Ravens (10 page)

Eighteen million?

Wasn’t the market supposed to have
tanked
? How could they be asking eighteen million and it’s not even on the water? Eighteen million and she had to
hike to the damn beach
? Along some tourist path? Trudging with Mitch and his purple flipflops, and Whoopi and Barbara and Sting looking down on
her and laughing, ha ha, look at those stinkbugs crawling in the sand!

No chance, Patsy thought. I won’t be Whoopi’s clown. Washed-up C-lister who’s never funny anymore, giving
me
crap?

Well. She searched some more, and finally found a property right on the beach. Just above the pounding surf, and it had 4
bedrooms which at least was one more than she had now, so fine — they could have a guest now and then. And the place had been
designed by some fancy architect. But it looked like a lean-to. Like a glorified concession stand. Look at it! Squeezed in
between the neighbors on either side, and the asking price was $22,500,000.

Twenty-two point five
million
? For a 4-bedroom hot dog shack?

Were they kidding?

Or here — an empty two-acre lot. Right on the beach, but with the Pacific Coast Highway running right behind it, and what
was that warehouse-looking building across the highway? A discount furniture store? And they want $19 million? For two acres
of sand?

It was beginning to dawn on her that she didn’t have all the money in the world.

She wished she hadn’t started with this.

She wondered how much wealth she really did have. Starting with that lump-sum-vs.-annuity scam, which meant that her so-called
$ 318-million jackpot was baloney to begin with. Then subtract taxes, then subtract Shaw’s 50% cut, what was she left with?
Less than $65 million. And she was supposed to spend half of that on a pathetic snack bar on the beach?

Of course, she didn’t
have
to live in Malibu. If she didn’t mind living away from the beach, up in the hills somewhere, maybe she could find herself
something really swank for twenty million. If she didn’t mind having dentists and tax attorneys for pals. Instead of Mel and
Goldie and Matthew McConaughey.

OK, fine then; I’ll go live in the sticks.

But of course, whatever she got, she’d have to refurbish and redecorate. That, she knew, would run her another five million
or so, minimum. So now she was down to thirty million odd, the interest on which would bring in… two million a year? Million
and a half after taxes? She could already feel the squeeze here. Because what about the housekeeper? And a chef and gardeners
and maids and security? All that would run a couple of million per year at least. And she didn’t require the fanciest yacht
in the world but if she wanted to entertain on the ocean at all, that meant at least a half-million-dollar boat, and God only
knew how much to staff it. And couture wasn’t cheap. And private schools and club memberships and spas and a nanny…

She got up and went to the kitchen to fix herself a g&t. Going easy on the gin because it was early. Though she did allow
herself one little dollop because all this was so incredibly sad. For one moment she had been truly rich. For an instant.
Before that bastard had come into their lives. If it hadn’t been for him she’d have twice as much now. A hundred and twenty
million, and then yes, she could have afforded a decent spread. A nice place, forty million or so, in a friendly seaside neighborhood,
where she could’ve had Nancy Reagan over for tea and had some silver to serve it on. And she could have thrown a few bucks
at one of Nancy’s charities, to make her smile. “Oh, sweetie, I almost forgot. Little something for the stem cells.” Nancy
saying: “Oh! I
wish
Ronnie were here right now.” Then a quick hug — very gentle of course — and the poor old widow weeping softly in Patsy’s
arms.

She could have had a horse in the Derby! And a fun little jet to fly her out to Lexington, to watch it run. Would’ve been
all right. And yesterday, she had had all that! That had been her life!

Her fury running away with her. She polished off the gin in a single swallow, and got up to fix herself another. Goddamn the
bastards! May they burn in hell! And they would, she thought. Because if they ever tried to leave Brunswick, to enjoy their
loot, she’d bring the FBI down on them like a hive of hornets. The FBI would put so many holes in them, their own mothers
wouldn’t want what was left.

Romeo
was starting to feel a little better. He even thought he might be able to hold something down, so he drove to the Burger
King drive-thru on Altama. But then when he looked up at the big sparkling menu board, he realized he wasn’t feeling
that
much better. Not a single item he wouldn’t have instantly upchucked. So he drove away — sailing past the pickup window, with
the counter girl scowling at him as if driving thru without making a purchase was some heinous crime against humanity. He
took a left, and took Habersham to Poinsettia Circle, to Vanessa and Henry’s house.

