The Reckoning (14 page)

It was decided that Craig should stay home in bed while Royce drove Leslie to the airport.

Snow had fallen overnight, sugar-coating trees and icing the streets. The Cavalier crunched down Charles Street towards BWI. Royce had a headachy feeling like too much cotton had been stuffed into his ears; his throat was tight. He wound through the icy Baltimore streets until he caught the Baltimore-Washington Expressway to the airport.

Leslie had given him Stallings number at the bank. He was to call him first thing, explain the situation and tell him Leslie would be calling him later that morning from Billings to review any projects hanging fire.

“And Randy definitely knows what time your flight is coming in?” Royce said dry-mouthed.

“Yes, we’ll go directly to the hospital.”

“Do you need some money?”

“No, I have credit cards and my ATM card. There’s a machine at the airport.”

“Okay.” It was true—his wife had better credit than he did.

“You already have the keys to my Honda.”

“Yes.”

And that was the extent of their conversation (save for Leslie informing him of a ham in the cellar refrigerator) all the way to the airport.

Royce offered to park and walk with her to the gate.

“No, I can manage alone.”

So he parked the car at the Continental door and hefted her two carry-on bags out of the trunk for her. She carried one and slung the other over her shoulder.

“I guess that’s it,” he said, realizing they would not embrace or kiss.

“One more thing, Royce.”

“What’s that?”

“No matter what happens, promise to take care of Craig until I get back from Montana.”

He nodded. “Always.”

11

Holiday Blahs

That morning, after dropping Leslie off at the airport, Royce drove home, awakened Craig and told him to get ready for school. The two ate cold cereal in stony silence.

“Don’t worry. Aunt Jules will be all right,” he told his stepson.

“When will Mom be back?”

“Oh, a few days. She has to help your Uncle Randy with your cousins Linda and Steve.”

“What about me?” he asked woefully.

“You’ll be just fine. I’m here.”

That didn’t seem to impress him.

“Look, Craig. I know you and I aren’t exactly buds, but we’ll just have to learn how to get along better. We can’t let your Mom down. Okay?”

“Okay,” he whined.

It was then that Royce launched his “Craig plan.”

He gave the boy a sealed, legal-sized white envelope.

“What’s this?” Craig asked, wide-eyed.

“A survivor’s kit I put together for you. Like the fighter pilots carry in their G-suits on dangerous missions.”

“You mean there’s a poison capsule in here?” Craig looked at the envelope in awe.

For the first time ever, Royce seemed to have the child’s undivided attention.

He laughed. “No, but you’ll find a list with my office address and phone and other numbers and addresses where I can be reached if you need me (he’d left Naughty’s off the list). I’ve circled Tony and Carmen’s address and phone. If an emergency comes up, and you can’t get hold of me, call Tony, either at his office or at home.”

“Gee, okay,” the boy said, getting off on the intrigue.

“And another thing, Craig. I’ve given you fifty dollars in cash.”

“Cool!”

“Now listen to me. Use it only if you really have to, like for a cab ride or something, just in case. I’ve given you the number for Yellow Cab. Don’t blow the dough on candy, Nintendo games or junk for your friends. Understand?”

“I understand,” he said gloomily.

“You have a wallet to put it in?”

He frowned. “You gave me one last Christmas.”

“Good. Hold onto that money, Craig. What you don’t spend is yours to keep once your Mom comes home.”

“Sweet!” Suddenly he fired Royce a suspicious look. “This money will be my Christmas, right?”

Royce smiled. Maybe he and Craig had a lot in common after all. “No,” he assured him. “Christmas will be a separate proposition. But don’t tell Les I gave it to you. Okay?”

“Okay. Sure.”

“Now tell me, how are those tests they’re giving you going?”

Craig scowled. “Fuck—”

“Don’t use that word,” his stepfather snapped.

“Okay, I’m sorry.” The child looked like he was about to cry, then he rebounded, saying, “They’re makin’ me draw pictures of trees and houses, you and Mom.”

“Trees and houses? I never heard of any tests like that.”

“Yeah, it’s weird. Sometimes I think I really must be nuts.”

His stepfather nodded. “I know the feeling. Come on, or we’ll be late.”

He let Craig off at school on the way to the office and promised to pick him up at 3:30.

“I can walk home,” Craig said. “I do it everyday. Have my own key and everything.”

