$200 and a Cadillac

XXXIV



Ron left Monarch at four sharp, just like any other day. He didn’t notice anything unusual at all. Mickey spotted him when he was halfway across the parking lot and watched him climb into the truck without noticing that someone had been inside of it.

The parking lot came to life with dozens of departing workers. Some stood around in groups, talking, laughing, planning to meet each other later at the Golden Dragon. Cars backed out of spaces cautiously, weaving in and out of the pedestrians. But Ron got in and was gone. He looked like a man in a hurry to get somewhere.

Victor nudged Tom, pointed with his chin and said, “Guy wants his fifty grand.”

Tom shifted in his seat but said nothing. He was just happy to have something happening. The back of his shirt was slick with sweat and it disgusted him to move against the seat. When Victor started the car, the air conditioner blasted to life, blowing hot air all around them. Tom aimed the vents out the open window and waited for the air blowing through them to cool. The heat was killing him.

Across the way, Mickey was nice and cool. The Suburban had been idling away for over an hour with the A/C going full blast. Mickey watched Ron Grimaldi move slowly through the parking lot and then accelerate as he turned onto the road back to town. The problem with trailing a car in the open desert is that a driver could see a car a mile or more away, so the one doing the trailing had to keep a lot of distance.

But the departing traffic made Mickey’s job easier. He let Ron get a quarter mile down the road, let a string of other cars fall in between himself and Ron, and then he pulled out. He noticed the FBI guys leave the parking lot several cars behind. He shook his head as he glanced in the rearview mirror. They were determined to drive him crazy.

Ron turned on the radio, tapped his fingers on the steering wheel along with an Eagles song, and began to think about what he might do with the fifty grand. A long weekend in Vegas or LA would be nice. He’d like to spend some time back in New York, but that was too dangerous. Maybe Hawaii? He hadn’t been there in twenty years. He’d also thought about taking the fifty, and the next fifty, and the next, and getting himself a small place down in Mexico. Somewhere down in Baja where he could run a small meth lab. He figured he could sell wholesale to dealers in San Diego. It would be virtually impossible to get caught, especially with all of the local police on the payroll. Why not? Have a nice little town all to himself and make a bundle off America’s obsession with drugs. It would be even easier to do than running a lab in Nickelback, which was pretty damned easy, as far as he could tell.

Ron was so busy imagining life on the Gulf of California, with his small villa, his fishing boat, and his Mexican housemaid, that he nearly missed the turn. The only thing that brought him out of it in time was the tanker truck on the side of the road. When Ron saw that, he hit the brake and realized where he was. He slowed and turned left onto the gravel road, staring at the truck and Justin Banner’s ugly Camaro parked off in the distance.

He could see what looked like Eddie talking to someone. But the other person was hidden by the car, and was too far away to identify in any event. Ron assumed it was Justin. What the hell would the two of them be doing out there at that time of day?

There was something strange about it, but not strange enough to make Ron stop. Instead, he shrugged and shook his head. It was just another example of what was wrong with the two idiots. They couldn’t focus. They got distracted. And every once in a while, it took a good beating to get their attention again. It’s what I get for getting involved with them, Ron told himself, and sped off down the dirt road toward the warehouse.

Eddie watched Ron’s truck make the turn and almost come to a stop before speeding off. When Ron was far enough away, Eddie pointed, “There he goes now.”

Janie turned to see the truck with the pipe rack speeding away, clouds of dust roiling up behind it. She didn’t know what to say, she just watched him drive off into the distance. “What do you think will happen?”

Eddie shrugged. “I dunno,” he responded. “Eli seemed pretty intent on killing the guy. After what Ron did to him, I can’t blame him. But that was before we knew who he was.” Then he smiled, but not from humor. “Hell, I guess Eli still doesn’t know who Ron is.”

But Janie realized she wasn’t interested in Eli, she was really asking about Hank. Somehow Eli’s fate didn’t concern her. She knew she should feel differently, but she couldn’t feel any other way. Now that her brother was safe, it was only Hank that concerned her. Part of her knew that she and Eddie should get in the Camaro and drive away, leaving the mess behind them. But she stood and watched the truck disappear over a distant rise, its wake of dust slowly settling back to the ground.

The only good thing about the dust was that it made a car easier to follow. The driver couldn’t see anything behind him, and the guy doing the following could get a lot closer without being spotted. Mickey liked that aspect of the dirt road. As for where Grimaldi was going and why, that made him uneasy. He’d assumed Grimaldi would go home, or to the Golden Dragon for a beer, someplace that would make him easy to watch while Mickey waited for the word to come in over the radio. But the dirt road, that was something else altogether.

Mickey stopped the Suburban and tried to think of where this particular road went. But nothing came to him. He hadn’t grown up in Nickelback. He’d never worked on any of the old oil claims, never tried to find a place where he and his buddies could drink beer on a Saturday night, never had a reason to learn where all of the odd roads crisscrossing the desert went. If there had never been a crime or other problem down this road—and as well as he could remember, there hadn’t—then he had no idea where it led.

He’d been sitting for half a minute before he noticed the oil truck parked on the side of the road a quarter mile away. The Camaro parked in front of it seemed familiar to him, but he couldn’t say why. He strained to make out who was standing there, watching him, and thought he recognized Janie and her brother. What the hell were they doing there? What was going on?

