$200 and a Cadillac

XXII



“You want a ride in my bitchin’ Camaro?”

Hank leaned out the window, grinning at Janie as she locked the door to the real estate office. He pulled up when he saw her come out, leaning over the passenger’s seat to shout out the window. He wasn’t waiting for her. He wasn’t even thinking about her. Other than flipping through the thin file of old listings she’d given him. Other than questioning himself about his motives in spending the night with her in the first place. Other than questioning her motives in leaving in the middle of the night, without so much as good-bye. Other than that, she hadn’t crossed his mind all day. And then he was driving down the street, minding his own business, and there she was coming out of her office.

She turned as he pulled up. He could see her stifle a smile. “Nice car. Isn’t that Justin’s?”

“That might have been his name. Whoever’s it was, it’s mine now.”

She swaggered across the sidewalk and leaned in the passenger’s side window. “You sure know how to impress a girl. A sweet ride like this and all.”

“Shit.” Hank sat back upright in his seat. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Janie poked her head inside. “You actually get around to look at all those houses?”

“Sure did.” Hank tapped a finger on the file between the bucket seats. “It’s a great little town you got here. Can’t imagine why the real estate market isn’t more active.” Janie grinned at him and Hank was suddenly out of things to say. He smiled awkwardly and then did the only thing he could think of to do: revved the motor a few times, and asked, “So you want to go hit the town? What is there to do around here on a Thursday night, anyway?”

She opened the door and climbed in. “You like baseball?”

The diamond was behind the city building, a block off Main Street. When they got there the lights were not yet on, but a crowd already filled the two small sets of bleachers. Each head donned a hat and sunglasses, the outfit of anyone who cared enough about themselves to try to deal with the sun. They watched their children and talked among themselves while kids in uniforms scampered around. The children chased each other, guzzled soda, swung bats wildly, tossed balls aimlessly, and otherwise waited impatiently for the main event of the week to begin.

Hank parked the Camaro in the lot and the two of them got out. “Quite a crowd for a little league game.”

“There’s not much to do around here.” She walked close to him. He could feel her warmth, even in the ninety-degree air.

“Town this size could hardly keep a league going.”

“I think there’s barely enough kids to make four teams. They try to take them to Barstow a few times so they can play with other kids, but mostly they just play each other over and over again.” Janie studied the spotty grass, as though looking for something in the dirt that showed through between the patches of green. Then she added, “It’s tough growing up in a town like this.”

“And tough to stay, I’d imagine.” Hank gave her a smile as he said it, and then wondered why he’d said it at all. She didn’t seem to have a response and they walked to the bleachers in silence.

They found seats and waited for the action to start. Hank wished he’d brought a hat. The heat was incredible. He watched the kids running around, unaffected by it, and wondered where they got all the energy. And then the coaches started signaling for everything to start, for the kids to gather around them.

Hank watched the teams form up, clustering around their coaches. It could have been a scene in any town in America: children and parents and a community coming together around the great American pastime. But there was something odd about the scene. Hank couldn’t place it at first, staring at the coaches, feeling heat flush through him. And then it came quick, like an electric jolt, a charge of recognition. There he was, Howie Lugano, standing fifty feet away.

Hank went over it slowly, methodically, unfolding the realization with care to make sure it wasn’t a mistake. The dark hair. The thick eyebrows. He’d put on a little weight, sure, who hadn’t? But it was him, right out in the open, a hundred people watching, and he wasn’t even trying to hide. Howie Lugano—“Homerun” Howie—mob killer and all around a*shole, had become a little league coach.

It was unbelievable at first, until Hank thought it through. They’d given him a new name, new history, new everything. He had no reason to be looking over his shoulder, and after four years of the quiet life, he’d become accustomed to living without fear. But that was going to change.

Hank waited for the right moment, an idle spot in the conversation, and then asked, “Who’s the coach of the red team? You know him? What’s his story?”

Janie looked up. A smile flashed across her face. “Oh, that’s Ron Grimaldi. He moved to town a few years ago. He bought my parents’ old house. You probably saw it today. It was in the file I gave you.”

