“How’d you like that ride?” said Lucas.
“Your bike’s a little small for me,” said Dupree, cutting into a medium-rare New York strip. “Like those shorts you gave me.”
“You’ll sleep well tonight.”
“How about you?” said Dupree. “How do you sleep?”
“Fine,” said Lucas.
“I don’t have a problem with that, either. You believe everything you read, all of us vets wake up in the middle of the night in a full sweat. But I never have nightmares, Luke.”
“So you’re normal, whatever that is. You’re saying the war did nothing to you.”
Dupree swallowed a mouthful of iceberg lettuce covered in blue cheese dressing. He placed his fork on the table. “You ever take those complimentary tickets they give out to veterans? You know, for Wizards and Nationals games?”
“Sure. I’ve sat behind home plate.”
“Me, too. The announcer says the soldiers or marines are in the house tonight, and most everyone in the arena or stadium gets up and gives us a round of applause.”
“They’re paying tribute.”
“They mean well. Then they sit back down in their seats, enjoy the game, and forget we’re there. A lot of those dudes own businesses. Why don’t they walk over to my seat and talk to me, see what I’m about? See if maybe they can find a spot on their payroll for a veteran who wants to put his back into it? Instead, they clap their hands and think they’ve done something.”
“It’s for them, not us. Those guys who stand up, with their golf shirts on? We did what they couldn’t have done. And they know it.”
“But they don’t know me,” said Dupree. “I’m not a cold-blooded murderer. I’m not a hero. I don’t have PTSD.”
“But you suffer from a touch of depression once in a while, Winston. Tell the truth.”
“I’m just disappointed, man. I want to go to work every day and get treated like everyone else. I don’t need standing ovations. I don’t want sympathy or a thank-you-for-your-service. Offer me a chance at a meaningful job so I can get my life going. Treat me like a man.”
They ate silently for a while. Lucas looked like he was enjoying his meal, but he was thinking hard about his friend.
“This thing we’re about to do,” said Dupree.
“Uh-huh.”
“All that hardware we got from Bobby... that’s for show, right? I mean, we gonna go in strapped and scare the shit out of those boys, right?”
“That’s the idea.”
“I don’t want to shoot anyone. I’m done with that.”
“You won’t have to,” said Lucas. “You’ve got my word.”
Night fell. They drove up to the shuttered gas station and parked the Jeep. From the cargo area they retrieved the NVGs and fitted them to their heads, temporarily leaving the lenses off their eyes. Lucas put his Moleskine notebook and a pen in his back pocket.
“We got a little moon,” said Dupree. “That’s good. We need the lume.”
“I know. These thermals don’t work for shit in absolute dark.”
“You reckon we gotta hump, what, half a click?”
“That’s my guess.” Lucas showed Dupree his phone. “I got a compass on this thing.”
“And Angry Birds.”
“I figure the house is due southeast from where we are now. I’ll shoot us an azimuth.”
“Man, you don’t know what the fuck you’re doin, do you?”
“Let’s just go. We’ll find the house.”
They activated the goggles, placed the lenses over their eyes, and walked into the woods.
Billy King came down the stairs of the colonial with a single piece of luggage in hand. In the soft bag was enough clothing for several days and nights, a couple of disposable cells, his portion of the cash he had skimmed from the coin deal, and the remaining cash from the previous jobs he had done with Bacalov and Smalls. He intended to return to the house in Croom, but he didn’t want to leave any of his money behind. In the event that the house and its occupants became radioactive, and he could not come back, he had everything he needed in the bag. And he had wheels. If a man planned correctly, and traveled light, he could stay free.
Bacalov sat at the dining room table. He had field-stripped his Glock and was cleaning its barrel with a bore brush and solvent. Louis Smalls was sitting on the overstuffed couch. He had just done a bong hit of hydroponic and was now listening to an old Baroness album, Blue Record, through his earbuds, the psych-metal crunch of the music causing him to nod his head. He saw King come down the stairs, suitcase in hand, and his stomach dropped. Smalls pulled his buds out and stood.
“Where you go, eh?” said Bacalov.
“I’m going to visit a lady friend,” said King.
“Always a woman with you.”
“You should try it sometime. I’m talking about a real woman. Not one you’ve gotta blow up.”
King had never seen Bacalov with a woman, though he’d seen him watching them in strip joints and on the stroke sites he bookmarked on his laptop. First time they’d met, they’d been in that meat house on Connecticut Avenue, the one with the notoriously ugly dancers. Both of them at the bar, watching, though by rights King should have been home and satisfied. He’d just come from the Wyoming, where he’d banged his latest crinkle-bunny to within an inch of her life. King had struck up a conversation with Bacalov and found his chimplike face, his one eyebrow, and his mangling of the English language amusing. Also, he sensed that Bacalov had fire. They soon tired of their surroundings and moved together across the street to the bar of Russia House, a restaurant and lounge. Bacalov said he’d be more comfortable around his people. But the place was filled with Americans, and Bacalov didn’t talk to any women there, either. Mainly, he boasted about his criminal past and what he was capable of. Told King about a local man he knew, a moolie, who would maim and kill for hire, even gave him the man’s number so he could verify his claim. King thought that most of it was bullshit and alcohol talk. But not all. He saw potential.
“You put women over our business,” said Bacalov.
“I sold the coins,” said King. “I’m working on the paintings.”
“The paintings just sit here.”
“I left word with Lumley. He hasn’t gotten back to me yet. He will.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Couple, three days.”
“Billy?” said Smalls. “Wait up, I’m coming out, too.”
“Okay.” To Bacalov, King said, “See you, monkey.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Monkey,” said King, and smiled.
Smalls grabbed his deck of cigarettes and a matchbook and followed King outside to the wraparound porch. King dropped his suitcase to the gallery floor. A motion-sensitive light had come on when they’d stepped outside. It illuminated half the front yard, where the Crown Victoria and Monte Carlo SS were parked. The surrounding forest and gravel road were in darkness.
A branch snapped nearby. King turned his head toward the woods.
“Billy,” said Smalls, redirecting King’s attention.
“What did you want, Louis?”
“I just came out to have a smoke,” said Smalls. “Serge doesn’t like the smell of it in the house.”
“Fuck what Serge doesn’t like.”
“He’s our partner.”
“I want a divorce.”
Smalls lit his cigarette and exhaled smoke. “What about me?” He nearly winced at the desperation in his voice.
King looked him over. He knew what he was to the kid. But someday soon, King would have to cut him loose, too. King wasn’t anyone’s sidekick or father.
“What about you, Louis?”