Goodbye Sister Disco (17 page)

Which meant,
shit
, he had been expecting this.

And Hastings turned almost before he heard the door behind him crash open and then the big Indian was rushing him with a knife, quickly and silently, and there was no time for Hastings to reach for his gun because the Indian was right fucking on him, driving, and Hastings had to put both hands out to grab the guy's wrists, which he succeeded in doing, but the Indian was bigger and stronger and younger and faster and the bathroom was not a large one and Hastings anticipated being slammed back into the wall, but somehow he managed to turn and twist so that both he and his attacker smashed up against the wall, but Hastings taking most of the force, the Indian still quiet and determined to kill, and Hastings could see the man in the black raincoat smiling at him, as he placed the blue backpack and its contents into another, black backpack that he would sling over his shoulder. The man in the black raincoat walked out of the bathroom then, feeling it was over, tipping his brow at the dipshit cop who was about to be gutted.

Maybe the man was supposed to hang around until it was finished. Because the Indian sort of looked up, perhaps surprised himself at the other's cowardice, and Hastings shifted his weight again as a smaller man must do, and the Indian thrust forward at the right time, but Hastings had moved, pressing himself back to the side as the Indian pushed the knife into the sink. It didn't knock it out of his hand, but it loosened his grip, and in that moment Hastings took the Indian's hands and smashed them back onto the sink again.

This time, the Indian did drop the knife. It clattered to the ground, but right away the Indian grabbed Hastings by his jacket and hurled him back against the wall. Hastings felt his head bounce off the tiled wall and it did more than hurt. He was disoriented, seeing stars, as he slumped to the ground and watched with blurred vision as the Indian went to the ground to pick up his knife, which gave Hastings just enough time to draw his revolver and shoot the man three times.

The echoes of gunfire boomed out in that small room and the smoke seemed pungent to Hastings, who was trying to remain conscious. But the smoke cleared and he saw the Indian on the ground now, looking quite dead, though Hastings eventually crawled over to make sure. Yeah, dead.

Hastings reached for his two-way to call Gabler and let him know about the man in the black raincoat. He said Gabler's name once, then twice, then slumped over on the floor and passed out.

TWENTY-THREE

Mickey Seften did not slow his walk when he heard the shots echoing from the bathroom in the station. Rounds cracking out and people looking at one another with faces asking,
Is that what I think it is? Yeah, shots fired in a toilet.
Maybe by Toby, maybe by the cop who'd gotten the upper hand.

Mickey kept going.

If Toby had gotten killed, that was all right with him. He had never liked Toby all that much anyway. He wondered now why Terrill had sent Toby along to watch him. Mickey could have killed that cop himself. If he had had a gun, he could have. But Terrill had said he didn't want Mickey carrying a gun on this trip. He'd said he wanted Mickey clean in case anyone stopped and searched him before he picked up the money. So Mickey had gone unarmed and Toby had brought along his big Buck knife. Toby liked knives. He had met up with them when they were in Canada for a few months. Toby was exploiting his heritage even then, stepping in and out of it when the time was convenient. Toby used to kayak down backwoods rivers, smuggling marijuana across the border. Toby was getting by, until he got into a wage dispute with one of his dealer bosses and Toby stabbed him to death. Toby left Canada then and migrated south with the rest of the jackal bins.

Mickey kept his reservations about Toby to himself. He had never believed that Toby had bought into their mission. He believed that Toby was too independent, not one to be beholden to much of anything. Not even his own culture. Yet Maggie and Terrill were quick to interpret any criticism of any culture apart from the Judeo-Christian one as deep-seated white supremacy. And maybe this discomfort with Toby stemmed from that. Mickey Seften was from Shaker Heights, Ohio, the son of upper-middle-class parents. His father was a successful patent lawyer, his mother a judge. He had not seen them in years. He couldn't remember ever having liked them. His mother had been remote and cool. His father shaking his head a lot, more than once muttering, “Loser.” Both of them relieved when he left home.

