A checkerboard and a cigar box full of chess pieces that belonged to Duval sat next to the newspaper. The boy was always going around asking everybody if they played chess. Frank had told him once, “I know how the pieces move.” The kid had said, “That’s jailbird chess.”
The phone rang again. It occurred to Frank it might be Shel. She should be here, she was here when I left. Maybe it’s somebody who knows where she is. He crossed the kitchen, let the phone ring one more time, then reached out cautiously for the receiver, thinking: If it isn’t her, hang up.
A car was coming. He stood there, one hand in the air, his head turned to the sound of the car as headlights broke the hill. Lurching to the window, he pushed the curtains aside and saw at once it wasn’t Shel. A gun, he thought. You survived fucking World War III and never once thought to bring back a gun. He stood there, pounding the sides of his head with the heels of his hands as the car came to a stop outside and a single man stepped out.
Frank looked for a place to hide. It was too late to turn out the light. He’d probably already been spotted through the curtain. To come this far, he thought, survive Roy’s killfire and Snuff’s manic blazing away and the sneaky drive home in the chewed-up Mercedes, only to be caught like a dog.
The driver of the car eased the back door open, calling out, “Lonnie?”
The voice was a stranger’s. Not Roy. Not Snuff or Tully. A stranger who seemed nervous. It was a setup. It was cops. Frank sat there, unable to get a word out.
“Who’s… come on, hey,” the voice said.
Frank cleared his throat. “Yeah?”
The door closed. Hesitant steps sounded in the hallway to the kitchen, and then the man appeared. Young man. Frank had no idea who he was.
“I was looking for Lonnie,” the guy said. He eyed Frank’s muddy clothing, his eyes darting around like hummingbirds. “Lonnie Dayball. He here?”
Dayball’s supposed to be here, Frank thought. That’s what this means. Get out.
“Lonnie ain’t here,” he said. “And you?”
The guy said his name, still standing in the doorway. The name meant nothing to Frank, he forgot it instantly. He wondered if the guy was armed. The guy pointed across the room. “I know you?”
This is it, Frank thought. He makes me, he runs out of here, finds Dayball.
“No,” he said. “Don’t think so.”
“I’ve hung Sheetrock with the brothers. You?”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Must be. Gotcha.”
“You’re not…”
“Not what?”
The guy wiggled the finger he was pointing, like that helped him think. “There’s a guy lives here, name’s Frank Maas. You’re…”
Frank grimaced and shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “My name’s Mick. Mick Spielman.” It was the name of a kid Frank had gone to grade school with. He’d died in a car accident in fifth grade. Frank had used the name on and off over the years, when the need arose.
“Glad to meetcha,” the guy said.
“Same.”
“You know Frank? Frank Maas.”
“Know him, no,” Frank said. “Saw him tonight, though.” Taking a risk, he added, “Don’t think he’ll be coming back here.”
The guy laughed a nasty little laugh and relaxed a little. He leaned back against the doorjamb and nodded at Frank’s clothes. “So that’s it.”
Frank looked down at himself, as though surprised at the state he found himself in. He said, “What?”
“That thing with the nacho niggers.” There was a conspiratorial little wink in his voice. Like he wasn’t supposed to know. His eyes were eager.
“Yeah,” Frank said.
“And that fucked-up Mercedes out there.”
Frank shrugged, thinking. “Couldn’t leave it behind,” he managed.
“Damn,” the guy said with juvenile awe. “So tell me. How’d it go?”
“Go?”
“The Mexicans. Jesus.”
Careful, Frank thought. He considered a dozen different ways to say it, then settled on, “Caught ’em in the killfire.”
The guy nodded, grimacing with envy. “We come out okay? I mean, except for Frank, the lame fuck.”
Frank stared. The guy stared back.
“We good?”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Better than good.”
The guy pumped his arm. Rooting for the home team. “That’s great,” he said. “That’s fabulous. Christ, no wonder you look wasted.”
Frank leaned back, let his body sag. “Yeah.”
“Listen,” the guy went on, “like I said, I’m supposed to connect with Lonnie Dayball. I’ve got his mobile number but the motherfucker’s outside range. Tells me to stay tuned, then this. I mean, really.”
“It’s fucked,” Frank ventured.
“Tell me about it. But that’s Dayball. Do what I tell you, and while you’re at it do what I didn’t tell you. Unless I shoulda told you not to. Round and around…”
“Why look for him here?” Frank asked.
The guy threw up his hands. “What else am I gonna do? Like I said, he’s outta range, the homo.”
“He due here?”
“I’m desperate,” the guy said. “He had me playing shads on Frankie Maas’s old lady. Never seen her before, either, but Dayball, you know how he is, says, She’s the only one out there. Anybody leaves, it’s her. Felix wanted her thinking she was cool but then told Daybalclass="underline" Put a tail on her. So that’s my deal, I sat on the house tonight. And I got news. Oh yeah.”
Frank sat there, head tilted like he hadn’t quite gotten the last part right. His throat clenched. The guy kept talking, but the blood pulsing in Frank’s ears drowned out the sound. All he caught was, “… any ideas?”
Snapping to. “About?”
“Jesus, what’s wrong with you? Where I can find Dayball.”
“I can pass word on,” Frank said. The words came out without thought. “I see him, I’ll pass the word on.”
The guy shuffled from one foot to the other, murmuring to himself. “Fine. Yeah. Hell. Whoever gets there first. Here goes. I sat out on the road, hidden in that bunch of trees down the road from the gate, like Lonnie said. Sure enough, not fifteen minutes go by, red Pathfinder pulls out and turns toward town. Woman driving, bingo. I give her a few minutes, I mean, there’s nowhere to turn off, right? I pull out finally, put the tail on. I find her about a half mile away, pulled to the side. There’s some guy pulled up behind her. Where he came from, I don’t know. Big guy, tall, well built, short hair. Mean anything?”
Frank felt as though the top of his head was lifting off. “Big?” he said.
“He’s standing there at her car, they’re talking. I slow down, I’ll get made. So I blow on by, keep going till the Oakley turnoff, pull in, can the lights, wait. Maybe ten minutes later, they go by, one then the other. Guy’s driving a fucking Dart. Again, I figure, don’t follow too close. I wait a couple minutes. But this time they reach the highway. I lose ’em.”
Tall, Frank thought. Well built. A cop. In a Dart?
“I must’ve driven up and down the highway two, three hours. I’m thinking Lonnie’s gonna have my head. Then I pull in to Rafferty’s, you know it? Friend of mine hangs out there. Turns out he saw Frank’s old lady and this big guy there just a little while back. They got pretty oily with each other.”
Frank closed his eyes. “Tell me where again?”
“Rafferty’s, by the water. They had a drink at the bar and then started in on the touchy-feely. What’s wrong, guy?”
Frank shook his head, as though to snap it free from some invisible thread. His heart was beating fast. “Sorry.”
“Then this woman who’s been around. This woman, she’s passing out handbills on the dead twins. You hear about that?”
“No,” Frank said. Then: “Yeah, sorta, I heard.”
“This woman, she says she wants to talk to Frankie, she gets pointed over to his old lady and they talk some, then everybody tippy-toes on out. Together. This was maybe two hours ago.”