'And you don't worry enough.'
Jackson opened his hands wide. 'What a team. Perfectly complementary worrying skills as those human resources assholes would say.'
Dixie grinned. 'I think maybe it tipped the balance with Chico. Miguel said something to Alvarez who passed it on.'
Jackson shook his head emphatically. 'That's not it. What tipped the balance was you locking his man Crispy in the trunk of his car.'
'Yeah, that too,' Dixie said. The smile slipped off his face and out of his voice. 'Just bear it in mind when you go to talk to him, okay.'
Jackson nodded. 'Okay. I promise.' He held up three fingers, thumb touching the little finger in a scout's honor gesture.
They stared into each other's eyes. Jackson swallowed. He was one of those people whose eyes well up a little too quickly, particularly for a man. Some people made the mistake of taking it for a sign of weakness.
'Yeah, I know,' he said.
'I still think I see him sometimes,' Dixie said, his voice thick.
Jackson nodded and looked away. 'It happened to me a couple of times in prison. One time I was sat at the table eating dinner and I felt somebody sit down next to me, pushing my leg like I was taking up too much space . . .'
He looked back at Dixie. 'But there was nobody there, of course.' He didn't want to think about how much worse things must be for Dixie. Remy hadn't tried to call him on the day he died. He didn't know how that made him feel. No wonder Dixie lost it.
Dixie punched him on the arm to try to break the tension and ordered him another beer.
'I don't suppose . . .' Dixie started and then stopped.
'What?'
'It doesn't matter.' He gave an irritated shake of the head.
Jackson gave him a long-suffering look and waited. A look that said we might as well get it all out in the open while we're at it.
'I was going to ask if you've heard from Rachel,' Dixie said.
Jackson shook his head. 'No. Things were going downhill even before all this happened. I knew I wouldn't hear anything from her in prison. It's not really her style, is it? Visiting her man in prison with all the other trailer trash wives and girlfriends.'
'I suppose not,' Dixie said and rubbed his nose with the heel of his hand. He took a sip of warm coke to ease the dryness in the back of his throat. What the hell made him bring this up?
Rachel had been a friend of Ellie's and Dixie had introduced her to Jackson. The four of them had spent some time together—even gone on vacation—during Jackson's roller coaster relationship with her. But Jackson was right; he couldn't imagine her visiting him in prison, even if the relationship had been on one of its highs when he got sent down. She'd moved on by then.
'Does she still live in the same place?' Jackson asked.
'As far as I know.'
'Maybe I'll drop round,' Jackson said with a grin. 'I'm sure she'd be pleased to see me.'
But Dixie wasn't listening to him. An idea had taken root in his mind and the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He smiled to himself. Yes.
Jackson gripped his arm and shook him. 'Hello?'
'Sorry. I've just had an idea,' Dixie said, his attention snapping back to Jackson's confused face. 'I think she might be staying with her.'
'What are you talking about? Who's staying with who?'
Dixie knew he was grinning stupidly. He couldn't help himself. He leaned towards Jackson and grasped his arm. 'I didn't think of her before. Seeing you reminded me. Ellie must be hiding somewhere. She wouldn't want to stay in a hotel because she knows I could get somebody to check.'
Jackson put his hand over his face, pulled it down, closing his eyes for a moment. 'Isn't it a bit obvious? A bit too easy for you to find her.'
'Not really.' He let go of Jackson's arm, started tapping his fingers on the bar. 'I haven't seen her for . . . over two years. It's only talking to you made me think of her. It's got to be worth a try. I've got nothing to lose.'
'What are you going to do if you find her?'
Dixie thought about it. He wasn't sure what he was going to do. Despite his initial reaction at the self-storage facility he didn't think he'd be able to actually do anything to her, to hurt her, however much she might deserve it. He'd probably just do what she'd done to him—take the money and run.
'I don't know yet, but I know one thing for sure.'
'What's that?'
'We're looking at a fifty-fifty split now. Congratulations, you just earned another half million dollars.'
Jackson's grin split his face in two. He raised his hand for a high five. Dixie looked at his hand and shook his head.
'I must have made a mistake—I thought you'd only been inside two years. Looks like it was twenty. Nobody does that stuff any more.'
Jackson curled the hand into a fist and punched him on the arm instead.
'That's what I call a good day's work.' He raised his glass in a salute. 'Let's do it again.'
Dixie laughed. 'Sounds good to me. What about Friday?'
Chapter 39
Earl Munroe sat in his pickup and picked his nose absently. Country music played softly on the radio. He listened to Willie Nelson singing On the Road Again while he inspected the contents of his nose on his fingernail and tried to calm down. If it was up to him, Willie'd be in the White House and the country would be a better place all round. Hell, he sure couldn't do a worse job than the peanut farmers and second-rate movie actors and all the rest of them. He wiped a large booger carefully on his pants and slammed the heel of his hand into the dash. He thought about what had just happened in the bar. At times like this his tongue—what was left of it—felt like it was on fire as his teeth gnashed uselessly against each other inside his cheek.
He knew a gook-loving, commie faggot when he saw one. Hell, the pussy was even drinking Coca Cola. He wouldn't have been surprised if he'd had one of those bendy straws or maybe a cocktail umbrella in it. Cocked his pinkie while he sipped it too. Earl wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer but even he knew it rotted your teeth. And that wasn't all. They'd thrown him out after just the one beer. He always got two free beers before they gave him the bum's rush. Was it his fault they let a cock-sucking commie faggot into the place? What did they expect him to do? Pretend the guy wasn't there? Act like there's nothing wrong? Give him a big kiss?
He twisted his left arm and pulled the fabric of his sleeve taut so he could look at the latest patch he'd sewn on. He would have been happier if it had been a little straighter and more in line with the others, but hey-ho. His momma had been much better at it than he was before she passed away, but then she would be, sewing being a woman's job an' all. His fingers were way too big and shook too much. They didn't used to shake. Besides, it wasn't so bad and it was the sentiment that mattered: Don't let the gray hair fool you; we can still kick ass.
He settled back in the seat and let the music wash over him while he waited for the commie faggot and his faggoty friend to come out. Jesus Christ, you couldn't get away from them these days. Anyone would think he'd moved to San Fag-cisco. Things had been different when he was young, that was for sure. They knew how to deal with them back then. On top of which, the guy now owed him a beer. He didn't look like the kind of guy who paid his dues either.
He leaned across and opened the glove compartment, checked to make sure his Colt M1911 was still in there. There was more than one way of paying your dues.
Chapter 40
The young woman with the long, dark hair paused with her key halfway into the lock of number twenty-three. At first she ignored the name being called behind her. She was tall and attractive with the sort of figure that made other women—the ugly, fat ones mainly—want to spit in her face. She had a good bust with maybe a little too much meat on her thighs and well-rounded ass, but it was all in proportion and she was used to men calling out to her in the street. But then she laughed to herself. Even now she sometimes forgot to respond to her new name—Christ, she still hadn’t got round to changing all her documents. Where did the time go? She turned round at the sound of the name being called a second time.