Man of Wax (9 page)

17

At some point the cell phone vibrated. By then I was seated in one of the chairs on the farthest end of the room, right beside the window. Curtains obstructed the view—a view I had yet peeked outside to see—but they for some reason reminded me of the curtains back at the Paradise, and though the air wasn’t on full blast I was feeling quite cold.
 

The cell phone was in my pocket. I pulled it out, pressed the green send button.
 

Simon asked, “What are you waiting for?”
 

I didn’t answer for the longest time. The room was completely silent. Earlier, I’d heard the muffled voices and footsteps of people out in the hallway, but those had faded away what seemed like hours ago.
 

“I don’t want to open it.”
 

“Relax, Ben. The package I mentioned earlier hasn’t arrived yet. The suitcase you’ve been staring at for the past fifteen minutes has been waiting for you since this morning. It’s all part of the game.” A pause, an invisible grin, then: “Nothing to worry about.”
 

Simon disconnected before I could say—or not say—anything else. I held the phone to my ear for a while longer. I pushed myself out of the chair, staggered the few steps it took me to reach the bed, and stared down at the suitcase.
 

Like before, images had been invading my mind, different possibilities of what lay cramped inside the Samsonite. Questions like:
If all her bones were broken, could Casey’s entire body fit in there?
and
If they just cut off Jen’s leg and stuck it inside, would they have used packing material to keep it from moving?
Insane, terrible thoughts, yes, but I couldn’t help myself.
 

Finally I leaned forward, undid the two clasps, and opened the suitcase.
 

It could have belonged to anyone, as far as I was concerned. Nothing like what had greeted me in the Dodge’s trunk was inside here. Instead there were clothes: khakis and a white long-sleeved dress shirt, both encased in dry cleaning plastic; a pair of nice dress shoes, a belt, a red silk tie. Even fresh boxers, a fresh undershirt, and a leather bag which was all too familiar, sporting the Eagles logo, because it was my travel toiletry bag (something my parents had gotten me for Christmas when I was in high school and which I had kept ever since). Inside it was a stick of my deodorant, a small bottle of my shampoo, my toothbrush (and here you have to understand it wasn’t a toothbrush that resembled mine, or was the same brand, but
my
toothbrush) as well as a tube of Crest. Even my—
my
—electric razor.
 

Beneath all of this was a small paper-wrapped package which contained two cell phone batteries. Below this, a folded piece of paper, the letters typed.

Ben:

Hope you’re having fun. I know everyone else is. A car will pick you up at 11:30. Dress appropriately.

Cheers,

Simon

I glanced at the clock on the bedside table, saw it was now almost eleven. I cursed, threw the note down, grabbed my Eagles travel bag, and headed for the bathroom.

18

A half hour later I stepped back onto the lobby floor. I felt like a totally different person than the one who’d first walked in here with his head lowered. I’d shaved, showered, and the clothes fit just right.
 

Even though it was almost midnight on a Monday in October, the place wasn’t dead. People were wandering around, some headed for the casino, others headed back to their rooms. Everyone looked happy, so much so it pissed me off, but at least the noise and brightness wasn’t as intimidating as before.
 

Jason was still at the front desk. He was dealing with somebody on the phone, talking and nodding as he stared at his computer screen. I approached, dreading what I wanted to ask him but knowing I had no choice.
 

He noticed me standing there, smiled and raised a finger, waited thirty seconds until he was done with his call, then said, “Sorry about that, Mr. Chase. How may I help you?”
 

“Has a”—I cleared my throat—“package arrived for me?”
 

He didn’t even hesitate, shaking his head at once and saying, “No, but I’ll make sure to keep an eye out for when it arrives.”
 

I thanked him, a sudden conflicting emotion of relief and dread flashing through me, and began to turn away.
 

“Oh, Mr. Chase?” Jason said. “Your car’s waiting outside.”

•
   
•
   
•

I
T
WAS
A
black Lincoln Town Car, an older model but very well cared for. Its driver, a young guy with a mustache decked out in a black suit and driver’s cap, opened the back door with a smile and a nod.
 

I slid in and the man closed the door and for a moment I was alone in the car, just sitting there staring ahead at the dash at the driver’s name—Gerald—and picture ID and the car number in the usual spot. Over in the corner by the speedometer and gas gauge were two wallet-sized photographs. One showed two little girls, their brown hair in pigtails; the other showed the same two girls with a woman who was no doubt their mother.
 

The front door opened and Gerald slid in behind the wheel. Before he had even fully turned on the car and placed it in drive, I asked:
 

“Is that your family?”
 

He paused, at first not sure what I meant, then a second went by and he nodded. “Sure are.”
 

“I couldn’t really see the pictures well, but they look beautiful.”
 

Gerald was quiet for another half-moment before he said, “Thank you,” and got us rolling forward.
 

I stared out my window and didn’t speak right away. I had made the man nervous, which hadn’t been my intention. What I had intended, I wasn’t even sure, but I wanted to say something, strike up some kind of conversation, and had royally messed that up.
 

“Where are we headed?” I asked.
 

Again, that half-moment pause, and then he said, “I’m not supposed to tell you.”
 

“You’re not?”
 

He shook his head, gave me a warm smile in the rearview mirror. “It’s a surprise.”

•
   
•
   
•

W
E
DROVE
FOR
awhile on the expressway in silence, not even any light music playing, and when he took an exit I said:
 

“I have a wife and daughter, too.”
 

