Christopher Sorrentino - The Fugitives

He pounded on the back of Mulligan’s seat.

“With learning comes understanding, with understanding comes empathy, identification, other highly civilized things. But knowing things just makes you want to tell people. That’s what authors do. You fucking parasite. Now, me, for example, I learned something from that experience. I learned that you never, ever trust a fucking author as far as you can throw him.”

He pounded on the back of Mulligan’s seat.

“Now, you, Kat. Maybe you’re not writing a book, like your friend here, but I know you’re not planning on spending your life at the Chicago Banana . We already discussed this. There’s something bigger out there for you. Who knows? Sky’s the limit.” He shook his head. “Turn here,” he told Mulligan. “You know where the old loony bin is? Go through the main entrance when we get to it.”

He went on. “It feels terrible to know you’re just a stepping stone. You try to deal with people fair and square, and what do they do? They try to manipulate you. They tell you fairy tales about imaginary friends. What did you want from me, Kat?” He sounded genuinely anguished. “Had you come to me candidly, honestly, I would have responded in kind. In fact, I did respond to you in that way. As you anticipated. And you took advantage. You and your friend the author .”

Mulligan had turned into the driveway that wound through the grounds of the state hospital and was driving slowly toward the complex.

“Veer off here,” said Argenziano. The pavement ended and the Mercedes was bumping over the snow-covered earth. “You can stop now. Turn it off.” He opened his door. “Get out.”

Argenziano waved his gun toward the cherry orchard and the dark corridors running between the rows of trees.

“Lead on,” he said. “Right up here.”

Kat and Mulligan walked in silence, not quite side by side. Argenziano huffed and grumbled and cleared his throat behind them. As they proceeded deeper into the grove, the darkness surrounding them nearly completely under the jagged shadows of the bare and untended trees, Mulligan gazed at the great wash of the galaxy spanning the sky.

“What’re you looking at?” demanded Argenziano. “I didn’t tell you to look at anything.”

Finally, they arrived at a broad avenue of open ground where the orchard ended. Across it were the haggard outlines of dead cornstalks standing in an adjacent field. Kat could see two dark forms that stood out amid all the snow there. One was a fresh pile of dirt. The other was an open pit.

“Get over there,” said Argenziano. “That who you’re looking for?” He shoved Mulligan at the pit. “That your star source?” Mulligan looked down. At the bottom was a skeleton, somberly dressed in dark rags.

“That’s twice I’ve dug that fucking hole,” Argenziano said. “When I fill it in again, it’ll be for the last time.”

“Can I see?” said Kat.

“Well, Jesus Christ,” said Argenziano. “You really are a regular Lois Lane, aren’t you? Go ahead, take a look.”

Kat stepped up to the edge and looked in.

“Now tell me who that is. You know, don’t you, author?”

“Saltino?”

“Louder.”

“Saltino,” Mulligan said clearly.

“Good. Jackie Saltino. Very dead, in a hole. Not running around. Not talking.”

“But we saw him,” said Kat. “It was him.”

“Aside from the fact that it doesn’t make any difference who you thought you saw because I happen to know who’s lying there in an advanced state of decomposition, I also know when someone’s trying to shake me down. OK? Jesus Christ. I offered you a story, Kat. A good story, an exclusive story. But no. I don’t know how you found out about all this, but you did. One way or the other, you knew that in the end you were going to be standing at the edge of this hole.”

Unexpectedly, he took two steps forward and slapped Mulligan across the face. “I hope she was good, sfacheem.” He raised his hand again, and Mulligan cringed, but this time he tapped his cheek lightly, almost affectionately, with his fingertips. “I hope she was worth it, you dumb fuck.”

Argenziano took a step back and stumbled over some of the loose earth piled around the hole. Throwing out his hands to keep his balance, he lost his grip on his gun, which sailed into the grave.

“Run,” Mulligan said. Without waiting he vaulted across the grave and took off toward the cornfield. Argenziano threw his arms around Kat and started wrestling her to the ground.

“Help!” she yelled. “Help me!”

Argenziano clouted Kat in the side of the head with an elbow and jumped into the grave as she dropped to her hands and knees, stunned. She struggled to her feet and began to move unsteadily across the open ground toward the corn where Mulligan watched from the safety of cover. Argenziano’s head appeared, followed by his arms as he struggled to hoist himself out of the hole. Mulligan watched him straining. He’d dug the grave good and deep. Kat was wobbling, not fast, not putting much distance between herself and Argenziano. Mulligan wanted to shout, urge her to run, but was afraid to reveal his hiding place.

“Don’t run,” said a voice. “Stay.”

Mulligan saw a giant in an army field jacket and a pair of jeans. Another man, much younger and smaller, emerged from the row behind him. He had on baggy jeans and an oversized hooded sweatshirt under a down jacket. A Cleveland Indians cap with the brim turned to the left was on his head.

“Jeramy, get that guy over there and bring him back,” said Hanshaw. Jeramy trotted toward Mulligan, raising the hem of his sweatshirt as he drew near to display the gun tucked in his waistband as he glanced casually off to one side. It looked to Mulligan like a practiced move. Still, he emerged without protest. Hanshaw bent and, with a slight grunt, lifted Argenziano out of the hole with one hand.

“What the fuck is going on, Hanshaw?” said Argenziano. Hanshaw ignored him, and shoved him against the trunk of a tree, kicked his legs apart, and swiftly frisked him, coming up with the gun.

“Are you the police?” Mulligan asked.

“Ex,” said Hanshaw. “Tribal cop. This is private business now.”

“Yo, should I frisk him?” said Jeramy, gesturing at Mulligan.

“He’s all right,” said Hanshaw. “Go get little sister and bring her over here.” Jeramy trotted over to where Kat was wobbling. Hanshaw stepped to the edge of the grave and peered in. “Alas, poor Jackie,” he said. “Am I right? Is that the famous absconder?” He laughed. “We called him Argenziano’s puppy, did you know that, Bobby? Followed you around, waited for you outside. And then, suddenly: poof. What a surprise, who would have suspected, who knows what really lies beneath the mask.” Jeramy was leading Kat back. He had a hand lightly on her elbow, as if he were formally escorting her.

“I paid Wendell his money,” said Argenziano, his cheek still pressed against the tree.

“That you did,” said Hanshaw. “Robbed Peter to pay Paul, ennit. What, you think nobody knows about you and the basketball? All your big orders with Wendell’s sports book? People know. People talk and people listen. Wendell didn’t have to buy your story to take what you owed him, but your friends back in New York, they couldn’t buy it. I mean, come on, Bobby: Jackie? Not a flashy guy. No wife, no kids, no girlfriend, no nothing. I bet when he disappeared you could take everything he owned and put it in a cardboard box. But he’s the guy who’s supposed to have run off with four hundred and fifty grand.” Hanshaw shook his head. “You’re just not real good at betting on anything, are you?”