Of course it was. It was all coming together. It was almost going to be too easy. Hank knew it wouldn’t take long to find a guy like Lugano in a town like Nickelback, and here he was, less than forty-eight hours into it, and he knew where Lugano lived. He wondered what else he could find out.

“Which house was it?”

“The brick rambler, out on the edge of town. The one with the chain link fence around the backyard? You remember that one? Anyway, he just showed up one day, said he had a job at the refinery and needed to get settled in. Naturally, I steered him toward my parents’ old house. My mom had just died, and I wasn’t interested in living there anymore. He didn’t seem to care much about the price, which was nice.”

Hank remembered the house. Four small bedrooms, two baths, living room, and dining room, all on one floor. It was a traditional 1950s layout—all the bedrooms on one end of the house, off a long hallway—garage on the other end, off the kitchen. The country was littered with houses just like it. It would be easy to get into. Better yet, it would be easy to get out.

“He moved here for a job at the refinery? I thought they were laying people off?”

“Oh they’ve laid damned near everybody off. He’s just one of the lucky ones.” He thought he heard some contempt in her voice. She looked around, and then said, “Most of the people here are the people who still have jobs. They can still afford uniforms for their kids. This town doesn’t have much longer to go before it’s nothing but retired people living on pensions and the few places that stay open because of the National Monument. Then, when all the old people die, there’ll be nothing left.”

That sounded about right to Hank, from what he’d seen of the place, which was just about everything. He was tempted to ask again why she stayed, it was a natural question, but he was too focused on Lugano. “He lives here alone?”

“You seem awfully interested in the baseball coach.” Janie squinted at Hank and grinned. She hadn’t answered the question, and it was the one he needed answered most.

“Oh, I just think it’s interesting. I mean, I understand why you moved back from San Diego, but I’m just curious why a guy would move out here. It’s even stranger if he dragged his family out here too.” He watched her face. She smiled slightly and glanced back over at Grimaldi.

Then she said, “He lives alone. No family.” Janie shrugged, and then added. “I guess he moved out for the job. People got to work.”

“Yeah,” Hank smiled at her, “we’ve all got jobs to do, that’s for sure.” Hank thought about the sheriff’s description of the town on the drive in from the car wreck. A lot of drug operations. He wondered what kind of work Lugano was really into. Doing whatever he did out at the refinery would have to drive a guy like him crazy. Hank was surprised he still worked there at all.

Hank let a minute pass and they watched the teams take their positions. A swell of voices began roaring encouragement to the kids. Everyone was waiting for the first pitch. When it came, it was a high, slow arc over the plate. The batter hit a grounder down the first base line and took off running, practically alongside the skipping ball. He was out, but he never really had a chance.

Hank said, “Maybe he’s into drugs. Moved up here to run one of those meth labs everyone is talking about. I hear they’re quite a money maker, if you can keep from poisoning yourself or blowing yourself up.”

Janie raised her eyebrows. “Not that I’m aware of. But then, I’m not exactly plugged into that scene. As far as I know, he really does work at the refinery. Maybe he likes to go climbing in the monument. I don’t know.”

She shook her head and shrugged a little, wondering if she was protesting too much. The suddenness of the comment had made her breath catch slightly. In fact, a meth lab was exactly what Grimaldi had been thinking about. She’d actually discussed it with him. Why the hell would that be the first thing that popped into Hank’s head?

She turned to him and smiled. He sat there watching the game—or was he watching Ron?—as though the meth lab comment were the most natural thing in the world to suggest. And maybe it was. It was just a joke, after all. Clearly he had meant it as a joke.

Hank leaned over and broke her trance when he said, “He looks like a pretty good baseball player.” She glanced at Hank. He grinned back at her and added, “He looks like a real natural with a bat in his hand.”

After that, Hank figured he’d better drop it. When they found Lugano dead in his living room, the last thing he wanted was Janie reporting to the sheriff how interested he was in Lugano—or Ron Grimaldi—whatever they would call him. Hank smiled. At least they gave him an Italian name. It was a hell of a lot better than Hank Norton, but he only had himself to blame for that. He liked to make up forgettable names.

