Sweat was pouring down my front, I said,
“If you’ve hurt her...”
He gave a sigh, then,
“You’re off again, why would we hurt her, she’s our leverage... for our money.”
I couldn’t help it, echoed,
“Your money?”
Now he went Barry Fitzgerald mode,
“Sure and whose t’would it be?”
A fun guy.
I said,
“If Siobhan’s hurt, you’ll never see a bloody cent.”
He took a moment, then,
“Am I hearing hostility?”
When I left the black hole, that is, didn’t answer, he said,
“The said Siobhan wasn’t inclined to chat but eventually, she sang like a blackbird, the money scam, meeting you in Tucson... are you still up for that?”
My mind was reeling, I tried,
“And you’re planning to tag along?”
He laughed, said,
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, I don’t see you returning to us, call it an intuition.”
I let my rage flow:
“Bring it on, shithead, I’ll be there, waiting for you.”
A sigh, as if I disappointed him, then,
“I’m still hearing those negative waves, you need to get a handle on that, boyo.”
I crashed the phone down.
Stood, turned on the TV... Friends... I watched without a single reaction. An enclyclopedia salesman was trying to sell a volume to Joey, going,
“How is your general knowledge?”
Seeing Joey’s blank face, he tried,
“Where does the Pope live?”
Not missing a beat, Joey replied,
“In the woods.”
I switched off, got on the phone, took time, but eventually, got one of Siobhan’s friends. Not encouraging, Siobhan hadn’t been seen for two weeks, hadn’t shown up for work.
After the call, I said aloud,
“She’s dead.”
But what if she wasn’t? She’d no way of contacting me, if she had escaped from them, she’d try to make the Tucson rendezvous. Either way, I’d have to go... I wanted to meet Stapelton... Jesus, did I ever.
I dialled another number, Siobhan’s home. A long shot but if she needed to hide, anything was possible; her father answered, sounded like he always did, gruff, belligerent, drunk. I asked,
“Is Siobhan around?”
“Who?”
“Your daughter, Siobhan, have you seen her?”
A pause and for a brief moment, my spirits lifted... maybe... then,
“I haven’t clapped an eye on her these three years, with a bit of luck, it will be three more.”
Closed him down.
The room was oppressive, my mind riddled with poison, I got out of there, walked quickly back to the Sahara, Bob was still at the bar, said,
“Hey, hey, you changed your mind.”
I ordered two shots of bourbon, nudged one over to Bob, said,
“I need your help.”
He lifted his glass, touched it to mine, said,
“You got it, good buddy.”
“info freako”
On west gates pass road, as Speedway Boulevard winds its way from the city of Tucson, you hit the International Wildlife Museum. Dade was driving, no destination set, speed cranking in his veins, Tammy on the speakers, “Funny Face,” he shouted,
“You sing it, babe.”
Times like this Tammy was speaking to him, he hit the volume.
No shit, she knew Dade was her man... he hit the volume again, the noise near swaying the vehicle, he was driving a pickup... Sherry gone to get her hair, as she said,
“Prettied up.”
Dade had bought the pickup for eight hundred bucks, from a guy out of El Paso, it was beat up, had serious milage but the sucker moved. All he needed was a hound dog, Hank Williams on the speakers, gun rack, he’d be the complete redneck, the image made him smile, Tammy was onto “I Fall To Pieces.”
Dade went,
“Bitching... fucking song kills me, darlin’.”
He sang along, into it, seeing him and Tammy, heads together, at the microphone, leaning in for each alternate line, high-fiving it to the massive, chanting crowd... could hear that crowd, howl,
“Tammy... Dade... Tammy... Dade.”
He spotted the sign... International Wildlife Museum... thought why not?... jarred to a halt... paid seven bucks admission and was seriously pissed, returned to the admission booth, asked,
“The hell kind of scam you running here?”
The woman, bored, focused dull eyes on him, went,
“What?”
“The animals are stuffed, what’s that about?”
She gaped at him and he asked,
“Why doesn’t it say on the sign... ‘Dead Animals’?... huh, roadkill! I can get in my truck and drive, get all that crap on the side of the goddamn highway?”
She said,
“You want live Mister, you need to get down to the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum.”
She looked at her watch, cautioned,
“Don’t go today.”
“What, they closed?”
“It’s nearly noon, the animals have their siesta.”
She refused him a refund and he had a moment, climb in the booth, stuff her, line her up with the other stiffs. Stormed outa there, to see a bum sitting on the kerb, who asked,
“Got any change, buddy?”
Dade kicked him in the side, said,
“Get a fucking job.”
Back in the truck, the music died, he seriously lost it, thrashed the panel till his hands hurt, then his cell buzzed, startling him, he got it to his ear, rasped,
“Better be good.”
“It’s Fer.”
Dade hadn’t expected him for another week, needed to get Sherry in gear if they were going to take the dude down. Apart from ripping off the guns, the cash, the dope.
Dade just wanted to waste an angel.
Like a country song:
“Wasting the Angel.”
He vaguely remembered Sarah McLachlan, she did some tune along those lines, got famous ’cause Clinton gave Monica Lewinsky the album or was it the other way round. His brain was so fried, he couldn’t remember, thought
“What... the... fuck... ever.”
Bodily fluids had been exchanged, sort of, that’s what counted.
Fer grunted,
“You there?”
Dade’s head bounced back, he said,
“You betcha.”
Mean chuckle from the biker and,
“Y’all been messing with that there mescal?”
Pronounced it mess-cal, a biker’s humour, added,
“You all fucked up on that wetback hooch, that it, partner?”
Dade was going to enjoy slamming the Walther in this hog’s mouth, said,
“I’m cool, bro, got my shit together, just waiting on da man, waiting on you, amigo.”
Fer was talking to someone in the background, sounded heated. Dade flashed on the biker chick, the suburban wannabe outlaw, then Fer said,
“We’re ready to roll, you got the cash dollars?”
Ready and waiting.”
More background debate, then,
“We figure to haul into Tucson tomorrow evening, how’s that?”
Dade figured, yeah, get it done, said,
“Cool.”
Then Fer said,
“Slight change of venue.”
Dade’s antennae was up, cautiously he asked,
“Why’s that, bro?”
Belly laugh, with,
“Lest you figuring to bushwhack me, try to take me off.”
Dade put some hurt in his voice, let a little whine leak over the words, asked,
“You don’t trust me?”
The laugh out loud and,
“Man, I don’t trust my mom and she’s like dead, ten freaking years.”
Mom?
They set up the meet at a flophouse off Congress Street. Dade knew of a club nearby, specialised in indie music, suggested that as alternative.