Phillip Margolin - Fugitive

“Great! There’s a restaurant two doors down. Werner and I can’t wait to hear all about the exciting life you’ve been leading. See you soon.”

“Who were those guys?” Mickey Keys asked when Gary and Werner left without buying books.

“Acquaintances from the old days. I’m going to grab a cup of coffee with them after the signing.”

“Do you want me to come along?”

“No. You and Delmar go back to the hotel.”

“You sure you want to be alone with them?”

“Positive. Believe me, Mickey, the less Gary and Werner know about you, the better off you are.”

CHARLIE FOUND THE odd couple sitting in a booth in the back of the restaurant. Gary was nursing a cup of black coffee while Werner wolfed down a slab of pie. A plate with the cannibalized remains of a burger and fries was also sitting in front of the Neanderthal.

“My man,” Gary said as Charlie slid into the booth. “You not only survived the big house but you’re looking prosperous.”

Charlie shrugged. “The book’s only been out a few weeks. There’s no telling what might happen.”

“Hey, don’t be modest. Newsweek reported you got a seven-figure deal for the book and another mil or so for the movie. Say, have you met Tom yet? What’s he like in person?”

“That stuff about Tom Cruise is Hollywood bullshit, Gary. They’re negotiating. He hasn’t committed.”

“That fucker can act,” Werner opined between mouthfuls of pie.

“Yes, well, how are you? It’s been years.”

“About five,” Gary said. “Werner and I took off after that muffed bank job. What a cluster fuck that was; one dead guard, one dead civilian, and no money.”

Gary shook his head sadly. Then he perked up. “You know, there’s an incident in your book that vaguely resembles our fiasco. Werner and I got a kick out of the part where you dive behind that car, guns blazing. It reminded me of a scene in a John Woo flick. In fact, it’s almost identical to a scene in one of his movies. Funny thing though. Werner and I remember Freddy going into that bank with us but we don’t remember seeing you there. Of course, you were probably describing another bank job you pulled with Freddy and some other guys where a guard and a customer were killed.”

“Well, you know, I had to disguise the events so the cops couldn’t use the book as a basis for an indictment.”

“Yeah, I get that. The thing is Werner and I think some big publisher might be interested in our life stories now that your book is selling so well. It can be a whole new genre, Criminal Confessions . The only thing holding us back is our concern for you. If we tell our stories, some of our reminiscences might contradict your version of events. We’d feel real bad if our success created difficulties for you.”

Charlie sighed. “Okay, Gary. Let’s stop fucking around. What do you want?”

“A small piece of the pie, an opportunity to dip a crust of bread into the gravy train, a…”

“Can you cut the crap? I get it. What do I have to do to get you and Werner to go away?”

“We don’t really want to go away, Charlie. A big star like you should have an entourage.”

Charlie snapped his head back and forth. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“Sure it is. We figure we can testify at these seminars about how we were terrible criminals, corrupt to our very souls, until you helped us find our inner lights.”

“No way.”

Gary’s affable demeanor faded away. “Do you know what plagiarism is? Werner and I feel that you plagiarized our lives. That’s a crime, Charlie, and you know what they say: ‘If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.’ There’s also ‘Crime does not pay.’ It all boils down to the fact that there are consequences for bad acts. The consequence in your case is a tax on profits. You’ll pay a bit of it now and we’ll tag along to keep an eye on the receipts so we can decide how much the tax will be in the future.”

“I’m not gonna do it. You go to the Times and see what they say. Who’s going to take your word over mine? I’m a hero, Gary. I saved a guard’s life.

“And how are you going to prove I made this stuff up? A reporter will want specific facts about murders, armed robberies, and other crimes that would send you away forever. But say they believe you committed these crimes. That wouldn’t prove I made up the incidents in the book. I’d just say that my crimes were different from what you say you did. In my introduction I said I made the events vague and changed names and places to protect myself from getting charged with the crimes. So do your worst.”

Gary turned red, which meant he was pissed off. Charlie had forgotten for a moment who he was dealing with, but he remembered now. Gary leaned across the table and lowered his voice.

“If you think talking to a reporter is the worst thing I can do to you, you must have forgotten some of the things you’ve seen me do. Fuck with me and you’ll have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of your life.”

Gary leaned back and let what he’d said sink in. “I’m going to forget how rude you’ve just been. We’ll see you tonight at your seminar at that fancy country club. That’ll give you a few hours to think.”

Gary nodded to Werner, who vacuumed down what was left of his pie.

“Pick up the check, will you?” Gary said.

Charlie watched them leave. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled. How could he be so stupid? He’d been so full of himself lately that he’d forgotten what the world was really like. People like Sally Pope lived in Camelot, but he lived in the jungle, where he was prey and people like Gary and Werner were predators.

Are you out of your mind?” Moonbeam asked Charlie, who was in the bedroom of his hotel suite, killing time before the seminar at the Westmont Country Club by quick-drawing a Ruger.357 Magnum Vaquero revolver. The engraved, stainless steel, ivory-handled gun weighed more than two pounds, had a six-inch barrel, and was a gift from the twentysomething wife of a septuagenarian Texas oilman. She had given it to Charlie after a night of intimacy following an Inner Light” seminar in Austin.

“Relax, Moonbeam,” said Charlie, who almost choked whenever he used her “mystical” name.

When they were in New Haven, Charlie had told “Moonbeam” that she could come to Oregon with his entourage. Now he deeply regretted the words he’d moaned in the heat of passion and he had decided to dump her when they moved on. “Moonbeam” might be great in bed but the rest of the time she was a bossy pain in the ass. The broad had also shaved her head, because she’d concluded-for reasons Charlie never understood-that her hair was impeding her spiritual growth. Charlie was definitely not turned on by bald women and he’d said so.

“You’re an ex-con,” she persisted. “Having a gun violates the conditions of your parole. What if someone sees you?”

“Do you think I’m stupid enough to carry in public? Delmar totes my piece when I’m out and about and he’s licensed to carry.”

Charlie’s bodyguard was slouched on the sofa reading a sports magazine with an NBA star on the cover.

“Haven’t you heard of the right to bear arms, bitch?” Delmar asked without looking up from the article he was reading. “Or didn’t you study the Constitution at your fancy Ivy League college?”

Before Moonbeam could answer, the door to the suite opened and a waiter rolled in a serving cart with Charlie’s dinner. Charlie froze in mid-draw. The waiter stared at the gun. Charlie whipped it behind his back.

“Don’t they teach you to knock?” he shouted at the flustered server.

“I’m sorry, sir. I did knock on the door to the suite. The man said I could…”