“You are sharp.” Wolfe got out of the car.
The restaurant’s apple pie flavor seemed out of place in the Shore. Two hours before sunup and the place was doing a brisk business. Gordon had never been in before, probably a mistake, this many people didn’t come to a place this early unless it was good. He ordered the country breakfast, he was going to need his energy. The cop ordered eggs over easy, bacon and toast.
“Tell me about yourself,” Wolfe said.
“You interrogating a suspect?”
“No, interviewing a partner.”
Horace snuck into the house at 3:30 in the morning, shoes in hand, so as not to wake Ma. Virgil had always been her favorite. No more back rubs for Ma. No more pedicures. No more whatever else Virge did for her.
“Why do you sneak into this house like a thief?” She was up. Horace squinted, eyes getting used to the dark. She was sitting straight backed on the couch with that quilt she’d made when they were kids wrapped around her. She looked like a squaw.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“We keep decent hours here.”
“Sorry, Ma.” He had to be careful. A wrong word could bring on one of her fits. She’d had the epilepsy her whole life, but the tumor made it worse. Any little thing could set it off.
“Where’s your brother?”
“He didn’t come home?” Horace felt his asshole pucker up. Nothing he could do about it. He didn’t want to hurt her. The lung cancer and the brain tumor were bad enough, she didn’t need to know Virge was never coming home. She didn’t have long and the end was gonna be painful enough without that. “He got a girl.”
“Really?”
“They went to the movies. She had a car.”
“What kind of girl?”
“A teacher at Long Beach State. I didn’t get to meet her, you know how Virgil is about stuff like that.”
“That’s nice.” She started drumming her fingers in her lap, like she did when she was happy. “He’s a good boy, it’s about time.” Then, “Where you been?”
“Looking for a girl myself.”
“Jealous of your brother?” She was smug. If she only knew what he’d had to do to get the money for her doctor and the hospital. It wasn’t right. It shouldn’t cost so much money to die.
“A little, I guess.” It couldn’t hurt to let her think that. He sighed. Now he could see pretty good in the dark room. She was wearing that satisfied smile she used to wear when she could see. He turned away, padded toward his room in stocking feet.
“That man’s been calling,” she said.
“What man?”
“That so called friend of yours who calls whenever he wants. Don’t he know better than to call in the middle of the night?”
“I hope you were polite.” Horace hustled into his room, grabbed the phone, pushed buttons. That’s all he needed, Ma talking to Striker.
“Yeah.” It was Striker.
“I did the Kenyon woman.” Horace wanted to get out the good news before Striker had a chance to complain about how long it took.
“Is it gonna come back on us?
“No way.” Horace talked low, hand cupped over the mouthpiece, so Ma couldn’t hear. “I couldn’t do it like you wanted, so I made it look like a sex crime. She had this faggot boyfriend nobody knew about. I dumped her behind this gay bar he was at.” It didn’t sound too bad the way he said it, maybe Striker wouldn’t mind.
“Just so there’s no come back.”
“You call the tune, I do the dance.” He wanted to ask about the money, but Striker might take it as an insult.
“I got another job for you. Can you get over to Catalina in that plane of yours?”
“Any time you want.”
“Sunup.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s an old woman, should be a piece of cake.”
Horace almost puked again as he listened to Striker tell him. Christ, another killing and it was another woman, an older woman. But there was nothing he could do right now, except close his mind to it.
He went to the bathroom and stripped off his bloody clothes. The shirt was ruined now, the pants too. He rolled them up, went naked and barefoot out to the kitchen. No one to see, Virgil wasn’t coming home and there wasn’t any reason to dress for Ma. She was already in her room anyway, happy like a rat in the trash. Her boy got a girl. Ma was nuts. He got a garbage bag from under the sink, stuffed the clothes in it, then stuffed the bag in the trash can outside the back door.
Back in the bathroom, he got in the shower, turned the water as hot as he could stand it. Steam filled the bath. Striker wanted him to do another woman, the thought busted into his head. He didn’t want to do it, didn’t know if he could. In the end it was the anger that got him through the Kenyon bitch. She’d just stabbed Virgil, after all. Killing her didn’t feel premeditated. He turned the water even hotter, punishing himself.
When he could take it no longer, he got out of the shower, changed into another pair of baggy pants, a denim work shirt and slipped on his leather bomber jacket. He faced the mirror, closed his eyes and forced the thought of the old woman he was supposed to do to the back of his mind. Time to be cool. He opened his eyes and looked at himself. “Cool to the max.” He turned away from the mirror and left the house.
The van still smelled, not as bad, but the taste of shit lingered on the air. He’d have to get one of them air fresheners in the morning. It started to rain when he entered the on ramp, a slight drizzle. God’s tears, Horace thought, then he cried. Snot drizzled down his nose, mingled with salty tears on his lips. Horace didn’t get control of himself till he got off the freeway on Lakewood Boulevard by the Long Beach airport.
He turned into the airport, drove to Condor aviation, passed the flight school and drove onto the line. He parked next to his Cessna 172, with the van’s sliding door facing the passenger door of the plane.
No one challenged him, the place was deserted, the planes lined up like soldiers in the night. He shut off the engine and listened to the quiet. Off in the distance rolling tires hissed by on damp pavement as late night travelers journeyed home.
Out of the van now, he slid open the door, then opened the passenger door of the plane, glad he had sun protectors covering the windows. The body had moved during the trip. Now Virgil was on his back. Horace pulled the body to the door.
He squatted, slid his arms under it, careful to keep the belly wound away from the expensive bomber jacket. The body was limp and that surprised him. He’d expected rigor to set in like in the movies, but it hadn’t. With strength he didn’t know he had, he stood, got his balance, then staggered to the open door of the plane and slid his dead brother into the passenger seat.
Trying not to look, he pulled on the shoulder harness, cinching the seatbelt tight. Finished, he closed and locked the door. Now all he needed was a motel room, so he could get some rest away from Ma for a couple of days and some cement.
Chapter Nine
Maggie rolled over, rubbed her eyes against the light sneaking in the bedroom. She pulled the blankets up to her chin, scrunched herself up in their warmth, pulled her knees to her chest.
“Nick,” she mumbled. Again, “Nick.” She wanted him to pull the shade, the way her father used to come and turn out the light when she was a little girl and too comfy to get out of bed and do it herself. Her father had always been there, but Nick wasn’t, and all of a sudden last night came pouring back.
She ran her tongue over dry lips. She was thirsty. She had to pee. And Nick still hadn’t come home. She pushed the blankets away, forced herself to sit up. “Ouch.” She put her hands to her temples. Her head hurt. She felt like she could drink gallons. She felt like she could pee gallons.
She checked the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. Quarter to seven. The last time she’d looked it said 4:45. Great, she’d only managed to get two hours of fitful sleep and now she had a hangover. And Nick hadn’t come home at all. He’d never done that before. Then it hit her. Yesterday was Saturday. How could he film a high school drug bust when there wasn’t any school?