ON THE ROAD TO FORT PESSEL, VIRGINIA
TUESDAY EVENING
Victor, why are we on I-95? You know I hate all this traffic, all these cars piled nearly on top of one another, all these losers trying to get home to their boring little houses to their boring little kiddies. It’s fricking rush hour, turn around and let’s go back to Washington. I want to drill that murdering Riley right between his stupid eyes.
“I told you, Lissy, I won’t let you kill him unless you tell me where your mama hid the bank money. I told you, too, it seems Riley’s gone to ground, probably Savich warned him to stay away for a while. So we’ll go to Fort Pessel first, to your mama’s house. You show me the money, and in a couple of weeks, I’ll even let you drive back to where Riley lives.”
If I tell you, you swear you’ll let me pump a couple of bullets in his brain?
“Yes.”
Victor felt the touch of her wet mouth against his cheek, the lick of her tongue. He felt a surge of lust, then a sort of familiar settling down all the way to his soul. He remembered her mama’s journal, a thin white book she’d kept hidden in a small hidey-hole behind the baseboard under her bed. He’d been watching her unawares. When she’d hidden it, he’d snuck it out and saw she’d listed all the banks the gang had robbed, the guards they’d murdered, the people they’d killed who’d interfered, the amount of money stolen from each bank, and how much she had left after paying out everyone’s shares. All of it entered in Jennifer Smiley’s spidery black handwriting. He hadn’t had time to read all of it, didn’t know if there was any clue about where she’d hidden the money. If he could get to that notebook, maybe he wouldn’t need Lissy to tell him. Then again, it was risky going back there, and maybe the FBI had already found the notebook. Still, it was a smart hiding place, so maybe not.
“Lissy, do you remember your mother’s little notebook?”
No, I didn’t even know Mama had a notebook. Why are you talking about that? You’re putting me off, aren’t you, Victor? Listen, I’m hungry, we had only a couple of tacos for lunch. When my stomach growls, it makes those awful staples pull, makes them hurt.
“I know you love Southern fried chicken and mashed potatoes, so we’ll stop and get you some.”
Forget the mashed potatoes. I want grits, Victor. I haven’t had grits in way too long. Hey, I really like the whiskers and the glasses, makes you look all badass and dangerous and smart. Turns me on. After dinner, let’s stop a little while.
Again he felt her warm breath, felt her lick his cheek.
He shook his head at her. “Come on, stop it, Lissy, you almost made me rear-end that car. Look, we’re nearly out of rush hour now, all the worker bees are starting to peel off. Don’t lick me again, not yet, okay? I’ll find us a place to eat dinner.”
And no one will recognize my guy. You really look hot, Victor, and maybe a little bit mean. Just right.
He was whistling when he walked into the Golden Goose Diner in the small town of Winslow, Virginia, and slipped into a cracked leather booth. A pretty blond girl with a pencil tucked over her right ear, wearing shorts and a skimpy top, came to his table, looked him up and down and grinned. “Hey, you ready for some barbecue?”
“No, not tonight,” Victor said. “Fried chicken, a double order, ah, and some grits.” He saw Lissy was smiling really big. He added to the waitress, “Lots of butter in the grits, please.”
Both the portions were huge, and when the last chicken wing was only bones, Victor pressed his hand over his belly. He was stuffed and felt faintly nauseated. Too much fat. He thought of all that fried lobster, and all the fried chicken he’d eaten in his short life. Lissy should have been happy, but she wasn’t.
That little bitch is flirting with you, Victor. She keeps coming back here, pressing closer and closer, talking to you in that slutty voice. You let her see that wad of cash on purpose, didn’t you, to get her interested? You want to have sex with her since I have staples in my belly and it hurts too bad ? You sleep with her, Victor, and I’ll shoot her ass.
He’d never before seen Lissy jealous and realized it made him feel hot, like a chick magnet. He pulled back his shoulders, gave the waitress a big smile when she came over, and handed her a hundred-dollar bill. “I’m Victor, and your name tag says Cindy. That’s a real pretty name. Hey, keep the change. Maybe after work you’d like to have a glass of iced tea with me, cool down? Or we could go somewhere.”
Cindy Wilcox made a snap decision. Victor looked nice, sort of sexy with that long hair and goatee. Fact was, she was bored. She looked at her iWatch, a gift from her married brother last Christmas. “Thirty-five more minutes, and I’ll be done here. Hey, I’ll ask Chuck real nice if I can leave early, how’s that?”
“Sounds good. Why not bring me a glass of iced tea, and I’ll wait for you.”
Victor watched Cindy sashay back behind the counter and fill his glass with more tea, squeeze in some fresh lemon, plunk in the ice cubes. He breathed in deep when she leaned over to set his tea on the table, felt her breast brush his arm. The feel of her was amazing. She smelled like roses. He knew Cindy had seen the cash and knew, too, she wanted some of it. He didn’t blame her, didn’t think less of her, stuck in this hick town in a hick diner with crap air-conditioning and grease floating in the air. He could take her to a nice cool motel and see. Or maybe it would be best to go to her place. He felt Lissy’s anger, thick and hot, pouring over him, into him, heard her hissing in his ear, and that felt even better than good.
He smiled, glanced at his own watch. “I’ve got some time before I have to be on the road again.”
Ten minutes later, Victor followed Cindy’s ancient faded green Mini Cooper as it twisted through a half dozen quiet, unlit streets. It was late enough that there wasn’t much traffic and no screaming kids. They were all inside, watching TV, then off to their beds for the night. She pulled into the driveway of a middle-class duplex in a not-bad neighborhood, turned off her Mini Cooper, got out, and walked to his car, hips swaying. He stepped out of the Chrysler.
Cindy said, “Hey, not a bad car, except for the color. Why’d you get a vomit-brown car? It’s like a rental nobody would ever steal.”
Victor said smooth as silk, “That’s why exactly. I had a car stolen once, a beautiful white Mustang, so all I buy now are ugly-butts. Never got one stolen again.”
“Did you live in a bad neighborhood?”
Victor thought of Jennifer Smiley’s house at the cul-de-sac in Fort Pessel, only three or four hours’ drive southeast of Winslow. It wasn’t a bad house, a bit run-down, and the neighborhood had been mainly white, hick, and nosy. “Yeah, maybe,” Victor said, and stared at her breasts.