Rain Dogs, page 18
“I apologize for Scott,” Abby said. “He’s not a bad kid. I know you probably always hear that. He’s just . . . he’s had a rough couple of years.”
“He’s obviously got folks who care about him,” Deputy Chief Byrle said. “In my experience, that’s something. More than some boys his age can say, I can tell you.”
Tom said, “You were looking for me?”
Deputy Chief Byrle reached out and touched Abby’s arm, then turned to Tom.
“You have a telephone call,” he said.
“I do?”
“Follow me.”
Three men waited in the office of Aurora Police Chief Gregory T. Cormoran. The chief himself sat behind a modular desk unit supporting a computer monitor, framed family photos, and a John Elway bobble-head doll. Cormoran had stocky features, thinning blond hair, and looked to be somewhere in his fifties, maybe ten years older than Deputy Chief Byrle.
In a corner stood a tall man in a tie and khakis, dark hair parted on the side. In a chair by the desk sat another man in a tie and khakis with dark hair parted on the other side. Tom knew they were Farmer’s guys the minute he saw them.
The agent in the chair had a mole beneath his left ear. The agent standing had no visible distinguishing marks. Tom supposed he’d be seeing the two of them for a while. He decided he’d use the mole to tell them apart.
Deputy Chief Byrle stood to the side, ushered him in, then closed the door behind them. Chief Cormoran leaned out of his chair and reached across the desk.
“Mr. Coleman. Welcome to Colorado.”
“Thanks.” Tom shook the chief’s hand. “I understand I’ve been paged.”
Chief Cormoran held up a finger. With his other hand, he reached to the phone on his desk, punched the blinking button, and lifted the receiver from its cradle.
“Agent Farmer? Right. He’s here now.”
He extended the receiver to Tom. Tom took it.
“Hey, Terry.”
“I thought we had a deal?”
“I said I owed you one,” Tom said. “You lied to me, I lied to you. We’re even. Why don’t we start over with a clean slate?”
“You can be a real asshole. Anybody ever tell you that?”
“You should talk to my ex,” Tom said. “How’s everything at the Landing? Duane keeping everybody happy?”
“He’s pissed at you.”
“That’s normal,” Tom said. “You said you wanted business as usual.”
“The deal’s off, Tom. Sorry. Actually, fuck that. You should be apologizing to me.”
Tom glanced at Agent Tall Guy in the Corner and Agent Mole. They watched his conversation impassively. Chief Cormoran watched from behind his desk. Deputy Chief Byrle watched from another corner.
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means have a nice time explaining your bullshit on the drive home,” Farmer said. “My guys are bringing Scott back. We’ve got Wheeler now. We’ll all have a powwow with Hilliard and his people bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“The deal’s off?”
“You heard me.”
“Fine. The deal’s off.”
Farmer held the line.
“It’s actually a relief, if you want the truth,” Tom said. “It’s too much stress, running a business.”
“Save it.”
“Hate to tell Foster he’s out of a job. But I probably should have shut the place down before now anyway.”
Farmer chuckled. “Don’t try to leverage me, hon.”
“What do you think? Would it be more ethical to explain the layoffs, or just send him on his way?”
“We’ve already got enough on Duane to work with. He won’t be going anywhere.”
“Tough luck for Duane.”
“You’re not doing Scott any favors right now, either.”
“It’s a bump in the road for him. You said that yourself.”
“I’ll make sure it’s a big fucking bump, if that’s how you want it.”
“You don’t have shit there, and you know it. He’s a minor. Circumstances. I know a defense guy in Chicago who owes me a favor. He’ll spring a boner over this. Especially since I’m not pressing charges on the truck. I figure Scott can sort out whatever’s left with the cops in Colorado just fine.”
Chief Cormoran glanced at Deputy Chief Byrle. Deputy Chief Byrle shrugged.
“What about Wheeler?”
“What about him? I’ve never even talked to the kid. He’s none of my business.”
“That’s pretty cold. I think I misjudged you, Tom.”
“It happens.”
Farmer held the line for another minute. He finally said, “Put Wilson on the phone.”
Tom held the phone in front of him and looked between the two agents. “Which one of you guys is Wilson?”
Agent Mole raised his hand.
Tom put him on.
THIRTY-FOUR
It was fully dark by the time they pulled out of the cop shop on East Alameda and into Saturday-night traffic.
Scott must have stopped somewhere on his way to Denver and washed up to meet his mom. A truck stop with a pay shower, Tom guessed. He’d changed into clean jeans and a new shirt and combed his hair. But he still had grease under his fingernails to go with the booking ink now caught in his prints. Tom could have told him you had to really scrub to get that stuff out.
Since last night, Scott’s upper lip had swollen into a fat purple blob. He sat in back and stared out the window. Abby tried to talk to him a little, but he didn’t say a word.
Farmer’s guys picked them up on South Chambers and followed a car or two behind. Their Suburban rode high, and Tom could track them easily in the rearview mirror. Wilson drove. Agent Tall Guy’s name was Denbrough.