And then he saw Agent A*shole pull up behind him and something set him off. Mickey opened the door and climbed out, walking fast toward the car where the two guys sat grinning, pointing down the road toward the oil truck. As Mickey came up to the side of the car, Victor rolled down the window and smiled.

“Looks like our cases may be connected after all, Sheriff.”

“Goddamn it,” Mickey surprised himself with the sharpness of his voice. “I don’t need you f*cking up my investigation.”

Victor jerked his head back, as if the force of the words themselves had pushed him. “Now, Sheriff,” he said, “I don’t see that we’re interfering in any way. We have reason to believe that the man in that truck that just went down this dirt road is the man behind this oil theft.” Then he pointed down the road to town toward Janie and Eddie. “There’s one of his co-conspirators right there. Tom and I saw him down at our Long Beach facility yesterday. In fact, I think we have probable cause for an arrest right now.”

Mickey glanced back down the road at Janie and Eddie. The thought of them stealing oil from Monarch almost made him laugh. It served the company right, after what it did to the town. Mickey turned to stare back into the car, but not at Victor or Tom. He held his weight with his right hand and studied the layout of the dash, the steering column, and position of the turn signal arm.

He spoke as his eyes ran over the car’s interior. “I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. Frankly, I don’t give a shit about your oil theft. Those people you’re pointing at have lived in this town most of their lives. I doubt they’re involved, but if they are, they’ll be easy to find tomorrow or whenever you manage to bring me some proof.”

“Proof?” Victor was incensed. “Sheriff, I just told you we saw that young man, in that very truck, down at our plant yesterday. We know he’s involved.”

“Well, if you know,” Mickey responded, balancing his weight, getting ready to move, “then you guys ought to have something to talk about while you wait.”

“Wait?” Victor barely had the word out before Mickey’s hand darted into the car, over the steering column, turned the keys and jerked them out of the ignition with the deftness of a cat.

“Hey, what is this?”

Mickey took a step back, dangling the keys and grinning. Then he shoved them in his pocket and said, “You’ll get these back when I’m done.”

Victor watched Mickey turn and walk back toward the Suburban. He turned to Tom and said, “You believe this shit?”

Mickey heard the click of the car door unlatching behind him and he turned back, unsnapping his sidearm and drawing it. “Stay in the car.” He pointed the gun directly at Victor and took several steps toward him. “You are interfering with my investigation and I will shoot you if I have to.”

Victor looked into Mickey’s eyes and could see he was serious. There was a flatness to them—no glare. They lacked the shine and glimmer of someone who was excited, propelled by adrenaline. These were calm, dead eyes. The eyes of someone who’d killed before and wasn’t bothered by it.

Victor had seen those eyes in the heads of people like Howard Lugano. People behind bars. But here they were, staring at him from behind a gun and badge. Victor said nothing, did nothing. He just waited for Mickey to turn and walk away, wondering what the hell had happened to the guy to make him that way. And then he wondered what had happened to himself to make him sit still and take it. He suspected it might be the same reason he now lived in a tract home and pushed paper for a living. This is what his life had come to? Being made to wait on the side of the road like a child? It just wasn’t right.

After a few long seconds, Mickey turned and walked back to the Suburban. He put the gun away and snapped the holster as he climbed into the driver’s seat. The air conditioned interior was cold, almost freezing, and Mickey felt a chill ripple through him. He threw the transmission into gear and took off down the dirt road. He could still see the trail of dust off in the distance.

Ron shut the radio off. The rattle of the truck going over the bumpy road drowned out the music anyway. But it wasn’t the rattle that made him turn it off. It was seeing Eddie on the side of the road. It was nagging at him.

There was a rational explanation. Justin Banner was a friend of his. They ran into each other. Maybe Eddie wanted to buy some weed, saw the Camaro go by, and flagged Justin down on the road. Easy enough. Logical enough. But it just felt wrong.

He doubted the goons would try anything. They were dumb, but not dumb enough for that. He thought of their faces when he walked to the truck with the bloody bat in his hand. They damned near shit themselves. He remembered them getting back into the truck like a couple of kids who knew they were in trouble. They didn’t say anything. Not even when Ron pointed at the hitchhiker laying in the dirt and told them that would be them if they tried anything. Not even when one of the hitchhiker’s arms twitched and jerked up in the air as he turned the truck around. Nothing. They didn’t say a goddamned thing.

And after that, Ron knew they wouldn’t try anything either. They knew they didn’t have what it took to take a guy like him. That’s why he’d agreed to use them. After listening to Janie’s stories about the two of them. How aimless they were. How spineless they were. He couldn’t have imagined a better pair. They were perfect. They just needed to be kept in line.

When he crested the hill and saw the warehouse, he slowed the truck and studied it. He could see the front end of one of the tankers through the open front of the building. That would be Eli’s truck. The Dodge Dart parked off on the edge of the lot was Eli’s car, which meant Eli was there.

Ron hoped Eli would have all the money so he wouldn’t have to wait around for Eddie to show up. He wanted to get it over with and keep himself distanced from this whole operation as much as possible. He didn’t even like being out here with the two of them. But there was nowhere else for them to meet. Ron let off the brake and the truck rolled down the hill.