Mickey had to stand at the intersection of Grand and Laclede for only a moment before Terrill pulled up in a Toyota Camry. Mickey got in.

Terrill said, “Where's Toby?”

“He's still there. I heard shots.” Mickey paused. “I think a cop may have killed him.”

Terrill had pulled away from the curb. He was driving west now on Laclede. He slowed to make a left turn onto Spring Avenue. Terrill was looking at him as they coasted down the hill.

They stopped at the traffic light at Spring and Forest Park Avenue. Sirens then, distant at first, then getting closer. They stayed at the light as two police cars and an ambulance raced by them, heading to the Grand Boulevard railway station, and Terrill knew Mickey was telling the truth.

Terrill said, “How did it happen?”

Mickey hesitated. Shrugged, and said, “The cop followed me into the bathroom and Toby just went crazy. Jumped him with a knife.”

“What did you do?” Terrill said.

“I left him,” Mickey said. He turned to Terrill, not wanting to hide his expressions now. He said, “Look, it's not my fault Toby didn't keep his cool. I had no weapon so there wasn't much I could do to help. Besides, you yourself told me the important thing was to bring the money back.”

“Yeah, I told you that.”

“It's not about the individual,” Mickey said, repeating something else Maggie and Terrill had taught him.

“I know,” Terrill said. He continued south on Spring Avenue until they got to I-64. He turned onto that and drove back east. Soon they were rising on the highway as the places they had used unfolded on their left: Union Station, downtown St. Louis. Then the Arch was in view and then behind them as they crossed over the Mississippi River and they were in Illinois.

It was when the city was behind them that Mickey felt the emotion. Two million dollars on them,
two million fucking dollars,
right there in the car with them. He had seen it in the bathroom, had touched it, had put his hands on it. It was there.

Mickey said, “Jesus, I can't believe we did it. Two million dollars. Can you believe it?”

“Yeah, it's a lot of money.”

“You were right, Terrill. It wasn't that hard. They're not that bright.”

“No, they're not. Hey, who was the cop that was in the bathroom?”

“What? Oh, I don't know. Just some guy in slacks and a jacket. He had dark hair.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Yeah, I guess I would.”

Terrill said, “So you saw him long enough for that?”

Mickey shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Why?”

“No reason.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Jan said, “Maggie said only Terrill's supposed to bring her her food.”

Ray said, “Maggie's upstairs.” She was probably sleeping. Or getting baked.

“But Maggie said—”

“She's not here now.” Ray looked at Jan and made a gesture. Like,
Are we supposed to check everything with Terrill and Maggie?
Ray said, “They should be back soon. If it goes well, he's not going to want to worry about whether or not the bitch has been fed.”

Lee was standing behind them in the kitchen. She said, “I can bring it to her.”

Jan and Ray had almost forgotten she was there. Lee was saying less and less these days.

Before Jan could say anything, Ray handed her the paper plate with the sandwiches. “Good,” Ray said. “Do it.”

After Lee left, Jan said, “They're not going to like it.”

“Fuck 'em,” Ray said. “I'm not a child.”

Jan did not argue with him. She went to the kitchen sink and turned on the taps, adjusting the hot and cold. She said, “Do we know if they got it?” She was talking about the money.

Ray said, “They haven't told us. They'll tell us when they feel like telling us.”

“So much money,” Jan said. “What if they actually do it? Did you ever think we'd actually be able to do it?”

After a moment, Ray said, “I don't know.”

He had had doubts. But they had told him that doubts were not allowed. They were to think only in terms of winning. They had been told not to think about bad outcomes. Negative thinking was not permitted. If you spoke of your concerns, of any reservations, they threatened to put you in the circle. They had said that you were either on the bus or you were off the bus. If you wanted to get off the bus, get off it now.

Ray Muller thought that he might have heard that bus thing somewhere else before. He couldn't quite remember where. But he thought Maggie had taken it from someone else. Maggie had said there was no place for bullshit people here. But what did it mean to get off the bus? Could you quit? Could you get an honorable discharge? Or did it mean that Terrill put a bullet in your brain?

