Christopher Sorrentino - The Fugitives

Kat called up a map on her phone and directed him to bump over the railroad tracks separating the west side of town from the east. Now even the shoddier pretenses of the town’s facade fell away; here the story was all about evacuated capital: here were the low industrial structures, pitted and scored in their abandonment, the shuttered luncheonettes, the no-name gas stations, the dives with their neon beer signs, the tumbleweed trash. They passed a cluster of single-story residential structures, painted a noncommittal beige, with building numbers stenciled on the walls at each end and bedsheets and towels dangling askew, as curtains, in the windows. It reminded Kat of the apartment complex on the reservation.

“Here’s where you hang a left,” she said.

Mulligan steered onto Essex Street, where most of the lots had trailers smack at their center, some decrepit, some well cared for; a row of faded pastel shoeboxes on display.

“Slow down,” Kat said. Then: “Here.”

This shoebox was pale pink with rose-colored trim and poured concrete steps. Aluminum awnings were cantilevered above the windows and door. Wherever one thing had been bolted to another a filigree of rust had bled from the connection. An old barbecue grill sat to one side, and a soggy-looking bag of briquets and a rusty container of charcoal lighter were shoved under the trailer. A pair of white sneakers, an empty soda bottle nestled neatly in one, sat on the top step before the door. No vehicle was in the driveway.

“Nobody home,” said Kat.

She climbed the steps and knocked on the door, then tried the knob. It was locked. A neighbor strolled over from the shoebox next door, a wiry old man wearing a Brewers cap and an oversized pair of glasses that magnified lively-looking eyes.

“You looking for John, there?”

“That’s right. Do you know where he is?”

“He just takes off sometimes.”

“For a while?”

“Oh, yes,” said the man. “He’ll be gone, I don’t know.” He trailed off and gestured with his hands, trying to indicate the length of time as if it were a fish. The two of them watched him. “He’s gone a whole day sometimes.”

“That long, huh?” said Mulligan.

“Oh, yes. He’ll come back, he’s got, you know, groceries. Trunk full of groceries. I help him carry them inside.”

“You help him? Does he help you?”

“Why would he?” The man drew himself up. “Anyway, Amy helps with that. She’s my daughter. Takes me shopping, takes me to my appointment. She’s a good girl. Or sometimes,” he continued, “he’ll have a video from the video store. Or sometimes I don’t know where he’s gone to.”

“He just takes off and comes back.”

“I don’t ask no questions,” said the man. He began to move off, heading back to his trailer, smaller than Salteau’s, but with a concrete patio and table and chairs to go with it. He paused midstride, alert, looking up the road.

“Looks like you’re in luck. Here comes his little Jap car now.”

An old Nissan rolled toward them slowly, hugging the right shoulder of the road. It came to nearly a complete stop at the entrance to the driveway, and they could see the figure in the driver’s seat effortfully cranking the steering wheel to the right before jerkily accelerating into the turn. The car bounced to a stop, and after a moment the door opened. A man slowly emerged.

“You got some visitors waiting here, John,” said the man.

“I can see that, Al,” said the other man. He peered at them over the open car door. “Who are they?”

“Can’t say that I know.”

The man who’d gotten out of the car maneuvered around to the other side of the door and gave it a shove, to close it. He had to be at least as old as Al. He walked slowly down the driveway toward them.

“Can I help you two?”

“Are you John Salteau?” asked Kat.

“That’s right,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I was trying to tell them where you might be, John. But I didn’t know.”

“Well, no, you didn’t, Al. There’s no reason why you should have known.”

“Sometimes I know.”

“Well, sometimes I tell you, now don’t I?”

“I thought it might be bank day.”

“It’s not bank day, Al.”

“Bank day?” asked Mulligan.

“He likes to go make sure his money’s in,” said Al. “He goes to the bank and checks.”

“Your money?”

“Social Security. Not that it’s anyone’s concern but mine, Al .” He paused for effect. “It’s direct deposit and I don’t have a computer.”

“I do,” said Al.

“Well, then you should know that it’s not bank day today, Al.”

“I could check for you, is all’s I’m saying.”

“That will not be necessary,” said John Salteau. “How can I assist you two?”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” said Kat, “how old are you, sir?”

“I know exactly how old he is,” said Al. “John graduated from Abbott High School in nineteen hundred and forty-three, five years ahead of me. So that makes him eighty-three. About.”

“I don’t know why I bother to have any personal business when I have Al here to share it with anyone who shows up,” said John Salteau. “Al is correct. I am eighty-three years old. Now, would you two please tell me what I can do for you?”

“I think,” said Mulligan, “that we might have mistaken you for somebody else.”

“That sounds perfectly likely,” said John Salteau. “I’d like to get inside now, please.”

Kat dug in her purse. “Before you go, can you take a look at this for me, please?” She held out Saltino’s driver’s license picture. “Do you know him?”

John Salteau held the photo at arm’s length, Al crowding in to peer at it over his shoulder.

“I’ve never seen him before. How about you, Al?”

“Oh, now you’re asking me.”

“I am.”

“I wouldn’t want to talk out of turn, John. Since that’s what I seem to do.”

“Please, for Pete’s sake.”

“I have trouble keeping it straight, sometimes.”

“For Pete’s sake. Have you seen the man or not? The girl is waiting.”

“No, I’ve never seen him. Since you ask.”

“Thank you,” said Kat.

“Who is he?” asked John Salteau.

“His name is John Saltino,” said Kat.

“What?” said Mulligan.

SIX DAYS AGO

Hanshaw came down the steps of Wendell Banjo’s mobile home and walked directly to the ruined house that sat farther back on the lot. He shoved at the warped kitchen door and then managed to wedge his enormous body into the tight space that opened up. Inside, it stank of mold. Holding his breath, he advanced through the kitchen into the parlor. A sodden old chesterfield sprouting with weeds and a rusty floor lamp whose shade had melted away, leaving only the wire armature, were the two pieces of furniture left in the room. He knelt before the heat register in the floor to remove the grating and reached into the opening. He found the envelope full of money with his fingers and pulled it out. He didn’t begrudge Wendell Banjo the cloak-and-dagger trappings that were, as far as Hanshaw was concerned, more melodramatic than they were necessary. He knew that this really wasn’t Wendell’s line. When Wendell had called him about Argenziano the day before, he’d sounded relieved to be putting it in Hanshaw’s hands. He put the envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket and went back outside, breathing deeply as he hit the fresh air.

One of Wendell’s crew, Ryan, was sitting on the steps of the trailer, a fat kid in a satin Cardinals warm-up jacket and a pair of sweatpants that were about two sizes too large. He was looking at Hanshaw a little too closely, Hanshaw thought. Without breaking stride, he made a pistol from the fingers of his right hand and aimed them at the kid, dropping his thumb like a hammer. The kid raised a hand in greeting but lowered his eyes at the same time. Hanshaw proceeded to his pickup and got in.