Hank saw the truck come over the hill and felt the energy surge inside him. He wiped the sweat from his hands and blew on them, trying to get them dry. The heat was making everything on him damp with sweat. He couldn’t risk dropping the gun. He couldn’t risk anything at all. This was a job that needed to be mistake free.

The kid saw the truck almost the same time as Hank, and he immediately retreated to the rear of the warehouse, where Ron couldn’t see him. Hank watched the kid stretch his arms and roll his head back on his neck, trying to relax. Through the hole in the wall, Hank could hear the kid mumbling something to himself, but couldn’t make it out. Words of encouragement, no doubt.

The kid made a couple of practice grabs for the gun. As though a few last minute tweaks of the technique would result in a perfect performance. And then, as he heard the crunch of Ron’s tires out on the gravel of the parking lot, he stood up straight and let his arms go loose and slack at his side. Hank could almost see the realization come over the kid’s face. It was time. Now or never.

Mickey had driven faster than he realized, trying to cover some ground and get the Suburban close enough to Ron to be shrouded in the heavy dust trail. In the process, he’d nearly run into him. Mickey came to the top of the hill and saw the warehouse down below and the truck only fifty or so yards in front of him. He hit the brakes hard and backed up quickly to where he was out of sight of the warehouse.

Mickey pulled the Suburban off the road, turning it sideways. He got out and left the door open, cranking the volume on the radio so he could hear it come on if Jimmy called. He crouched and crept over to the edge of the hill. Then he got down and crawled, keeping low and getting himself a good view. He figured he was a little over a hundred yards from the warehouse. Close enough to get down there quick if Jimmy told him what he needed to hear.

Ron stopped the truck in the middle of the lot and left the engine running. He wasn’t planning to be there long. He could see Eli in the warehouse. He watched him open the driver’s door to the tanker truck and climb halfway inside. When he crawled back out he had a small backpack in his hand. Eli held the bag up and smiled at Ron, waving slightly.

Hank watched the kid shift the backpack to his left hand, freeing up the right. The kid walked slowly out into the gravel lot, toward Ron, who still sat in the cab of the truck. The kid was trying to act casual, but he was trying too hard, giving it away in the process. His gait was so loose it was unnatural, belying his nervousness.

Hank knew Lugano had been living the quiet life for a while, but Lugano was a pro and Hank was willing to bet he would sense that something was up. That was only the first of the kid’s many problems. The second was that the kid didn’t know who Ron was. The third was the kid was an amateur. The fourth was the placement of the gun. It was too far around behind his back, requiring too long of a reach. And that led to the kid’s biggest mistake of all: getting too damned close to the truck.

Eli hadn’t known what to expect. He figured Ron would park and get out of the truck and come into the warehouse. That had been his biggest worry, the two of them just standing there, face to face. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to draw the gun quickly enough. But sitting in the truck, Ron was an easier target because he wouldn’t be able to move as fast.

As Eli walked across the gravel toward the truck, he called out, “Hey.”

Ron just looked at him. “I’m assuming that sack’s full of money.”

Eli grinned. “It’s not quite full.” He unsnapped the top flap and opened the bag. He was almost to the truck, his brain racing now with unanticipated questions. When was the best time to do it? Maybe distract him with the money? Get the greedy bastard to focus on the money for just a second?

Eli held the sack open and shook the bundles of cash inside. “Pretty nice, eh? And that’s not all of it. I’m waiting for Eddie to get here with the rest.” Eli handed the sack to Ron, reaching in through the window to give it to him. He kept the smile on his face the whole time, casually reaching back with his other hand. He heard the words come out of his mouth, but his brain was racing, trying to keep the movements light and quick. As he felt his fingers close around the grip of the gun, he saw an odd expression flash across Ron’s face at the mention of Eddie.

But what did it matter?

Now was the time.

This was it.

Mickey heard the radio go off in the cruiser at the same time he saw the gun. He could hear Jimmy talking, trying to get his attention, but he couldn’t make out the words. He watched the kid pull the gun out from behind his back where he had tucked it into his pants. It was a clumsy move, slow and obvious. Mickey could see it coming from a hundred yards away as soon as Eli reached for it.

Ron could see it too. He kicked the truck door open and it slammed against Eli’s hand. The .44 exploded, sending a bullet off into the desert, and fell from Eli’s hand. Ron was out of the truck and on him in half a second, his right fist coming across the width of his body and against the side of Eli’s head in one swift motion.

Eli had half a second of blackness before he came to on his knees, staring into the gravel, marveling at the brightness of the day. He craned his head up to see the silhouette towering over him, sharp against the bright blue sky. Wait, you don’t understand, it was all a mistake—he wanted to say it, to somehow explain it away, to take it all back. But then a blur came at him and he could taste the stinging, metallic wet of his own blood.

Hank watched Lugano wind up and kick the kid in the face so hard it lifted him up and flipped him over on his back. He could hear something break, even at sixty or seventy feet away. The sudden, dull snap of bone beneath flesh. Probably the jaw. What would it matter, Hank thought? The kid was done anyway.

