“I have to get back to the office,” Ed said as he stood up. “Rain check?”
“You’ll be in town?”
“Right by the phone.”
“I’ll call. Come say good-bye to Theresa and the boys, or I’ll be in trouble all day.”
Ed went into the kitchen, where Johnny and Peter were wearing the ingredients of a big chocolate cake, and said his good-byes. He licked some frosting off the beater, kissed Theresa on the cheek, and made his way out without eating anything else. Marc shook his hand and gave him a little hug at the door.
Ed decided to walk down the hill to the office. As he walked, he thought it might be nice to get into another line of work, something that didn’t make you so paranoid. Something that didn’t set off internal alarm bells just because you saw a fraternity photograph of Marc Merolla arm in arm with Peter Hathaway.
Walter Withers woke up rough.
A Saharan thirst parched his throat, his head was full of cotton wadding, and he was shaking. Also, he didn’t know where he was. He rolled out of bed, shuffled to the bathroom, and threw up. He poured three glasses of water down his throat and threw up again.
I have to cut back on the sauce, he thought.
He went back into the bedroom and edged a corner of the drape open. Even the pale morning sunlight hurt his eyes as he looked out onto a deserted Route 50 and remembered where he was.
Austin, Nevada.
His mouth tasted like a mop that had just cleaned a subway rest room-or what he imagined that must taste like-and he desperately wanted to brush his teeth. The problem was that he couldn’t seem to locate his bag.
Deciding that he must have left it in his car, he opened the motel-room door, didn’t see any cars at all, and tried to remember the last time he had seen his.
Outside that grubby saloon.
He looked out the window again and didn’t see his car.
He found his shoes under the bed, pried his feet into them, went outside, looked up and down, and didn’t see the red Sunbird.
This has the potential of making things very awkward at the return counter, he thought.
Then he remembered a dispute over car keys, which led to a recollection of Neal Carey’s disgraceful behavior and the alcoholic marathon back from the far reaches of the tundra. The door to the saloon was unlocked, so he went in.
Deserted: Neither the smelly old man nor the smelly old dog were to be seen. Withers vaguely recalled an episode of an old television show-back when people actually bothered to write them-where a man woke up in an uninhabited world and found out that he was in hell.
Withers walked behind the bar, poured himself a bourbon, and considered the possibility that he was dead. Or asleep, dreaming that he was dead… or dreaming that he was awake, sitting at a bar considering the possibility that he was dead or asleep, or…
This was getting him nowhere.
Get thee behind me, Satan, Withers thought as he pushed the bottle away. There is work to be done-Neal Careys to be dealt with, automobiles to be recovered, young ladies to be located and bribed-
The briefcase.
Oh Lord, the briefcase.
Surely it was in the room and he had overlooked it.
He rushed out of the bar, across the street, and into the room. It wasn’t on the chair or the bed; it wasn’t on the floor under the luggage rack; it wasn’t under the bed. He considered the awful possibility that the briefcase was with the automobile-gone-and went back into the bathroom for another bout of expurgation.
Then he saw the note on the bed.
There was no phone in the room, so he had to go to the booth on the street. His hand shook as he dialed the number. He let it ring about twenty times before he concluded that no one was going to answer, then he leaned against the glass, feeling sick for five minutes before he dialed again.
Never send to ask for whom the bell tolls, Withers thought. It tolls for thee.
After thirty-five rings, he decided that this earthly existence was a dark endless cycle of meaningless despair.
In something like eighteen hours, he thought, I have misplaced the subject, a car, $20,000-give or take-and my toothbrush. Whoever said that God takes care of fools and drunks was wrong on both counts.
He checked his wallet and saw that God had taken care of him to the tune of a couple of hundred bucks.
A two-dime stake, Walter thought. There was only one place in the world where he could build that back up. Now if only the Deity will make a bus run from here to Las Vegas.
Overtime had overslept.
The sun was up well before he was and that made him mad at himself. He’d wanted a few more hours of darkness to drive in but had been too exhausted.
Last night was too close, he thought. He’d barely reached the car ahead of the snapping dog and then had switched vehicles again in such a hurry that he hadn’t had time to change clothes until he’d pulled the car off a dirt road east of town.
The car was clean; that was not the problem. The problem was his distinctive wounds. If he was stopped for any reason, the dog bites would clearly mark him as the attempted killer. Attempted murder, Overtime thought. Hardly a charge for a professional. He’d be laughed at.
The thought hurt almost as much as his wounds, and he couldn’t decide which of those hurt most. His back felt as if someone had laced it with a baseball bat. The bitch. The Amazonian bull dyke bitch. As he arched his back to try to stretch the muscles, he regretted not killing her.
He unwrapped the gauze bandage he’d hastily applied last night. The dried blood stuck to the bandage and he could still feel the stinging pain as he’d poured hydrogen peroxide onto the raw flesh and into the puncture wounds. It always surprised him how many professionals didn’t carry a basic first-aid kit as a standard part of their equipment. It was a serious oversight, because once you went to a doctor or an ER you were entered into the information network, and that could be extremely disadvantageous.
He opened his kit and removed a small pair of scissors. It was difficult with his left hand, but he carefully snipped away the shreds of loose flesh and neatened the wounds. Then he daubed them with a cotton swab soaked in peroxide and applied a topical antibacterial ointment. He threaded surgical filament into a needle and slowly stitched the cuts that needed closure. The pain made sweat pop out on his forehead, but he controlled his breathing, relaxed, and concentrated on the task.
Pain is ephemeral, he told himself. Infection can be permanent.
When he was done, he wrapped the wrist in fresh gauze, tore the edge in half with his teeth, and tied it off.
He treated the puncture wounds on his shoulder as best he could, but by using the rearview mirror, he could see that one was especially deep and would need attention soon.
He popped a couple of codeine tablets and pulled out on the road. He didn’t dare take a pass back through town. The risk didn’t justify the gain.
No, he thought, the bird saw the dog, the bird flew, and the dog got me.
Now he would have to contact the client, inform him that the target had escaped before he’d had a good chance to execute, and start again. Bad for the reputation.
A reputation is like glass, he thought. Once it’s chipped, it shatters easily.
If the real story ever gets out, I’m finished. No one paid Overtime’s kind of fee for anything less than success. The legendary Overtime, “Sudden Death” himself, trashed by a dog and a woman.
Problem: damaged reputation reduces marketability.
Analysis: Revenge, although a personal indulgence, will restore said reputation. As will a spectacular two-for-one execution.
Solution: Locate targets and dispatch both. Polly Paget and the woman with the baseball bat.
But now he needed to reorganize. Find a good crooked doctor and a safe place to sleep. He pulled the car onto Highway 376 and headed south for the one place that could provide what he needed: Vegas.