Heads You Lose (7 page)

“That’s a can-do,” said Terry, and poured them a round. “Here’s to the survival instinct,” he said, tapping his camping cup against Paul’s Thermos cap and spilling a little gin.

They knocked their drinks back. Paul grimaced and Terry refilled them.

“So. Catch the fireworks yesterday?” Terry asked, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah. In fact, I had front-row seats,” said Paul.

“What the hell happened?”

“They don’t know,” Paul said. “A little plane just blew up. You know anything about it?”

“No idea,” said Terry. He let out a theatrical sigh. “I’m too young to be sayin’ I’m too old for this shit.”

“Actually, you’ve been saying that since I was twelve,” said Paul. “What shit, exactly?”

“Just the usual times a hundred, alimony and whatnot. You know me—shit reaches shin-level, I can wade. When it gets to be a shit Katrina, I head for higher ground.”

Terry was fading, leaning to one side and closing one eye, a sure sign that he was only a couple of units shy of matriculating
⁹
to the next level of drunkenness. When that happened, he’d be beyond human comprehension. If Terry had any beans to spill, Paul would have to get them spilled soon.

“So, have you talked to Darryl lately?” Paul asked.

“Look, man, I don’t know. He’s in the wind as far as I know,” Terry said, leaning a little farther toward his sleeping bag.

“What?”

“Just a figure of speech, man. Like ‘Heads are gonna roll.’”

Paul felt that one at the base of his neck. He grabbed Terry’s hand. “Terry, what the fuck’s going on?”

With his other hand, Terry gulped down the rest of his gin. “Remember that favor I did for you?”

“Which one?” Paul asked.

“All of them, man. I’m calling ’em in. I need you to take something over to Tate at the Timberline.”

The Timberline was a bar downtown; Tate was its owner and daytime bartender. Paul didn’t relish the idea of interacting with him, but the errand sounded simple enough.

“No problem,” Paul said. “What is it?”

“Two grand.”

“Uh, okay,” Paul said, glancing around the shed. Stacks of money were not in evidence.

“The other part is I need to borrow two grand,” Terry said. “No joke. If he doesn’t get it today—” He interrupted himself to look Paul in the eye, asserting his lucidity. Paul had spent enough time with drunk Terry to know when he was bullshitting. He wasn’t.

“What’s going on? Why do you owe Tate so much?”

“Like fresh milk, a bad deed does not turn at once,” said Terry.

Paul was silent. He’d learned that responding to one of Terry’s maxims only led to more of them.

“Just can you do it or not?” Terry asked, flopping back onto his sleeping bag.

“I can do it,” Paul said. “But I need to know what’s happening. What’s going on with you and Tate? Why’s Sheriff Ed asking about you?”

Terry was done talking. When Terry went down, he stayed there. It was only midday, but Paul guessed he’d be out until the next morning. Terry was prone to passing out suddenly, but when he woke up, he’d remember every detail of their conversation.

Then Terry mumbled something that sounded like “Hotels going up on Atlantic and Ventnor.”

“What the hell? Terry?” Then the snoring kicked in, overwhelming the cheery clamor of the insects and birds below. Paul sat with him for a while, then found an old wool blanket in a corner and covered him up.

Paul lifted up the hatch in the floor and climbed down the ladder. His truck was parked a mile away on an old fire road. The hike gave him time to think about the errand. Two grand was a major hit these days, but it was way less than he’d borrowed from Terry when he was getting started. And an unhappy Tate, he knew, was a dangerous thing. By the time he reached his truck, he felt like he’d sweated out all the gin and most of the anxiety. He thought about stopping by the Tarpit to talk to Lacey, but decided it would be simpler to keep her out of it. She had a way of complicating things. Paul pointed his truck downtown, where his bank and his bar were next-door neighbors.

The teller didn’t raise an eyebrow; in Mercer, cash transactions were still the norm. With a fat front pocket, Paul went next door. The Timberline was the default bar for most locals, having outlasted numerous fringe bars that were trendier, more upscale, more violent, more granola, more whatever. Back when Paul and Darryl were regulars, the tree in its green neon sign used to grow, fall, and regrow in blinking cycles. Now it stayed fallen, but at least it was still lit.

