John Lescroart - The Vig

The girl was gone now, dropped off dead drunk at her hotel after dinner.

Rusty had driven himself and Hardy back up to the cliffside restaurant for a few nightcaps-shots of tequila and wedges of lime. Hardy thought he would get Rusty drunk, drive him home, maybe misplace his keys. Then he'd call Abe and talk him into getting down here.

They walked around to where the boys jumped. The ocean roared far down below them. There was a grotto to the Virgin Mary for the obligatory prayer before going off the cliff. A smell of kerosene-for the torches-overlaid the sea air. The divers had all gone home.

"This is something," Hardy said. The crescent moon hung over the sea to his right. "I was over at one of the restaurants the other day and couldn't watch it," Hardy said.

"It's Mexico, life's cheap." Rusty was standing next to him. He'd brought a bottle with him.

"Still. It's not done with mirrors."

Rusty lifted the bottle, shrugging. "You lose a few beaners, who's going to notice?"

"Not exactly the words of the burning idealist who used to work for the D.A."

Rusty sounded like he was feeling the drinks. "Diz, let me tell you something. I just wanted to win cases. Same as everybody else."

"I don't know. I like to think I cared about justice a little."

"That why you quit? That passion for justice?" Hardy looked sidelong at Rusty, deciding he wasn't going to have to try to get him drunk. Rusty staggered a few steps further toward the edge of the cliff and Hardy walked behind him.

Rusty's good hand held the bottle down at his side. He turned around, his back to the cliff.

He drank again, tipping the bottle up. He staggered back a few steps. "I guess in a way Baker did me a favor giving me this opportunity to drop out."

Hardy moved up beside him. "Watch out here," he said. "That's a long way down." It was time to start herding him back to the car. "So you're not going back?" All innocence.

Rusty turned again. He seemed to be looking at the moon. "You know how they always tell us don't burn your bridges? Well, that's what I've done. I'm dead, Diz. Nobody in the whole world knows I'm alive. Except you."

"And you like that?"

"It's freedom. You never realize how much you're held back by what you've done before. Your habits. Other people's expectations. I don't know which is worse. But now there's neither of them. It's like being given a second chance, born again."

"A lot of people go look up Jesus, say the same thing."

Rusty laughed. "This isn't forgiveness, Diz. This is a clean slate." He nipped at his bottle. "How about you? Anybody know you're here?"

Hardy decided to keep running with his own game. He shook his head. "Not a soul," he lied. "But I still feel like me. Same baggage."

"Only if you think of it that way."

Rusty walked to the edge of the cliff, bottle in hand. Hardy kept his distance four or five steps behind him, still close enough to the cliff edge to see a phosphorous wave break far below, the sound carrying up like distant thunder.

"Maybe you don't have so many things tying you up," Hardy said.

Rusty chuckled. "You can bet on that one." He turned to look at Hardy. "You think things have got to tie you up? I tell you, Diz, I tried that for about, I don't know, ten years. It sucks."

"I gave it up for about ten years and that sucks too."

Rusty swigged from the bottle. "Well, there you go," he said. He walked to the lip of the cliff and leaned over looking down. Straightening up, he half turned. "I guess I just don't want to think so much anymore. Or try to do anything anymore. My ambition done gone south. Especially since coming down here. I do some betting, keep on top of my game, score a few chicks. You want to know what living is, take my advice and don't go back to San Francisco. Hang out."

"I don't think so."

Rusty shrugged, brought the bottle again to his lips. Then, abruptly, he sat down, hanging his legs over the edge of the precipice. He patted the ground next to him. "Sit down, Diz, have a hit." He held the bottle out.

"I'm good," Hardy said. "What do you say we head back?"

The temptation was getting to Hardy. Rusty had killed Maxine Weir and stolen her money. He had helped undo nine years of Louis Baker's prison rehab. Hardy knew that as long as Rusty was free, he himself would never be safe. Rusty couldn't really let him go back. The word might eventually get back that Rusty was down here-just the 'might' was enough. Rusty had already killed for the life he wanted, and Hardy didn't doubt he'd do it again. And now the guy was sitting on the cliffs edge, dangling his feet, half in the bag. A little nudge and Abe's order of the cosmos would be restored.

Hardy looked around the deserted plateau. There was no sign of life except for him and Rusty. He took a breath and did a deep knee bend, scratching the dirt. "Come on," he said. "I'm ready for the sack." He'd get back to the El Sol, call Abe, put things in gear for tomorrow or the next day, figure how they would get Rusty back to the States.

But Rusty did not move to get up. Instead he pulled at the bottle again, barely tipping his head enough to splash some tequila into his mouth. Hardy wondered how he could function with as much alcohol as he must have had in him. Then he wondered if he was functioning.

He moved up a step. "Rusty?"

Suddenly shaking his head like a wet dog, Rusty put the bottle down on the dirt. He seemed to try to balance himself with his good arm, to push up, but the effort was too great and he settled back heavily, swearing.

Hardy waited.

Rusty lay down flat on his back, staring at the stars, his legs hanging over the cliff. "I am fubar'd," he said, the words coming out very slurred. "Fucked up beyond all repair."

Hardy, moving no closer, nodded. "So I'll drive," he said. Without looking back, he wheeled and started walking.

It was 12:15 when he got to the car. At 12:30, sitting on the hood with his feet on the fender, he had to decide if he was going to walk home or what. He still didn't know where Rusty lived, and he didn't want to lose track of him. Of course, he could leave him passed out on the cliff, hoping he would walk in his sleep and settle the issue, but that really didn't seem too promising a plan. No, he had to keep Rusty in his sights, keep playing this game as Rusty's friend, get Abe down here, then blindside him.

He crossed the open plateau again. Rusty hadn't moved an inch, The bottle glinted in the moonlight next to him. His good arm was outstretched behind it. He was breathing heavily, noisily, his mouth open.

"Goddammit, Rusty!" Hardy came up behind his head and nudged it with his foot. "Come on, let's shake it."

He didn't stir. For an instant Hardy thought that maybe he was dead, then reminded himself that dead men almost never breathed so loud.

He shook his head, thinking it out. Rusty had one bad arm, in a sling, and was pretty obviously drunk as a skunk. There wasn't much real threat there, was there, Diz?

He could grab the good arm, pull him back away from the cliff like a sack of bricks, get him up and moving somehow. Unless he wanted to sit here all night, or walk home and maybe lose him.

He leaned over and took hold of the good arm around the wrist with both his hands. It was dead. There was no resistance. He got a better footing and started to pull. Rusty finally made a noise, half-turning. Hardy moved back, letting go. "Come on, get up."

Rusty rolled again onto his back. This was getting old in a hurry. Hardy said fuck it and grabbed him under both armpits, leaning over, off balance for one second, to pull.

Which was when Rusty moved. Both arms came up, grabbed Hardy at the shoulders and pulled him forward, over, covering Rusty's body in a somersault, legs out on no purchase, reaching out, trying to grab onto Rusty-something, anything-but there was only the night air, the cold far moon.