Christopher Sorrentino - The Fugitives

When she was finished, Kat walked briskly over and got in behind the wheel.

“She get her TV yet?”

“Still waiting. But I don’t think she’s going to be able to help with this.”

“Help how? What does she have to do with this?”

“Forget it.”

They rode in silence for a while. Mulligan discreetly worked away with his right pinky at the inside of his right nostril. Every now and then Kat would throw a quick angry glance in his direction.

“What?”

“He’s gone.”

“Maybe we made a mistake.”

“Mistake.” Kat snorted. “That was the address he gave, you know? We got played.”

Mulligan found a tissue in the glove compartment and wiped the tip of his pinky. He held the used tissue gingerly, bundled in a wad, and glanced around the front seat.

“Conceal that on your person, please,” she said.

“Body’s got to eliminate it. Just like anything else.” He stuffed the tissue in his coat pocket. “What is a John Saltino, anyway?” he asked.

“A ghost,” said Kat. “Someone they invented to drive me crazy.”

“No, really.”

“Really,” she said.

They rode in silence for a while.

“Now what?” he said.

“Now I go back to Cherry City and think about whether I have a story or not.”

“Looks like maybe you’ve got a better story.”

“Oh, isn’t it just so intriguing,” she said sourly.

They rode in silence for a while.

“Is John Salteau really John Saltino?” said Mulligan. Kat didn’t answer. “Because he sure looks like that picture.”

“No,” said Kat, in a tone suggesting correction, “he looks like an eighty-three-year-old retiree.”

They rode in silence for a while.

“Do you think that the eighty-three-year-old knew something?” asked Mulligan.

“He knew everything. Salt of the earth. Font of wisdom. Respect your elders.”

“Because I’ve been right here, and I don’t know anything, as it turns out.”

“Who asked you?” said Kat. “Who said, ‘come,’ ‘do,’ ‘help,’ ‘be,’ ‘join’? Who said ‘want,’ ‘need,’ or even ‘like,’ for that matter?”

They rode in silence. After a while, Kat pulled over to the side of the road and opened her door.

“What?” said Mulligan.

“Chinese fire drill,” she said. “You drive.”

They got out to swap positions. Kat carefully brushed off the passenger seat before sitting in it. Mulligan said nothing.

“Saltino worked at Manitou Sands,” she said.

“The casino.” He steered onto the empty road.

“Yes. A little less than a year ago he disappeared without a trace at the same time as about four hundred fifty thousand dollars went missing.”

“Cops couldn’t find him?”

“The cops were not informed of the theft. The money involved officially doesn’t exist.”

“Casino stuff.”

“Casino stuff. How do I even know about all this? Becky, my friend, worked at the casino for a while and saw how the money was being manipulated. Saltino was key. He was in charge of removing the nonexistent cash and delivering it to wherever it ended up.”

“A bagman.”

“They hired him on as a ‘transfer pricing manager.’ ”

“What the hell is that?”

“My question exactly. Take my word for it, it doesn’t have anything to do with his job. He’s basically a thug. Guy’s been breaking heads since he was in junior high. Whole adult life in and out of prison kind of thing. He keeps track of the money, he takes the money, he makes sure the people who know about the money keep their mouths shut. And one day he takes off with it. Anyway, Becky spotted him a while ago. And guess what? He’s an Indian now. A traditional Ojibway storyteller, working his way around Michigan using the name John Salteau.”

“Salteau?”

“Yes, your big pal.”

A state police cruiser appeared abruptly from behind them, siren wailing, shooting past them in the opposing lane and veering back over the solid double line. It vanished in the distance within seconds.

“Why did you want me to meet your friend today?”

“Becky? Never mind.”

“Why never mind?”

Kat pushed her hair out of her face. “I thought you could help me.”

“Of course I’ll help you.”

“I mean something else.”

“I’m mystified.”

Kat thought for a moment. “I thought you could be helpful. I thought that you could discover, quote unquote, the story, this story, by talking to Becky and then I could make you my primary source. I thought you’d be more of a hook than some Indian woman no one ever heard of. My editor’s trying to kill the story and I got desperate. It’s totally unethical, it wouldn’t have worked, and I’m sorry.”

“So it’s a big story. For you, I mean. Professionally.”

Kat looked at him. He seemed to be taking it with equanimity, or perhaps he was flattered by the idea that he was a bigger hook than Becky. He kept his eyes on the road. “I think it is. It could change things for me, yeah,” she said. “If I find him, that is.”

“Your friend’s sure?”

“She’s sure. She identified him.”

“Why do you think he stayed around here?”

Kat shrugged. “Perversity. Sense of humor. Wanting to see if he’d get caught. Who knows?”

They’d entered the motel strip on the outskirts of Cherry City, neon motor courts and cocksure three-story chains looming over their dingy patches of private beach. Vacancies everywhere. The state cruiser was stopped, lights flashing, in the parking lot of one of the motels, but there was no other sign of activity.

“Why would he want to get caught?”

“Why would he want to spend his life running from people who’ll kill him as soon as they find him, with a suitcase full of hundred-dollar bills to worry about?”

“Too complicated for me,” said Mulligan.

Kat snorted.

“What’s so funny?”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Me? You’re kidding, right? You just confessed to this Machiavellian scheme. At least I try to keep things simple.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Kat opened her mouth and then shut it again.

“Go on,” said Mulligan. His voice had a forced quality to it, as if the chipper tone he attempted wasn’t good for his respiratory system. “Go on. You have a theory. Everybody’s always got a theory they like.”

“Maybe I do have a theory. It’s not about you, though. OK?”

“I thought you were talking about me.”

“No, you were talking about you. As usual.”

“You were saying?”

“What I was saying.” She pursed her lips and nodded her head for a moment. She continued. “What I was saying was this. I looked you up.”

Mulligan’s face registered a kind of dumb smirky pleasure.

“Obviously, I was interested,” she went on. “I found out a lot more about you than I expected. You’re notorious, in a way. Or you were, anyhow.”

“Good old Internet,” said Mulligan. “Keeps everything fresh.”

“All that trouble, over this little piece of private business that didn’t have to hurt anyone. I’ve done it. As you’re aware. The gas station attendant’s probably done it. Look at all these motel rooms around here, Alexander. How do you think they pay the bills all winter long? A pair of bodies coming together, just for fun. No greater motive. And it could have stayed just between the two of you, but you both tossed a grenade into a crowded room and then stayed around for the explosion. Which makes me think something.”

“What,” said Mulligan, tightly.

“You must have liked it.”

“You think I liked it.”

“I think you both liked it. It was built into the affair, some self-destructive drama factor. So don’t come on all shocked about why Saltino would want to get caught.”