The Last Town (Book 3): Waiting For The Dead (8 page)

Startled, Corbett looked up as hot coffee sloshed about in his cup. The man standing beside him had clear, blue eyes that, at first glance, seemed to be full of intelligence. Corbett knew from personal experience that the man was indeed quite clever, but the intellect presented in his gaze merely floated on a sea of icy deceit. His brown hair was going gray at the temples, and his fair skin was showing some red from exposure to the desert sun—though it had barely risen at this hour. He wore a navy blue blazer over a white collared shirt and gray trousers, with brown tasseled loafers on his feet. In his jacket pocket was a perfect, puff-folded kerchief. The man looked like he was stepping out for a casual but still dressy luncheon in Manhattan as opposed to a small, East Coast-style diner in the middle of the California desert. Hovering behind the man—whose obsequious smile was made especially brilliant by expertly crafted porcelain veneers—was an extraordinarily handsome woman who, if Corbett’s guess was correct, had a ton of money behind her. Because the man she stood behind, despite his somewhat pinched good looks and natty attire, only pursued women who could afford him.

Oh, fucking hell,
Corbett thought sourly.
As if the zombie apocalypse wasn’t enough.

“Jock Sinclair. What a … what a surprise,” he finally managed to say. Sinclair went to chortle on about some inanity or another as he seized Corbett’s hand and shook it vigorously, as if they were long-lost mates. Corbett lamented sending Lennon off to the bar with the rest of the detail, for he would have stopped Sinclair from getting anywhere near him. He glanced over at Victor, and saw the younger man carefully fold up his reading glasses and slide them inside his jacket. Victor didn’t even attempt to conceal the smirk that broke out across his face.

“Yes, it is a surprise, isn’t it?” Sinclair said, smiling broadly. “Whatever in the world are you doing out
here
?” And then, he turned his head fractionally to the left, favoring Corbett with a slight, sidewise glance, as if he’d arrived at some great deduction. “Oh, but of course—you’re actually from this town, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well … I am,” Corbett said. “So that explains my presence. What are you doing here, Sinclair? I thought you were a resident of Manhattan’s Upper West Side.”

“We were on our way to Los Angeles when the airlines were grounded,” Sinclair said. “Oh yes, please let me introduce my wife. Meredith, this is Barry Corbett, one of America’s greatest living industrialists.” As he said that last part, Corbett detected the hidden sneer in Sinclair’s voice, the same one he had been forced to endure for almost an hour when he’d appeared on the silly twat’s television show two years ago.

“Good morning,” the woman said, smiling perfunctorily.

Sinclair, still smiling like a buffoon, looked past Corbett at Victor. Victor looked back stoically, the smirk gone from his face.

“And who’s this?” Sinclair asked, the wheels in his head obviously turning as he tried to align a man of Victor’s obvious heritage with Corbett’s presence.

“No one of consequence, I assure you,” Victor said.

“This is Victor Kuruk, leader of a local Indian tribe. You’ll like Victor, Sinclair. He’s a self-made man of color leading the charge against white America.”

Sinclair tittered as if that was one of the most enjoyable
bon mots
he’d heard in years. “Oh, is that so? Plotting your revenge here in a diner, are you?”

“The best places to kill a man are when he’s eating or sitting on the toilet,” Victor said in a total deadpan.

Sinclair’s smile dimmed for an instant as he processed that, then brightened as he tried amping up the charm. “Oh, is that so? Delightful! I’ve never heard that before!”

“So, Jock,” Corbett said, “you’re on your way to Los Angeles, are you?”

“Well yes, once we get a few things sorted out,” Sinclair said, still beaming.

Corbett sensed something in Sinclair’s response.
Oh, here comes the ask.

“What do you have to ‘sort out’ in Single Tree, Mr. Sinclair?” Victor asked helpfully, even though Corbett had no doubt he’d already figured out Sinclair was a hanger-on the moment the so-called “television journalist” opened his mouth. At that moment, Corbett could have strangled both of them.

“Well, does there happen to be a Maserati dealership in this town?” Sinclair asked, glancing at Victor but keeping his gaze more or less rooted on Corbett.

“You want to buy a Maserati?” Corbett asked. It sounded stupid, but he knew how people like Sinclair worked. To a self-styled international
bon vivant
like Sinclair, the zombie apocalypse would be the best time to haggle over price.

“Actually, I need to repair one. Ours went wonky just outside of town last night.”

“This morning,” Sinclair’s wife corrected.

Sinclair waved off her comment with a dismissive gesture. “Yes, well, our car is duffed up, and we need to get it to a dealer so it can be looked after. I’d think that the town that gave rise to the great Barry Corbett would have one hidden away someplace, yeah?”

Corbett looked at Victor. “Victor?”

Victor slowly shook his head. “Closest Maserati dealership I know of in California is in Bakersfield. Have you tried calling for service? Whenever something happens with my 488, I just call Ferrari and they send someone out to take care of it.”

Corbett had to fight not to smile. While he might have had the money to afford an Italian super car like the Ferrari 488 Gran
Turismo
Berlinetta
, there was no way in hell he would spend it on such an item—as far as Corbett knew, other than his precious Harley, Victor drove around in a restored yellow 1978 Dodge Power Wagon Club Cab. An extremely
nice
Dodge Power Wagon, but hardly anything like a Ferrari.

