When they reached Rigby’s SUV, Bobby had some difficulty getting in, and Rigby wondered about the wisdom of getting him any drunker, but he wanted somebody to bounce this off of. “How about the Shanty?”
“Sure,” Bobby said. “It’s a shithole, but why not.”
They drove north on Main, Bobby giving a running commentary on all the failed businesses that had once filled the empty storefronts. “This stretch of Main’s like the small-business graveyard. Hey, remember twenty years back, there was a coffin store up the street, little bit farther than this? Fucking showroom, like they were selling furniture. Which I guess coffins are, kind of.”
“That was before I got here.”
“That’s right, you’re a kid. So this straying wife of yours, she some kind of bored housewife banging the plumber, or she work?”
It’s because he’s old that he feels free to say any goddamn thing that pops into his head, not because he’s plastered. Rigby could think of any number of people he would have punched for talking about his wife that way, but somehow coming from Bobby Theele, it didn’t bother him at all.
“Hold on.” He pulled over to the curb and made a U-turn, then headed south.
“Hey, Thirsty, Shanty’s the other way.”
“Just want to show you something.” He stopped across the street from one of Paula’s bus benches, illuminated by the orange haze of a streetlamp. “That’s her on the bench.”
Bobby squinted at the picture. It was a good one. She looked sexy but professional, and looking at it gave Rigby the unaccustomed urge to cry.
“Well, shit, now I can understand your desire to kill the guy. Listen up, though, how’s about we turn back around and get a drop to drink?”
Going back to the Shanty was a risky move, but he needed to figure out what to do about that stick insect back at the holding cell, and he figured the ambience might stimulate his thought processes. When he’d gone in to meet Ernie Norwin they’d sat at a corner table, occupied now by a couple in their forties holding hands and discussing something very earnestly, the male deeply distressed and the female consoling but firm. He had the feeling he knew the woman from somewhere; she was heavier than he guessed she’d like to be, but to Rigby’s mind she was a very pleasing size. Not the kind of woman he’d necessarily want on his arm at a social function, but one he’d love to slap bellies with. Then she came into focus; she was a paralegal who’d started working at the old firm just before he and Britt had left. Did she recognize him? She hadn’t looked in the direction of the bar that he’d seen, but here was a perfect example of why coming here was a bad idea.
“You sure got quiet all of a sudden, Thirsty.”
“Got a lot on my mind.”
“Drink your drink, then. You got a lot of catching up to do.”
Rigby tossed back his Jack and Coke. They had better brands on the shelf, but he’d said to himself walking in that as long as he was in a dive he ought to drink accordingly. He held up the empty glass and twirled his index finger in a circle. In response the bartender made a sound like mucus going through a dog’s throat and made his drink without any other acknowledgment.
“You know, when they built this place it was one of the best in town. Live music every night. Now it’s just a good place to get laid or stabbed.”
“I’ll pass on both.”
“Ventura was a lot livelier before the 101 came through. Route 66, you had to drive through town, not around it. S’why we have all those motels. Used to be full of families traveling through. Now they’re all halfway houses.”
“I’ve had clients lived in those motels. Probably a few of them come in here.”
“I bet you’re the first man been in here in a year in a coat and tie,” Bobby said.
Rigby fingered the tip of the thick end of his necktie. “Don’t know why I put this goddamn thing back on after they let me out.”
“That’s kind of a loud one for a day in court.”
The bartender came over with the next round and left without speaking, plainly seething with resentment toward the two of them and, in fact, toward everyone in the bar. Rigby assumed that this was his habitual state.
“I wasn’t in court. Went upstate this morning to negotiate a deal, wanted to look sharp. Got back tonight, found out my wife was fucking another guy, beat said guy up, went to jail, girlfriend bailed me out and dumped me.”
“Girlfriend.” He raised an eyebrow and reared his head back.
“Mistress. You like that better?”
“Semantics. All’s I’m saying is maybe that’s why she strayed.”