Tate wasn’t behind the bar, which meant he was probably in the office in back. Paul had never seen him hurt anyone firsthand, but there was almost a hum of violence about him. Like a lot people around Mercer, he had a side job that was more lucrative than his main one, as a kind of supervisor—more like pimp, Terry liked to say—for the couriers who took product back and forth between L.A. and the north. He had a stable of drivers of all ages and backgrounds, and was quick to let them go if they didn’t execute perfectly.

Paul sat down at the bar, feeling the envelope in his front pocket bend. He smelled menthols and perfume. The woman on the next stool spun to get a look at him. It was Deena, Terry’s first ex-wife.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Paul Hansen, Jr.,” she said, in her sultriest voice.

“Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?” It was their running joke.

Paul was glad to see her. If anyone knew about what was going on under the surface in Mercer, she did. She had a fat man’s capacity for booze and a marine’s discipline when it was time to stop.

“Seen Terry lately?” he asked her.

“Nope.”

“Is he behind on his checks again?”

“Nope. Maybe he took a run up to Spirit Rock, for old times’ sake.” Spirit Rock was the Indian casino outside Tulac. “If you see him, give him a kiss.”

Before Paul could get the bartender’s attention, Deena said, “Two more John Dalys”—Arnold Palmers with vodka. They made small talk for a while. When it became clear she wasn’t going to dish up the gossip, he asked her what the latest was.

“Hmm, I guess nothing. Unless you count ‘Mysterious Plane Explodes.’”

“Come on, there’s always something.”

“Okay,” Deena said in a stage whisper, leaning toward him. “But this one is
not
for general consumption.”

“Agreed,” said Paul.

“You know Sheriff Ed’s hot little wife? Turns out she might have dipped a toe into some very, shall we say,
deep
waters. From what I hear, things could get really complicated really soon for her. I really shouldn’t be talking about this.” Then she drained her drink. “You know, I think I just reached my quota. See ya, sweetie.”

Paul turned to the bartender on shift. “Tate around today?”

“Your name?”

“Paul Hansen.”

Without another word, the bartender went to the back of the bar and into the office. He came out and gave Paul the okay with a thumb over the shoulder.

Paul went back and through the open office door. Tate was sitting behind a big metal desk.

“Have a seat,” Tate said, and Paul did.

“I have some money for you from Terry.” He handed over the envelope.

Tate didn’t even look inside. “Where is he?” he asked.

“No idea,” Paul lied. “He dropped this off at my place.”

“How much is here?”

“Two thousand.”

Tate shook his head a little. “One more time. Where is he?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you,” Paul said, looking him in the eye but not overdoing it. He could lie okay.

Tate lowered his head, put his elbows up on the desk, and stroked his ponytail hand-over-hand.

“Can I go?” Paul asked.

Still no reply. After a few moments Paul tentatively stood up and started back toward the bar. Before Paul reached the door, Tate said, “Tell Terry I won’t take any more payments.”

“Okay,” Paul said. When he got Tate’s meaning, he added, “How much is the whole thing?”

Tate gave him a look like it was an interesting philosophical question. “All of it,” he said.

Paul sat in his truck, trying to pull himself together. His first impulse was to get out of there, to just flee from whatever insanity had overtaken Mercer. If he had been alone, he might have done it, too—headed to the coast for a few weeks. But Lacey depended on him to keep the business running, and money was tight even before the day’s unexpected expense. Paul decided to go straight to the only person who was tied to the body. Whatever was going on, Darryl was involved in it, and probably deeper than Paul was.

Paul hadn’t been out to Darryl’s house for almost a year—not since he and Darryl had argued about the best way to water an associate’s big hillside plot. Darryl was the best irrigation guy around, but he was also well aware of that fact, and very touchy about his methods. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but they’d been distant ever since.

Paul pulled over a few houses down the street, not wanting to give Darryl a chance to slip out the back door if he didn’t want company. As he sat there thinking about what he’d say, he noticed a little guy in a baseball cap creeping along the side of Darryl’s house, ducking low to avoid the windows. Except it wasn’t a guy. It was Lacey. He watched her unlatch the side gate and disappear into the backyard. Paul sat there for a moment. Then he put his truck in reverse, backed away down the block and around the corner, and drove away.

