Driver had his foot on the man’s throat by the time he was down, but he wasn’t going to be getting up anytime soon. Driver grabbed a towel from the bathroom and dropped it by him, then sat on the floor nearby, opening his pocket knife and holding it so that would be the first thing the man saw when he came around.
It didn’t take long. His eyes opened, swam a bit before they cleared, went to Driver. He turned his head to spit out blood. Looked back and waited.
“From around here?” Driver asked.
“Dallas.”
Imported talent, then. Interesting. He put away the knife. “What about the others?”
“I don’t know anything about any others, man.”
“What do you know?”
“I know there was five large waiting for me once I walked out of here.”
“But you’re not walking out, are you.”
“There is that.”
“You want to see Texas again?”
The man licked his lips, tasting blood. He put two fingers up and lightly touched his ruined nose. “That would be the most agreeable outcome, yes.”
“Then let’s get you in a chair and talk.”
“About?”
“How you’re getting paid, where, who. That sort of thing.”
Driver helped him up. Blood streamed from his face once the man was upright. He held the towel to his nose, speaking through it. “You know you can’t outrun this, right? When I’m gone, there’ll be someone else.”
So for the moment this was what it came down to, perched with a failed killer at world’s edge in the middle of the night, thinking about convictions. Had he ever had any? And what kind of lies was he telling himself, to think he might somehow find a way through all this?
He’d driven back out Van Buren to Sky Harbor, had his night visitor call from the airport to tell them it was done. Stopped at a dollar store on the way to get the man a new shirt and slacks. No way TSA was letting him through with blood all over him.
The pickup was in Glendale. Driver headed that way and parked up the street from All-Nite Diner, the only thing left alive in a threeor four-block radius, the rest given over equally to retail stores and offices. The diner itself was shared by two cops and, judging from their hats and Western finery, members of The Biscuit Band, whose van sat out front. Mail N More, halfway up the block and in easy view, opened in a little over an hour. Driver bought a carry-out coffee and went back to the car to wait. He passed the time perusing windows. Those at Mail N More read:
Boxes for rent Money Orders Photocopies
Will Call Service Messengering Packaging
Notary Inside Business cards Habla Espanol
The window at the antique store across the street read, They Don’t Make Life Like They Used To.
He was thinking about these people who kept coming after him. They bring in hired help, it suggests what? That they’re limited, maybe a small group working on their own? Which didn’t make much sense, given the professionalism of the strikes-their own people came in first, he had to assume-not to mention Beil’s presence in this. Because they wanted to maintain distance, deniability? Or they were running out of soldiers?
Yeah, right.
At 7:54 a dark brown Saturn pulled up in front of Mail N More. The driver turned off his engine and sat. When the card hanging inside the door flipped to OPEN, he got out and went in, carrying an 11x13 padded envelope. Youngish guy, black, late twenties, dark suit, white shirt, no tie. He handed the envelope to the man at the desk, took out his wallet, paid him. When he came back out, Driver was sitting behind the Saturn’s wheel.
“What, I forgot to lock it?”
“Phoenix does rate pretty high in car theft.”
“You want to come out from there?”
“Why don’t you join me instead? We can talk privately.”
Driver watched the man’s eyes check sidewalk, streets, and diner. The police car had pulled away minutes earlier. The diner was filling with people on their way to work. Driver reached under the dash, twisted together the wires he’d pulled down before. The engine came to life.
“Another minute, I drive away. You get in, I stay.”
The man came around to the passenger side, opened the door and stood with his hand on it. “This is decidedly not smart,” he said.
“I get dumber every year.”
The man climbed in, and Driver killed the engine.
“So dumb,” Driver said, “that I don’t care about the money you just left in there.”
He looked at Driver, looked back out to the street. “Yeah, okay.”
“What I do care about is knowing who it came from.”
“Why?”
“Knowledge makes us a better person, don’t you think?”
“No,” he said. “No, I don’t. Don’t think that at all. Four years polishing college chairs with my bottom, three more of law school, and I end up a gopher. There’s your knowledge.”
“At some point you made the choice.”
“Choices, yeah, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Free will, the common good. Still have my class notes somewhere.”
“Choices don’t have to be forever.”
The man turned back to him. “You just get off a guest spot with Oprah, or what?”
They sat watching a white-haired oldster chug down the street in a golf cart at fifteen mph. He had a tiny American flag flying from an antenna at one corner, a dozen or more bumper stickers plastered all along the cart’s sides.
“The money?” Driver said.
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Knowledge again.” Driver put both hands in plain view on the steering wheel. “Then I’m afraid you won’t be leaving this car.”