Ray Muller was conscious now of being alone with Jan. He had brought her into this. He felt no guilt over that. Jan seemed as much a true believer as anyone. In fact, he sometimes thought she'd bought into it more than he had. She had not questioned Terrill or Maggie or the movement or anything they did. And even now, she was worrying about whether she was being insubordinate in having Lee take food to the girl.

Why was it not all right for the bitch to see Lee? What difference did it make? They had not spoken of it, but Ray knew they were going to kill the bitch. What was Terrill trying to sell them? They all knew. Why couldn't they all acknowledge it?

Was it a fear that not all of them would go along with it? That didn't make sense. Mickey, the little cocksucker, he'd do anything Terrill wanted him to do. He'd shoot the bitch himself if Terrill ordered him to. If Terrill asked him to.

Lee? Yeah, Lee too. If not for her, Terrill would still be in jail. She'd known what she was getting into. And she hadn't batted an eye after Terrill plugged the bitch's boyfriend. Besides, she was so tweaked up these days … always pulling imaginary bits of lint from her shirt … checking for unseen parasites, always touching herself … twitching on uppers. She could probably shoot the girl herself. Even if Terrill didn't ask her to do it. And if Terrill did ask her, that would be that. Of course, Maggie would probably believe that Lee would be uneasy about it. To Maggie, Lee was still the dipshit Ivy League girl. The English major. Maggie believed that everything Maggie said was true. Was the way it was. She had such conviction, she made you think she had to be right. But more and more, Ray was wondering, What is it she actually
does
? What does Maggie do? What does she have that makes her so sure all the time?

As for Lee, Ray had already made up his mind about her. He had no sympathy for her. To him, she held the same value as a deer does to a wolf. Once or twice, he'd wanted to shoot her for being an irritant. This stemmed, mostly, from her silly worship of Terrill. He felt no jealousy, but he resented Lee for giving Terrill more credit than he deserved. Perhaps for empowering him and furthering his self-image as a god. This was something Ray had not given much thought to until they had come to this house.

It's this house, Ray thought. We've been cooped up here too long. It was better back when they were in the Northwest. Back when they were roaming and free. Unattached. It was better then. Things would pick up when they got the money. Then they could roam again and get some distance from one another.

*   *   *

Cordelia started when she heard steps coming down the stairs. Light steps. A woman, not a man, now in front of her.

Lee placed the food before her, as if she were a dog. Lee stepped back.

“Hey,” Cordelia said. It came out of her involuntarily. She wanted to communicate with someone. A sister, a person. Christ, something.

Lee moved back to the stairs.

“Hey,” Cordelia said, “wait.”

Lee said, “I have nothing to say to you.” Her voice sounded hollow, even raspy.

Cordelia said, “Have they gotten the ransom?”

“I'm not talking to you.”

“Please.
Please.
You have to give me something. You're not a bad person. You can't be.”

“I'm not bad. You don't know what I am.”

“I know you're not. I've done nothing to you guys. Whatever it is you want, we can get it for you.”

“How generous of you.”

Cordelia tried to discern the woman's figure in the darkness. She seemed younger than she had first thought. Educated, maybe. Cordelia said, “I have nothing against you.”

“Why should you?” Lee said. “You don't even know me.”

“Please let me go. Please? Can't you talk to them?”

“I could. If I wanted.”

“Tell them. Tell
him
. Tell him I'm not going to tell anyone.”

“Him?” Lee said. “You mean my husband?”

“Yes,” Cordelia said, confused. The girl had to know who had been coming down there. It was her husband? Oh God, please let it be. Please give me something. “Yes,” Cordelia said. “Tell him I won't tell anyone. My dad will pay you. He'll pay you to release me. You must believe me. You must tell him that. You must please tell him that when you talk to him.”

“I talk to him all the time. I don't see why I should help you.”

“Because you can. You
must.
Please, for the love of God, you must.”

“Don't speak to me of God, piggie.”

Lee walked back up the stairs, immune to the cries behind her.

TWENTY-FIVE