He gave me another look in the rearview mirror, didn’t say anything.
 

“You look surprised.”
 

He shook his head.
 

“Why?”
 

He opened his mouth, shut it, opened his mouth again and said, “I just thought this whole thing was for your bachelor party. Like, your friends set this up and everything, based on where I’m taking you.”
 

“Where are you taking me?”
 

He smiled again. “Remember, I’m not supposed to tell you.”
 

“You can tell me.”
 

“I’d rather not.”
 

“My daughter’s three and a half. How old are yours?”
 

He was quiet for another moment, no doubt debating whether he should continue the conversation, and I wondered just how strict Simon’s instructions had been.

“Seven and nine,” Gerald said finally.
 

“They must be a handful.”
 

“At times. Still, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.”
 

“How long have you been doing this type of work?”
 

“What does that mean, this type of work?”
 

“Just, you know, driving.”
 

He gave me another look in the rearview and for a moment I thought that I’d screwed up whatever little friendship I’d made with this guy.
 

“Fifteen years,” he said, “give or take.”
 

“Do you like it?”
 

“It has its moments. What do you do for work, if you don’t mind me asking?”
 

“I’m a painter.”
 

“Like an art gallery painter or house painter?”
 

“House painter.”
 

There was another moment of silence as we passed the buildings and cars in the city, the few people on the street, the area not quite looking like it was the best place to be at midnight.
 

I asked, “So where are you taking me?”
 

The smile in the rearview mirror again. “Sorry, you know I can’t tell you.”

“Sure you can.”
 

“I can’t. But it’s actually not that far now anyway.”
 

“How much farther?”
 

“Maybe ten blocks.”
 

Eight blocks later I said, “Can you stop the car?”
 

“What?”
 

“Just let me out here.”
 

“Uh ...”
 

“You’re not going to get in trouble. In fact”—I dug into my pocket, pulled out a twenty—“this will be an extra tip for your trouble. I’m sure you and your wife are already saving for your daughters’ college tuitions, right? This could help.”
 

We were stopped at a traffic light, and Gerald was turned, glancing back at me, still uncertain.
 

“Come on, take it,” I said. “It’ll be fine. I just hate surprises, so this way I can prepare myself.”
 

Gerald didn’t do anything for a couple long seconds, and then he took the twenty and said, “It’s the Sundown Saloon, just two blocks up.”
 

I thanked him, opened my door, stepped outside. The light changed and he moved forward, went down another block, turned and was gone.
 

I just stood there for another minute or so before I realized I had begun to shake. Whatever Simon had next in store for me, it was at the Sundown Saloon. Even from where I stood I could see the neon sign—an orange setting sun—but I didn’t want to move. Not yet.
 

In my pocket, the cell phone vibrated.
 

I closed my eyes, cursed myself, pulled the phone out and answered it.
 

Simon said, “What do you think you’re doing?”
 

“I needed some air. It was getting stuffy in the car.”
 

“That wasn’t what I told you to do.”
 

“You really didn’t tell me anything.”
 

“Oh, I see. So we’re playing semantics again, are we?”
 

I started walking forward. “I’m going, all right?”
 

There was a silence, and then Simon said, “O Romeo, Romeo. Wherefore art thou Romeo?” before he clicked off.
 

I paused, staring down at the screen, not sure what to make of this latest development. Whatever it was, it made me dread going into the Sundown Saloon even more. But I knew I had no choice, not if I ever wanted to see my family again, so I slipped the phone into my pocket and kept walking.
 

I hadn’t even gone another ten steps before they came for me.

19

They came at me from behind. They were strong and they were quick and one second I was on the sidewalk, headed toward whatever awaited me at the Sundown Saloon, the next second I was shoved forward and went sprawling down onto the pavement.
 

I reached out just in time so I didn’t land right on my face but still I scraped my hands pretty bad on the sidewalk. Before I could get up one of them grabbed the glasses off my face and pressed my face against the sidewalk, keeping me down while someone else searched my pockets. I thought they were going for my money but it was the phone they grabbed and took away and I may have said, “Hey, don’t,” or something like that, I can’t remember, but I said something and then one of them said, “This is for your own good,” and before I knew it both of them grabbed me and lifted me to my feet just as a black utility van screeched up beside us. The side door opened and one of my assailants—there were two of them, one black, one white—said, “Come on, let’s go,” and they pushed me toward the van.
 

Suddenly they stopped and I didn’t realize why at first—I could barely see a thing without my glasses—but then I heard the
dink!
and
ping!
of something against the parked cars and then, an instant later, a window shattered and the men pushed me down and reached into their pockets and pulled out guns and returned fire at whoever was shooting at them.
 

The shooting wasn’t loud, not as loud as I thought it should be, and it took me another moment to realize that these men and the men they were shooting at had sound compressors so the gunshots sounded like nothing more than claps.
 

I was on the ground in a fetal position, my head ducked, my arms over my head, when suddenly there was a lull in the gunfire.
 

I risked a peek and saw one of my assailants heading for me but then the shooting started up again—
clap! clap! clap!
—and he turned away and dove into the van along with the other guy and the van’s tires screeched as it sped away into traffic. There was honking and shouting and then the van was gone and footsteps hurried toward me and someone else grabbed me, someone I couldn’t quite see.