James Sallis - Driven

The hammer struck again before he could finish. He vomited, coffee, juice and stomach acids searing his throat.

The man waited till he was done.

“Eight inches to either side, you’ve got gravel for a hip. Ten inches south…”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to understand that this is not going to be a conversation. I’ll ask questions. You’ll answer. Briefly, directly.”

Raymond started to lift a hand to wipe his mouth, stopped and looked back at the man.

“Go ahead.” Again, he waited. “We’re good?”

Raymond nodded.

“Two days ago you called Richard Cole, had him arrange for a money drop out in Glendale.”

Raymond nodded. More coffee, juice and acid was at the gate.

“That money was to pay talent brought in from Dallas.”

“Yes.”

“Who was the hit on?’

“I’m guessing you know that.” He vomited again, but all that came up were some strings of thin, gluey fluid.

“Did you have a photo?”

“A description. Vehicle. Probable locations.”

“Who placed the order?”

Raymond started to talk, stopped when he thought he was going to vomit but managed to swallow it down. “Can we go inside?”

The man stood from his crouch, waving the hammer toward the patio door.

The office inside was everything Raymond wasn’t: well appointed, orderly, efficient, clean. Metal shelving covered two walls, folders aligned and held in place by letter boxes, numbers on the shelves, index tabs protruding along the bottom of the folders here and there. Glancing into the kitchen beyond-smeared counters, greasy stovetop, ragtag piles of dishes-Driver was newly astonished at the contrast.

He looked back at the shelves.

“This is what the world looked like before computers took over.”

“Computer files, yeah. Easy to copy, easy to erase. And I have duplicates of all this hidden away.”

“Insurance?”

“Insurance, memory, archives. Whatever word suits you.”

Raymond pointed questioningly to the shelves. When Driver nodded, he walked over and plucked a folder. No scanning, no hesitation. Went right to it. Brought it back and handed it over.

Driver flipped it open. Email transcripts. Account records and financial paperwork. Reports from credit agencies, a Better Business Bureau, a licensing organization. Photocopies of handwritten notes that looked to have originated in a daybook or pocket notebook. Membership lists.

“Won’t take you there, but it’s a map.”

“Not someone you’ve worked with before, then.”

“And a lot of blinds. I always look in the water, deep as I can. Same as you, I’m sure. Near as I can make out, this one came by way of a lawyer in or around New Orleans.”

“No idea who’s behind it?”

“Someone with a shitload of money.” Raymond held out his hand for the folder. “Give me a minute. I’ll run copies.”

“There’s a couple old running buddies down that way I could send round.”

“Tattoos may not work here, Felix.”

“Doyle’s will. Semper Fi. And the leg’s prosthetic. Heartbreaker of a limp when he wants. The one that’ll be with him…Never says much, but he asks a question, you’re just naturally inclined to answer.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll get them on it, get back to you when.”

“Care, my friend.”

“I’ll take it.”

Billie had her head on the seat, eyes closed, when he climbed back in the car. They’d tried multiple places. Now they were out behind a long-closed bowling alley on its way to becoming a flea market and swap mart. Workers were grinding down pink stucco with belt sanders.

“Your friend always that hard to find?”

“Until he knows who’s looking.”

“Ever think about trying a phone?”

“He’s more a face-to-face guy.”

“In-your-face from the look.”

“It’s happened.”

She had a rubber band in her teeth as she pulled her hair back. Talked around it, then slipped the hair through. “Any butts you need to kick for the next hour or so?”

“It can wait. You had something in mind?”

“I was going to see my father, thought maybe you’d come along.”

Willow Villa was in a stretch of commercial property that sprang up unannounced. One minute they were cruising past ranch houses and shrubs and double driveways, then signs were all around them. Bernard Capes, Chiropractor. Action Limbs and Prosthetics. Spine Mechanics. Physical Therapy Associates. As though some weird medical mall had claimed squatter’s rights and was taking form before your eyes.

Two cars in the visitor’s parking lot around back, one of them a 1968 Pontiac GTO that could have just come off the showroom floor. Driver and Billie watched as seven elderly ladies came out of the building, spent at least three minutes getting into the car, and drove slowly down the drive, hitting the street with a dip and loud clang.

Inside, they stopped to sign in. The air was cold and stale and smelled vaguely of raw alcohol. Two women sat at desks beyond the counter. One had an account or records book of some kind. The other was peering at a computer screen, and looked up. Her hair was three different colors, none of them natural, none of them, for that matter, found in nature.

“Hey, Billie.”

“Maxine. You’re back.”

“As of yesterday.”

“Your son’s better, then?”

“For now… Mr. Bill’s not in his room, honey.”

“Oh?”

“Out for a walk with Wendell, can you believe it? Getting to be a regular thing.”

“Which way?”

She pointed to the back of the building.

“Max always thought the boy just had asthma,” Billie said as they went back through the doors. “Two weeks ago he had a crisis, two o’clock in the morning the way it usually happens, and they wound up in ER at Good Sam. Came to find out it’s a heart defect, something that should have been caught years ago. There they are.”

Driver and Billie walked toward two men sitting at a plastic patio table. A scruffy Chinese elm struggled to give shade.

“Hi, Daddy, I thought you were out walking.”

The older man looked for a moment at Driver before answering.

Cop’s look, Driver thought.

“Wendell got tired.”

“Of course he did.”

“Wendell, you know my daughter. And she’s brought a friend. This,” he said, looking again at Driver, then at Wendell, “is my friend.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir. Miss Billie.” Wendell stood. Scars and a Special Forces tattoo intertwined with cords of muscle on his arms. “I’d best be getting back. You okay out here, Mr. Bill?”

Billie’s father nodded. Driver and Billie sat at the table. Off ten or twelve yards, where a path led to a stand of trees, a cat repeatedly scampered and leapt, twisting about in midair, as it stalked a huge Viceroy butterfly.

“Good to see you out here, Dad. This is Eight-long story, don’t ask. We work together.”

Both he and Driver were watching the cat. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Billie waited. “I’m afraid my father doesn’t have much to say these days.”

He turned back, looked at Driver.

“So you work with my girl. Not another damn lawyer, are you, like the last one?”

“No, sir. No, I’m not.”

“Not a lawyer? Or not like the last one?”

“Both.”

“And you got a number for a name, like in that Merle Haggard song.”

“Courtesy of your daughter, yes, sir.”

“Always did see things the way she wanted to. And that’s one of her good points.”

“We’re the descendents of the ones who ran-and of the ones who fought. You just gotta figure out when to what.” Felix looked up the alleyway. “Help soon be on the way in their pretty squads. Don’t think you’ll be wanting to take time to check out.”