The Final Country (32 page)

“I guess I can vouch for that,” I said.

“And Jimmy had his moments. But they had become few and far between. Shit, I thought if I made the son of a bitch pay for it, he’d feel guilty enough to leave me alone. But he wouldn’t stop. No matter how high I raised my price, he paid it. Until the other day when he decided to pound on me when I wouldn’t give it up.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “We’ve got too much history. I didn’t know where else to hide after all this stuff down here went bad. I was scared, man. There was a dead cop, Jimmy wouldn’t tell me what was going on, and I guess I got tired of him treating me like a whore.

“He wasn’t always like that. After Rollie drank his way out of the bar business, Jimmy took care of him when I couldn’t. Then the feds took his boat and started hanging on his ass like fat ticks like he was some kind of big-shit smuggler.” Then she stopped, shook her head. “In the beginning, man, it was fun. More fun than the other part. Not that I hated the other part — the money and the clothes, the guys kissing my ass, the limos, the low-rent movie stars. But now… I don’t know.”

“Now?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated. “Sometimes it starts to feel like I’m just another fuckin’ whore.”

“But you don’t have any idea who set me up?” I asked again.

“Not the vaguest,” she said. “Jimmy set it up.” Then she paused. “Did your friend shoot him?”

“Hell, no,” I said, unlocking the shackle. “Jimmy’s own hired help put one in his ear. So I guess that’s the end of it. I’ll take you to the airport when you’re ready.”

Molly glanced up quickly, a wild look in her eyes as they cut around the corn crib. “You know, man, suddenly I’m thinking maybe I should stay here for a while.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” she said, a small frightened grin on her face. “I don’t know who hired you or for what and I don’t know what the hell you’ve got in mind but maybe I can help.”

“What?”

She stood up quickly. “Hey, man, listen. I think you’re right. Maybe I should stay out of sight. Just until you clear this shit up.”

“That’ll be the day,” I said, then suddenly tired and confused, I sighed and slumped over to sit on the cot. “How’s your mother fit into all this?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “She was just some whitebread hard-shell Baptist kid from a little town outside Shreveport. Vivian, I think. She came down to Baton Rouge to do some cheerleading and sow a few wild oats, then got knocked up, so her redneck parents run her off and she wandered down to Lake Charles and went to work hopping tables for Rollie. That’s what she was doing when I was born.”

“So who knocked her up?” I asked, a question as aimless and pointless as when I asked Albert Homer why his wife left or how his father died.

“Some black basketball player at LSU,” she said.

“Maybe you can help,” I said, standing up. “Maybe you can help after all.” I was on the scrambled cell phone to Carver D in a long heartbeat.

* * *

When I walked through the driving rainstorm to borrow Tom Ben’s pickup again, he was sitting in the living room in his recliner, wrapped in his bathrobe, and sipping something that smelled like bourbon and honey. “Shit, son,” he said, his voice hoarse and gravelly, “I should have let you walk me home last night.”

“What happened?”

“Like an idiot I fell asleep in the rocking chair on the front porch, and woke up with this throat,” he said, then tilted up his mug to finish the dregs. “Maria,” he shouted over his shoulder,
“otra copa.”
As I picked up the keys off the table, Maria, the tiny, stooped cook-housekeeper, came bustling into the living room bearing a steaming mug in her small hands. “So where you headed, son?”

“It’s Saturday, man, and I’m going downtown to shop for ladies underwear,” I said, and the old man smiled a moment before he started coughing.

* * *

Molly walked into the fancy woman’s store like a queen wearing a sweat suit and plastic slippers, trailing me like a royal guardian. We’d stopped at a western store on the way to buy me a black cowboy hat and a black leather jacket, and I didn’t make any secret of the Browning strapped under my arm. I hoped we looked like rich, eccentric Texans. If the response of the sales clerks was any indication, it worked. They nearly trampled us in their haste to serve. Molly was a quick study and obviously had shopped with other people’s money before. We were in and out in thirty minutes. Molly looked like something worth guarding, elegant in a lilac cashmere suit, high-heeled knee-high boots, and a long sueded lambskin coat, and a matching floppy hat.

“How do I look?” she asked as she settled into the cluttered cab of Tom Ben’s pickup.

“You have to ask?”

“A woman likes to hear it.”

“Pretty classy,” I said.