Vanessa was Nell’s niece. She was an artist who painted pastel seascapes — this Romeo knew from her web page, where there
was also a picture of her wearing some kind of fancy South American blouse. Her husband Henry was black and debonair, and
worked for Glynn County — something about delinquent youths. Romeo parked across from their sweet little house, and waited,
and after a while Henry came out in a seersucker jacket and got into his car and drove away.

Romeo went the other way. Headed downtown.

OK. Here’s how I could do it. Knock at the kitchen door. Vanessa answers, I say I’m from PETA. She’ll be all sympathetic,
and as she opens the door I raise the pistol and shoot her in the face. Right? Though she probably won’t die right away but
she’ll scream and blood will come hurling out of her head, and I can’t.

He looped past Alfred’s house, and then Nell’s, and came back to Gloucester Street. He took a right. The speed limit was 25
mph. He did not exceed it. He wanted to go even slower; to trawl along at bicycle or milkwagon speed. But that would have
drawn too much attention. So he went at exactly the limit, and the sepulchral city opened up slowly on either side of him.
When he crossed Lee Street and saw a shop that advertised Antique Maps, Firearms, and Swords, he pulled in.

As a coldblooded killer, as an angel of vengeance or dark servant or whatever, he should have been turned on by a place like
this.

The store’s proprietor had a face like a battered satellite dish. He seemed to be receiving signals this very moment. He let
Romeo alone to wander amidst the merchandise, to run his gaze along the edges of the knives, to ponder the rows and rows of
dull-witted bullets. It all seemed cold, harsh, repellent. But there was one item that did catch his eye: a broken cavalry
saber up on the wall. He liked it
because
it was broken. It had an air of fallen nobility. He studied it from afar, until the proprietor surfaced from his deep-space
communion and said, “Revolutionary War. French-made, Solingen steel, but it’s got the American double eagle. I guess Lafayette
might have brought it over here, or one of his men. You wanna see it?”

“Please.”

The proprietor brought it down and let him handle it.

“How much?” said Romeo.

“Well, if it weren’t broken, ten thousand. At least. But as it is, thirty-eight hundred. Which would include the scabbard.”

Would it be easier to kill with this than with the .22? Oh, much. A touch of rakish glamor, he thought — that might give him
some confidence. Also, knowing that the moment of truth wouldn’t be so distant and hollow. That might help. So if he hadn’t
yet maxed out his MasterCard…

The card went through.

Romeo took the saber out to the Tercel and built a nest for it, from newspapers and T-shirts, in the trunk.

Then he drove on. But this time the stench returned quickly, bullyingly, and he realized: it was here. In this car. Not in
the city; not in the air; but
in this car.
There had been no foul odor in that antique shop. It was either in the car or in his brain. He crossed Rt. 17 and pulled
into a little park on the marsh. He was the only one there. He got out and walked away from the Tercel. He followed a wood
plank walkway into the marsh. It ended at the bank of a creek, and he stood there, looking at seagulls. A small hot breeze
was in his face. He took a deep breath.

Nothing really stank here. There was a mud smell, a vague brininess. That was all.

But when he went back to the Tercel, the stench walloped him again.

He opened the door, got down on his haunches and felt under the seats. Old coffee cups, toll receipts, Subway wrappers. A
years-old road map for
Cincinnati Including Southwestern Ohio
. But nothing to generate this kind of odor.

He squatted there, trying to puzzle this out.

Then he got up and slowly circled the car. Sniffing as he went. He bent low and sniffed again.

He lay down on the ground. Now he was shaded from the swollen sun by the Tercel’s bumper, but the asphalt was as hot as an
oven rack.

He squirmed under the chassis, on his back.