“I know you do, but for a few days I’d like to pick you up, if you don’t mind. If you have plans, though, want to go to a friend’s house after school, just call me at work and let me know where you’ll be. Is that okay by you?”

The boy gave it some thought. “Sure, fine by me…Royce?”

“Yes?” He couldn’t recall the last time his stepson had called him by his Christian name.

“You think I’m crazy?”

“No, Craig. You’re not crazy. And don’t let ‘em convince you that you are.”

“Thanks.”

Craig got out of the car and headed into school.

“My my, if you like to poach game, this is definitely the place,” Cliff said, pursing his greasy lips as he leered at the bevy of bubble gum-poppers waiting tables at Hooters. For the most part they were blondly athletic, nicely filled out, cute and always on, with names like Lannie, Theresa, Angela and Chrissie.

“Yeah,” Royce agreed flatly.

They were seated at a table in the back, where it was dark.

“I saw on the news that Pamela Anderson Lee has gotten her implants ripped out. A shame. What I could do with those bags. Promote the hell out of them.”

“Sure.”

“Your son Craig—”

“Stepson,” he corrected him.

“Yeah, stepson. I enjoyed meeting him. So did Monica. Poor thing, she’s always wanted children. I bet Craig would love this place, the chicks and all.”

“He’s a little young to be thinking of girls yet,” Royce said, wishing Cliff had left Craig’s name out of this. He’d just as soon had lunch with a hyena than Cliff Wells. The way the man tore apart those buffalo wings was revolting, and here the dude was on his third dozen, with the table so bone-strewn it looked like a Neanderthal trash dump.

“These little fuckers aren’t bad, but they’d be better raw, and it takes a lot of them to fill you up,” Cliff observed, mouth full, teeth full of greasy chicken flesh. “How are your oysters?”

“Fine. How you been occupying yourself, since…the old days?”

“Since LA you mean. Oh, traveling mostly, here and there. The Far East, Rumania. Now that was a gas! You’ve never lived until you’ve had a bloody kegger at the summit of the Borgo Pass. In Budapest I got in on the ground floor of that city’s porn industry. Hungarian hotties are so uninhibited. And I must say that I’ve gone through a sort of religious experience. I’ve become a major consumer of life.”

“I know. You mentioned that Thanksgiving. In addition to the fitness thing.”

“I came back to the good old U.S. of A. to claim my fair share of the pension fund pie, but I found too many hogs already crowding around the trough. Can you imagine that? Those assholes make off with billions, leaving us taxpayers and poor retirees holding the bag.”

Royce grinned. “So when was the last time you paid any income taxes?”

Cliff’s face darkened with menace. “What the fuck you dissing me for, Royce?”

“I mean…” Royce said, intimidated now, “I mean, you and I haven’t set such good examples ourselves.”

“Don’t include me in that, white boy. You’re the one who abandoned Carly, left her to die like a run-over dog on the road, with her chest eviscerated by that coked-up fiend.”

Royce shuddered with a deep wound at his core. There were a million things he wanted to say in his own defense, but none of them would have played with Cliff. Cliff was even more vicious than he remembered, and Royce doubted he could still manipulate him, keep him at bay.

And Royce’s suspicions were true. Cliff had had the hots for Carly. Jesus, Carly would have died knowing that.

“You made your point, Cliff. I didn’t know you cared so much about her.”

“Care isn’t a strong enough word for it. When I came back to the states I visited her grave. It’s in a lonely place, Royce.”

“What made you decide to look me up?”

“Just for the hell of it, I did a name search on the Internet. I was surprised, because I thought you might have changed your name, after what you’d done to Carly, and skipped out. I saw the newspaper clips, saw how you were going great guns here in Baltimore, had a wife and the kid. It’s nice, having someone you don’t want to lose.”

Royce took Cliff’s words for what they were—a threat—and shuddered.

Cliff wiped a slimy hand against his leather vest and continued, “So mostly I’ve been cooling my jets, tweaking this new brainchild I have. I visit Poe’s grave on occasion, leave the righteous dude a bottle of amontillado. And I dick around with Monica’s shop for amusement. Say, I was glad to hear you and she are back on track.” He leered. “Business-wise, that is.”

Royce nodded. “Great. Look, Cliff. I’m glad we had this opportunity to chat. My project load has really skyrocketed recently. I don’t know if I can give you much time—your deal or Monica’s even.”

