He paid up at the register, $7.28, and cut through the parking lot on the way back. Just past, he came across a block of homes, five in a row, that didn’t seem to belong here, so perfectly in order-windows clear, roofs free of debris, lawns freshly barbered, a quarter-inch gap at the edge of foundations, drives and walkways-that he wondered if the same compulsive person owned them or saw to their upkeep. Then, crossing the street, he was back in the real world, back among shambles and make-dos.
And taking note of the car parked across from his house, a sleek Buick sedan in a neighborhood of pickups and make-do’s, single occupant.
The other one would be out back, he figured.
Driver cut around to the wall bordering the alley. Enough stuff back here, piled up along the wall, to furnish five or six homes, parts of all of it gone missing: legs on the furniture, glass in the mirrors, cords and elements on appliances. The gate, he knew from his initial reconnaissance, was held by a chain, one he’d be able to reach through the gap but not without making noise. No problem, though, since the wall was just over six feet and through the gap he could see the other guy leaning against the side of the old garage, looking toward the house.
Driver was up, over and on him as a car passed slowly out front, momentarily taking the man’s attention. Manicured fingernails raked Driver’s arm, ruby or bloodstone ring like a fat jelly bean on one finger. A good choke hold doesn’t leave much wiggle room. It’s not just the breathing, you’re clamping the carotids too, shutting down blood flow to the brain. Work on kung fu movies, you spend hours hanging out with stars and stunt men while waiting to saddle up and drive. You learn things.
Without thinking-he was on some level now where thought and action were a single seamless thing-he slammed the man’s body against the side of the garage, got a drumlike thud, louder than he’d anticipated, then a series of reverberations. He slipped around behind, into the narrow channel between garage and wall.
It took all of three minutes for the other one to show. Came in carrying something in his left hand, gun, slapjack, taser. Spotted his partner and moved slowly toward him. Crouched low, Driver watched through the cracks between boards.
Left-handed then. And carrying about forty extra pounds.
Driver waited.
The man drew up close, looked around one last time. Struggled some on the squat, then dropped that left hand to the ground as he eased down.
The moment the man’s eyes shifted, Driver was there, stomping hard on his hand. Still wrapped around the gun handle, fingers cracked. But the man didn’t make a sound. He looked up with blank eyes, waiting to see how this was going to go.
Driver kicked him in the head.
Sirens sounded in the distance, over on McDowell or thereabouts, maybe coming this way, maybe not. Driver looked around. There hadn’t been enough noise to alert neighbors, but three or four two-storeys were within view, someone could have seen and called it in. He listened again for the sirens. Closer? Much as he wanted to talk to these two, to have a conversation as Felix would put it, he couldn’t take the chance.
He was up the alley and around the corner when two police cars swung onto San Jacinto.
“That’s your idea of laying low?”
“So I’m out of practice.”
Driver was on a throwaway. Felix was calling back from the message he’d left at the tattoo parlor on Camelback.
“One might surmise that hanging out by dumpsters isn’t going to make it.”
“Right. Somehow they got on to me again, and fast.”
“I don’t like it much, either. They found you, chances are good they know more about me than anyone should.”
“Just what I’m thinking, why I’m checking in.”
“You put four of their people down and they’re still on empty. Whatever jones they had for you at first, it’s got way stiffer now. What can I do?”
“I’ll need another place to stay.”
“Money?”
“That’s taken care of.” Old habits hadn’t completely passed with the old life. He had stashes of money, ID, bank cards.
“Might want to give Maurice a call.”
“Your guy who does false documents?”
“Not just documents. He does whole identities-birth certificate, military, degrees. But he’s just as good at erasing them. This juncture, more invisible would be wise.”
“You’re right.”
“Swing by The Ink Spot in an hour or two. Justin’ll have everything you need. Keys, clothes. Anything else you’re wanting, call me direct.” Felix gave him the number. “That one’s with me and always on.”
“Many thanks, my friend.”
“Nothing. Be cool-”
“-and care. Will do.” Driver hung up.
The second call was the one he dreaded, but he knew he had to make it. Mr. Jorgenson picked up on the seventh ring. Once hello was done, he said nothing further, not when Driver told him who was calling, not when he told him how sorry he was, not when he told him they wouldn’t be hearing from him again.
He and Elsa had always joked about how purely middle-America her parents were. “Toasted cheese!” one of them would say, then the other: “Sectional couch!” “Jello salad!” “Mashed potatoes!” “Lawrence Welk!”
When Driver stopped talking, there was silence on the line for a time.
“Mrs. Jorgenson and I knew from the first that we didn’t have the whole story, Paul. We knew that. But our girl loved you, and you loved her, and whatever we felt, about the strangeness that stood behind you where it couldn’t be seen, about all those things that didn’t quite add up-none of that came to matter much.”
Silence again before he said, “How terribly we will miss her, I can’t begin to tell you.”
Most anyone else, Driver thought, would be dispensing homilies now: she’s in a better place, she’s gone to her reward, her journey’s over. He could see where so much of Elsa had come from. Her spirit, the quiet at her center, her generosity.
“But we will miss you too, Paul. We are your family. What is going on now, once it’s done, however and whatever it is, we hope you’ll come back to us. We’ll be here…I have to go, son.”
Driver was at America’s Tacos on Seventh Avenue, misters going full, no one else out here on the patio. Mostly couples inside, beyond the windows. Just two men eating alone. One of them young, crested hair, denim shirt with sleeves ripped off, head bobbing to the piped music. The other in his fifties or sixties, staring at the wall as he ate. Lost in reverie? Or to memory?
Leaving, Driver dropped his paper plate, cup, and cell phone in the recycle container.
A young woman was bent over something that looked like a gymnast’s pommel horse, bare butt in the air, eating a burger as the tattooist worked on her. Every time she took a bite, a brownish mess of grease, mayonnaise and who knows what else spurted onto the floor. Hebrew letters took form slowly on her butt. Justin’s eyes kept going back and forth from that butt to the printout tacked on the wall. His Rasta hair looked like something pulled down from attic storage, first thing you’d want to do is thwack out the dust. Jeans low on hips, shirtless, nipples sporting tiny gold anchors. After watching closely a moment, Driver wondered if the young woman or anyone else realized how bad Justin’s eyes were.
Those who wore their exception like a billboard were a puzzle to Driver. Given his circumstances, he’d always worked hard to appear to fit in, not be noticed. But he was with them in spirit.
The tattooist’s head turned. Driver watched as his eyes worked to grab and hold the new focus.
“From the look of you, no way you’re here for ink, so I’m thinking you have to be Felix’s friend.” He laid a hand lightly on the young woman’s rump. “Right back, sweetheart.” She shrugged and took another bite of the burger.
Justin kicked off the wall and rode his roller chair across the floor, fetched up at the front counter and went adroitly erect.
“Clothing, laptop, sandwich, Cracker Jacks,” he said, hauling a duffel bag to the countertop. “And…” snagging these from a nail in the wall, “keys. Place is a little out of the way, off the beaten path. But cozy. Or so I hear.”
“Appreciate it.”