Directly above him, staring down at him, was an animal, wedged into the wheel well. No telling what species it was. The gases
of decomposition had swollen its eyes halfway out of their sockets, which gave it a look of fury, of a bottled-up avenging
hatred looking for release. It held up its bony forelimbs: the claws were out, ready to kill. Oh Jesus, and Shaw thought it
had come to bring us
luck.
But all this time, it had been riding along down there, radiating resentment and foulness and putrefaction. Who knows how
it managed to get stuck up there? Must have jumped at the wrong moment, or the wheel had kicked it up and it had snagged on
something. And probably had lived for a while. Maybe survived the whole journey, all the way down here to Georgia, watching
the highway passing underneath, the broken white line, the merciless unraveling of everything it had ever fucking cared about.

He tried to keep meeting the animal’s eyes, but the odor was asphyxiating him. Maggots were seething up there, and bits of
loose gravel dug into his back. He’d had enough. He slithered out and lay there in the sun, gasping for breath.

He drove to a self-service car wash just off the Altama Connector. He used the long nozzle of the soap squirter to dig the
creature out of the wheel well. The bulk of the carcass fell to the concrete in one piece, with a soft thud. One side of the
animal was concave and perfectly smooth — maybe at some point it had been pushing up against the wheel? He coaxed it into
a black plastic trash bag which he tied shut, then used the hose to blast away the vestiges, and then, since he was there
anyway, he decided to clean the rest of the Tercel — clean it thoroughly, inside and out. With soap and hot wax and finally
the vacuum. At the end of his labors, the car still looked like an old beat-up lunchbox, but now it was a shiny old beat-up
lunchbox.

He went to Ace and bought a collapsible spade, and took a lap around his patrol route, hunting for a good spot to bury this
poor soul, some place with a clear view of marshes and stars and the moon.

Burris,
the old cop, finally gave in. He’d been fighting the desire all day, but at last he surrendered and drove past Nell’s bungalow,
just to get a glimpse of her.

He looked through her kitchen window and there she was, feeding her cats. She seemed so at home that it occurred to him maybe
she wouldn’t leave Brunswick after all. Despite the wind-fall. Really, you think about it, why should she? Her whole life
is here. She’s not going to just uproot herself and go dancing off to France, that wouldn’t be like her at all.

Which led him to a surprising and happy thought. Maybe the jackpot would even work in his favor. Because after the phonies
and the scavengers start to cluster around, wouldn’t she come to appreciate the one guy who had always cared for her? The
one guy she could trust? And then, the money that he had made or hadn’t made, or his rank in the police department, or whether
he was slow-witted or not, or bald and jowly or not: all that wouldn’t matter so much, would it?

If Nell could just hear what her heart was telling her.

At Rt. 17 he turned north. Pursuing his usual counterclockwise patrol route around the city. The sunlight faltered, and he
glanced up and saw a bank of black stormcloud coming from the west. Its shadow rolling over the marsh. He thought, well, we
could use some rain here. He took a right onto Riverside Road, which was a long causeway that wound through the marsh toward
an enclave of wealthy houses. Some of the city commissioners lived out here, so no amount of patrolling was too much.

A brown Toyota Tercel was parked on the shoulder, in the grass —’91 or ’92. The tag said Ohio. The driver, a white male, was
taking a black garbage bag from the trunk.

Burris pulled up behind. The driver had a slight build, dark hair. He was somewhat meek of posture. But he had a friendly
face.

Burris told the radio, “43, dispatch?”

Rose, sounding bored as usual, probably painting her nails, said, “Go ahead, 43.”

“Out on Riverside past the first curve. Gimme a 29 on a ’91 or ’92 Tercel, Ohio tag JBX-681?”

The driver was waiting patiently, holding that bag. Burris didn’t feel he needed the tag run, so he got out of the cruiser
and approached the man and said, “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon.”

“Can I ask what you got there?”

“Animal I found.”

“A live animal?”

“Uh-uh. I found it up in my wheel well. I want to bury it.”

“Sir, may I see your license and proof of insurance?”

The driver took out his wallet and handed over the license. Funny name. Burris puzzled over it while the guy went to the glove
compartment and fished for his insurance card. When he came back, Burris asked “Sir, how do you pronounce your last name?”

“Zuh-DER-ko.”

“First name Romeo?”

“Mama knew what a lover I’d be.”