“YOU MEAN TO TELL ME all this time he’s been hiding out in Tucson?”
“Five years, honey.”
“Damn! I been to Tucson five, six times.” Hugh Hulke looked at the butt of his cigar, grimaced, threw it to the floor. “I always figured Bobby’d head for Wyoming or Montana, way he talked about it all the time. Tucson. Damn. I coulda run across him anytime.”
“You would’ve if you’d been shopping at Wild Wally’s.” Phlox sipped her beer. She and Hugh were sitting at the spool table. Rodney, reclined on a ratty sofa against the back wall, balanced a beer bottle on his chest. Hugh shifted his chair and leaned in close to Phlox. “What’d he go to Tucson for? You?”
Phlox shrugged. “I don’t know what got him down there. Maybe he wanted to sell cowboy boots.” She lifted one of her feet onto the table, the tip of her boot nearly catching Hugh’s nostril. “He got me these. Sixty percent off.”
“I never did get those pointy toes,” Hugh said, sitting back.
“You like ’em or you don’t.” She brought her other foot up and crossed her ankles, smiling with what she hoped was an air of confidence.
Hugh grinned. “You’re a feisty one.”
“You think so?” It was working.
“You come here looking for Bobby, what were you gonna do if he was here?”
“Take him off your hands. Collect the reward.”
Hugh raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment.
Phlox said, “In fact, that’s still my plan. Of course, I understand Bobby owes you boys some money. I’d make sure you’re taken care of.”
“Aren’t you the generous one!”
“I’m the only chance you’ve got to recoup your investment. All you have to do is help me find him.”
Hugh tipped his head and frowned as if waiting for an unfamiliar sound to repeat itself. After a moment he said, “Now don’t you take this wrong, sweetheart, but if I knew how to find Bobby, what would I need you for?”
“On account of I’m the only one who can collect the reward. I’ve already arranged things with Barbaraannette.”
Hugh made a sour face.
Phlox continued. “She knows I’m the one that brought him back here. Besides, suppose you hogtied Bobby and dragged him over to Barbaraannette, and suppose she paid you the money. You don’t think Bobby would turn around and have you arrested for kidnapping?”
“He wouldn’t if he knew what was good for him,” Hugh growled.
“But Bobby wouldn’t know what was good for him, would he? You’d end up in jail for kidnapping, and you’d probably have to give the money back because the court wouldn’t allow you to profit from a criminal enterprise.”
Hugh nodded, either in agreement or to show that he was following her logic.
“So what I’m suggesting is, you help me find Bobby and I’ll cut you guys in. Ten percent. A hundred thousand dollars. That’s five times what you lost on Bobby’s land deal.”
Hugh worked his lips for a few seconds, then said, “A hundred thousand each?”
Phlox shook her head. “Total. You divvy it up however you think.”
“You think he’s out there running loose?”
“I think somebody’s got him. You saw him jump into a car, right? And whoever it is, they’ve got the same problem as you would’ve. They can’t turn him in without getting charged with kidnapping. The only person can do that is me.”
“I don’t suppose you know who’s got him?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be here. The only thing I know is, at that gas station where you boys saw Bobby? There was somebody there in a green car that took off the same time Bobby did. Only I didn’t get the make or license.”
Hugh said, “Hey Rod Man, you catch the license on that car?”
“Nope. But it was a green Ford Taurus, maybe a ninety-four, ninety-five. That’s all I seen.”
Hugh shrugged and returned his attention to Phlox. “Okay, suppose whoever was in the green car put the snatch on our Bobby. How are we supposed to find him?”
Phlox said, “How did I find you?”
“I got no fucking idea.”
“This is Cold Rock, Minnesota, Hugh. It’s not that big a place.”
“So?”
“So how many green Tauruses do you think a town this size can hold?”
Art Dobbleman was five slices into a fourteen-inch veggie pizza and ten minutes into the six o’clock news when the telephone rang. He was pretty sure it was Maria, his ex-wife. They’d been separated for four months and officially divorced for three months now, but she still made it a practice to interrupt his dinner three or four times a week. Making sure he was being a good divorce. He took a large bite of pizza, pressed the mute button on the TV remote, picked up the phone and issued a muffled hello.
“Art? It’s me. Barbaraannette.”
“Bar-oh!” He forced the half-chewed mouthful down his throat. “Hi!” He followed it with several ounces of apple juice.
“Are you busy?”
Art looked down at his long, bare legs. He hadn’t changed clothes from his evening run, a little six-miler. “I’m just sitting around.”
“Art, I need to talk to you.”
“I’m here.”
“About borrowing some money.”
“Sure! Sure, we could do that.” He felt foolish now. He’d thought she might be calling him, but it was just business. He asked, “Is this— has someone found Bobby?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. But I want to be ready. I think I better sign some papers or something, whatever you have to do, because when I need it—if I need it—I’m going to need it fast.”
“How fast?”
“Art, I can’t tie up the phone right now, I’m waiting for an important call. Could you come over here?”
“Now?” He hoped he’d have time for a shower.
“If you’re not busy?”
No shower. “I’m on my way,” said Art.
The first bite nearly turned his tongue into a twisted cinder. André guzzled both wine and water, gasping. What had happened to his wonderful curry? Could those three little peppers have produced such a mouth-searing effect? André wiped the tears from his eyes and examined the plateful of curry, poking at it with his fork. He discovered several whole Sanaam peppers hidden amidst the lamb and onions. André’s face, already flushed, turned a deeper shade of crimson. Fury rose in him with the image of Jayjay’s smirking face. Jayjay’s dead face.
The events of the past three hours scrambled for his attention; André squeezed his eyes closed, pushing away the thought of the dead boy in his cellar. The very idea was absurd! So absurd, in fact, that he found it easy to pretend that it was not so. Casting about for a tolerable replacement thought, he found himself once again in Italy, he and Jayjay—no, some other person—enjoying prosciutto and fresh fava beans, looking out over the Mediterranean. André in an off-white linen jacket, cotton trousers, and sleek calfskin loafers, no socks, the sea breeze caressing his ankles. His companion speaks, a rapid sequence of Italian words which André understands to mean that he, André, is a remarkable and mysterious man. He smiles and extracts a sheaf of lira notes—ten thousand? A hundred thousand? What was a lira worth these days? He would have to do some research. He permitted himself to consider, for a moment, the duct-taped cowboy. The man was worth a million dollars. The man could also put him in prison for the rest of his life. No prosciutto, no fava beans, no antique chairs.
There had to be a way. He could stick with the plan, call the woman back, return her husband to her and collect the money. It would take him several hours to get safely out of the country, and even then, how safe would he be? Did the Italians extradite kidnappers and murderers? Also, if he became a fugitive, would he have to abandon his antiques?
André impaled a piece of lamb, placed it upon his tongue, chewed thoughtfully. The heat filled his mouth. This time he let it burn. The flavor was fiery and sublime. He swallowed, felt the heat flow down his throat into his stomach. He took another bite, felt his sinuses open.
André considered actions, reactions, scenarios both probable and improbable. He followed each scheme from outset to conclusion, saw himself free, imprisoned, wealthy, poor, alive, dead. He worked his way slowly through the plate of curry, letting its heat fire his imagination. By the time he finished the last bite he knew exactly what he had to do.