Parishioner (32 page)

Toy showed up at the nameless white stone church at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon. He was met at the door by Sister Hope, who greeted him by name. She ushered the assassin into Frank’s rectory.

“How did she know my name?” Theodore Meacham asked Father Frank.

“We’ve known about you for a long time, Toy,” Frank said. “There have been three members of the congregation who were complicit in your crimes.”

“I was following orders given by elected and appointed officials.” Meacham said the words even if he no longer believed in them.

“We recognize no government above common law,” Frank replied.

Theodore never knew whether it was the equation of the notion of common law placed next to the idea of government that swayed him or if it was just the tone of Frank’s voice. But after a three-hour conference with Frank, Toy knew that he had to retire. He quit the mercenary corporation, collected his back pay from diplomatic services, and bought the Nut Hut from Myra
Salud, a widow who wanted to go live with her daughter in Minneapolis.

Theodore was taller than he seemed and stronger than his slight frame might have indicated. His skin was sallow—allowing him to pretend to be from any continent, racial group, or religion. His brow was heavy with the number of souls he’d terminated without the slightest heat or satisfaction.

He was the butcher and they the various cuts of meat.

“Hello,” Xavier Rule said to Ted Meacham.

The taupe eyes registered the gangster. The pallid bald head barely nodded.

“Hey.” Toy looked around to see what else had drifted into his environment.

Ecks knew how clear and yet vacant that vision was.

“I’m gonna drop by here at around three thirty,” Ecks said. “Somebody, maybe more than one, will be looking after me. They might even come up and talk to you to ask about me.”

“And what did you say?”

“You still run the safe house in Coldwater Canyon?”

“You got clearance from Frank?”

“Call him.”

“I will.”

“Send whoever it is asking about me up there. Tell ’em that I’m an old friend and that you play poker up there sometimes.”

“If I get the high sign do you need backup?”

“Probably not. Let ’em know that you already told a young man to meet me up there tomorrow at four, that I was asking if you passed on the message. Maybe you could mistake them for the guy I left the message for.”

“Should I turn a profit?”

“That would be best.”

“Want some nuts?”

“Got some,” Ecks said, and Toy smiled.

“Goddamn, that was some strong shit,” Lenny O said at a few minutes past three.

They were in the Farmers’ Market parking lot.

“You must’a been tired,” Ecks said. “That shit never knock me out like that.”

Lenny sat up and pressed his palms against his eyes.

“Damn,” he said. “Where are we?”

“Parking lot.”

“Why?”

“You fell asleep. I couldn’t carry you, so I thought we’d wait awhile … until you got up.”

“How long?”

“Three, four hours. You thirsty?”

Ecks handed over a sealed bottle of water. He had dipped the top into the same drug that had already rendered the film crewman unconscious. The liquid narcotic would have seeped in.

Lenny studied the cap, broke the serrated seal, and took a swig.

“You ready to go?” Ecks asked.

“Where to?”

“That house I promised … with the bed.”

Lenny nodded and Ecks turned over the engine. He drove off the lot onto Third. By the time he’d made it around the block Lenny was out again.

“Hello?”

“You still feel all excited?” Ecks asked Winter.

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to get a car not registered to you and pull it up to Beverly and Fairfax,
southwest corner at ten minutes to four exactly.”

“You got it.”

“Wear a hat that hides your face a little. Put on some sunglasses too.”

“Why?”

“Come on, Win, don’t start askin’ questions when you already know the answers.”

Ecks walked up to Toy Meacham at the Nut Hut at three thirty.

“African groundnuts, please,” he requested from the state-certified anarchist.

“Frank said that I should help you if you need it.”

“If I needed it I shouldn’t be doin’ what I’m doin’.”

“A guy came up at three-oh-six and asked for some sugared cashews. He scoped out the place and now he’s sitting at the Mexican food court with another guy looking right at you.”

“That’s good to know.”

Toy offered over a quarter-pound bag of toasted macadamias and Ecks gave him a twenty-dollar bill.

“My cell phone number is written across the top,” Ecks told Toy. “Call me if I need to know anything.”

The elder killer nodded, handing Ecks his change.

Twelve minutes later, on Fairfax walking north, Ecks felt the cell phone throb in his pocket. He touched his ear as if scratching, turning on the micro-Bluetooth as he did so.

“Yeah?” he muttered.

“Soon as you left,” Toy said, “one of the guys got up and followed. You won’t be able to miss him. He’s wearing this green suit. The other one came up and got all tough. I acted like I was scared and he felt real good about himself. For three hundred dollars I told him what you said. I acted like I thought he wanted into a poker game. You want me to send you the cash?”

“Put it on my tab. That way I can have nuts all year.”

Toy disconnected the call and Ecks stopped to look in a real estate office window, pretending to check out apartments. The broad-shouldered man following him was garbed in a hideous green suit with Brazil nut–brown shoes and a black T-shirt. He wasn’t afraid of being noticed, even seemed a bit bothered at having to wait while Ecks studied the little three-by-five cards taped to an easel in the showcase.

Ecks looked down at his watch, saw that Win was supposed to be at the rendezvous in two minutes, and started making his way north once more.

He reached the southwest corner of Fairfax and Beverly at ten to four exactly. A black Lincoln sedan swooped down at the corner, the door swung open, and Ecks stepped in. As he closed the door Winter pulled away and the man in the green suit started to run. But it was too late. Ecks studied his frustrated pursuer in the side mirror and smiled to himself.

“You’d make a good wheelman,” Ecks said to Winter Johnson.

“Ain’t they the first ones to get iced in all the heist movies?”

“I guess so. You know I don’t own a TV and I haven’t been to a movie in years.”

“What do you do when you up in the crib alone?” Win asked.

“Read my books,” Ecks said. “Think.”

“That sounds kinda boring.”

“I guess. My ride’s down at the parking garage across Third from the Farmers’ Market.”

It was a short drive to the loading dock behind George Ben’s hardware store in West Hollywood. Ecks called ahead and was met by the reformed killer at the big double doors.

“Anybody around?” Ecks asked Ben.

“Just us brothers,” Ben said. He was wearing a pink apron over a violet jumpsuit.

“I got a kid in the backseat,” the Parishioner said, “all sedated. I’d like you to look after him for a few days or so.”