But the cocaine was coming on now, the first hot thrill of it coursing up through him, and with it whatever he had been feeling—self-pity or guilt or the beginnings of some illness, he knew not what—was blown back from him as if upon the long foaming line of a receding wave. He had been leaning back against the cold smooth surface of the casino’s outer wall and he stepped forward from it now, feeling his legs shake off their fatigue. He was not even cold anymore.
But then he looked up toward the parking lot and the cold chill of the night returned all at once. Idling before him was a rust-colored El Camino, its paint dull and its door dented in. Behind the wheel, peering at him through the open window, was the thin tattooed man he and Rick had beaten at Landrum’s, one black-ringed eye staring out at him, the other clear and bright. His lips curled into a grin. From between the fingers that gripped the wheel, a cigarette’s smoke twisted from the open window in concert with his steaming breath.
Nat turned toward the door, nearly breaking into a run, but he had hardly moved a step when a hand grasped his arm.
Hey, hey, where you going in such a hurry? the voice said.
The hand turned him, spun him in place with an effort that seemed marginal to its effect. Standing before him was Mike, his hand still gripping Nat’s arm just above the elbow. Behind him stood Johnny Aguirre himself: short, black hair slicked back, white sports coat pulled over a turquoise T-shirt as if he stood not in the cold night of Reno but in the warm afternoon of Miami.
You got someplace to go? Johnny said.
No, I just … His voice trailed off. He glanced to where the El Camino had been but in its place was a long gold Lincoln Town Car.
You’re on my list to track down.
I was gonna come see you, Johnny.
Is that right?
Nat placed his unlit cigarette between his lips, an action of habit, and a moment later Mike’s free hand came up before him, clicking the wheel of a silver lighter, the flame like a hot orange teardrop. He leaned into its light and the cigarette burned before him.
So you have something for Johnny, right? Mike said, clicking the lighter shut and returning it to his pocket.
Nat looked at him. The cocaine was surging through him now, the cigarette burning down in his mouth as if he was breathing in the fire.
Johnny Aguirre’s mouth traced a faint smile. He wore a gold chain around his neck and the colors of the casino lights chased up and down its length. Nat, Nat, Nat, he said slowly, shaking his head from side to side. What am I gonna do with you?
Nat looked at the men who stood before him, their faces models of seriousness. The effect made him giggle despite his attempt not to, the cigarette bouncing upon his lips.
This funny to you? Johnny Aguirre said.
And now Nat could not stop. It all seemed too ridiculous to be real. Nothing could happen to him now. He was invincible.
Let’s take a walk, Johnny Aguirre said.
Mike’s thick hand came around Nat’s forearm and then they were moving, drifting out of the haze of light that fled from the interior of the casino and into the darkness of the parking lot beyond.
PART II
THE KILLERS
8
YOU ARRIVE IN IDAHO BEFORE THE FIRST SNOW BUT IT IS well below freezing and the ragged houses that peer out at you from the forest along the road each send a pillar of smoke into a crystalline blue sky. It is late November 1984, and you stand at a pay phone, your breath steaming, the cigarette you hold between your fingers trembling as the other clenches the receiver to your ear. The Datsun is parked just a few feet away, one of its headlights crushed and the bumper askew.
When your uncle answers, you expect to have to explain but he does not seem surprised to hear from you.
Just keep driving north until you see the sign for Naples, he tells you. There’s a pay phone at the bar there. Call me and I’ll come get you.
All right, you say.
What are you driving?
An old blue Datsun 510.
I’ll find you, your uncle says.
Uncle David arrives ten minutes later, rumbling out of the trees in a rusty pickup, swinging in beside you and then waving you forward to follow. And you do follow: up off the highway through a forest so choked with foliage that it seems impenetrable. Scraps of cloud drifting through pine and cedar and spruce. Like paradise. And like a place where you will never be found.
When you reach the trailer, your uncle smiles and embraces you, his expression one of mingled joy and concern. This is quite a surprise, he says.
Did my mom call you?
Nope. He taps a pack of Camels against the palm of his hand. Smoke?
You nod. At forty-seven, your uncle appears much older than you remember, a mustached man with dirty blond hair streaked with gray who looks not unlike Bill. You have thought all your life that Bill looked like your father but now you realize that you were probably wrong.
You are handed a cigarette and then a lighter. There is a wooden picnic table next to the trailer and your uncle sits on its edge and when you return the lighter he lights his own cigarette and the two of you are silent for a time, blowing smoke into the pine-scented air.
I’m guessing you’re not on some kind of vacation, your uncle says at last.
No.
You’re in trouble?
Yes, you say. You have told yourself that you will not cry but now your eyes fill with tears.
Hang on now, your uncle says. That’s not gonna help.
I’m sorry, you say.
How much trouble are you in?
A lot.
Police trouble?
You nod.
Your uncle stands and looks at you. The sun is behind him and his body cuts a black shape against it. Let me get a Pepsi, he says. And then you’d better tell me what’s going on.
The two of you sit outside at the picnic table, both drinking the Diet Pepsis your uncle has retrieved from inside the trailer, and you tell him the whole story, every part of it, Rick and Susan and the job at the car dealership and Johnny Aguirre and Mike, pausing momentarily when your eyes fill again. It feels like it is someone else’s story at times, as if you are narrating something out of a movie, but it is your own and it pours out of you like a torrent.
Christ you’ve had a run, your uncle says into the silence that follows.
I’ve done some pretty bad things.
Well shit, that’s why people come up here. To start over. That’s what the whole place is about.