Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

Holman stared at his hand. It lay in his lap like a crab on its back, flexing to right itself.

“I stopped expecting anything a long time ago.”

“Just so you understand. I’ll pass along this new number, but I’m not going to push her. As far as you go, I am here to answer your questions about the investigation if I can and I’ll call to update you when we have something to report.”

“What about the funeral?”

Levy didn’t answer. Holman hung up without saying more, then went downstairs and was waiting in the lobby when Perry showed up.

Holman said, “I need that car again.”

“You got another twenty?”

Holman held up the bill like a middle finger and Perry scooped it away.

“Bring it back full. I’m telling you. I didn’t check last night or this morning, but I want that ride full.”

“I need the TV.”

“You look like something’s wrong. If you’re mad you didn’t have the TV last night I’m sorry, but it’s in storage. I’ll get it this morning.”

“I’m not mad about the TV.”

“Then why the face?”

“Just give me the fucking keys.”

Holman picked up Perry’s Mercury and headed south to the City of Industry. Taking the bus would have been smarter, but Holman had a lot of ground to cover. He never exceeded the speed limit and was wary of other drivers.

Holman arrived at work ten minutes early and parked on the far side of the building because he didn’t want his boss, Tony Gilbert, to see him driving. Gilbert was familiar with inmate hires, and knew Holman would not yet have his license.

Holman worked for the Harding Sign Company in a plant that printed art for Harding billboards. The art was printed on huge wallpaper-like sheets that were cut and rolled so they could be transported all over California, Nevada, and Arizona. When they reached their assigned billboards, special crews hung the rolls in huge strips and pasted them in place. During the past two months, Holman had trained part-time as a trimmer in the printing plant, which meant his job was to load five-, six-, and eight-foot-wide rolls of fabric into the printer, make sure the fabric fed square, then make sure the automatic trimmers at the end of the process made a clean cut. A moron could do it. Holman had learned the job in about two minutes, but he was lucky to have the gig and knew it.

He clocked in, then looked up Gilbert so his boss would know he had shown up on time. Gilbert was going over the day’s schedule with the printer operators, who were responsible for color-coordinating and correcting the art that would be reproduced that day. Gilbert was a short thick man with a bald crown who swaggered when he walked.

Gilbert said, “So, you’re officially a free man. Congratulations.”

Holman thanked him, but let their conversation die. He didn’t bother alerting the office receptionist or anyone else that Richie’s wife might call. After his conversation with Levy, he figured her call wouldn’t come.

Throughout the morning Holman was congratulated on making his release and welcomed as a full-time hire even though he had already been working there for two months. Holman kept an eye on the clock as he worked, anxious for the free hour he would have at lunch.

Holman took a piss break at ten minutes after eleven. While he was standing at the urinal another inmate hire named Marc Lee Pitchess took the next stall. Holman didn’t like Pitchess and had avoided him during his two-month training period.

Pitchess said, “Ten years is a long time. Welcome back.”

“You’ve been seeing me five days a week for the past two months. I haven’t been anywhere.”

“They still gonna test you?”

“Get away from me.”

“I’m just saying. I can get you a kit, you keep a little sample with you ready to go, you’ll be all set when they spring it on you, piss in a cup.”

Holman finished and stepped back from the urinal. He turned to face Pitchess, but Pitchess was staring ahead at the wall.

“Stay the fuck away from me with that shit.”

“You feel the need, I can hook you up, your basic pharmaceuticals, sleep aids, blow, X, oxy, whatever.”

Pitchess shook off and zipped, but still didn’t move. He stared at the wall. Someone had drawn a picture of a cock with a little word balloon. The cock was saying smoke this, bitch.

Pitchess said, “Just tryin’ to help a brother.”

Pitchess was still smiling when Holman walked out and looked up Gilbert.

Tony said, “How’s it going, your first day?”

“Doin’ fine. Listen, I want to ask you, I need to get to the DMV to take the test and after work is too late. Could you cut me an extra hour at lunch?”

“Don’t they open on Saturday morning?”

“You have to make an appointment and they’re booked three weeks. I’d really like to get this done, Tony.”

Holman could tell that Gilbert didn’t appreciate being asked, but he finally went along.

“Okay, but if there’s some kind of problem, you call. Don’t take advantage. This isn’t getting off to a good start, you asking for time on your first day.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

“Two o’clock. I want you back by two o’clock. That should be plenty of time.”

“Sure, Tony. Thanks.”

Gilbert hadn’t mentioned Richie and Holman didn’t bring it up. Gail hadn’t called, which suited Holman. He didn’t want to have to explain about Richie, and have Richie lead into Donna and the whole fucking mess he had made of his life.

When Gilbert finally turned away and steamed off across the floor, Holman walked back to the office and punched out even though it wasn’t yet noon.

HOLMAN BOUGHT a small bunch of red roses from a Latin cat at the bottom of the freeway off-ramp. Here was this dude, probably illegal, with a cowboy hat and a big plastic bucket filled with bundles of flowers, hoping to score with people on their way to the graveyard. The dude asked eight- ocho -but Holman paid ten, guilty he hadn’t thought to bring flowers before seeing the cat with his bucket, even more guilty because Donna was gone and Richie hadn’t thought enough of him to let him know.

Baldwin Haven Cemetery covered the wide face of a rolling hillside just off the 405 in Baldwin Hills. Holman turned through the gates and pulled up alongside the main office, hoping no one had seen the crappy condition of his car. Perry’s old Mercury was such a shitpile that anyone who saw him pull up would think he was here to hustle work trimming weeds. Holman brought the flowers inside with him, thinking he would make a better impression.

The cemetery office was a large room divided by a counter. Two desks and some file cabinets sat on one side of the counter; landscape plans were laid out on a large table on the other side. An older woman with grey hair glanced up from one of the desks when he entered.

Holman said, “I need to find someone’s grave.”

She stood and came to the counter.

“Yes, sir. Could I have the party’s name?”

“Donna Banik.”

“Banner?”

“B-A-N-I-K. She was buried here about two years ago.”

The woman went to a shelf and took down what looked to Holman like a heavy frayed ledger. Her lips moved as she flipped the pages, mumbling the name, Banik.

She found the entry, wrote something on a note slip, then came out from behind the counter and led Holman to the landscape plans.

“Here, I can show you how to find the site.”

Holman followed her as she circled the landscape map. She checked the coordinates written on the slip, then pointed out a tiny rectangle in a uniform rank and file of tiny rectangles, each labeled by number.

“She’s here, on the south face. We’re here in the office, so what you’ll do is turn right out of the parking lot and follow the road to this fork, then veer left. She’s right in front of the mausoleum here. Just count the rows, third row from the street, the sixth marker from the end. You shouldn’t have any trouble, but if you do, just come back and I’ll show you.”