It was time to move. Hank would get him while he finished the kid. While Ron was distracted by the act of killing, he would be killed himself. It would leave a nice explanation for the two dead bodies. A payoff gone awry. Each man killing the other. Perfect.

Mickey was up on his feet, but still crouching, the instant he heard the shot. It was a primal reaction to the sound of gunfire, ingrained years before in a jungle on the other side of the world. A calm intensity came over him. He focused on the scene, tuning out the sound of the radio, the sound of Jimmy trying to tell him what he’d been waiting all afternoon to hear. Now was a time to act and not to listen.

He watched the kid, writhing on his back, reaching into the air in front of him as though he were trying to pull himself up by some invisible threads that only he could see or grasp. Why had the kid attacked Grimaldi? What was happening at the warehouse? Was it connected to the body in the desert? Would it result in yet another body?

Mickey watched Grimaldi stoop over in the dirt and pick up the revolver, turning it over and dusting it off. Then he reached down and picked up the sack he had dropped to the ground when he came out of the truck. His movements were relaxed, casual. He was taking his time.

Eli’s vision was blurred, and he tried to wipe at his eyes. But he was having trouble getting his arms and legs to work right. Instead, he writhed and turned on his side and tried to spit the loose bits of teeth from his mouth, but nothing seemed to work. Everything was either numbness or sharp, shooting pain. He reached out toward Ron, groping for a hand up but finding only air.

Ron stood there laughing at him. The gun in one hand, the sack of money in the other. “Eli,” he said, “you’re even dumber than I thought you were.”

Eli struggled up to a kneeling position, facing Ron. His vision and awareness reassembled itself, and it was only then that Eli realized what had happened. How poorly things had gone.

Mickey watched from the hill. Ron standing there. Eli kneeling before him. What were they doing? What was in the bag? Mickey heard the sharp static of the radio again. His focus shifted for an instant. And then Ron Grimaldi raised the gun and shot Eli in the face.

Mickey watched the red cloud burst from the back of Eli’s head. The body flopped back against the ground, propelled by the force of the shot. He watched the execution with an amazed fascination. In an instant, just like that, and it was done.

Then Ron stepped forward and fired another round into Eli’s chest. The body jumped like it had been kicked from behind. As though the Earth itself had given it a nudge in the back.

Mickey was unsure what to do. There was nowhere for Ron to go. There was no way for him to escape. He should call Jimmy for backup. But that would take half an hour. What would he do in the meantime? What if Grimaldi tried to leave?

Mickey had started to turn back toward the Suburban when he heard another shot. He turned to see Ron jerk sideways and spin around, his arms flailing outward from the centrifugal force. The surveyor was coming across the parking lot, aiming a pistol, looking for cover. Mickey took off at a run, down the hill, toward them.

Hank came around the corner of the building fast, heading for the truck and squeezing off a shot before Ron managed to turn all the way around. The bullet caught Ron in the shoulder and spun him, but it didn’t take him down. Now Hank needed to get the truck between himself and Ron before Ron had a chance to recover. He didn’t make it.

Ron saw the movement from the corner of his eye, but turned too slow. The bullet shocked him more than hurt him, piercing the outer edge of his shoulder and going straight through. He brought the .44 up, aimed for the runner, and fired without caring who it was or why he was there. And then a faint recognition came over him the moment he pulled the trigger. The recognition sent an alarm through him. This was someone he knew. A professional.

That single thought almost caused him to fire a second time, immediately, without aim but merely in the general direction. But the man had already disappeared behind the truck. Or did he go down? Ron wasn’t sure, but he knew he’d better save the bullet. Instead, he ran up against the side of the truck, tucking himself low, against the driver’s side rear tire, trying to protect his legs from a shot under the truck.

Hank did the same on the other side. He crouched up against the front tire, keeping his head below the hood. He looked down at his left shoulder. The flesh was torn open and he tried to pack the fabric of his shirt into the wound to slow the bleeding. At the same time he listened for movement and ran through the sequence of events.

He’d been lucky. The bullet had barely hit him, but the large caliber had taken its toll. Any better aim and he’d be dead already. But Lugano had fired once at him and twice at the kid. Three shots. And the gun had gone off once when the kid dropped it. That was four. Only two shots left, unless he was carrying another gun—which seemed likely.

Hank thought he heard footsteps somewhere and he turned quickly, rolling backward around the front of the truck and coming around the driver’s side. But Lugano hadn’t moved, he was crouched along the back of the truck. Hank got off another shot, but it was a bad one, thrown off by the surprise of seeing Lugano right there, barely ten feet away.

Lugano jumped at the shot, firing as he turned. The metal of the fender wrinkled right in front of Hank’s face where the bullet went in at an angle before exploding the glass of the headlight all over him. He could see Lugano backing away from the truck, moving quickly toward the brush at the edge of the lot. Hank stood and moved on him, firing two, three, four shots as he sped up.

Lugano stumbled slightly and then fired again as he turned to run into the forest of high sagebrush and Joshua trees. Hank was running now, thinking to himself, that was six, about the same time he felt the weakness in his right leg. He looked down and stumbled into the sage brush. The meat of his thigh was torn. The bullet had missed the bone, but it had taken a lot of flesh with it.

