Don Winslow - A Long Walk Up the Waterslide

“I’m a bit puzzled. Perhaps you can enlighten me,” Kitteredge said, “as to why Ms. Paget feels this arrangement-how did she phrase it…?”

“Sucks, sir.”

“Yes… sucks.”

“It eats shit!” Polly yelled.

“Was that Ms. Paget?” Kitteredge asked.

“Yes it was.”

“Your tutorials aren’t going especially well, are they?” Kitteredge asked.

Neal filled him in on Polly’s demand that Jack confess to raping her.

Kitteredge listened and said, “I’m afraid that’s just not possible, Neal. Perhaps she would consider another million as an alternative.”

You’re afraid? You’re not sitting next to the human bull’s-eye here. And you’ve been lowballing us?!

“Three million, no confession,” he said to Polly.

“Eat shit,” Polly answered.

“She declined the offer, sir.”

“I heard her, Neal.”

“Because she pronounced her t’s,” Neal said. Let’s not be defaming my tutorials. “A week ago, she would have said, ‘Eeh shih.’”

“Ask this jerk who he thinks he is,” Hathaway demanded.

“He can hear you,” Ed said.

“Who do you think you are?” Hathaway asked.

“There is some confusion on that score,” Neal admitted.

“I mean, are you her agent now?” Hathaway asked. Now that Polly had served her purpose, he wanted this matter settled quietly. The scandal that was such an asset was becoming a liability. “Are you getting a piece of her settlement?”

“No, Mr. Hathaway,” Neal answered. “The only person who is gaining financially from Ms. Paget’s rape is you. And by the way-”

Ed flicked off the speaker.

“-eat shit,” Neal concluded. “Hi, Ed.”

“Hi, Neal,” Ed said pleasantly. “Neal, a number of highly placed people have worked very hard to put this package together. Just in case you’ve forgotten, we don’t represent Polly Paget; we represent Mr. Hathaway. Mr. Hathaway is satisfied with this arrangement. If Ms. Paget persists in being stubborn, we will just have to walk away from her. She can hire her own lawyer, her own speech coach, and her own security. You can go back to doing whatever the hell it is that you do. Got it?”

“Got it,” Neal said.

Of course Kitteredge would have a backup plan.

“Three million,” Ed said, “no confession. Final offer.”

Neal cradled the receiver in his neck, turned to Polly, and said, “Take it or leave it. If you don’t take it, you’re on your own. We leave.”

Karen’s head snapped up and her face flushed in anger.

“Neal,” she said, “we can’t-”

“So leave,” Polly said.

Neal told Ed it was no deal.

“Pack your things and get out,” Ed answered. “While the truce is still on.”

Neal set the phone down.

Karen glared at him and said, “I’m not leaving. And-”

“I’m trying to think,” Neal said, cutting her off.

And you, of all people, should know how hard that is for me.

What the hell are we going to do?

“They want me to do what?!” Jack yelled. His voice bounced off the Alamo’s old stone walls.

Joey Foglio calmly repeated what they wanted him to do.

He thought the Alamo would be a good place to have this meeting. The plaza was usually empty on a Monday morning. The only people here were some Mexican workers who were cleaning the place, and if any of them spoke enough English to understand anything, they probably wouldn’t give a shit, anyway. Still and all, there was no use taking chances with Jack turning red and screaming.

“Why don’t I just go out there,” Jack yelled, “stick a knife in my guts, and disembowel myself! Would they like that, too?”

Joey thought the Japanese tourists would probably get a charge out of it, as a matter of fact.

Jack continued: “No, no, no… I’ve got a better one. Why don’t I just smile at the camera, take a meat cleaver, and whack my Johnson off! Then Candy could mix it up with a little sauteed onion, some red peppers maybe, a little hot sauce, and serve it to me on the show! There’s an idea!”

Harold belched.

“Excuse me,” he said.

Jack stalked over toward the chapel.

Joey followed him and said, “Your girlfriend won’t take the deal. We gotta do something.”

Actually, Joey was pleased that Polly was shooting down this deal. It would give him more room to maneuver. Jack didn’t seem to be listening, just staring up at the old Alamo.

“You know who stood there?” Jack asked, his eyes glistening.

“Okay, who?” Joey sighed. He was already late getting to confession. If he got hit by a bus or something…

“John Wayne,” Jack said. “John Wayne stood there. And fought to the death.”

“John Wayne died here?” Harold asked.

“For freedom,” Jack said reverentially. “John Wayne stood here and fought to the death for my freedom.”

Joey had serious doubts that the Duke laid down his life so Jack Landis could nail some skank, but Jack was a local, so he must know the history.

“That’s nice he did that,” Joey said. “What’s it got to do with-”

“And you want me,” Jack said, his voice quivering with emotion, “to go before the people of this great country and… surrender? You want me, in the shadow of the Alamo, to spit on the memory of John Wayne?”

He’s lost it, Joey thought. He’s got one foot planted firmly in the enchanted forest.

“You can’t ask him to do that, boss,” Harold said. He looked as if he was going to cry. “You just can’t. I mean… John Wayne.”

They’re both nuts, Joey thought. I’m the only sane guy here.

“I knew John Wayne,” he said, wrapping a big arm around Jack’s shoulder, “back on… Iwo Jima. We was in a foxhole together, surrounded by the enemy. I’m telling you, Jack, Mexicans everywhere. And the Duke said to me, ‘Big Joe, sometimes a man just has to stand up and be a man and do the right thing. Like a man.’ Do you understand, Jack? Do you hear what I’m trying to say to you?”

Jack ducked out from under Foglio’s arm and said, “You want me to eat a shit sandwich and smile.”

“That’s it,” Joey said, relieved he could now get to church.

He was very careful crossing the street.

Kneeling in the pew, Charles Whiting felt as if he was in another country. Most of the worshipers were Hispanic women with their heads covered in black veils, and the painted statues of saints in various stages of martyred agony, their sad eyes shedding tears and blood dripping from their hands, gave the church a foreign atmosphere.

Whiting thought that he would probably be consigned to an eternity in hell just for being in this church, never mind for the horrible sin he hoped to commit soon.

And the entire idea of confession made him uncomfortable, not only for the obvious blasphemy but also because-were he indeed a Catholic-he had so much he would have to confess.

His feelings for Mrs. Landis weighed heavily on his soul. He thought about the betrayal of his wife and nine children and then about the wisdom of the old Mormon elders, who knew that monogamy was not natural for men.

He thought about his admiration for Candy Landis, her commitment to family values, the way she spoke of morality and ethics, the way her golden hair touched the soft skin on her neck, how it would look falling back on a satin pillow as she opened her arms, and he wished that Foglio would hurry up and get into the damn church. He wanted to get this over with.

An old woman came out of the confessional booth he was watching. He crossed himself in imitation of the veiled ladies, slid down the pew, parted the curtain of the confessional, and knelt.

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned,” he recited, knowing that his Mormon ancestors were spinning in their graves. Reaching into his pocket, he found the tiny microphone with the little suction cup.