Abby had already brought up the idea of finding a motel for the night and starting out fresh in the morning. Tom thought that sounded like a plan. He couldn’t believe how quickly he’d lost the feel of city driving. Twelve years in Chicago, and four months on the river had turned him into his nervous mother behind the wheel. He was wiped.
When he spotted a Kinko’s copy center in a strip mall, he pulled in.
“You guys wait here.”
Abby said, “Where are you going?”
“Be right back.”
He went in and used his credit card to rent a computer by the minute. It cost him twelve dollars and change to find what he was looking for and print out driving directions.
When he came back out to the parking lot, he held up a finger to Abby. He went around the corner of the building, where Wilson and Denbrough waited in the Suburban, smoking out the open windows.
Wilson said, “Now what?”
“We’re all tired,” Tom said. “We’re going to get a room.”
“That wasn’t agreed.”
“Call Terry.”
Wilson looked at Denbrough. Denbrough shrugged. Wilson flicked his butt out the window and lifted a mobile phone out of a cradle on the dashboard.
A minute later, he nodded and handed the phone out the window to Tom. He had to lean back in his seat to avoid the cord. Tom took a step back, stretching the cord across the bridge of Wilson’s nose. Wilson scowled and held the cord at bay with his hand.
Tom lowered his voice. “This is Agent Coleman.”
“You’re really pressing your luck, aren’t you?”
“I hope it doesn’t affect our friendship.”
“I thought you wanted your pickup.”
“I decided I could get it another time.”
“You’re a piece of work,” Farmer said.
Tom faked a yawn into the phone.
“But you know what? You caught me in a good mood. Sleep tight.”
“Why so cheerful all of a sudden?”
“Turns out things are going pretty well with Wheeler here,” Farmer said. “I guess losing his kid brother must have softened him up for us.”
“That’s pretty cold,” Tom said. “I think I misjudged you.”
“It happens.”
Tom waited.
“We’ll see Scott tomorrow,” Farmer said.
“Roger that.”
Wilson rolled his eyes.
Tom said, “Any chance of the DEA picking up the tab?”
Farmer chuckled into the phone. “Sure. You pay for your own porn, though.”
“Wow. You are in a good mood.”
“And now you really fucking owe me,” Farmer said.
The Warwick was nice. Big lobby, lots of earthy tile, soft light from sconces on the walls. They had a swimming pool on the roof with a view of the Rockies. Only executive suites available, though. There was a regional Gideon convention in town.
Tom sent Abby and Scott ahead to pick up some toiletries from the gift shop. He’d brought his old soft-sider with him from the Landing; he took the bag out of the back of the minivan before giving the keys to the valet.
Wilson and Denbrough leaned against the front fenders of the Suburban, each on a side.
“I don’t think this is what Agent Farmer had in mind,” Wilson told him.
“Call him back,” Tom said.
The main kitchen was closed, but room service still served bar food. Tom couldn’t decide what he wanted, so he told them to bring up one of everything. Abby raised her eyebrows when he put down the phone.
“We can all nibble,” he said.
The suite had a lounging area away from the main room. Scott had already retreated there and turned on the television. He hadn’t spoken since they left the police station.
Abby watched the back of his head through the doorway for a few moments. When she turned to Tom, her face looked drawn, haggard with exhaustion and a vague sadness that seemed to pull on her like gravity.
“I’m going to take a bath.”
“Take your time. We’ll be okay.”
She gave him a listless half-smile and picked up the plastic sack from the gift shop. She took the sack with her into the big marble bathroom, waved bye-bye with her fingers, and shut the door.
When Tom heard the water start running, he zipped open the soft-sider and took what he’d brought into the other room.
All the furniture in there was antique replica. Queen Anne, Tom thought. He didn’t really know. He only knew that Scott looked as out-of-place here as Tom had felt on the river those first weeks.
He handed him the envelope first.
Scott opened the flap and looked at the stack of bills inside. Tom had withdrawn them from the bank in Valentine on the way back to Abby’s yesterday afternoon. The check Paradiso had sent more than covered whatever had been left in the cashbox, but Tom wasn’t exactly sure how much had been left in the cash box. He’d taken a guess based on what he’d been paying Scott each week and rounded up.
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
Scott tossed the money onto the couch beside his leg. He looked back at the television without saying anything.
Tom stepped forward, leaned down. He put the copy of Greer’s chapbook on top of the envelope.
“Your dad was good writer.”
Scott looked at the book.
“Thanks for the loaner,” Tom said.
When the food came, Scott tried to act disinterested. After a few minutes, he wandered in and sniffed around, lifting lids and dropping them. Tom sat on one of the beds with a cheeseburger and fries, watching. Scott took a bite out of a chicken strip and winced as he chewed. Foster had really given the kid a duckbill. Tom imagined Scott’s teeth must have cut the inside of the lip nice and deep.
After the chicken strip, Scott tore the tail off a breaded shrimp and popped the meat into his mouth. He flicked the tail back onto the plate.
After another minute of poking around, he fell in and ate like an escaped prisoner.
He took the first plate back into the television room, but he was back in five minutes. At that point, he sat at a side table and chowed down. In twenty minutes, he’d reduced most of the first cart to a rubble of empty plates and bar baskets. Tom was full, so he took over the last of his fries. Scott ate those, too.
