C Box - Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

“Imagine that,” she said, shaking her head.

WHEN THE PHONE RANG after dinner, I grabbed it because Melissa was changing Angelina in the living room.

“It’s Jeter. It took me a while today to find that Appaloosa Club.”

A rolling tremor went through me from the top of my head and my toes curled in my shoes.

“You’re here? ”

“Got in around noon. Found a place to stay. Took a nap. Now that it’s dark out, I want to get to work. Damn-Denver got big on me. Used to be a glorified cow town. I don’t hardly know my way around anymore. How many people live here now?”

“Two point four million.”

He paused. “That’s twice more than all of Montana.”

“Yes.”

“Where did all these folks come from?”

“All over,” I said. “Where are you now?”

“Some fleabag joint on West Colfax. At least this part of town hasn’t changed much. There are still hookers around, but I don’t think I’ve seen a white person since I’ve been here. It’s like some damned street in Tijuana.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I called Cody, and he didn’t pick up, so I’m calling you. I’m going to the club to night.”

“Jeter, please, no.”

“What, you worried about my fee now that Brian’s dead? Don’t. This is a favor to you boys and to that little girl of yours.”

“Wait, don’t do anything until I get there…”

He hung up.

As I got my jacket, Melissa said, “Where are you going, Jack?”

“I don’t think you want to know,” I said. “That was Jeter Hoyt on the telephone.”

Which told her everything, and she turned away. I wondered if she felt as unclean and panicky as I did at that moment.

AS I CLIMBED INTO my Jeep, I heard the motor start in the sheriff’s car across the street. For a moment I closed my eyes and stood there with the door open. If he followed me down to Zuni Street…

I slammed the door and walked across the street. The deputy was young, fresh-faced, with brown hair and a blunt nose. He watched me approach with a practiced cop dead-eye stare, and I motioned for him to roll down his window. I saw him say something into his mike-probably notifying the cop down the block that I was there-and then his window descended halfway.

“Hello, Deputy.”

“That’s close enough,” he said.

I stopped, put my hands up, and showed my palms to him. “I’m harmless.”

He nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“Sanders. Billy Sanders.”

“And Morales is the name of the deputy down the street? We might as well get to know you guys and be friends since we’re spending so much time together.”

He smiled. “Your wife met Gary Morales already.”

“Look,” I said, “I’m going to go downtown and have a few beers, just like last night. I was wondering if you’d like to go with me?”

“What?”

“Why sit here all night? I’ll give you a ride with me, and that way you can keep an eye on me and have a couple of beers. I’d like the company because drinking alone is the shits. What do you say?”

He grinned, not unfriendly. “That sounds pretty good, but I’m on duty until my replacement gets here.”

“I can be back by then,” I offered.

For a second he considered it, then, “Nah, no can do.”

“Are you sure? I’m buying.”

He shook his head.

“Maybe tomorrow night?”

He laughed. “Maybe.”

“I’m going down to a place called Shelby’s. You know it?”

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

“It’s on Eighteenth.”

“I know where it is.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there later, I guess. And if I drink too much, maybe I can bum a ride back from you?”

He laughed. “I haven’t done all that much surveillance, but you two are the only people I’ve ever watched who were so damned nice. You’re making me suspicious, to tell you the truth.”

“Sorry.”

His window slid back up.

I turned and went back to my Jeep and eased out of the driveway. I watched him in my rearview mirror. If he did decide to follow me, I’d just go to Shelby’s and read about Jeter in the Rocky Mountain News the next morning. In a way, I hoped Sanders would follow me. But, as I guessed, the sheriff’s car didn’t move. He didn’t want to be stuck downtown when his shift ended with the possibility of having to give me a ride all the way back, and he knew that without Melissa and Angelina with me, there was no point in following.

ON ZUNI STREET I noticed two things simultaneously: the streetlights were out, and my headlights splashed on Garrett’s H3 Hummer as well as a dirty four-by-four pickup with Montana plates.

“There he is,” I said aloud.

Because it was so dark, the Appaloosa Club stood out, with its neon beer signs in the barred windows and the fact that it was surrounded by either boarded-up shells of structures or low-rent businesses closed for the night. The lights of the city washed like cream across the sky but didn’t reach down into this dark hole not far from it.

Besides the H3 and what I assumed was Jeter’s pickup, there were two or three others: classic seventies Buick and Cadillac boats with gleaming chrome and fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirrors. One of the license plates I noticed was “13 13,” framed by the green Colorado mountains. The thirteenth number in the alphabet was “M,” so “M M,” or Mexican Mafia.

I pulled to the curb, punched the light knob in, and the H3 went black.

I sat for a moment in scared silence. He was obviously already inside. I could hear thumping bass from the Appaloosa. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the shape of the club emerged. It was small and boxy. The Pacifico, Corona, and Negra Modelo beer signs seemed to increase in color and intensity. I considered going home.

“No!” I yelled inside the Jeep.

I launched outside in time to see a rectangle of light appear on the front of the club-the door opening-and the inverted “V” shape of Jeter Hoyt and his broad back in a long cowboy duster fill the doorway for a moment before the door closed behind him. He’d been scouting the club from the outside and just gone in.

I always traveled with a winter survival kit in my Jeep. I threw open the hatchback, unzipped the duffel bag in the back, and pulled out a navy watch cap. I thought if I pulled it low over my eyes that possibly-possibly-Garrett wouldn’t recognize me. I wanted to follow Jeter inside and get him out before something awful happened. I’d keep my head down and, if necessary, drag him back outside before Garrett noticed him or recognized me.

As I strode toward the club I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and speed-dialed Cody. Not that I planned on a conversation, but I simply wanted to make contact. I didn’t expect him to answer. I clutched the phone. I thought if I went inside and all hell broke loose, I wanted him to hear it later as a voice mail so he could get to our house to be with Melissa.

I eased the front door open and slipped inside. The thumping of the music-I didn’t recognize the song or the artist but it was crude and raw-hit me in the face and made my heart beat even faster. I took it in quickly: The place was smaller than it looked from outside and both darker and emptier than I had imagined. A couple of morose Latinos in biker gear perched at the truncated front bar. A bald, obese bartender in a wife-beater was behind the bar. His thick arms and shoulders were covered in tattoos, and he had a soul patch under his lip grown long and braided. He was pointing a remote at the crappy single television mounted above the bar in the corner. There was a small cracked linoleum dance floor that was empty and a series of unoccupied booths along the far wall. In the back, beneath a black light, was a round table with five people under a thick halo of smoke.