Cliff flared, thrusting a sharp wing at Royce’s chest.

“Hey, old buddy, I’m not expecting you to give me anything. You’ll stand to make—no, I guarantee you’ll make—a couple million at least the first year. You and your wifey and your kid can live in the lap of luxury. As for Monica’s deal, that’s between her and you.” He winked and added, “But if you cut her loose, plan on kissing goodbye the finest piece of ass you’ve ever stuck your wick in. The bitch gone down on you yet? What a tongue. Just so you know, we have an open relationship.”

Royce’s stomach felt hot, mushy full; a headache was coming on. He sighed and said, “Okay, Cliff, tell me your proposition.”

Cliffie’s eyes, until now dark as cold coffee, shone as he rolled into his spiel:

“I call my concept McWash.”

“Laundromats, for Christ’s sake?”

“No, it’s just my inspirational title.” Cliff lowered his voice. “What I’m talking about is a money-laundering operation on the scale and reliability of Federal Express or McDonald’s. Truly global, and with customer-driven employees—hell, customer service representatives even.”

“I’ll tell you right now, I won’t get involved with anything illegal,” Royce said, making it clear he would not negotiate on this matter.

Cliff actually seemed insulted.

“Hey, do you think I’d even think of asking you to do anything illegal? Don’t bone me, Royce. What kind of friend do you think I am?”

Royce had asked himself that same question, on dozens of occasions.

“All I want you to do is figure out what to do with the money I bring you. I figure, with your contacts, all those shitty little businesses you know, run by those beaners and jungle bunnies you work with, you could invest it in a million ways for me. Everyone would stand to gain, including your clients. Hell, the Feds would have a hell of a PR nightmare on their hands, going after legit, minority-owned companies. And you, Royce, you’d take your cut right off the top with me. Christ, I got customers already lined up, rarin’ to go. The Cali boys in Colombia are peein’ their panties to move millions of narcodollars a month. And I know one guy in Cleveland, a porno kingpin, who has to find creative ways of getting rid of two-hundred-and-fifty thou a week—in quarters. From peep shows. All we got to do is clean the cum off the coin.”

Royce finished his beer, slammed down the glass and signaled Angelique or Melissa (no, not Melissa!) or Muffy or whatever the fuck her name was for another.

“Cliff, ever heard of the Rico Act? Any legit businessman who even thinks about using that kind of money to run his company is likely to find himself in prison.”

“That’s where your smarts come in, Royce. You could figure out a way. I got faith in you. With the fat, we buy weapons-grade plutonium in Russia and really cook!”

“What bank are you going to use? From what I understand of these things, it’s critical. A bank in the Cayman Islands? What?”

“Nah. The Caymans aren’t any good anymore. The Brits are starting to cooperate with the DEA. Let’s just say I have a good bank picked out. Offshore. West. The first thing you’ll need to do is go with me to check the bank out.”

“Pacific Rim?”

“Let’s just say far out on the rim, for now.”

Royce shook his head, exhausted with it all.

“I got to be frank with you, I can’t touch this.”

“And I got to be frank with you, too, Royce. I’m counting on you, big time.” He flashed an oily smile. “Besides, you owe me one.”

“Owe you one?”

“Yeah, you remember the twins, don’t you? The gladiator chicks with the huge milk sacks you liked so much?”

It took Royce a while to catch on, then: “You mean the bimbos in Vegas?” he said indignantly. “Hey, just because you got me laid—”

“And shelled out a lot of cash and high-grade Bolivian marching powder,” Cliff interjected. “Don’t forget who paid for that little soiree. Yours truly.”

“Just because you treated me to a couple of hookers doesn’t mean I’m committed to you on a deal like this.”

Cliff shrugged good-naturedly. “Well, let’s just say you should reconsider.” He snapped a wing apart in a gesture that was clearly meant to be threatening. “Hate to have your wife’s kneecaps accidentally get shattered, if a hammer accidentally fell on them over and over.” Then his mood lightened. “Hey, old buddy. Let’s not start out on the wrong foot here. We’re partners again, which I think calls for celebrating.” He raised his beer glass for a toast.

Royce lightly touched his glass to Cliff’s. This meeting was a total, complete, fucking disaster.

“Cliff, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Shoot.”

Royce took a long swallow. “I thought you were dead.”

Cliff thought that was a good one, guffawing wetly.