“Thanks,” she said. “I feel pretty classy. So what am I supposed to do?”

“Just stand outside the pickup,” I said, “and don’t run away.”

“That’s easy enough,” she said, then patted my leg, smiling.

* * *

Jonas Walker stood just inside the doorway of his church, as he said he would over the telephone, glaring at me through the slanting rain as I walked up the steps. I stopped beside him, then turned to watch Molly climb out of the pickup, then lean against the pickup, professionally elegant.

“What do you want?” Jonas Walker asked without hesitation. “What the hell is so important that you’d take me away from my family on Saturday night?” he demanded, drawing himself up to his full height as if he could intimidate me.

“Well, let’s see,” I said. “First off, I want a little respect.”

“What?” The large man doubled up his giant fists.

“Respect,” I said. “That’s important. Then I want to introduce you to the daughter you abandoned all those years ago. She’s a high-class hooker and a professional con artist, but compared to you, man, she’s a saint. I’m sure your congregation will appreciate meeting her.”

“My flock knows about my troubled life and the sinful days in my youth,” he said without much conviction.

“You’ve told them, of course, about the cocaine bust that got you thrown off the LSU basketball team and would have gotten you a jolt in Angola if the coach hadn’t called in some political favors.” Jonas Walker had nothing to say. The deep, angry lines around his mouth said it all. “And if that’s not enough to gain your respect, you phony asshole, I’ve got enough financial information about you, your church, and Mr. Hayden Lomax to keep the IRS and a dozen forensic accountants busy for years.”

“I’ll ask you one last time,” he growled. “What do you want?”

“Where’s your brother?”

“Montana,” he answered slowly, as if he didn’t want to give him up but had no choice. “Up in Montana.”

Of all the answers I might have expected, that was the last. “What the hell? Where?” was all I could say.

“Lomax has a place north of Livingston,” he said. “Some kind of experimental mine site. Trying to cook minerals out of bad ore, I think. It’s about halfway between Wilsall and Ringling, off to the east. You’ll see some dirt roads leading to some gas leases. At the end of one of those roads, you’ll find an abandoned mine called Punky Creek and a small steel building. Enos is guarding the machinery or some such bullshit while it’s being sold off.” Then he paused.

“That’s a hell of a place to hide a black man that size,” I said.

“That’s the point,” he said. “He gets bored, he drives to Billings, gets on a plane, flies to Denver or Seattle, flies back when he gets tired.” Once again he hesitated.

“Is he up there alone?”

“He was when I dropped him there,” he admitted grimly.

“You drove him up?” I asked.

“In the church van,” Walker muttered, finally ashamed.

“What’s the rest of it?”

“Ah, hell, man, I think he’s cooking crank, too. He’s a crazy man. Always has been.” Then he began to explain like a lowlife talking to the law, “You don’t appreciate my problem, man. I owe him.”

“I know exactly how it is,” I said. “He took the Tulsa bust and left you out of it, right? You better goddamn understand, I’d appreciate it if he didn’t know I was coming to visit,” I said. “And believe me, man, I’ll tear this fucking church scam down around your ears.”

“Believe me, brother,” he said, “I’ve regretted abandoning my daughter all these many years. I’ve spent many, many hours on my knees in prayer, asking for God’s forgiveness.”

“Hey, man,” I said, “people who actually give a shit do something about it. Praying is for people who ain’t doing anything. As far as I’m concerned, you’re an unforgivable asshole. And by the way, I am not your fucking brother.”

Jonas Walker nodded once, sadness heavy on his giant face, glanced once at Molly, then stepped into the church, slamming the heavy door, locking himself inside with his God and his memories. I didn’t envy either one of them.

“What was that all about?” Molly wanted to know as we drove away in the fading light.

“That was a man’s past coming home to roost on his shoulder like a dead crow,” I said, sliding out of my shoulder holster, then she shoved the rig into my war bag for me.

“That was my father, wasn’t it?” she said.

“No. Your father is the man who raised you,” I pointed out. “And much as I dislike Rollie, he wouldn’t have given you up even if I had put his last hand into the fire.” Molly seemed to engender loyalty in even the worst of men. I suspected that even Jimmy Fish had been killed because he wouldn’t give her up. At least not until he got her back. “Rollie’s your father.”

