Макс Коллинз - Spree

“Jesus fuck! How did you spend last night again? Or was that somebody else who was hiding in the can from her rape-happy old man?”

“Jon... what are you asking...?”

“First, don’t betray me. At the very least, just don’t say anything to your father about us talking.”

He waited for her to nod, but she just looked at him.

He swallowed and went on. “What I want most of all is for you to tell me where they’re holding Sherry.”

“Oh, Jon...”

“Where, and under what conditions. I need to know the layout of the place, so we can get her back without anybody getting hurt. That includes Lyle, and your father.”

She was shaking her head no.

“We aren’t murderers, Cindy Lou, Nolan and me. We’re two guys who used to be crooks, who went straight, and something out of our past came back at us and whapped us alongside the head. This girl, Sherry, is innocent in this. She’s done nothing to your father to deserve any of it. She’s not, never was, a criminal. Her only crime was falling in love with the wrong guy.”

“I been there,” she said hollowly.

Tears were making tracks down her cheeks, though her face was oddly impassive.

“I think you should help me,” Jon said. “You should tell me where Sherry is, before she gets hurt. Before she gets killed. You don’t want to be an accessory to murder, do you?”

Now her Kewpie-doll lips were quivering. “Jon... please...”

“Help me. Don’t say anything to your father. And catch that bus to California — today, tonight, as soon as you can break free from him.”

“I don’t have enough money...”

“I’ll tell you what. From here I’m going down to the Greyhound station. It’s in downtown Davenport. I’m going to buy you a ticket to, where?”

“L.A.,” she said, snuffling.

“To L.A. I’ll have them hold it for you at the ticket window, in your name. How’s that?”

“I can’t do it.”

“Go to California?”

“Help you. He’s my daddy, Jon. No matter what he’s done, he’s my daddy. I can’t, I just can’t turn against him. He’s kin.”

Jon reached out and held her hand. “Look. This isn’t a matter of ‘kin.’ It’s a matter of right and wrong.”

Her mouth tightened. “You steal things. How can you say what’s right and wrong?”

“Stealing’s wrong. I don’t do it anymore. At least, I don’t want to do it anymore. Kidnaping is very wrong. Murder is as wrong as you can get.”

“Going against your family is wrong.”

“Not if they’re the Mansons. Help me. And yourself. Tell me where Sherry is — and catch that bus.”

“Jon... don’t ask me this... we hardly know each other...”

“My life’s in your hands.”

The door opened.

Jon withdrew the gun, put a finger to his lips; Cindy Lou sucked in air, brought a hand up to her mouth.

The safety chain kept the door from opening more than a few inches. A voice out there — Cole Comfort’s voice, sounding a little drunk — said, “Let me in, darlin’! What you got this thing locked for? And turn that TV down!”

Jon mouthed, “Please,” to her, and she got up and went to the door, saying, “I got to shut it to open it, Daddy,” and she shut it, turning to Jon and giving him a pained expression and shaking her head no.

Quickly he ducked out the glass doors and sprinted through the snow back to his van, not looking back, gun in his hand and in his pocket. Wondering if he’d blown it.

Business was slow, at Nolan’s, even for a Thursday night. It was cold, particularly for early December, and the roads were slick from the light but persistent snow. This was no blizzard, but people weren’t used to the winter driving conditions yet, and a lot of them stayed home. Tonight it was mostly singles, out dancing to the monotonous beat and nasal sounds of some British synthesizer band. Nolan had turned the alleged music down lower than Sherry would have liked. Sherry thought loud music encouraged dancing, which encouraged general socializing, all of which encouraged drinking. It was his thinking that the couples lingering here, after a late dinner, sitting in the bar, might want to talk, or anyway hear themselves think. The loudness of the sound system was a bone of contention between Sherry and Nolan. He usually let her have her way — as long as the customers didn’t complain, and they never seemed to. Without her here, he did it his way.

The regulars were asking for her: “Where’s Sherry?” “We really miss her!” “You’re a poor substitute for a pretty face, Nolan!” He told them, including several of his Chamber of Commerce pals, she’d gone home to visit family. Since her family was all dead, he hoped that wasn’t really the case.

Being at the restaurant was worse, in a way, than being at home; her touch was here — the plants, the decor, even the way things were run, much of it had come from her, or from them both, talking things out, planning together. They had shared the restaurant more than the house. Funny, how the worst waitress in the world could turn out to have such a knowing touch where managing was concerned. Strange, how he could sleep in that bed and force her from his mind but in Nolan’s, he couldn’t. She was everywhere.

Except in the back room. That was where Cole Comfort waited.

Jennifer Wallace liked her job. She never admitted it to anybody, because she was, after all, just a glorified janitor. And not particularly glorified, either.

But she liked solitude — she’d grown up in a big family and hadn’t had near as much time to herself as she would’ve liked, and now, only twenty-five years of age, she was working on her own big family, with three at home, ages two, four and seven, which was the life she’d sought, the life she loved, but solitude wasn’t part of it.

She was a small but sturdy woman, with dark brown hair in a short tight perm, small dark eyes, rather large nose, pleasant smile; wearing a light brown shirt with the Brady Eighty logo on it, and dark brown slacks. It was almost a uniform, giving her a military look, and she liked that. It made her feel less a janitor, as the term bothered her a little, even though she liked the work just fine.

A lot of people wouldn’t have. But all the mopping of floors and Windexing of storefronts (which was pretty much the sum of her duties between now and seven, when the shift changed and the doors opened) had a hypnotic effect on her. She got into it. She liked the feel of her muscles being exercised. She liked working hard but unsupervised, taking her time.

And she varied it. She could finish up the place in five hours, if she pushed it. In which case, she could sit in the maintenance shop — a big cement supply room, like a garage only without a garage door — with her feet up on the workbench, reading a book, or listening to the radio, or watching a portable TV.

Other nights she would take her time. Those were the nights when she was in a thoughtful mood, and let the motion of mopping and Windexing lull her. She could get drunk on work when she took it at that slow, steady pace. But not so drunk that she wouldn’t think about her kids and her Doug.

She had a terrific husband and terrific kids. Doug was blond and chubby and cute as a bug’s ear; they got married out of high school — a “have-to,” but they neither one had regrets, at least not that Jennifer knew. Doug worked at Oscar Meyer, day shift, and she took the kids to day-care when she got home from work around 7:30 A.M. and then she’d sleep all day. She and Doug and the kids had all evening together; she came on at ten, so they’d get the kids in bed at eight-thirty or so, and have a roll in the hay, and she’d go off to work with a glow.