Zero-G (9 page)

The driver followed the SUV around the corner. He had to be careful. Too close would alert the driver, and she no doubt was packing a cell phone. Too far behind and he could miss the house where the woman and her cargo of children would end their journey. If they parked in a garage, then he would never identify the house.

The key was patience.

The SUV slowed and turned into the driveway of a large two-story home. Here's where the professional separated himself from the amateur. The temptation, almost overpowering, was to look at the target car and its passengers as he passed. He didn't. He kept his eyes forward and drove on at a speed just a hair above the residential limit.

Draw no attention to yourself. That was the first and abiding rule for people in his line of work. The second was confidentiality. He was good at both.

Continuing down the street, he pulled a U-turn at the next intersection, killing his lights before he finished the 180-degree turnaround. He moved down the street thirty or so yards and parked along the curb. An abundance of trees made it almost impossible to see the house, but he planned to pull closer in a few minutes. Give them time to get in the home and about their business. He killed the engine, then drew a cell phone from its place on the passenger seat.

He punched in a memorized number.

“I have another location for you.” He listened for a moment, then pushed end. He wasn't finished with the phone. Using the keypad to activate the phone's menu, he erased the record of the call.

EIGHT

A
round shape on the space side of the bulkhead rose until the whole of it filled the window. A helmet. An astronaut's helmet rose like the Moon over a horizon, the reflective gold shield mirroring the window. Tuck could see his own face reflected from the curved surface.

“Vinny? Vinny!”

Tuck pressed his face close.

Vinny's gloved hand rose and pushed back the protective shield.

The face. Twisted. Marred. Eyeless sockets. Mummy-like grin. Thin lips screaming,
“Don't leave me out
here.”

Tuck bolted upright in bed. Sweat dripped from his forehead and into his eyes. His heart tripped and tumbled and skipped. A second later, he sat on the edge of the bed, his bare feet touching the oak wood floors. Air came and went from his lungs like a bellows.

Myra touched his shoulder. “You were dreaming.”

“Yeah . . . yeah, I know. Sorry.”

He had to force the words out. Dream or no dream, it had been real to him. The image of Vinny bore into his brain like a worm into fruit.

Several deep breaths later, his heart slowed and the pressure in his head eased. “Sometimes I think I'm losing my mind.”

The bedroom remained dark as Myra crawled across the bed and sat next to her husband. She took him in her arms and he let her. He wanted her to hold him. He needed her to hold him. In any other moment, at any other place, Tuck would have assumed the manly role, telling himself that everything remained fine and he still controlled his future. Not now. Besides, his wife knew him too well.

“The same dream?”

“Yeah. Always the same dream. Different details. Same terror.”

“It's been awhile.” Her voice was soft, soothing, her skin warm and welcome against his own. She kissed him on the side of his head.

He gave her bare leg a pat. “Sorry to wake you.”

“A few extra moments awake are fine with me, as long as I get to spend them with you.”

“I'm afraid your husband is a bit damaged.”

“Not in my eyes.” She rested her head on his shoulder.

“I thought this nonsense was over. I thought I was done with it. It's been a few weeks since my last one.”

“I know, baby. I know. Maybe it'll be even longer before the next one. Maybe this was the last.”

“From your mouth to God's ear.”

“It has been.”

“Thanks, kid.” He took a deep breath. “Listen, you go back to bed. I'm going to get a glass of milk and watch some television. It's going to take me a few minutes to shake this.”

“It's amazing how real dreams can be.” She paused. “I'll stay up with you. I'll make cocoa. It won't take long.”

Before he could answer, Myra was off the bed and making her way through the dark room like a cat. He looked at the clock on his nightstand. Blue numbers shone 1:03. A lousy time to be awake.

“Last call, folks.” The bartender's voice rolled through the dingy bar, falling on the ears of the last hangers-on. Most had been in Chucky's Bar since early evening. All had entered chattering and telling jokes, but hours of drinking had left the remainders a maudlin bunch gazing into their drinks like a fortune-teller hovering over a crystal ball. But where the psychic boasted of seeing the future, these men saw only the past.

Ronny Mason knew this because he had been one of the dopes who spent their evenings seeking the company of people worse off than they. After losing his truck-driving job because of back problems, Ronny had begun a consistent regimen of self-medication in the form of shots of whiskey. Ronny's change came in the form of an ultimatum from a wife he loved more than life. “Get over your problems, get a new job, or get a new wife.”

The prospect of returning home to an empty house frightened him. It was one thing to lose a job, but to lose a woman like Betsy was nothing short of criminal.

Ronny's solution: buy the bar. Chucky's became his two years ago, and he had been sober each day of those two years. His back still hurt and he needed help lifting cartons, but he got by.

“Did everyone hear? Last call.” He rubbed his ample belly then began the final cleanup behind the long wooden bar. When everyone was out, he'd lock the door and spend the next hour sweeping the floor, wiping tables, and closing out the register. Then it was home to a warm bed and the smell of his wife.

“Aw, come on, Ronaniro, don't nobody care if you close late.”

“State of California does, Mikey. If they closed me down, then where would you go every evening?”

“Um, the place down the street.”

“You know they don't let the likes of you in their place. They cater to a better class of losers.”