For a second, he dropped his gun and lay there, resting his palms on the wound and knowing there was nothing he could do about it. Not now. Not there. His only hope was to finish the job and try to get back to town. Lugano was somewhere in the brush up ahead. Just out of sight. Probably watching him now, waiting to make a move. Hank knew if he turned back and headed for the truck he’d never make it. Lugano would get him.

The sand stuck to his bloody hands as he pushed himself up and grabbed his gun. He lurched forward through the heavy brush. He could put very little weight on his right leg, which left him hopping forward on his left.

There were small clusters of twenty-dollar bills every few feet. Hank followed them with his eyes, like a trail of crumbs. Up ahead and above him, he saw Lugano scrambling up a dirt rise, like a miniature cliff, barely taller than a man. Hank raised his gun and fired three more shots and watched Lugano slide back down the wall, clawing at the dirt as he slid.

Ten yards further and the brush opened up on a dry streambed, the opposite side of which was a solid wall of cracked dirt. This was where the water ran when the rains came. A flash flood would course through this channel in the desert once or twice a year, and had for thousands of years, carving a miniature dirt canyon.

Lugano lay against the opposite wall of the creek, facing him. Hank could see the front of his shirt was dark and wet. One of his last shots had found its mark. Lugano grinned up at him, a flicker of recognition on his face, and raised the revolver in his hand. He pulled the trigger and almost laughed at the dry click.

“Well,” he smiled. “At least they sent one of the best to get me. Show’s a certain respect I guess. Might as well finish it. Your leg ain’t looking so good.”

Hank smiled back and raised his gun. But the blood and the sand had worked their way inside and it jammed when he pulled the trigger. “Goddamn it,” he muttered, and then felt a weakness come over him from the loss of blood.

Hank’s body sagged downward, into the dry streambed. He lay there for a moment. Lugano studied his face, searching his memory for a name. Then Hank crawled over toward Lugano and took up a large rock with both hands. Lugano laughed at the sight of it. “Seriously? Jesus Christ, man. Why bother? We’re both going to die out here anyway.”

But just as he said it there was movement in the brush and the two of them turned to see Mickey emerge on the dirt bank.

Mickey held his gun on the two of them. The surveyor, unarmed with a rock up over his head, and Grimaldi, leaning against the opposite bank, holding a revolver. What had happened? Who were these people? Mickey aimed at Grimaldi, the radio static that went unanswered still echoing in his head. What was Jimmy going to tell him? And what did it matter now? Mickey eyed the revolver in Grimaldi’s hand. How many shots had there been? He hadn’t counted. There was no way to know.

“Drop the weapon,” he shouted.

Grimaldi smiled and looked at the surveyor. In an instant, the name came back to him. He said, “Well, Paoli, who would have thought it would end like this for the both of us?”

Mickey listened to the words. Thinking of the name. Feeling the overwhelming sense of recognition come over him. The surveyor’s face. The shape of his smile.

“Drop the gun,” Mickey repeated. Wondering what it all meant, trying to piece it together, feeling memories yaw up from his past, bringing a chill with them. He watched Grimaldi laying there. Doing nothing. Immobilized from the bullets and the blood loss. He wouldn’t drop the gun. He wouldn’t do anything.

Mickey heard the static echo in his head again.

And the name: Paoli.

He thought about repeating his command, but he no longer cared if Grimaldi dropped the gun. He no longer cared if there were bullets in it, or if Ron had killed the kid with a baseball bat, or who the surveyor was, or why he was there. Mickey no longer cared about anything. And he couldn’t make sense of it even if he tried. The futility of logic in the face of necessity. The situation simply was what it was. It presented itself and he would act, this time without hesitation, guided only by his inner sense of what was right.

Mickey fired.

The back of Ron’s head erupted against the dirt wall. Bone and brain matter soaked into the cracks, absorbed by the desert soil like any other moisture. Whatever memory or emotion it once contained now irrelevant. Its value, if it had any value at all, reduced to mere water.

Mickey carried him out. He draped the surveyor’s left arm over his shoulder, and Mickey carried him out. A lot of blood had been lost. They had to move quick. So they made their way through the brush, back up the hill, and made it to the Suburban where Mickey quickly wrapped a bandage around the leg. He wrapped it tight, trying to hold the blood in and the flesh together. The shoulder wound didn’t worry him as much. It was already coagulating.

The whole time Mickey studied the surveyor’s face, wondering if he was right. Wondering if it mattered at all now. What was done was done. Wasn’t it? Why ask questions about courses of action that could no longer be undone? The static blasted on the radio again. Mickey heard Jimmy call out to him and reached down and switched it off. There would be time for all of that. What mattered now was speed.

He drove fast over the dirt road, trying to cover ground, to get back. The surveyor slouched against the passenger door, rubbing his shoulder, trying to hold his leg still to keep it from bouncing.

As they neared the main road, with the oil truck and the Camaro, and Agent A*shole and his lackey, Mickey turned to the surveyor and asked, “So you had a brother?”

Hank glanced over at the sheriff. He’d never told him anything about it, but the sheriff asked the question like he already knew the answer. Hank simply nodded and said, “Yeah. I had one. A long time ago.”

Mickey nodded and drove out to the pavement. He turned and went up to the truck and the Camaro, where everyone was standing around. Janie ran around to the passenger’s side and opened the door, almost fainting at the sight of Hank.