Hank watched Lugano shouting instructions to his team and fending off parental suggestions. He looked completely out of his element. Occasionally someone would shout something from the bleachers and Lugano would look over. Sometimes he would shout something back, sometimes not.

They watched a pinch-hitter walk up to the plate while a scrawny kid got ready to run. Hank watched Ron move as he gave the scrawny one directions. Biceps strained the fabric of his shirt. Lugano still worked out. He could still put up a fight. Hank knew he would need to make a clean hit. Stay away from the guy.

There was a moment of stillness as Ron and the kid watched the ball careen through the air before the loud crack of the bat sent it flying off into left field. The scrawny kid took off. The outfielder chased the ball, but it was no use. It was gone.

The parents screamed as the kid rounded third and slid into home. Hank and Janie clapped along with the commotion. Hank leaned over and said, “That was a quick score.”

Janie smiled and said, “We should all be so lucky in life.”

Hank laughed. “Life ain’t like baseball. In life, the quick scores always come with a price.”

“Well, I could sure use one,” she said. “Just to get the hell out of town. Whatever the price.”

Hank saw Ron talking to one of the parents and smiling at some of the others—too much time facing the crowd. Hank realized it was time to go. He couldn’t run the risk of Lugano recognizing him right there on the bleachers. It was twenty years since they met. The chances were slim. Hank wondered if he would have recognized Lugano if he hadn’t had the photographs to remind him. It was hard to imagine. Still, on the off chance, he had to get out of there. Surprise was his whole advantage.

He turned to Janie and said, “Why don’t we grab some beers and go check out this monument everyone keeps mentioning?”

She smiled, “You must drive a bitchin’ Camaro.”

On the way back to the car they passed the sheriff walking from the parking lot toward the baseball field. Mickey smiled when he saw the two of them together. “Stay away from this guy,” he said to Janie, “or at least don’t let him drive you anywhere.”

“If he’s driving, I’ll be on coyote alert.”

Mickey laughed, and then asked Hank, “You ever going to actually get your survey work done out there?”

“We’re headed to the monument right now, Sheriff.”

“Hell, I know what kind of work goes on out there at night. People around here are lucky I have an enlightened approach to law enforcement.”

“Well,” Hank thought for a second, “there are lots of ways to keep the peace.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Mickey nodded to them and resumed his walk toward the baseball diamond. He wondered about the two of them. A strange pair, certainly, but he supposed Janie needed the entertainment. He turned back to see them, but they were already gone. Instead, Mickey saw the two guys from Southern Petroleum hoofing it across the lot toward the baseball game. Fantastic.

Mickey wanted them out of his town. They gave him a bad feeling, at least the gung-ho former agent did. The other guy just seemed like a lackey along for the ride, taking orders and staying out of trouble. He wasn’t sure if they’d seen him, but he turned around and kept walking anyway.

They caught up to him at the backstop. Mickey liked to linger behind home plate, watching the pitches come in. Despite the commotion of the parents on the bleachers, he could feel them coming up behind him. Agent A*shole stood a few feet away, watching the game, pretending not to notice him. And then, when he caught Mickey looking at him out of his peripheral vision, the agent turned and smiled, like they were old drinking buddies.

“Hey, Sheriff, didn’t see you there. We just came out to catch a little of the game.” He gave Mickey a shit-eating grin and nodded. Just a good old boy, out for an evening with the locals, trying too damned hard to be nice. Mickey could see it was hurting the guy.

“Well, enjoy the game, boys.” Mickey smiled back and moved on around the backstop, over to the red team, where he mingled with the kids on the bench. He had to watch where he stepped, there was equipment scattered everywhere: gloves, bats, balls, and empty soda cans. “You guys ought to clean some of this stuff up,” he told them. But there was nothing doing. The team had two outs and their worst guy was at bat. Tension was high.

Mickey watched Ron yell encouragement to the batter. Eye on the ball. Concentrate. Follow through. All of that and more, but it was no help. The kid struck out and the inning was over. Mickey’s eyes met Ron’s as the kids gathered around their coach, awaiting instructions before taking the field. Ron gave him a hesitant smile and a slight nod. The moment of the gesture, it struck Mickey as odd, though he couldn’t say why.

