Waxman knew that sooner or later they’d have to break down and get him a federal public defender. Wouldn’t want the poor SOB to incriminate himself. God no. In the meantime, they’d keep waving the Stars and Stripes and stall as long as they possibly could.
Nemo just stared at the back of his head. “You’re full of shit,” he said.
“Maybe so,” Waxman told him. “But I’m the one behind the wheel. So you go ahead, keep asking for a lawyer. One of these days I might hear you.”
“Asshole.”
Ah, brevity, Waxman thought. A lovely thing.
Nemo stared at the back of the turd’s head, halfway tempted to let a loogy fly. But that would only get him in deeper shit. He figured he’d better just sit here quietly and let this thing play out.
Outside, a toothpick of a cop unfastened the yellow do not cross ribbon and waved the turd through. As they pulled past him, Nemo looked out again at the bus parked in the middle of the street, big portable floodlights surrounding it, waiting for nightfall. If it weren’t for all the cops running around, you’d think this was a movie set.
Like his buddy Alex, Nemo had always been a big fan of movies and television. He’d even thought about going into acting once, back when he was in junior high. Buncha Hollywood assholes had come to town to shoot some Chuck Norris chopsocky piece of shit and this sweet-assed casting bitch showed up at the Center Street Arcade, looking for local color.
Nemo and a couple of other kids were chosen as possibilities, but in the end, the only one who made the cut was an emaciated little fuck named Joey Bustos.
Nemo didn’t really care about the acting gig. His eyes were on that casting bitch, thinking how he’d like to bend her over the nearest foosball table and hammer Henry home. But he was a little peeved when Joey got the part instead of him.
The following night, just past dinnertime, he waited outside Joey’s apartment until the little fruit came down to dump the trash. Nemo Chuck Norrised his ass right there in the alley. Left him inside the Dempsey Dumpster.
Needless to say, Joey never made it to the movie set. Didn’t come to the arcade for a coupla months either. Turned out Nemo had fractured the fruit’s skull, cracked a couple of ribs, and punctured a lung. Unfortunately, all of his hard work went to waste. The Hollywood assholes brought in somebody from L.A. instead, and Nemo never saw that sweet-assed casting bitch again.
The turd made a turn, pulling into an alley. A couple of Feds and a fat-ass cop were waiting for them, looking all serious.
Donovan stood in front, his cold, dead eyes on Nemo, and Nemo felt a tickle of fear. He knew Donovan was a hard case, but he’d never seen him like this before. The guy had a definite no-mercy vibe coming off him.
The turd pulled to a stop, killed the engine, then threw his door open and got out. Turning in his seat, Nemo glanced out the rear window. One of the Feds had moved to the mouth of the alley and was standing there with his back to the rest of them, keeping watch.
This was not gonna be a friendly conversation.
The turd opened Nemo’s door, grabbed a couple handfuls of collar, and dragged him out of the car.
If Nemo hadn’t been cuffed, he would’ve clocked the guy right there, but the turd wasn’t his main concern right now. Donovan stood only feet away, never taking his eyes off him.
Once Nemo was clear of the car doorway and standing upright, Donovan moved in close.
“What d’ya say, Bobby? Something you want to share with me? And I’m not talking about Gunderson’s twilight-zone bullshit.”
Face-to-face it was a different story. Donovan was trying to look tough, but you could see the desperation in his eyes. Fucker was scared shitless.
Not that you could blame him.
Nemo relaxed a little. Felt a renewed sense of confidence coming on. He offered Donovan a slow smile. “Looks like somebody else got caught in the middle this time, huh, Daddy?”
The words were out of his mouth before he realized his mistake. Not only were they likely to piss Donovan off, they made it clear that Nemo had known about Alex’s plan all along.
Bobby, you dumb-ass motherfucker.
In the tiniest fraction of a second, the desperation in Donovan’s eyes morphed into hot, white anger. A hand shot up to the side of Nemo’s face and sent his head straight into the rear fender of the turd’s sedan. He hit it hard, pain exploding in his skull.
Hands grabbed him, spun him around, then someone hit him in the shins, knocking his feet out from under him. He landed on the alley floor like a bag of fresh crap, and one of the cops kicked him in the ribs.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Feeling something give, Nemo bit down on his lip, stifling a cry, thinking if he made any noise it might piss them off. At this moment in time, that was the last thing he wanted to do.
Then Donovan’s fingers grabbed his chin, forcing his head upward, and the next thing he knew he had the business end of a Glock nine-millimeter in his face.
He could smell the gun oil.
“Listen carefully, asshole. You listening to me?”
Nemo nodded, which wasn’t easy with the barrel of the nine stuck halfway up his left nostril.
“Your fearless leader just bit off a big old chunka shit, and unless you tell me where he’s holed up-right now-I swear to Christ they’ll be hosing little bits of your brain into the gutter tonight. You understand?”
The tickle of fear was back, only this time it felt like a thousand fingers attacking him simultaneously. He could call this motherfucker’s bluff, sure, but he kept going back to those eyes, the way they shifted erratically between anger and desperation. He’d seen that look before, on the faces of lifers and junkies and the handful of crack whores he’d had the misfortune of hooking up with. And what it meant was this:
Donovan would not hesitate to pull the trigger.
Glancing at the others, he realized they had no intention of coming to his rescue. Not now. Not ever. The fat-ass cop was practically licking his chops, for crissakes.
Do or die time, Bobby. Do or die.
Donovan pushed in closer. “Do you understand?”
Nemo nodded again. Vigorously this time. He understood all right.
He just hoped and prayed Alex would, too.
19
It had taken him longer than expected to dig the hole. Despite being isolated these past few weeks, Gunderson had kept himself in shape-a hundred knuckle push-ups twice a day, double that in crunches-and he’d figured an hour tops for the digging.
Two and a half later, stinking of processed chickenshit, he had emerged from a hole six feet deep, three feet wide, and seven feet long. Just big enough to fit the box and all of its tanks.
Just big enough to fit a fifteen-year-old piece of sweet peach pie.
That was this afternoon, and he had finished right under the wire. He’d had maybe twenty minutes to fire up the Suburban and scoot on over to Bellanova Prep where his lovely one waited.
Sweet Jessie.
He had been watching her for weeks. Been witness to the pitiful display she and Special Agent Jack called a reunion. Had followed her to school every day since Monday, allowing her only a short glimpse of him this morning.
She was, he discovered, a perfect candidate for his plan. What his aunt would call a mark, a vulnerable. A girl who suffered from deep, conflicting emotions tempered by an intelligence that was beyond her years. And he was certain that a few days underground would condition her properly. Open the channel, so to speak.
After he snatched her off the bus, he watched her strip down in the back of the Suburban, her lower lip trembling, eyes refusing to meet his in the rearview mirror. He had been tempted to compare her to Sara-which was only natural, considering what he was about to do-but there was little similarity between the two. Sara eclipsed her in every way.