NOTES:

Lisa,

I think I’m getting the hang of this clue business. Let me know if you need me to spell out the Monopoly reference.

To respond to your last note, you’ve always had this notion that plot and character are two separate entities. In the
Fop
days you bulldozed characters in the name of moving the plot forward. The croupier, for example, was a casualty we couldn’t afford. When the casino burned down in the third act, he would have been the natural choice. Instead we had to conjure a suspect out of the blue.

If our book doesn’t have the requisite number of kills and thrills, who cares? The reader will remember the characters long after they’ve forgotten who done it.

Dave

Dave,

Thank you for your thoughts on character and plot. But I kind of want my readers to remember “who done it” rather than who drinks warm gin in a Thermos cap and calls it a martini. It’s a nice detail, but even the finest martini could use an olive. Meaning something to chew on.

By the way, did we ever find out whose plane crashed? We might want to clear that up one of these days. As for your “clue,” a Google search informed me that Ventnor and Atlantic Avenues are real estate on a Monopoly board. I have no idea where you’re going with that. Do you?

On a positive note, I don’t believe you mentioned Irving the cat even once.

Lisa

P.S. I didn’t mean to imply that the road trip was all bad. Reno was awesome. Especially when we won the football bet. I just don’t know why you refused to get gas. We could have died out there.

CHAPTER 7

When Lacey heard a truck idling down the desolate street, she slipped between a set of bushes, scratching the exposed skin on her neck. A breathless and eternal minute passed until the truck rolled away. She circled the perimeter of Darryl’s house, searching for a better view inside. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but an investigation has to start somewhere, right? And the only two people linked to the body were Darryl Cleveland and now Hart Drexel. She started with the easy one. Darryl. At least she knew where he lived. Besides, she had spent all day batting away dark thoughts like flies. But whenever you try not to think about something, that’s when you can’t escape it. So she let herself think, just for a minute.

Hart’s ring had been left behind at the second crime scene. From the moment she’d found it, the ugly thought had stuck with her.
Hart was the killer.
But then she cooled down and figured there had to be another explanation. Hart was trouble, sure, but mostly she remembered all the little things he used to do for her—checking the oil in her car so she wouldn’t burn out her transmission, bringing her coffee in the morning. Once he even tried making chicken soup when she had a cold. Lacey had to pour it out the window when he wasn’t looking, but still.

Could she have really spent three and a half years with a murderer?

A light shone from the living room, offering a fish-tank view. Darryl was sitting on his couch, a beer in one hand and the other hand tucked into his jeans. Lacey had seen men sit like this many times before, even when they weren’t alone. Still, she felt more like a peeping tom than a private detective. The show on TV was
Cudgel.
¹⁰
Lacey recognized the contestant and even noted that it was a rerun—how tragic was that? She was definitely getting out of this town.

Fifteen minutes passed without any action except on the TV screen. Then the telephone rang, which made Lacey jump. But not Darryl. He just sat there as if he couldn’t hear it. When
Cudgel
broke for a commercial, Darryl got up from the couch and pressed a button on his answering machine. Lacey assumed someone had left a message and Darryl was listening to it. She couldn’t make out the voice, only that there was a voice.

Then Darryl looked at her, or right out the window to where she was lurking. Only it was dark outside and light in the house, so she knew he couldn’t see anything. Still, from the way he was looking, he knew someone was out there.

Darryl killed the lights and Lacey made a run for it. This time, she exited through the backyard, scaling the chain-link fence. On her way down, she sliced open her left arm. She felt the pain, but refused to utter a sound.

Darryl peered through the living room window, then raced into the kitchen in the back of the house and saw a shadow escape through his backyard. He’d never be able to identify her. In fact, if pressed for details, he’d say a male, approximately fourteen years of age, wearing a baseball cap, a black shirt, and blue jeans, was casing his home for a burglary. But only because that’s exactly how Paul described the suspicious individual when he left a message on Darryl’s answering machine, explaining that he just happened to be driving by. Had a delivery and couldn’t stop, but he thought he’d be neighborly, even though they weren’t exactly neighbors.