Mickey got out and waved Victor off as he came toward him. “Your oil thief is down that road, dead.”

“Sheriff,” Victor pointed at Eddie. “This man is a co-conspirator, I want him arrested. I want him arrested now. Tom Crossly and myself can make a positive ID of this man.”

Mickey cut him off by throwing his keys at him. “I told you. Your oil thief is down the road, dead. Both of them. Head on out there and get them, if you like.”

Hank climbed out of the front of the Suburban, whispering to Janie. “Let’s go. Quickly. Just get in the car and drive away.”

“Where?”

“Vegas. I know a man there. A doctor.”

They went around to the car as Mickey and Victor stood facing each other. “Sheriff, this will not stand,” Victor shouted. “I demand justice.”

Mickey exhaled and shook his head, exasperated and exhausted. “You already have it,” he said to Victor. “More justice doesn’t make it more just. Go on and take what you’ve got and do whatever it is you’re going to do with it. I’m through with this.”

Mickey turned away from Victor and Tom and saw Janie climbing into the car. She smiled, flustered but knowing what she needed to say and do. “I’ll get him to the doctor, Mickey. You’ve got enough on your hands already. We can’t wait any longer.”

Mickey looked at the surveyor’s slack face, already weak and white and bloodless. He had seen that face before in a different man—younger, leaner, but the same. He was sure now. There was no reason to keep him. Mickey wanted him to have a chance, however thin it might be. He hesitated for a second, then decided there was no reason to tell him either. No reason to dredge up the past and remind him of the way his brother had met his end and of who had drug his body home. No reason at all, for any of it, then or now.

Mickey’s eyes met Janie’s and he nodded. Then motioned to Eddie. “You might as well take him too.”

Eddie climbed into the backseat with nothing but his backpack. Janie got in too, started the car, and pulled away. She drove as fast as she could, accelerating and accelerating, as quick as the car could go over the long desert road, as though the car might sprout wings and lift them off the surface of the Earth.

Hank resisted the urge to sleep. From the passenger’s seat, he peered past Janie’s profile, out across the desert. He could see the black birds already swirling in the distant sky like a formless, bewildered cloud. They were about to make good on the primal contract between themselves and the Earth. Lugano’s body—mere consideration for the bargain—lay somewhere in the brush beneath them.

Janie glanced from the road to Hank and back. “We’re going to make it,” she nodded. “We’re going to make it.” The words repeated beneath her breath, neither statement nor question, but rather, a mantra, or shibboleth. Hope in the face of unseen forces compelling a certain, but unknown conclusion.

Hank smiled at her, at the sunlight, at the bright desert shimmering in the heat and the blur of the roadside. He watched the birds in the distance as each of them in turn swooped downward, tracing a trajectory of doom, ambivalent and automatic.





Now, turn the page for a taste of the debut Oliver Olson novel:

FOLLOW THE MONEY





1



“There was blood everywhere.” Jim Carver leaned back in his chair, chewing a mussel cooked in saffron. “At least that’s how the papers described it. Apparently he was covered with it when they found him, out in his front yard, stammering like an idiot about someone killing his wife.”

Each time he moved, the luxurious blue fabric of his shirt shimmered in the soft light. I’d never seen a shirt so well tailored, so textured. It practically screamed the word money. I wanted to come right out and ask him how much it cost, but I’d known him less than an hour.

We were eating lunch at an overpriced restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. I, of course, had never been there before, but the staff knew Carver by name when we walked in. The cheapest thing on the menu was the soup du jour, at fourteen dollars a cup. Between Carver, Tom Reilly, and me, lunch was well north of a hundred bucks. While he sat there and told me about a gruesome murder and the trial that followed — which I remembered watching on television when I was a kid — all I could think of was the cost of the lunch. Somewhere in the middle of it I realized I had $87.13 in my checking account. Good thing lunch was on Carver. I would have had to borrow money to pay for it, if my credit was even any good anymore. It made me smile. My life was ridiculous.

I had been employed by the international law firm of Kohlberg & Crowley for all of four hours. I was one of twenty second-year law students who started my summer job with the firm that morning. “Summer associates,” we were called, as opposed to real associates, like Tom Reilly, and partners, like Carver. It was the beginning of a three month job interview that all began with projects the firm had picked for us on our first day. Mine involved a murder, a former United States senator, and a jumble of procedural nonsense that I couldn’t even begin to understand. So I sat and listened and nodded my head and tried not to do or say anything stupid. I couldn’t believe I would be working on a case that had once been so famous, or infamous, I should say. Jim Carver went on.

“You remember the story, of course.” Carver was right about that. “James Steele was a United States senator at the time. A U.S. senator claiming someone broke into his house and stabbed his wife in the bathtub. Nothing stolen, no apparent motive. He says he didn’t hear anything until it was too late because he was in another part of the house. When he finally hears a scream, he runs upstairs, down the hall, and, as he’s going into the bathroom where his wife is, someone else is running out. The person running out slashes at him with a knife and pushes him back. Steele falls, hits his head on the baseboard, and by the time he’s out of his daze the intruder is long gone.” Carver pried a mussel open with a tiny fork and glanced at Reilly.