Tom left him to it and went to watch television.
Eventually, Scott wandered back in and took the same spot he’d been sitting in before. The book and the cash weren’t there anymore. Tom flipped channels and couldn’t find anything that held his interest.
“Those guys are cops,” Scott said.
It was like witnessing a miracle. Tom looked over and said, “What guys?”
“The ones following us. I saw you talking to ’em.”
“Yes, they’re cops.”
“Like FBI or something?”
“Like DEA.” Tom left the channel on some movie he didn’t recognize and punched the volume down a notch. “Larry? From the Landing?”
Scott nodded.
“Cop.”
Scott looked at him.
“They’ve been watching you guys all summer.”
“You knew that the whole time?”
Tom shook his head. “Not until the Fourth. That day I took Farmer out in the storm.”
“Who?”
“Salinger. Farmer’s his real name.”
Scott sat and stared at the movie for a while without saying anything. He finally said, “What are they going to do?”
Tom didn’t see any reason to bullshit the kid at this point. “They’ve got Trevor on the hook.”
Scott said nothing, but Tom could see the look on his face in the light of the television. He’d been hanging on to the idea that Trevor was still sticking to the schedule, whatever the schedule had been. Maybe he’d been hoping to sneak out of the hotel after Tom and Abby crashed.
“Just out of curiosity, what were you guys planning to do? Meet up here somewhere?”
Silence.
“Where after that?” Tom remembered something Abby had said a few weeks ago. “California?”
More silence. Tom tried to imagine what they’d been thinking when they’d cooked up their big plan. He tried to imagine Scott Greer and Trevor Wheeler, cruising Los Angeles in a Dodge Ram filled with ephedrine, looking for somebody who looked like a drug dealer. Why not? Piece of cake.
“They’ll offer a deal if you and Trevor help them set up Duane and his buyer,” Tom told him. “They’ll put you in a room and scare the shit out of you until you go along.”
“They’ll try.”
“You asked what they were going to do. I’m just telling you.”
Silence again.
“Trevor has the most to lose at this point. They’ll use that on both of you.”
They heard the bathroom door open. Abby padded in, barefoot. She was wrapped in a fat white terry-cloth robe with a Warwick insignia stitched on it.
“I hope you guys saved some food for me.”
Tom nodded toward the other room. “I think there’s a bite or two left.”
There was a whole other cart. Abby let out a sigh. Her face looked flushed, ten years younger. Her hair was still wet, combed straight back from her forehead. Shiny dark strands clung together, hanging past the towel draped over the back of her neck.
“Nothing worse than getting all nice and clean and then having to put on dirty clothes,” she said. “I think I’ll wear this robe all the way home.”
“Should come in handy if we get pulled over.”
“I’m too tired for flattery, but thanks.” She took an edge of the towel and pressed it against the back of her head. “What were you guys talking about in here?”
“Just girl stuff,” Tom said.
She smirked and reached over the back of the couch, put her hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Did you get something to eat?”
He nodded in the glow of the television.
“I saw an ice machine down the hall. You could get some for your mouth if it’s hurting.”
“It’s fine.”
She looked at Tom and shook her head. “Well. I’m going to eat. Then I’m going to sleep.”
“’Night,” Tom said.
“Don’t stay up too late, you boys. We’ve got an early wake-up call.”
With that, she turned and walked into the other room. Tom found himself watching her. He found himself watching her even after she disappeared from view around the corner. After a minute, lids rattled softly.
He blinked, looked over, and found Scott watching him. Disapprovingly.
“Give me a break,” Tom said.
Abby took one of the beds. Scott watched most of an Adam Sandler flick and fell asleep on the couch. At one point, he woke up, shuffled out, and flopped onto the other bed.
Tom turned off the tube and raided the minibar while Scott and Abby sawed logs in the other room. He drank the DEA’s booze in the dark until he fell asleep sitting up in his clothes.
When early-morning sunlight sliced through a gap in the drapes and across his eyes, he went to get everybody up. Scott and Abby were already dressed, each sitting on a bed, reading the complimentary USA Today. Waiting for him.
They checked out, picked up the minivan out front, and started home.
THIRTY-FIVE
On the other side of Sterling, Tom noticed that Wilson and Denbrough suddenly closed their following distance from the rough quarter mile they’d been keeping to about a hundred feet. Behind the wheel, Abby noticed, too. She looked over. Tom shrugged.
Ten miles south of Julesburg, her canvas bag started ringing between his feet.
Tom dug out her phone and handed it over. She held the wheel with one hand and thumbed the Talk button with the other.
“Hello?” She listened for a few seconds, then glanced at Tom again. “Yes, Jack. He’s right here. Hold on.”
She handed him the phone with a concerned expression. Tom took it and said, “Hey.”
“Is Scott with you two?”
“We’ve got him.”
“Where are you?”
“Let me call you back in a couple hours,” Tom said. “I’ll explain it then.”
“I asked you a question.”
It was a tone he hadn’t heard out of his father in years. On the receiving end of it, Tom suddenly felt Scott’s age again.
