  She thrust the cards at him. The cop played his flashlight over them. “Everything okay?” she said. “I didn’t know it was a school zone back there. I would have slowed down.”

  “There are signs.”

  “I must have missed them.”

  He shone the light in her eyes again. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

  “I don’t know. A couple shots. A beer.”

  “Uh-huh. You want to step off the bike while I check these out?”

  Camaro swung off the bike and leaned against it. The cop went back to his unit. He turned on the inside lights. She saw him working on the computer terminal mounted to the dash.

  It was a hot night and humid. Offshore winds kept it from being unbearable, but only barely. Sitting still, without the forward motion of the bike, Camaro sweated.

  The cop came back after several minutes. He didn’t return her cards. “Ma’am, I’m going to execute a field sobriety test. If you fail that, I’m going to have to place you under arrest.”

  “Okay,” Camaro said.

  He told her what to do and she tried to do it. She passed the eye exam, but stumbled on the walk-and-turn. The cop gave her three tries, but they weren’t enough. Camaro put her hands behind her back without being told, and he cuffed her. He took the karambit from her boot, and confiscated the multi-tool on her belt.

  She listened to him report the incident on the radio while they drove. It was around three o’clock in the morning, she ventured, and the streets in this part of Miami were almost completely still. In some places there was never a time when traffic didn’t flow at least a little, but there was a sleepy side to the city tourists never saw. Camaro saw it now as the cop cruised empty streets lit with sodium-vapor streetlamps, past storefronts shuttered against the night.

  A
t booking they relieved her of the contents of her pockets. The karambit and the multi-tool went into a bag with her keys, wallet, and cash. They asked if she was suicidal. If she said yes, they’d strip her and put her in a tear-proof gown before shutting her in a holding cell alone to wait for a psychiatric evaluation. She did not say yes.

  They brought her into a room consisting of nothing but long benches made of molded plastic. The benches were bolted to the floor. All around the periphery of the room were cells with glass windows and heavy doors. The benches were nearly full. The cells all had four or five people in them. Camaro saw a man sleeping on the floor inside one with his shirt wrapped around his head.

  “Wait until your name is called,” Camaro was told. “Watch some TV.”

  Three televisions faced the benches, each on a different channel. Men and women sat apart, but united in their attention to the TVs. Signs admonished them to refrain from talking, though some still muttered to one another and hoped the squall from the television sets would be enough to cover the sound. Camaro spoke to no one.

  She judged time by the length of the shows parading across the screens. She broke the waiting time into thirty-minute chunks as late-night programming and infomercials ate up the hours. Camaro sat on the bench for a little over four hours before someone called her name. A policeman carrying a can of pepper spray and a baton, but no gun, beckoned her to the end of the row. She got up and shuffled past the others. Some watched her go, but most didn’t care. No one seemed to care about anything.

  “Espinoza?” the cop confirmed.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re being released. Follow me.”

  He took her to a counter not far from where she’d been booked, photographed, and fingerprinted. They gave her the bag of her belongings, but told her not to open it until she was out. After that they escorted her down a side hallway to a locked door opening directly to the outside. She emerged alone into the rising heat of the morning.

  “Hey there, Camaro Espinoza.”

  Camaro saw him standing on the sidewalk near a sedan parked in a red zone. He was rumpled, as if he’d been up all night or had been roused too early, but his beard was orderly and it looked as though he’d shaved his neck no more than a day or two before. “Detective Montellano,” Camaro said.

 
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