Reilly continued the story. “So Steele sees his wife in the tub. Apparently she’s still struggling, but the tub’s full of water.” Reilly drank some iced tea. His tone was casual, like he was describing a football game he watched on television. Twenty years Carver’s junior, and not yet the multimillionaire many times over that Carver surely was, Reilly’s shirt did not captivate me in the same way. It was obviously down an order of magnitude. Reilly set his tea down and leaned back in his chair.

“Then, at 8:52, Steele calls 911. Turns out, Steele is flustered and transposes the numbers in his address so there’s a mix up and the cops aren’t sure exactly where to go. During the 911 call, Steele sets down the phone for a few minutes. He says he’s checking on his wife. He comes back to the phone and the 911 operator suggests to Steele that he pull the body out of the tub so he can administer CPR. Steele says he will and he’s gone off the phone for a few more minutes.”

I broke in. “So he admits handling the body and moving it?”

“Right. That’s why he’s covered in blood when the cops get there.”

“So he completely messed up the crime scene?”

“Exactly.” Reilly poked the air with his cocktail fork. “Now, it isn’t until Steele comes back on the line the second time that he mentions to the operator that he’s Senator Steele. Once that comes out, the cops know exactly where to go. When they get there, they find Sharon Steele with thirty-nine stab wounds all over her body laying dead in the middle of the bathroom floor.”

The table went quiet. Carver sorted through the empty mussels, looking for another and not finding it. The clinking of shells in a bowl of broth was an odd counterpoint. The guy at the next table coughed and I glanced over at him. He was bald, with a thick moustache and touristy street clothes. He looked as out of place as I felt. Then the waiter arrived with the food and I took a bite of the best damned ham and cheese sandwich I’ve ever had. A twenty-two dollar ham and cheese sandwich. Both immoral and awesome at the same time.

Finally, Carver said, “But here’s where it gets messy.” He grinned, “No pun intended. First, the cops never find the murder weapon. The prosecutor argued that the injuries were consistent with a normal kitchen knife, which Steele had, but none of the knives in Steele’s kitchen had any trace of blood on them, and none were missing. And the time of death was such that Steele wouldn’t have had time to go anywhere to dispose of a knife. She was still warm and had blood running out of her when the cops got there. Of course, Steele says the killer took the knife with him. But the prosecution argued that Steele washed off one of his own kitchen knives and just put it away when he was through. They were apparently solid steel knives that would have been easy to clean. That’s problem one.”

“Second, there were no signs of forced entry. But an EMT looked at Steele’s head and found signs of a minor injury. Steele said it was from being pushed down, but the doctor testified that it was also consistent with a blow from a struggle, much as he presumably would have had with his wife while he stabbed her.”

“There’s another odd fact,” Reilly added, putting a crust of bread in his mouth and speaking as he chewed. “Steele had a wound on his hand that he claims he got when the intruder slashed at him. But again, there was testimony that the wound would have been consistent with Steele cutting himself when his hand slipped on the bloody knife.”

Carver interrupted. “So anyway, they interview Steele, he tells this bullshit story, and they arrest him the same night. Now, he offered his story at trial, but he had no evidence to support it, other than his interpretation of these facts. I mean, he just took the stand and told a story that, and this is how the prosecutor referred to it in his closing argument, a story that sounds too much like The Fugitive to be taken seriously.”

I agreed, the story had always sounded ludicrous to me, even as a kid, only vaguely following the drama on T.V. “What’s the motive?” I asked. “Money?”

“No, that’s just it,” Reilly responded. “There’s no motive. She had money, her family was wealthy, but he didn’t get anything. The kids are taken care of by a family trust, but he got nothing and never stood to get anything. There was no insurance. The two had split up briefly about eighteen months before, but they reconciled quickly and everyone said they were completely happy.”

Carver leaned back in his chair and waited for a few seconds after Reilly finished. Then he said, “So anyway, this case has been floating around the courts for years. Direct appeals in state courts, state habeas petitions. It’s finally time for Steele to file a federal habeas petition, and the court asked us to do it. Pro bono, of course.” Carver sneered a little on pro bono and then asked, “Have you studied habeas in school?”

I said I hadn’t. Carver glanced at Reilly in a way that suggested it was Reilly’s job to fill the new guy in, and then Carver said, “Well, look. It’s like an appeal, but it’s not. It’s a challenge to the process that convicted you.”

I was lost, and looked it. Carver leaned forward and said, “We’re not going to argue that Steele is innocent — you can never win on that — we’re arguing that he didn’t have a fair trial. Generally you argue ineffective assistance of counsel. That’s probably what we’re going to do here.”

Then Carver wiped his mouth with the thick cloth napkin, checked his huge, gleaming watch, and pushed his chair back. “I gotta go guys. But look, we need to push this ball forward as fast as we can. The two of you need to go see Steele and flesh this thing out. He’s going to try to convince you he’s innocent, but that doesn’t have a chance in hell. We’ve got to go with ineffective assistance.” Carver stood and looked at me. “Of course, that defense has a little problem too, but Reilly can fill you in on that. I had the file sent to your office. Have a look at it.”

