Read Going Nowhere Fast Online
Authors: Gar Anthony Haywood
Going Nowhere Fast (20 page)
And so it went, around and around and around. The truth was, we had all messed up, playing our games of secrets and lies, and it was only by the grace of God that our foolishness had not resulted in anyone's untimely demise. Or incarceration. We all knew good and well that Medavoy had the option of tossing us in jail and throwing away the key, so numerous were the charges he could have leveled against us, but that would have made for a very noisy end to the Gottifucci episode, from his vantage point, and noise was not generally what the FBI liked best. What they liked was quiet, especially when the alternative would almost certainly bring them considerable public embarrassment. It was no wonder, then, that Medavoy ultimately offered us a deal that we anxiously accepted: our silence for his forgiveness.
Freedom of expression wasn't much to give up when you were just glad to be alive, and we were only alive, Bad Dog and I knew, because of Big Joe. To save our bacon, he had gone the extra mile, saying terrible, unthinkable things about his beloved Airstream brand so that a prideful Rusty Glanville might take a poke at him. It had been quick thinking on Joe's part, and everyone had told him so, even Danny Gottifucci before they led him away. Joe didn't want to hear it, but I told him he had only proved all over again that he still had it, that "Inspector Loudermilk" magic. Once a cop, always a cop, is the way Bad Dog put it.
Joe told him to shut up.
We spent that Saturday night at a Comfort Inn in Phoenix, but not before Joe and Rusty Glanville had swapped a few war stories over a six-pack of beer and threatened to be friends for life. Two men with absolutely nothing in common save for their unyielding infatuation with Airstreams. Glanville's wife, Kitty, and I both knew that would be more than enough to bond them together forever; we'd each seen it happen before, time and time again. Kitty said if Churchill and Hitler had owned Airstreams, there would have never been a Second World War. I told her I didn't doubt it for a minute.
I put Joe to bed early that night, and tried to do the same for myself, but sleep just wouldn't find me. Too much had happened too fast over the last five days, and now that it was over, closing my eyes only brought it all rushing back to me, one bad scene after another. Giving up somewhere shortly after nine, I left the bedroom to see if Dog had any interest in playing a few games of gin rummy, but he was gone. The foldout bed we had left him in at the front of our hotel room was empty; the TV was on, but the sound had been muted.
Our last night together, and he was out fooling around.
At least, that was my first thought, until my maternal instincts took over and I began to worry about him in earnest. Not for his safety, mind you, but for his emotional well-being. His soul, his spirit. His
heart
.
You'd have to be a mother to understand.
Mothers know things. They can
sense
things. And nine times out of ten, they can find their missing children in the first place they look, just as I found my son less than a half hour later: out in the hotel parking lot, inside Lucille. Asleep.
"How'd you know I was out here?" he asked me when I stirred him awake. He'd been stretched out on our bed, shoes all over the bedspread.
Rather than work the Powers of Mom angle on him, I just said, "Your father's keys were missing."
"Oh." He rubbed his eyes with both hands.
"Theodore, what are you doing out here?"
"I don't know." He shrugged. "I just… wanted to spend a little time in here, I guess. Before I leave, I mean." He looked up into my face, searching for the right words. "It's like, this is your home now, Moms. Right? This is my
parents' home
. And…" He shrugged again. "It feels good to be here, that's all. It feels
good
. So, I thought I'd hang out a little, while I could. While there's still time."
He threw himself into my arms. "I love you, Moms. Pops too."
It was one of those moments your kids count on to purchase them a little absolution. They think they can bribe you with five minutes of genuine emotion, one thin little sliver of remorse and/or gratitude, and all the grief they've ever laid at your doorstep will be erased from the ledger like a mere accountant's error. They think if they show you the babies you once held in your arms for just one fleeting moment, you'll forget what those babies have become and lay down your life for them, again and again and again.
They are so right.
"We love you, too, Theodore," I said.
And then we played some cards.
* * * *
The next day, Sunday, we didn't leave our room to take Dog to the Greyhound station until well after checkout time. I'll bet you'd never guess why.
Final score: Los Angeles Raiders 24, Pittsburgh Steelers 13. Dozer Meadows didn't play, as expected, but he could be seen on TV waving a towel on the Raider sideline every time the Silver and Black did something right, which was apparently often.
Yeah, I know, girls. I was thinking the same thing the entire game.
Jeez Looweez
.
GAR ANTHONY HAYWOOD
is the Shamus and Anthony Award-winning author of twelve crime novels. Haywood's first of six mysteries featuring African-American private investigator Aaron Gunner, FEAR OF THE DARK, won the Private Eye Writers of America's Shamus award for Best First Novel of 1989, and his short fiction has been included in the Best American Mystery Stories anthologies. Booklist has called him "a writer who has always belonged in the upper echelon of American crime fiction."
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