“Oh, no, huh-uh. She doesn’t know about this—at least she didn’t until real recently.”
“So you say.” He jerked his head in the bartender’s direction. “Bartender looks like Jack Elam without the walleye, don’t he.”
Rigby studied the man, staring now with a child’s studied petulance at the floor. He had a remarkably round head, hair heavy and curly on the sides and quite sparse up top, and big, wide-set eyes with black, caterpillar brows. “Who’s Jack Elam?”
“Ah, you kids, you don’t know shit anymore.”
After he dropped Bobby off at his house—nobly ignoring the old man’s demands to be deposited at his car—he started to drive home, then reconsidered. Paula had to know what had happened by now, and he didn’t want to hash the thing out with her tonight. Anything he had to say to her would be better expressed after a night’s sleep. The problem was he didn’t have a working credit card, so a hotel was out of the question, and Beth wasn’t about to let him in.
So he headed for the office, where he could choose between the couch or the meager remainder of his stash of coke. It was two-thirty in the morning, and he tried to drop off on the couch, but with his feet dangling over the edge and his head resting on the thinly upholstered arm he gave up inside of twenty minutes and opened the office safe. There was less in the envelope than he’d expected; he must have had a bigger taste than he remembered the night he killed Ernie. But there was enough to keep him awake, to keep his mind churning. He dwelt on Paula for a few minutes, but he’d already discharged that anger in what he now realized had been quite a satisfying manner, and he considered now what effect the beating he’d administered might have on the business relationship. Probably not a good one.
He took another hit, just to keep the clarity of focus he’d achieved. Things were starting to come together in his mind. There was always a way out if you concentrated hard enough.
All right, Paula was going to be mad, and Will definitely wouldn’t appreciate his grandson’s pummeling. Nina would see it for what Rigby could now see that it was: a serious breach of esprit de corps and an unnecessary and dangerous calling of attention to their group. But the amount of money involved was sufficient, he hoped, to preclude any defections.
The thing had to go down soon, though, especially if Beth was serious about pulling out her share of equity in the firm. The buyers could be lined up in a matter of days. The only thing keeping the process from moving forward was Glenn Haskill’s stubborn failure to succumb to the various illnesses that the doctors had predicted would have him underground by now.
What if Glenn lasted another six months? A year? Two . . . Jesus. Who knew, the old bastard might make it to a hundred, in which case Rigby would need a prison furlough to attend the funeral. In the best-case scenario, he’d just lose his license to practice law.
He took another little toot, and it was as though a light had come on, flooding the inside of his skull. There’d been a phrase the vet’s assistant used when they’d put the kids’ cat Tubby down the year before. They weren’t putting him to sleep, they were helping the poor sick old feline over the Rainbow Bridge.
I have to help Glenn cross the Rainbow Bridge.
It was an awful realization, that his own survival depended upon the murder of his good friend and valued client, but the fact was, he’d be doing the poor sick son of a bitch a favor. What could he look forward to but repeated hospital stays and health crises and endless conversations about starlets fucked long ago and the occasional dinner at Arnoldi’s? Death would be a blessing.
The alarm code was Evvie’s birthday backward. Jerry would be there, asleep in the guest room. So would Nina, in her little room downstairs. He could get past either one of them without a sound. The presence of the nurse was the problem, but lately the alcoholic with the pale, thin red hair had been getting the night shift, and Rigby knew she had a way of falling asleep in her chair when she was supposed to be keeping an eye on his oxygen levels. Glenn had mentioned it; several times he’d awakened to the sound of her snoring. He hadn’t wanted her fired, though, because he thought that, given her tendency toward insobriety, he might have a shot at one last fling. He had in fact gone over the prospect with Rigby in nauseating detail.
“How do I arrange this so she can’t sue me if she doesn’t bite?” he’d asked.
“There’s always that risk, Glenn,” Rigby had said. “You’ll just have to use your usual charm and finesse.”