Carver left us sitting there, staring at his back as he walked out of the restaurant, disappearing through the doorway and into a rectangle of brilliant sunlight. The waiter brought the bill and Reilly paid it. I sat there and waited for him to say something, but there wasn’t much to say. Carver was gone and Reilly and I were strangers.

On the way back to the office I finally spoke up. “So what’s the problem with the ineffective assistance of counsel claim?”

Reilly gave me a grim smile and shook his head. “His lawyer was a guy named Garrett Andersen. He’s one of the best criminal defense lawyers in the state. Maybe the country.”

“Do you really think a guy like that made a mistake?”

“Unlikely. That’s why this case was dead on arrival.”

I was confused. “So why are we doing it if it’s hopeless?”

Reilly laughed and shook his head. The new guy, he seemed to be thinking. “Well, hey, truth be told, no one thinks this thing can win. I mean, we’re not saying we can win. It sounds trite, but everyone’s entitled to representation, to a defense. Blah, blah, blah … I know it’s a cliché, but it’s the truth. And this is a complicated story Steele tells. There are a lot of places mistakes can be made. The devil’s in the details, y’know, so we might find something if we look hard enough.”

“But if he killed his wife—” I started to say.

Reilly cut me off with a grin. “We don’t know that. All we know is that he was convicted of killing his wife.”

I’d heard it before, and I usually believed it. The system had problems. There were dirty cops out there in the world. People got railroaded. But there were a lot of guilty people too, and this guy sounded guilty. I was about to make a joke about the difference between truth and confiction, but I stopped myself at the last second. Bad puns seemed dangerous. Instead, I shook my head. “Still, it seems pointless. Why bother? Doesn’t he see that?”

“The guy’s in jail, whether he sees it or not, all he’s got is time, y’know?”

“Sure, but why are we doing this? I mean, I guess that’s what doesn’t make sense to me.” We were stopped at the light. I could see that Reilly had no satisfying answer and I knew what he was going to say. I could feel it coming.

“Look,” Reilly began, “this guy was a senator. He was a powerful man and, on the outside chance that the firm can get him off, I mean, what a publicity boon for the firm. Look at it from their perspective. You’ve got this case, it’s a loser, maybe one in a hundred chance of winning — I doubt even that good, but a chance, you know. They’ve got summer associates coming in, tons of them, don’t know what to do with them all there are so many. What are you guys getting paid these days?”

“Three thousand a week.”

“No offense, but they don’t pay you guys that because you’re worth it. I mean, you’re a smart guy, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. The best and brightest or whatever they say. But you have no experience. I mean the firm tries to bill some of your time, but clients generally don’t want to pay for it. And in this economy, clients get what they want. So the firm just writes your time off as a recruiting expense.”

The light changed and we crossed toward the building. I watched him walk. Reilly looked like a guy who had finally let himself go after years of resistance, as though he’d realized that the trim, frat-boy body he’d had all through college and law school was gone for good. He was still young, fit enough, but he was beginning to show the creeping weight gain at his middle that would someday transform him into a pudgy, forty year old attorney.

“So they have this case. There’s a long shot that it might pay off. Who better to give it to than a summer associate, right? I mean, if you get lucky the firm gets all the glory, and if there’s nothing to it then the firm only loses your time, which it would have lost anyway.” Reilly looked at me and smiled as he went through the revolving door into the cavernous lobby of the K&C building. “Look man, this is a business. I mean you hope you can do some good along the way, but mostly it’s about money. Think of how big a payoff it would be to get this guy off. Why not take that gamble?”

“But meanwhile,” I said, “this guy — who may have a good case, who knows? — is sitting in jail and his future is tied to a law student who doesn’t know anything. I mean, I don’t even know where to start.”

When we stepped on the elevator, Reilly pushed our floors and leaned against the mirrored wall. “First of all, this guy doesn’t have a good case. He doesn’t have any case.” The elevator door opened at my floor and there was an awkward silence. I hesitated. Reilly filled it with, “Well, like Carver said, have a look through the file.”

When I got back to my office there were eight cardboard boxes piled along the side of my desk with the word “Steele” written across the side. I had no idea the “file” would consist of so much paper. I spread the boxes out across the floor so I could see into each of them. Some were just loose piles of paper. Others contained smaller files inside the boxes. There was no organization to them. Nothing was marked “beginning” or “start here,” so I just started rifling through them.

After a minute or two I came to a folder full of newspaper clippings and I sat at the desk and leafed through them. Steele had called 911 at 8:52 in the evening. The police arrived at 9:04. No signs of forced entry and the police dogs picked up no trails indicating any suspects had crossed the property. They arrested Steele at three that morning.

When I was finished, I leaned back in my chair, remembering it clearly. Although I was only ten when it happened, it was such a major story that you couldn’t go anywhere without hearing some reference to it. The murder had been grisly and shocking. The senator swore that someone else had committed the crime but offered no proof at trial other than his own testimony. The jury convicted based on what they viewed as overwhelming evidence.

Now it was my job to help get him out. But not because he was innocent, only because his high-priced lawyer didn’t do a good enough job. So much for good causes, I thought. I exhaled and turned to stare out the window, enjoying my sixty-eighth floor view of the white and green sprawl of Los Angeles. My first law job was to spring a convicted murderer on a technicality.

Wonderful.

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