MONDAY OCTOBER 8, 2007
SIR GALAHAD ANNOUNCED THE NEW day well before sun up. Walker went outside, took a leak, and wandered over to Lee Ann’s. The Blazer was there, the hood cold. The dogs romped around him, jostling against his legs, and he patted their heads and said, “Git,” and when they disobeyed and snuck back to Mother’s, he growled, “G’wan!”
With one sweep, he emptied the cookie jar, running his knuckles around the bottom to corral any change. Danielle’s room remained unoccupied. Mother snored softly. He groped around the top shelf of his closet and yanked down the old duffle bag, spread it apart, and opened his bureau drawer. Tee shirts were neatly stacked beside socks folded toe-to-toe and heel-to-heel in neat pairs. He shoved the drawer shut and stuffed the duffle bag back on the shelf. Early light struck the Anasazi bowls and ladles, bone tools, metates, and grandfather’s spittoon on the bookshelves, and a dull sheen reflected off his breakaway roping trophy. The delicate black and white Mimbres pot with the narrow neck, the one the posthole digger had brought up while replacing a rotten fence post, would make a nice souvenir. It had clinked when he’d cleaned it off and four obsidian bird points had fallen into his palm. He shook out the contents now, picked out an arrowhead, polished it against his shirt, and slipped it in his vest pocket. He reached for the 9mm Glock 26 subcompact and shoulder holster in the drawer, wrapped his fingers around cool metal, shut out the memories, and walked out.
The pickup slowed and his pulse raced as he rounded the knoll at Plank’s Plot and pulled up beside Danielle’s Jeep. He cut the engine, stretched his legs under the steering wheel and sipped from the flask. The cinderblocks had settled, sending the southwest corner of the trailer into a nosedive. Ought to put a rock under it. A couple of rusted fifty-five-gallon drums had overflowed with garbage, some of it finding a home under the crawl space. The back of Keith’s SUV was open, a canvas overnight bag and paper grocery sack stuffed with dirty clothes inside. All right. They were both ready to deal, wind things up, and split. He squinted against the sun’s reflection bouncing off a small metal strip running along the edge of the roof. The go-ahead light. Poor now, rich by night. Offer the bait, let him bite. Close the deal, take flight.
Quitclaim deed in hand, he sprinted toward the steps and came to a full stop. Whoa, boy. Don’t kill the transaction with enthusiasm. Keep the zipper shut. Don’t slap the dude’s shoulder. Hold off on that handshake until the money’s delivered and stowed in the truck. Tonight there’ll be plenty of time to let loose, order a shot of Johnnie Walker Gold, and celebrate. Hell, buy the whole bottle and pass it around the bar in some unknown town. The world didn’t lack watering holes, no matter where he’d bed down. Hey, he might use the big bucks to purchase a dive in the UP, with padded leather trim along a shiny bar, low lights, high stools, red and black décor, nothin’ fancy, a hangout for the common man. Pat said folks drank a lot up there, to get through the winters and all. The place would have a jukebox, if they still made those things, and a rock fireplace, a dartboard, and pool table. And to hell with what the law said about cigarette smoking in closed quarters, because those would be his quarters, his and Pat’s, and he’d do what he damn well pleased. Don’t like smoke? Go elsewhere. Music too loud? Bring earplugs.
Keith opened the door, the living room darkened by heavy curtains. Down the hall the bathroom door closed.
Walker slipped inside, the deed against his thigh.
“Beautiful day,” he said. “My bones tell me the weather’s about to change, though. We’ll be getting some rain in a day or two.”
“No need for small talk,” Keith said. “I have your money.”
Sunlight broke through dusty kitchen blinds, shooting pinstripes across the floor. Keith reached into the cabinet under the sink, pulled out a black suitcase.
“Open it,” he said, shoving it across the table.
Walker’s mouth watered, as if he just got a whiff of strong coffee with a big splash of Bailey’s.
“Okay, then.”
He flipped the clasps and exactly like in a B-grade movie, tightly packed stacks of hundred dollar bills filled a suitcase that seemed custom-made for that purpose.
“I’ll take the deed,” Keith said. “Sign this receipt for the cash.”
Walker shoved the deed next to the money. Keith placed his index finger on it and slowly drew it across the table. Walker picked up the pen. Wait a minute. In the long run, land was worth more than any amount of money. But the short run won out and he signed. The Handsome Man side of Keith’s face turned ugly. Cold air seemed to come off him, cold beyond a freezer on the highest setting. The hairs rose on the back of Walker’s neck and arms. He lifted the suitcase and with his free elbow nudged his jacket. The Glock peeked out. With a brief salute he backed into the living room, and keeping his eyes on the motherfucker, fumbled behind his back for the doorknob.
Out of here quick, down the steps, suitcase on the seat, ass behind the wheel. A shot rang out. Walker turned the ignition, put her in reverse. Another shot. He slouched down in the seat, his foot to the pedal. A hissing sound leaked from the tires.
Grab the suitcase! Run! He zigzagged across the field to the barn. Two bullets whizzed by. Walker jumped into overdrive, his legs bounding on invisible springs. A regular kangaroo. Run! Think! Take cover in the barn until nightfall, then cross the clearing to the mesa, hike through dense piñon and cedar to the road a few miles north and hitch a ride.
He squinted through a crack in the barn’s siding. Keith drove his SUV behind a crinkled metal shed and faced it toward Walker’s get-away route to the mesa. The automatic window opened and the engine cut off. Dust tickled Walker’s nose and he squeezed his nostrils against a sneeze. Crouching low, and using the barn as cover, he retraced his steps to the trailer. Danielle kept the key to the Jeep under the seat and sure enough, there it was, gas tank half full.
He drove away slowly, letting Keith assume Danielle had left for work. When he reached the highway, he gunned the engine and headed north. Let’s see how fast this red crate’ll go! Five miles up the road he took off his hat and laid it on the suitcase and laughed and laughed and laughed.