“Ain't no better class, Ronjamite. We is the best lot of losers ever knocked back a beer.”

“True.” Ronny gave a little laugh. Some of these men he considered family. “And I love you all like brothers. Now finish your drinks and get out. Any of you need a ride, best let me know now. I know you do, Mikey.”

“Not me, pal. I'm sober as a judge on Sunday.”

“Right. I think you had better hand them keys over now. I'll call you a cab.”

“Hey, everyone, the Ronster thinks I'm a cab.”

No one laughed. The joke had been played too many times.

Ronny moved down the bar, wiping up spills, salt crystals from pretzels, and shells from peanuts. He stopped when he reached a young man with thick brown hair, bloodshot eyes, and a puffy, awkward-looking ear.

“How about you, young man? You need a cab?”

“Nah, I'm fine, and I'm not that young. I'm almost thirty.”

“Almost thirty, eh? Well, when you've got fifty-five in your rearview mirror, then almost-thirty is young.” Ronny paused and studied the man. This was his first night in the bar, and he stuck out like a palm tree on a glacier. “You okay?”

“Never better, old man. Why?”

“'Cuz you been tossing shots of Wild Turkey like Kool-Aid.”

“So?”

“Nuthin'. Just that most people who hit the juice that heavy have just lost a job or someone's died.”

“Well, you're wrong about me. And I don't appreciate your barroom psychology.”

“Have it your way, buddy. I just pour 'em. You can drink for whatever reason you like. Don't mean nuthin' to me.”

“Smart man.”

“This boy giving you trouble, Ronny?” It was Mikey.

“Naw, he just likes his own company. Nothing wrong with that.”

“You want me to toss 'im, Ronny? I'll toss the young punk if you want.”

The new guy grinned. “You? Toss me? Listen, you old booze hound, you can barely stand. Take a step back before I have you licking dirt off the floor.”

“What makes you think you can talk to me like that? I was whipping guys like you when I was in junior high.”

“That's enough, Mikey.”

“Hit him, Mikey. Hit him good.” The voice came from an old man in the back.

“Shut up, Henry. Finish your drink and go home. I'm not going to have a fight ten minutes to closing. That goes for you too, Mikey. Finish your drink and call it a night.”

“I can take him, Ronster. I can take him good.”

The man began to slip from his stool but before his foot could touch floor, Ronny had removed a Louisville Slugger from beneath the bar and pointed the business end between the two men.

“This ends now, gentlemen. First guy to throw a punch goes home with a goose egg on the side of his head courtesy of me. Got it?”

No answer. The two men eyed each other. If a fight broke out, then Mikey, who had more sheets to the wind than New Guy, would be sobering up in the emergency room. If he hadn't been so certain of that, he might have let Mikey lay a couple of roundhouses to the young guy's noggin.

“I ain't kidding around here, gentlemen. Once I crack a skull, I have to fill out a great deal of paperwork with the police, and I don't like paperwork. Cool it. Cool it now.”

“All right, Ronster. I'll step away, but if this pencil-neck geek gives you any more grief, you let me know. I'll take him outside and school him in some manners.”

“I'm ready, old man.”

“Go sit down, Mikey.” Ronny tapped his friend's chest with the bat. Mikey backed away.

New Guy sat down and took his glass in his hand. “I'd have killed him. He can't be serious about taking me.”

“Don't fool yourself, friend. Before Mikey took up drinking, he did some serious boxing. Had promise. I seen him put more than one man on the mat.”

“What? Fifty years ago? I did some work in the ring myself. How do you think I got this ear?”

“You gonna finish that drink or try to dry it up with all yer talk?”

The customer knocked back the drink in a single gulp. “Answer your question?”

“Yeah, now I got one more. You know how to work a door?” Ronny kept the bat in his hands, ready for action.

The man looked at the door. He got the hint. Slipping from the stool, he started for it, then stopped and sighed. He returned to where he had been sitting. Ronny saw him catch a glance of Mikey, who had yet to take his eyes off the stranger.

“Look. I'm sorry. I'm new in town and I'm not used to sitting around bars. You're right. I lost my job last week and I'm trying to find work. I guess the depression and the booze got to me. How much time until closing?”

“Five minutes.” Ronny eyed the man. Something didn't feel right. He watched as the man reached for his wallet and removed a ten and two fives. The bills were folded in the middle, the ten resting inside the fives. He dropped the bills on the counter.

“Buy Mikey another and keep the change for yourself.” He tossed the bill on the bar, returned his wallet to his back pocket, then inserted his hands into his front pockets. Ronny could hear keys jingle and paper rustle.

“No hard feelings.”

“Thanks.” The man waved at the handful of customers clinging to the last few moments in their home away from home, then exited the bar.

“That guy was weird, Ronny-boy. You should have let me pop him one.”

“Weird is right. He bought you another drink.”

“Did I say weird? I meant friendly.”

Ronny snatched up the bills and studied them. The ten looked real. He massaged the paper. Felt real. Since he'd already closed out the register, he shoved the bills in his wallet. It was his bar; he could do what he wanted.
A man can't steal from himself.

“Don't dawdle, pal. That door over there is going to be locked in five minutes and all of you are gonna be on the other side.” . . .