Cobb took a big bite out of his second chicken taco, squirting guacamole and taco sauce all over the Bud Light sign hanging in the window. After washing the taco down with just maybe the best sweet tea he had ever tasted, he wiped the spill off the sign with his thumb and gazed through the glass.
He was inside a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place called El Rancho-on his tired feet and using the Bud Light sign for cover.
Gamble was talking to someone on her cell. She’d been parked in front of that Rite Aid for more than twenty minutes-burning gas on her way to nowhere. Cobb had been following her ever since she left Parker Center. Although he had no clue what went down in Buddy Paladino’s office, it had enough octane to it that Gamble’s first move was to buy a pack of smokes.
Cobb was just across the street. So close that he could count her eyelashes from here-read the tea leaves and tell her future from here.
All things being equal, she lit up that Camel like she needed it. Cobb took it as a sign that she was on the ropes. That the fucking new deal was having a bad day and couldn’t make the cut. That he had guessed right about her-that he had known who she was the minute he set eyes on her.
He finished the taco and tossed the paper wrapper in the trash. When the girl behind the register asked if he wanted another, he checked on Gamble’s status and ordered two more to go. Then he returned to his place behind the Bud Light sign and peered up the street.
Loser No. 2 was in a white van parked one block up on the other side of Broadway. He, too, had been following Gamble ever since she left Parker, but was unaware of Cobb and looked too stupid to figure it out.
All the same, Cobb found the man curious. He was a busy little guy in a sweat-stained suit. And he wasn’t just keeping an eye on things. He was shooting video of Gamble. Cobb glanced at her still talking to someone on the phone, then looked back at the van. Every once in a while he could see a reflection in the rear window, the kind made when headlights from a passing car spike a camera lens hidden behind tinted glass.
Cobb had caught a glimpse of the little guy’s face when he parked the van outside Paladino’s office. He seemed familiar, but Cobb saw the cuts and bruises on his left cheek and kept drawing blanks. Either way, Loser No. 2 looked like a dickweed.
He heard the girl behind the register call out to him. Tossing two bucks and change on the counter, he grabbed the bag and moved to the door. When his eyes zeroed in on Gamble, she was just switching on her headlights and looked ready to roll.
It was okay, he told himself. As long as his knees didn’t lock up, he had plenty of time.
He waited for her to pull into the street, then walked as fast as he could manage over to his Lincoln parked two cars back. Before jumping inside, he gazed down the street and found her car in traffic. West Fifth was a one-way street with access to the 110 Freeway. She was shifting lanes and heading for the entrance about four blocks ahead. He could see the white van just pulling in behind her.
Cobb tossed the bag of tacos on the passenger seat, jerked his car into traffic and made the green light at Broadway. Within a few minutes he was cruising three cars behind the white van on the 110, traveling south. Traffic was heavy and tight, no one moving over 50 mph. Gamble had remained in the right lane and was making the transition to the Santa Monica Freeway for a return trip to the Westside. Cobb settled back in his seat, keeping his eyes on them and trying not to let his mind wander.
But he couldn’t pull it off. He couldn’t get Buddy Paladino out of his head. Gamble had spent the better part of two hours in his office. Why? What could they have said to each other that took so much time?
He played through a list of possibilities in his head. None of them worked in his favor. He wolfed down those tacos, thinking everything over from different angles and breaking into a sweat. Images of his own demise surfaced-some of them violent and bloody. Images of being tortured flashed though his mind as well-accompanied by mass quantities of pain. By the time he came out of his trance, he could see Gamble and Loser No. 2 peel off the freeway, heading north on the Pacific Coast Highway. He slowed some, giving them room as they passed through a number of signal lights. But then the road cleared, and Gamble picked up speed. It was a sudden burst of motion, like a jet at the end of a runway thrusting forward to reach air speed.
The white van dropped back and finally pulled over and gave up. Cobb tried to keep his eye on her taillights, but she was stretching the car out-a V6 with 280 horses and 254 pounds of torque-he’d looked it up.
She must have spotted them. She must have known that they were there. She must have decided to end it once she found enough road.
Cobb checked his speedometer. He was doing ninety and still couldn’t carry her bags. He wanted to hit something. Smash something. When he looked back at the road, her taillights had vanished into the night. She was gone.