Although they had spoken many times, it was always vapid talk about baseball. The kind of idle conversation two people make when they have no reason to speak at all other than the simple fact that they happened to be in the same place, over and over. Ron Grimaldi was the baseball coach for one of the town’s little league teams. Mickey O’Reilly liked baseball and watched most of the practices and all of the games. It would only be right to chat once in awhile. But Ron Grimaldi’s glance held a sudden flash of energy, and a measure of restraint that Mickey could not place.

Mickey felt an irritation come over him. Perhaps it was the oil company guys, coming into his office, demanding his attention, he couldn’t say. But for whatever reason, he no longer felt like baseball. He felt like nothing. He wanted to be alone, surrounded by darkness and silence, away from his job, away from the job of enforcing rules in a place that had no use for them.

Mickey strolled back around the backstop, passed the two guys from the oil company, and stood for a moment on the other side of the field. He noticed that the agent, Victor Jones, paid no attention to him this time, and he was glad the guy didn’t seem to notice him slipping away. Mickey lingered for another moment, watching the game go on, watching another inning come to a close, progressing ceaselessly toward its conclusion in accordance with the collection of rules that made it a game at all.

Perhaps that was the attraction. Baseball had rules. And even though there were rules—nine innings, three outs per team per inning—you still never knew what any actual game would be like. An observer only knew that the game would progress in accordance with the rules. The particulars of each game depended on circumstance. But the rules themselves required a certain order that transcended the particulars. If you wanted to play, you agreed to the rules. Violate the rules and you get penalized, or you can’t play anymore. Unlike life, Mickey thought.

In life, everything is circumstantial and you’re simply born into it. Nobody asks if you agree to the rules before hand. And in fact, there aren’t any rules anyway. Certainly, there are loose collections of laws that people are supposed to follow and people like Mickey are supposed to enforce. But get people alone in the middle of nowhere—or in the middle of a war zone—and ask them what the rules are. It’s a ridiculous question. People do what they have to do. The strongest or the luckiest survive. Law is about power and nothing more. The guy with the biggest stick gets to say what the rules are. Mickey felt the weight of his gun on his belt. Not much of a stick in a town like Nickelback.

The same thoughts had haunted him since the war. Though he was generally able to dismiss them, sometimes they came over him in a wave and sucked him under. What was the purpose of his life? Why work in law enforcement if he thought there were no laws? Or that all law was mere artifice? Mickey like to believe he was more benevolent, more understanding of the true horrors of life, and that this made him better at deciding when things really deserved punishment. He thought again of the kid’s rotting body in the desert, the buzzard with the ruptured stomach, the temporary madness in Paul Kramer’s eyes as he attacked the bird. Mickey shook his head and turned to go.

Victor stood behind the backstop and stared, a cold feeling coming over him. I know I’ve seen that coach somewhere, Victor kept thinking to himself. The feeling nagged at him as he studied the profile. It wasn’t from his time in California, but from before, back in New York, somewhere in his past. Victor’s face went slack as he concentrated, flipping back through the mental Rolodex. Was he an agent? Someone from the Bureau? A friend of his wife’s from somewhere? He couldn’t place the face.

“What are you spacing out for?” Tom nudged him. “We need to find a place to eat. I think there’s a Chinese place near the motel.”

After another minute, Victor said, “You see the coach of the red team?”

“The Italian guy?”

“Yeah. I know him from somewhere.” Then he thought about it. The Italian guy, sure, it was someone from one of his cases. Victor started going through them, starting with the last one, the biggest of his career, the Fazioli case. Who was involved? Victor watched the coach pick up a bat and demonstrate a swing to one of the kids. And there it was. Bingo. Plain as day.

“Hey Victor? What’s got into you?”

“Holy f*cking shit.”

“What’s that?”

Victor turned to Tom. “You remember that backpack the sheriff was looking at?”

“Yeah.”

Victor turned back and stared at the coach, trying to be certain. Victor shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll be damned.”