So, anyway, Mademoiselle Louise and I dull our nails on the weaker members of the shed's boards until we are inside the shadowed interior. I have left a lot of shiv casings behind, but far be it from me to cavil when it might be interpreted as whining by Miss Midnight Louise!
Then we have to breech the accessory storage bags that sit to either side of Hesky's saddle.
At least they are the black-leather variety, rather than those meat-locker-style metal jobbies that could smother a hitchhiker of the furred kind.
For that is our mission: undercover hitchhikers on the road to Truth or Consequences.
I would hate to arrive asphyxiated, as l stress repeatedly to Miss Midnight Louise.
"Save your breath, Pops." she replies, not encouragingly. "You will need it."
"Where is the safety belt in this arrangement?" I ask when we have loaded our cargo, such as it is, and leaped into our saddlebags.
"Loop your tail around e strap and hold on: It is going to be a bumpy ride."
I recognize the Bette Davis line (that dame had lion-eyes), as well as the reference to early air travel. Since the Hesketh Vampire is a motor vehicle, I sincerely hope that we remain firmly on the ground.
All I can trust to is the solid driving skills of Mr. Matt Devine.
Who will be highly distracted tonight, on an undercover mission of his own.
Why could he not pilot a bicycle? It worked for E.T.
That is my last rational thought before I hear the shad padlock unlocked and the footsteps of Mr. Matt Devine approaching.
After that all is a turmoil of speed bumps, speed, noise, speed bumps, and confusion.
We arrive in one piece, which is pretty good, as there are three of us.
The next problem is breaking into the joint, and when to make our entrance.
Chapter 62
Deception, Lies and Audiotape
Matt parked and locked the Vampire, stepping away from the motorcycle and feeling the road vibration still thrumming through his frame.
That was a given effect of riding canned heat. That was the buzz motorcycle riders loved.
He could take or leave that disorienting aftershock, but something else far less physical, and therefore far more upsetting, shook his soul tonight.
He stood for a moment in the empty lot, studying the church's sharp prow of glass gleaming in the fading light. Distant gulls seemed to squeal over Lake Mead. The sun set behind the western mountains. It always disappeared before its own last rays, most evenings leaving behind it a flat, cold light that only a landscape painter could love.
How could you stand in the light and feel such a chill? Only if the thought of what you were about to try put your soul on ice.
He remembered the hectic, surreal twelve minutes he had spent on the phone with "Daisy."
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I'm half crazy, all on account of you.
The Gay Nineties love-ditty rang in his mind with unromantic Grim Nineties irony. He had gotten what he needed out of a frantic, addled girl about to commit delusional murder.
Could he get what he wanted to out of a clever, twisted killer who had committed delusional murder and wanted to survive it?
Just how good was Mr. Midnight at his new job?
Time to find out.
The sun's last, icy light glared off the gilded glass, cut through the stained-glass cross like an arctic laser.
******************
This time Mart regarded the bare, plain room with a different eye.
The lack of upholstery and curtains would bounce sound, add an automatic echo to every word said.
Best he sit tonight somewhere other than the usual spot. That would disrupt the circle; all people in groups commandeered a small, rote territory--the place first sat-in---and returned mindlessly there like lemmings heading for a favorite cliff into the sea.
Matt's moving would upset that natural order. Would upset the neat expectations of his target. Would be an advantage.
He claimed a sear one down from Nick, the group's unofficial center, and pictured how the others might adjust, especially Norbert, whose seat he had usurped. Norbert already felt an outcast.
Good. with Norbert unsettled at the outset, the tenor of the whole evening would be off-balance. Confession was only good for the off-balance soul that had to be honest despite itself.
Matt also knew the role he had to play. He had to seem the victim, not the perpetrator of tonight's revisionist arrangement.
He had the problem; he was not the problem.
When Nick came in, alone, Matt leaped up from his claim-jumped chair. "I'm glad you're early. I thought we could talk--"
But Jerry came in before Matt could establish anything more than his presence in someone else's seat, and a certain agitation.
"Sorry." Jerry stopped dead, his genial smile fading. "Am l interrupting something personal?"
"No," Matt said, too quickly. "Nothing personal. I'm just a little . . . upset."
"Well, that's what we're here for." Jerry smiled uncertainly, and joined Nick at the coffee um. St. Caffeine Minor, cousin to St. Nicotine the Greater. "Want some, Matt?"
"Huh? Uh, yeah. Coffee. Be great."
Jerry exchanged a glance with Nick that Matt hadn't been meant to see. Then he poured two Styrofoam cups full of India-ink black liquid.
"Creamer?"
"Huh?"
By now Paul and Norbert had come in together, having linked up in the parking lot. They stopped inside the door, sensing the disorder inside.
"Creamer," Jerry repeated.
"Uh, yeah." Matt didn't have to play at being distracted. He was. "Thanks." The two newcomers' eyebrows lifted at coffee being delivered to Matt.
They served themselves. Serving another suggested crisis.
They collected their own coffee cups and took their places one chair to the left without comment, respecting the unknown that had elbowed them out of their traditional territories.
Something was up.
Damien came in last, pulling off his lined raincoat and light wool gloves. "Getting cold out there. I don't know how Matt can take that motorcycle."
He glanced at the last empty chair to the left of Nick, the deserted coffee table, Matt in the wrong place, and frowned.
"Come on in." Jerry half rose from his chair (which used to be Damien's chair). "Put your things down; I'll get you a cup of coffee. Plain, right?" Damien nodded, picking up that the status quo had shifted for a reason. He tossed his outerwear on a folding chair near the door and joined the circle, in a minute, Jerry brought him the coffee.
They were about to begin.
"A prayer," Nick announced, low-key as ever.
Alcoholics Anonymous had made the Serenity Prayer famous in a paraphrased version as the cornerstone of its twelve-step program. American Protestant theologian Reinhold Neibuhr had created this most popular of generic prayers in 1934, but this Catholic group said it every session. "Oh, God, give us the serenity to accept what cannot be changed, the courage to change what should be changed, and the wisdom to know the difference." Matt bowed his head, feeling a traitor. He suddenly saw what undercover work was really about: deception, lies, and audiotape.
Nick wasn't one to dance around a problem. "What's the matter, Matt?"
Cue: answer.
"Nothing major, I guess." He let the words drag out of him, the tone belying the meaning.
He glanced at his audience. Confusion and concern in every face. Except Norbert's.
Matt allowed a pale smile to escape before he sipped his coffee. "You know that radio rescue I was in on! Yeah, who could miss it, with the newspaper and everything? I just didn't expect the fallout."