Sinclair’s smile dimmed a little bit at Victor’s comment. “Ah. Yes, well, we do have roadside service, but I can’t seem to get through on my phone. Our service appears to be restricted out here. I can only surmise it’s because we have a New York number.”

“Well, I can help you out there,” Victor said, pulling a shiny iPhone 6 out of his jacket. Corbett raised his brows when he saw it.

“You actually
bought
one of those?” he asked.

Victor looked indignant. “Of course not. It was a gift.” He unlocked the phone and handed it to Sinclair, who took it with a dubious look on his face. He turned and handed the phone to his wife, who stood behind him with a dull, tired look on her face.

“Meredith, would you be so kind?”

“Sure thing, Jock,” she said. Her tone indicated she did in fact mind, but it was clear to Corbett that the glad-handing wasn’t over just yet. Corbett sighed and sipped some more coffee as he looked around the diner. The members of his detail were watching him, but no one had gotten up to see if he needed anything, like maybe putting a bullet through whatever passed for Sinclair’s brain. Corbett realized he could end it all right now by calling them over, but the last thing he wanted was for Sinclair to cause a ruckus.

“Really, it is fantastic seeing you here,” Sinclair gushed.

“I admit, you weren’t someone I’d anticipated running into,” Corbett said. “Especially after that hit piece you tried to ram down my throat a few years ago.”

Sinclair waved the comment away. “Oh,
that
. That was business, Barry! It has
nothing
to do with what my real position on your industry might be. Without people like you, we’d have no energy, no fuel, no rechargeable power sources—”

“And no global warming, I believe you stated,” Corbett said.

Victor crossed his arms, enjoying the show. “Oh, is
that
how you two met.”

“Barry, really, you’re not upset about that still, are you?” Sinclair asked, adopting an appropriately aggrieved expression. “That was just for the
telly
. Tell me you’re not holding a grudge!”

“I’m not, Jock. As a matter of fact, I don’t give a damn what you might think of me.” Corbett sipped some more coffee.

Sinclair’s mouth fell open. “Oh—well, I do hope there’s something I can do—”

“Sir? I’m sorry, but does your phone work?” Meredith edged toward the table as more people entered the diner and pushed past her, hunting for a place to sit. She held Victor’s phone out to him. Victor took the iPhone, frowning.

“Well, it did about an hour ago …” He thumbed his way across the icons on the screen and tried to place a call. He held the phone to his ear for a moment before his frown deepened. He slowly placed the phone in his jacket pocket again. “My sincere apologies, madam, but I guess the service is down now.”

“Telecommunications are fragile, Vic,” Corbett said. “They weren’t going to last for long, anyway. Not with what’s going on.”

Victor nodded and reached for his own coffee.

Sinclair looked around the diner. “Well, perhaps a landline?”

“Jock, you’re not going to get your car fixed,” Corbett said. “It’s well past time for that. What do you think Maserati is going to do, send a technician out here from Bakersfield?”

Meredith turned to Sinclair, a look of concern cutting through the exhaustion on her face. “But without the car, how will we get to San Francisco? Is there bus or train service from here …?”

“No trains out here, and I have no idea if there’s even a ghost of chance of you getting on a bus,” Corbett said. “I wouldn’t even know where you could get one.”

“The McDonald’s farther up Main Street,” Victor said. “Those of us who are less fortunate than Mr. Corbett here are quite used to riding on the Eastern Sierra Transit Authority coaches. They usually leave for Reno at eight forty-five every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday.”

“But today is Wednesday,” Sinclair said.

“Yes. It is.” Victor looked up at Sinclair’s wife. “So where are you staying?”

“The Trail’s End,” she said.

Corbett chuckled loudly. “Oh you are, are you? How do you find the accommodations there, Jock?”

Sinclair pursed his lips, apparently upset by Corbett’s sudden outburst of mirth. “I find them … very, very
basic
,” he said.

“Make room, folks. Chow coming through,” Danielle said, carrying Corbett and Victor’s breakfast on a wide serving tray. As Sinclair and Meredith stepped aside, Victor half-stood and took the tray from her, holding it so she could position their orders on the small table. She gave him a brief smile.

“Thanks, Mr. Kuruk. Do you guys need more coffee?”

“Please call me Victor, and more coffee would be fantastic when you can,” Victor said, handing her back the serving tray.

“Great.” Danielle turned and looked at Sinclair and his wife. “Folks, if you’re here for breakfast, it’ll be more enjoyable if you have a seat.”

Sinclair looked like he was about to get huffy, but he managed to tamp down on his irritation. “Yes, well, perhaps we should.” He looked down at Corbett. “Good to see you again, Barry.”

“Yeah, good luck to you, Jock. Hope you make it to LA, or San Francisco, or wherever you’re headed.”

“Thank you. See you later on, perhaps.” And with that, Corbett was quit of Jock Sinclair. He wondered idly why his wife stayed with him—even she must have known that, underneath all the phony charm and his dazzling (American-made) smile, Sinclair was such a wanker that his picture was probably presented as an example of the word’s meaning in every dictionary that had ever been published.

“Well, that was exciting,” Victor said, pulling his plate toward him, inspecting his meal with sharp eyes. He leaned forward and smelled the aroma of the cinnamon French toast. “Hey, you might have been right about the French toast. It smells fantastic.” He picked up the sprig of parsley that had been added and looked over it at Corbett. “Ha-ha, very funny.”

“I hope that fucker gets out of here,” Corbett said, staring at Sinclair as he and his wife settled in at a small table in the center of the diner.