JIMMY ZEBROWSKI, PLEASE.”
“You’re talking to him.”
“Hello, Jimmy. My name is Lee Ann Walker,” she said, her voice breathy. “Walker’s sister. I’m calling from the Des Moines airport. An emergency has come up in our family. Pat Merker gave me your number and said you can help me find Walker.”
A man asked for a pack of Marlborough Lights at the other end of the line.
“You don’t know me, but we could meet,” she said. “I’ll take a cab to wherever you suggest, and will pay you one thousand dollars for this information, if you agree not to tell Walker I’m here.”
“Cash?”
“Of course.”
A cash register closed. The man said, “See ya.”
“I’ve got business with him at noon tomorrow,” Jimmy said. “If you can hold off seeing him until after we’re done, okay. I’ll need the money up front.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
“I get off at seven o’clock. Meet me at Farley’s at seven-thirty. Any cabbie will know where it is.”
She ordered a quarter pounder and fries, settled herself at an empty gate rapidly filling with whining children and crying babies, and called home. The answering machine picked up.
“It’s Mom,” she said. “I took a plane and just arrived. Tomorrow is Grace’s birthday. You might take her some eggs.”
At seven o’clock she hailed a cab. The snow had stopped and the main streets were being salted. The city must resemble San Francisco, Boston, or New York, with its streetlights, malls and theaters, art museums, and cinemas showing the top ten rated movies. Green neon letters advertised Farley’s, a bar in an old downtown hotel.
From brass fixtures, dim, orange light warmed a cozy room with high-backed wooden booths and dark green walls. She ventured toward a barstool and scooted her suitcase close in, hoisted her rear onto the leather seat, and rested her feet on the long brass footrest. Eugene might have fancied bringing her to a place like this. She would have resisted. Sinners frequented bars and the virtuous attended church. If someone in Brand considered patronizing both, Art’s clientele reduced them to the lowest level in no time. But in this elegant establishment, no one would punch their buddy in the face over an insult, unintentional or otherwise. The patrons wore clean clothes and polished shoes, and the bartender had on a black vest with gold buttons over an ironed shirt, a red bow tie propping his chin. She ordered a Coke and waited for a tap on the shoulder.
So, the Urbandale Holiday Inn Express, room 106. Lee Ann scribbled the address on a cocktail napkin.
“Yeah, Walker and Pat,” Jimmy said. “Quite the pair.”
“I take it you know them well.”
“Well enough to know they look alike but are mighty different. Walker’s a lightweight con artist. Pat’s a heavy-weight felon. Only reason Pat’s serving time in minimum security is because of a minor misdemeanor. In his youth he served fourteen years for armed robbery. Shot a jewelry store clerk in both legs, crippled him for life.”
Lee Ann’s palms itched and she rubbed them on her thighs. From her purse she took ten one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to Jimmy. He finished his drink in one gulp, laid a ten next to her Coke and said something like “good deal,” or “good luck,” and “so long.” She placed another five on top of Jimmy’s ten, hesitated, added three more dollars and asked the bartender to call a taxi.
The clerk at the Urbandale Holiday Inn gave her a room on the second floor overlooking the parking lot. A silver Honda was parked in front of 106. She placed her suitcase on the dresser, took out her toiletries, and splashed warm water on her face, drying off with white towels that wouldn’t last a day at home, no matter how much bleach. She set out her comb and squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush. In the mirror her hand went back and forth and up and down, spreading toothpaste over her teeth and gums, over and over, so tired, too tired to rinse, but she did. The heater was noisy and blew a draft around the room. Her sweater pulled off without a struggle. So many pillows. She tossed the extras aside. The decorator pillows on their bed at home had ended up teetering on an overloaded chair or tossed on the floor at night and were soon stored in the closet, and eventually donated to the thrift store. Lorraine Connely bought them for her guest room. Lee Ann’s eyes closed and the journey’s purpose faded to a remote notion.
She said, “Eugene.”
Eugene unhitching the horse trailer, Eugene pouring maple syrup over a stack of pancakes, Eugene hooking his belt buckle, zipping his jacket, teaching Dee how to shoot, nodding okay when Scott refused to handle a weapon, taking her hand in the evening and strolling down the rows of vegetables, snapping a green bean in two, half for her, half for him, picking a squash blossom and tucking it behind her ear. He’d be finished in the bathroom in a minute and collapse into the empty spot beside her and sigh, rest his arm over her waist. It would grow heavy as his breathing deepened and she would turn on her side. They would sleep with their legs touching.