Alex had stayed away from Stoney for the morning, sleeping a little later in his new, no-better motel room, dreaming of his dad, the two of them diving for treasure in the shallow waters off the Keys. He hadn’t slept well; someone had knocked on his door at some point near midnight, waking him instantly, and he’d crept to the door with his gun in hand, finally peering through the peephole. No one there. He could hear teenagers laughing down the hall – probably just kids. But it unsettled his sleep and he didn’t go back for a while, wondering how to best get his sick father to Costa Rica without attracting too much attention.
He got up, showered, dressed, turned on the local Saturday morning TV news. All Stoney – the missing financier. Nothing on Danny Laffite, though, nothing on the murders at Black Jack Point. But still. He needed to get moving. And he needed to take some precautions.
He drove the van over to the big grocery near the Port Leo harbor. It was a chain superstore, an H-E-B, the megachain in Texas, and the store was pink. Coral pink, the whole building, like all they sold was Pepto-Bismol. He slipped on sunglasses and a Marlins cap and went inside – it was busy, full of retirees and young babies, families, Mexicans, Vietnamese, Anglos, sunburned Yankees asking where the juice was in their nasal whines. He bought some doughnuts, a coffee, a small milk, and a box of hair coloring. Time for a change. Go punkish blond, cut the hair short, dump the van at the Corpus airport. The cashier looked a little funny at him, a guy buying blond hair coloring, but bagged it up with the food and took his money.
Alex was halfway across the parking lot when he saw Helen Dupuy.
She was walking toward the store just out of a truck – an old beat-up red truck, walking with a monster of a guy. Big-built, freak-ugly face, military burr of dark hair. And he thought she might have seen him, just two rows over, if she hadn’t been looking up all goggle-eyed at this freak.
Can’t be Helen, he thought, and he took a hard left, heading away from his car, asking himself what the hell he was doing, stepping behind an SUV, peering at her. Maybe not Helen. It couldn’t be her. The two of them walked into the grocery, now forty feet ahead of him, and he turned and followed them, thinking, No way it’s her, no way.
He kept his sunglasses and his cap on as he entered the store, scanned the register lines, the crowd of shoppers going their separate ways into the aisles. Didn’t see them. He looked to his left, over at the bakery section clogged with morning pastry buyers and saw them, the guy pulling Helen through the maze of carts and screaming kids and tables of pies and doughnuts. He followed, hanging back, trying to keep at an angle where the woman couldn’t see him. It was Helen, Jesus. She was wearing a halter, a plain blue one, not slutty – it was a hot morning. Above the top of the halter on her back was a discolored hatch of lines, the scars he must’ve put on her skin when he flung her through the glass window.
Big Ugly and Helen stopped, a round-faced man greeting Big Ugly with a call of ‘Gooch!’ Big Ugly starting to chat, introducing Helen to the old man. Now ten feet away, Helen’s back still to him, Alex stood at the corner of the aisle where the bakery fed into the beer-and-wine section, trying to hear.
The old man must’ve been part deaf or just one of those old guys who likes to talk loud. Alex heard him say: ‘You take me out next week. I got two buddies from Dallas want to come down and get tight lines. You open on Wednesday morning?’
‘Might be busy, let me check.’ Big Ugly had a low rumble of a voice.
Two kids arguing over a chocolate doughnut passed, their mother chiding them, and he missed what was said but then Big Ugly – Gooch? – said, ‘I got a hot spot for red drum, over on the south side of the bay. I’ll take you there, but you got to keep it secret, Fred.’
Fred roared. ‘Yeah, I’m your man for keeping secret fishing spots. I call you tomorrow, we set it up? And think about where maybe we land some big tarpon?’
‘Fine,’ Big Ugly said.
A fishing guide, Alex thought. He heard the conversation end, held his breath, glued to the floor, waiting for Helen and this Gooch to turn into the beer-and-wine section and see him. Ten seconds. He risked a glance around the corner. They had moved past the baked goods, Helen holding a big bag of bagels, moving off into the milk and dairy, sticking close to Gooch, turning to smile up at him. He knew the line of her jaw, the slant of her smile. Her.
What to do? Suddenly the huge grocery store felt cramped as a cell. He moved past the registers, out into the lot. He hurried back to his car, scrambled inside.
How? Think it through. Someone made a connection to Helen Dupuy and brought her to Port Leo, how, who… Jimmy Bird. Jimmy had called him twice at that motel when he was in New Orleans, in his room, nervous about the several nights they planned to spend on Patch’s land, searching with the metal detectors to find the buried cache. Giving him the motel number in New Orleans was a mistake. Jimmy dead, his phone records must have been searched for some reason. Found the calls to his room at the Bayou Mee. Why would a fishing guide bring Helen to Port Leo?
He fumbled for his cell phone, dialed Stoney at the fishing cottage. ‘There’s a whore I met in New Orleans here. At the freaking grocery, Stoney.’
‘So?’
‘So I met her when I was taking care of Danny, you dumb shit. She knows what I look like.’
‘Get rid of her.’
‘She’s got a six-six musclebound bodyguard with her. I think he’s a local fishing guide.’
‘You must’ve made a mistake.’
‘She blew me nine times in four days,’ Alex said. ‘I know what she looks like, man.’
‘What exactly do you want me to do about it, Alex?’
‘Don’t take that tone with me, asshole.’
‘I got my own problems. They have got my picture all over the news this morning. Christ, what Ben must think of me.’
‘Like you care.’
‘He’s my brother.’
‘But he was too heavy, wasn’t he, Stoney?’
‘You’re not funny,’ Stoney said.
‘If I were your brother I’d shoot you in the knees for what you did,’ Alex said. ‘I’m coming over there. I got a couple things I need to do, but I’ll be there soon.’
He hung up, weighed the options. Run. The mess had gotten deeper; it was now time to get the hell out of the entire situation. He thought about following this Gooch and Helen – and risk she’d see him? She might be even more dangerous than Stoney. No, it was too much right now; he needed to act but go on the defensive. He waited, saw them return to the truck, holding cups of coffee and a small plastic bag. They pulled out of the lot, drove down the street past the harbor to the curve of Port Leo Beach. He followed, four cars behind. Big Ugly’s truck turned in, parked. Alex drove by, did a U-turn, drove by again. Big Ugly and Helen walked to one of the picnic tables near the beach, sat down, pulled bagels out of the bag, a little plastic knife, cream cheese. A breakfast picnic by the bay.
He couldn’t get closer without parking near them, and he couldn’t risk it. He turned and drove off from the park, scared now for the first time and feeling mad. Stupid Stoney. Stupid Jimmy Bird. Alex went back to the motel, scarfed down his breakfast without tasting it. He went through the Encina County phone book, going through the yellow pages for the fishing guides. Most had pictures of sun-squinting men smiling next to gargantuan fish. No picture of Big Ugly. But one ad, small in the corner, was for Don’t Ask Fishing Services, just listed a phone number, and in little quotes below read: Go with Gooch. Alex dialed the number. A machine answered, ‘You’ve reached Leonard Guchinski and Don’t Ask Fishing. I’m probably booked, but leave a message and I’ll give you a call back.’ Alex hung up.