“Damn,” he said. “You’re always the last to know.”

Royce’s head was spinning, from the beer, from the bizarre conversation.

“Seriously, Cliff. I remember leaving you—”

“Running out on me, you mean.”

“Okay, I remember running out on you when you were freebasing with Crazy Cat. You seemed like you had checked out. There was this, this thing stuck down your throat.”

“Nah, I had one freakin’ out-of-body experience. It’s not a white tunnel like they say. It’s more like getting sucked down a drainpipe and run through a blender. Then I came back.”

“You still believe you’re a vampire?”

“Nah, I gave that up for Scientology.”

“Where you living now, Cliff?”

“My pad’s on the East Side. Real estate is cheaper over there. You get more house for your buck.”

Out of discomfort with the situation Royce downed the last of his beer and was thinking of ordering another when his friend cut him off.

“Time’s a wastin’, Royce. What do you say we blow this pop stand?”

“Suits me,” Royce said, and belched.

Cliff grinned broadly. Those teeth of his needed some work, bad.

“I’ve got a little surprise for you out in the parking lot,” Cliff said.

Royce grimaced. The last surprise he’d gotten was the Mistress of the Dark Arts, chained to a pillory.

“Okay,” he said, suspicious.

Cliff generously left two twenties to cover the damages plus tip, and they departed.

Outside the restaurant Royce gazed across the harbor at the tall masts of the
U.S.F. Constellation
and had a brief flashback to the happiest time in his life. When he and Les had first dated, they’d spent many hours walking hand-in-hand on the Promenade, from Pier Five to Federal Hill. She shared her secrets; he kept his.

He’d grown to love this city like no other, to feel a part of it. Eastern, yet unpretentious. For the first time in his life he had roots. And now they were being blasted out of the earth.

“Well?” Royce snapped at Cliff, once they got to the parking lot.

“To your steed, my man.”

So Cliff followed him to his car, or where he thought his car should be, expecting—and very much dreading—some kind of drug transaction. Royce searched up and down the lot, not locating his Cavalier. Panic set in. He wanted out of there, now.

In the space where he thought he’d left his car he noticed—with a pang of envy—an older black Porsche Carrera. He took a closer look at the classic sports car. Along the very bottom of the driver’s side door panel was a hairline scrape. No, it couldn’t be. But it was.

It wasn’t just any Carrera—
it was Darth
.

He felt a surge of excitement and said, “My God. Where’d you find it?”

“It wasn’t easy, Royce. I can tell you that.”

He lovingly stroked the machine’s satin finish. The last he’d touched her was more than a decade ago. He and car had parted company in Phoenix, where the repo man had finally caught up with Royce on his migration east. Jesus, giving up Darth had been hard to take, even harder on him than the foreclosure of his townhouse in Westwood. But there was no way he could make the car payment, not working as a loan officer for a small Phoenix bank, his annual salary dropping from six figures to twenty-four K in a matter of one month.

Cliff said, “She’s just how you left her. I even left that ding below the door—from when you were drunk that night coming out of the Beverly Wilshire and drove on the sidewalk—just so you’d know it was really Darth. Get in.”

He took the keys from Cliff. Hell, the keychain still carried his remote alarm device. Royce punched it twice before unlocking the door. Immediately, the luxuriant smell of leather wafted out. He gently eased his body in, petted the soft, tan upholstery on the bucket seat next to him. He admired the interior. Hello, Darth. It was good to see her again—the beauty of a cockpit-styled dashboard with glass-faced gauges instead of plastic indicators, a sleek cell phone (dead now, though), and the thrilling potential of a speedometer that went well past eighty-five in the scream zone.

“Crank her up,” Cliff urged.

Royce searched to the right of the steering column for the lock, then remembered it was on the left side. The engine immediately caught with a powerful, even rumble. He lightly touched the gas pedal. The black beast roared.

“She’s got a full tank of gas, Maryland plates, a new emissions sticker and is registered in your name,” Royce thought he heard Cliff say.

“What are you telling me?”

“I can’t have a partner of mine driving a piece of shit.” He shut the door.

Royce tried to roll the window down, then remembered to press the electric window button.

“Where’s my Cavalier?” he demanded.

Cliff consulted his wounded Gucci watch and said, “If those auto-wrecker guys I hired are efficient, your old jalopy is toast by now, about four-feet-by-four.”