Christopher Sorrentino - The Fugitives

HE REACHED INTOa plastic bag stowed behind him and pulled out the three cans remaining of a six-pack of Pepsi, hoisting them by the empty plastic rings that had yoked all six into a team. He detached one from its ring. He was outside Manitou Sands, parked in the lot behind some desultory landscaping. He’d been there going on two hours. He’d moved the truck a couple of times, usually whenever anyone in some kind of semi-uniform seemed to be checking him out, but also to look at the various entrances and exits, particularly around back. In and out. He sipped the Pepsi and felt it burn his throat. His mouth was sticky and his teeth felt mossy. He drained the can, then got out of the truck and strolled across the lot, over the painted lines, past the landscaping, in the front entrance, and straight through the lobby to the casino floor. He walked along its periphery, keeping his eye on the glossy sheer curtains hanging from floor to ceiling along the walls. The curtains yielded here and there to stretches where fieldstone had been decoratively set into the wall. In each such stretch the wall contained a doorway of some kind: a restroom, an exit, a passageway. He paused to linger at a bank of slot machines near one door with a keypad lock, marked for employees only. After a little while, the door opened and a woman emerged, carrying a handful of files. Hanshaw caught the door before it shut completely and entered the space behind it. A single camera eye mounted near the ceiling at the end of a short corridor met his gaze. He shrugged. In and out. The first door on the left-hand side bore a nameplate that read ROBERT ARGENZIANO, LIAISON. The door opened when he tried the knob. He found no one inside. Argenziano’s office was a monument to busywork. A pristine desk, two visitor’s chairs, a telephone, a computer. A sofa. A framed poster for an exhibition at the Detroit Institute of Arts entitled The Art of Chivalry, depicting a mounted knight, hung on one wall. On the desktop was a single sheet of paper, with a fountain pen laid across it, as if Argenziano had set it down in the middle of an important task. Hanshaw picked up the sheet and saw that it was a supply requisition form. Argenziano wanted a teak bookcase. There were no books in the office. Also on the desk was a crystal jar filled with M&Ms and an elaborate toy that, on closer inspection, revealed itself to be a working model of an antique steam engine. A little brass plaque mounted on its base was blank, awaiting an inscription. He looked in the desk drawers and found nothing of interest apart from a Glock 26 pistol in its case. The gun was clean. A rosewood credenza had a row of binders lined up on its top. Hanshaw opened one of them and discovered that it was empty inside.

Five minutes later he was back in his truck, persuaded that there was nothing to be discovered in Bobby’s office. He was driving to pick up Jeramy, nominally his “cousin” but really just a footloose boy of uncertain pedigree who’d grown up within shouting distance. Hanshaw had, at various times, arrested three of the men who had, at various times, lived in Jeramy’s house; all on drug charges and one on a domestic dispute call. Two of the drug offenders had been all right if too stupidly obvious in their habits living next door to a cop. The third man had been mean, slit-eyed and half-smart, and Hanshaw was pretty certain that he’d been responsible for the poisoning death of his dog, so in the course of arresting the man for choking Jeramy’s mother he’d found a reason to break his jaw with the barrel of the Colt Python he used to wear when he was in uniform, a big, heavy, reliable gun that didn’t look ridiculous strapped to his massive hip. After that Hanshaw hadn’t been able to shake Jeramy, whose enthusiasm hadn’t waned even after Hanshaw had had his own troubles and left the tribal force.

Jeramy’s mother opened the door. She and Jeramy lived alone now.

“Hanshaw,” she said. The house was one long dim hallway, with doorways poking out on either side.

Hanshaw crossed the threshold. “Is he here?” he asked.

“’Course he’s here. Where’s he going to be at? The library?”

“Maybe he’s reading a book right now,” said Hanshaw.

She laughed once, a sharp bark. He passed her and went through one of the doorways. It was cold in Jeramy’s room. Jeramy was lying on the bed wearing a down jacket and a set of headphones. He was tall and thin, the stubble on his pale brown scalp mapping his already receding hairline. His eyes were closed.

“We have a job of work,” said Hanshaw. He knew that the boy wouldn’t be able to hear him, but this was a ritual he performed to satisfy his sense that the world had become ridiculously and unmanageably barbaric during his lifetime. He repeated himself, louder, and struck the boy lightly on the thigh with the back of his hand. Jeramy’s eyes opened and he sat up abruptly, removing the headphones in the same motion.

“’Sup, Hanshaw?”

“We got work,” said Hanshaw.

“Kind of work?”

“Finding shit out about someone,” said Hanshaw.

They went out to Hanshaw’s truck.

“What’s in it for me?” said Jeramy.

“You get training wage,” said Hanshaw. He reached back and handed him the remaining Pepsis.

They drove into Cherry City and Hanshaw parked downtown on Front Street, across from a Starbucks. Jeramy was dozing beside him. Hanshaw reached out and slapped his thigh, twice, hard.

“The fuck?”

“Sleep when it’s your turn to drive. As usual.”

“Fuck, dawg. Why you got to wake a nigga up like dat?”

“You’re not a nigger,” said Hanshaw. “You’re going in there,” he pointed at the Starbucks, “and boosting a laptop.”

“Why I gotta go in there? Why not you?”

“Because,” Hanshaw said. “Because, first of all, I stand out.”

“Oh, you distinctive, like.” Jeramy made a mocking face.

“No. What I am is six-eight, is what I am. And the guy in there knows me.”

“He know you.”

Hanshaw rolled his eyes, partly at the locution. “It’s a small world out here, Jeramy.”

“So what I’ma do?”

“You’re going to go in there and order a coffee and wait until someone goes to the bathroom or something.”

“What for?”

“It’s part of finding shit out about someone. I want a computer I can toss so it can’t be traced.”

“I need money.”

Hanshaw gave him five dollars and the kid opened the door and got out. He crossed the street with a practiced hobbling gait, as if he were wearing a set of leg irons. Hanshaw watched him go. He thought it would be unnameably righteous if the kid could walk in there amid all the hiss and steam, the pale young people composing poems and screenplays while some singer with a dorm-room-tragic voice played over the sound system, and swipe one of their fancy machines. In Hanshaw’s youth the place had been a record shop; he remembered fondly the deep-space serenity of flipping through the bins at the rear of the store on yet another squandered afternoon. Five minutes later, Jeramy appeared in the street swinging a silver computer under one arm. He stepped off the curb and bounced on his toes until there was a break in the light traffic, then jogged over to the truck. He held up the laptop, displaying it exultantly, a goofy grin on his face.

TODAY

Mulligan leaned against the pickup, waiting while Kat called her friend. He had some questions. She paced, walking a serpentine path, occasionally glaring at a distant point overhead. The old man, Salteau, came out of his trailer, carrying something. He stood at the top of the steps and watched Kat for a moment. When he glanced Mulligan’s way, Mulligan raised his hand in a wave. Salteau ignored him.