“You’re right,” she said calmly as if suddenly cheered. “Thanks. What now?”

“Let’s find a place to eat that deserves your new wardrobe,” I said. “Then I’ve got an all-night stakeout.”

“Sounds like a date,” she said. “Can I come along?”

“Damn right it’s a date,” I said, grinning suddenly as she kissed me, our faces hot in the cold rain, a fire that not even this cold Texas rain could quench. Whatever had happened between Betty and me, this wasn’t part of it. “Then tomorrow morning I’ve got to stash you somewhere so I can go to Montana. I don’t seem to be doing any good down here.”

“Great,” she said, then punched me on the shoulder. “I’ve never been to Montana. Went to Pocatello, Idaho, once, to ruin a state senator’s life for a timber company.”

“Montana isn’t the same sort of place,” I said, “or this the same kind of job.” Molly turned her face to the rain-streaked window. “Shit, I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “Really sorry. You didn’t deserve that. These people down here are making me into an asshole.” She didn’t deserve my judgment. Molly was just another version of the capitalist success story: buy low, sell high, fuck the consumer. “I could probably use some help with the driving,” I said by way of apology. “Please.”

“You’re going to drive? Why not fly?” she asked. She seemed to have forgiven my mean-spirited witlessness.

“Airplanes leave tracks,” I said. Then admitted, “It’s never a good time of the year to fly to Montana, and only February is worse than December. If the weather holds, we can make it in two hard days. Or three easy ones.”

“I could go for some easy times,” she said. “Somehow I feel like I’ve earned them.”

“Me, too. Let’s start with a decent meal,” I said, then dialed Jeffrey’s to see if they’d had a reservation cancellation.

“Good idea,” she said, patting my leg again, leaving her warm hand on my thigh as we crossed town on our way to dinner.

* * *

Red called during dinner, so I stepped outside the restaurant to talk to him. He was fine, his mother was fine, and things had gone down pretty much as Fresno had recounted them, Red said, except he didn’t point out how calm the Frenchman had been when he put the round in Jimmy Fish’s head.

“Man,” he squealed, “I seen some cold shit in Detroit, and I wouldn’t have minded puttin’ a pill in the little motherfucker’s head myself, but that Frenchman was one cold piece of work.”

“I’ll send you a check, Red, and you send me the phone.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. “You done overpaid me, man,” he said, sounding hurt. “We’re cool.”

“I’m the old guy here, Red. I’ll decide when we’re cool.”

* * *

Austin was so full of pickups, I didn’t think another one would look out of place in Albert Homer’s neighborhood, and Tom Ben had told me in a hoarse growl that he didn’t think he’d be needing his this night, so Molly and I parked it down the street from Homer’s studio just after midnight. Just a couple of rednecks spooning. We changed locations a couple of times, and Molly proved to be a good companion on a stakeout. She didn’t have any trouble holding her bladder and she held up her end of the hushed conversations. I wished for a touch of Billy Long’s coke, which was still stashed in the foot locker. I had to make do with convenience store coffee that was almost thick enough to snort. Then maybe we got a little deep into our ruse toward false dawn. Molly saw the black van with its headlights off stopped in front of Homer’s mailbox before I did.

Except for Molly’s soft company, the night was a waste. The van sped away from Homer’s so quickly that it was already on the Interstate heading south before it turned its headlights on, but by that time I was too far behind it to read the license plate or even tell what kind of van it was.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” I said.

“Not completely,” Molly said, her voice muffled against my leg as she slipped into an easy sleep, her breath warm on my thigh.

By the time we got back to Tom Ben’s, the sun had risen to obscurity behind the avalanche of roiling, slate-gray clouds that filled the sky. When I parked the truck in front of the main house, the housekeeper, Maria, rushed out on the porch, waving her arms and shouting at me. I couldn’t make out the Spanish but I could tell it wasn’t good.

I jumped out of the cab, Molly right behind me. The housekeeper looked at us oddly, rumpled and sleepy in our fancy clothes. Inside, the old man was slumped in the recliner. He had his bib overalls on but only one boot, and his mouth gaped open and shut like a fish as he struggled for breath. The front of his shirt was soaked but his pale forehead was as dry and hot as a stove pipe. A thick string of spittle drifted down his chin. The gnarled fingers of his trembling right hand clutched the black stub of his pipe.