Here Comes the Night (7 page)

Everyone in the SUV watched as the night watchman’s
flashlight snapped off, leaving the bank building in darkness. Twigs turned to
Buck in the backseat. “He done?”

It was an effort for Buck to string words together. “Yeah,
he’s headed back …to…his cubbyhole…in basement.”

“Well, listen to him,” Twigs chuckled. “A full sentence. I
think our boy’s coming around a little.” Then she looked to Jorge and Meatface.
“Ready, boys?”

Meatface held his hand over his mouth like a mask and did
his
Blue Velvet
breathing routine. “Oh yeah, it’s showtime.”

Twigs checked a .38 and slipped it in her jacket pocket.
“Hair spray, Jorge?’

“Got it,” Jorge said.

Twigs turned to Buck in the back seat. “Just remember, Buck.
You fuck this up, you’re dead.”

Jorge and Meatface each took one of Buck’s arms and
half-walked, half-carried him to the side entrance. The smell of Friday night
traffic still clung to the streets, oily and rancid. Buck felt more alert but
still unsteady on his feet.

Jorge climbed on Meatface’s back to get close enough to the
door’s surveillance camera to blur it with the hair spray.

Twigs followed close behind and inserted Buck’s entrance key
from his keyring. “You ready with the code?” she asked, tipping his chin up so
she could look him in the eye.

“Ready,” he answered. Buck realized with a start that not
only was the bank’s entrance key on his key ring, but the one to Gordon’s
office door was still there as well. Angie had slipped it out of Gordon’s home
safe for Buck to use. Then he was supposed to mail it back to Angie,
anonymously, just in case somebody got curious about it.

“Hey, snap to,” Twigs was saying sharply. “Are you ready
with the code or not?”

Buck nodded.

“Alrighty then.” Twigs turned the key and the door opened.
The entourage moved quickly inside. Ahead of them a blinking security alarm box
started its countdown.

She motioned Buck to move to it.

Buck slowly punched in the security code. The red flashing
light went off. A green one hummed in its place.

“Good boy,” Twigs whispered. “So far, so good. Now lead the
way.”

Buck took them up the side stairway to the executive offices
on the third floor. The exertion was hard for him, but he reminded himself that
it would help the drugs wear off. If there came a chance to get away, he
planned to be alert enough to carry it off.

When they got to his office, he showed Twigs which key to
use. She quickly opened it and they went inside. Then all three of them turned
on their thin flashlights.

Meatface was delighted. “Man, look at all this shit.” He was
talking about the shrine-like look the entire office had. Autographed pictures
of Buck with everyone from Barry Switzer to Bob Stoops covered the walls. Game
footballs on special stands, his old helmet and number “43" jersey.

The bank board hadn’t just suggested Buck’s office be
decorated this way, they’d made sure of it. Gordon had been clear that if he
had to put up with jocks, he wanted the whole shebang.

Twigs snapped her fingers at him. “Hey, perk up. Safe?”

“Right.” Buck moved as though he was underwater toward the
trophy shelves, one of which he swung away from the wall to reveal his hidden
safe behind it.

As Buck began work on the combination, Meatface came around
the corner, spotlighting himself with his flashlight. He was wearing Buck’s
football helmet and carrying one of the trophy footballs.

Jorge and Twigs spit laughter in spite of themselves.

Meatface kept his voice low, but couldn’t resist acting out
a hike from center for them. “Hut, hut. Hut, two, three, four.”

“Okay,” Twigs said, “cut the crap. Let’s do this.”

“Hey.” Meatface got serious. “That side door leads to a
fancy meeting room.” He leered at Buck. “That where you fuck over the
customers, Bucko?” Then back to Twigs. “There’s a door on the other side of it
to something else, but it’s locked.”

Buck tried not to react, but Twigs picked right up on it.

“Where’s that other side door go to?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Buck answered, trying to be casual. “Another
office.”

“Whose?”

“The president’s.”

“Now we’re getting the real skinny,” Twigs said, delighted.
“Where’s
his
safe?”

Buck stammered. “It’s just for bank papers. He’s told me he
doesn’t keep any money in it. Just legal stuff and…”

Twigs shot him a knowing smile. “Methinks the jockstrap does
protest too much.” She looked around for Jorge, who was going through Buck’s
desk. “Hey,” she said, tossing the key ring at him, “go see if one of those
keys unlocks the door to the president’s office.”

Buck’s worst possible scenario was about to happen. He couldn’t
let them find Gordon. He had to try something.

As Jorge walked past him, he lunged at him, awkwardly
tackling him to the ground.

Meatface sprang into action with surprising agility, his
girth more than matching Buck’s strength, especially in his drugged state. Buck
struggled against him until Meatface threw a couple of punches to stop him.

When Buck recovered, Jorge and Twigs both had guns trained
on him.

“Listen—” Buck said.

“Shut up and open your safe.” Twigs’ whisper was vicious.
She whipped her head around to Meatface and Jorge. “No more fucking around. Go
check out the other office. I got this asshole.”

The Mustang sat bathed in halogen spots, which cast a
surreal light under the ragged night sky. The vehicle had been driven as far
off the road as it would go and then abandoned under a giant catalpa tree, key
still in the ignition.

Detective Harry “Horse” Douglas, in an ugly, rumpled brown
suit, studied the car’s front grill as a crime scene tech collected blood and
hair samples.

Horse glanced up as his partner Edgars arrived, and waved
him over. In his 50's, Horse’s beer belly now protruded beyond any possibility
of a buttoned suitcoat. He noticed as Edgars moved their way that he was
wearing yet another new cowboy hat.

In spite of his own slovenly habits, Horse mildly
disapproved of the younger detective’s Stockyards City look. The carefully
distressed Levi’s, western style suitcoats and boots screamed clotheshorse to
him. For all he knew, the kid had never seen a ranch, whereas Horse’s own
father had dressed as a cowboy every day of his life because he was one. And
nothing had made Harry Sr. prouder than when his boy got a career where he wore
a suit to work.

“Nice hat,” Horse said by way of greeting.

Edgars tipped the brim in response. He nodded to the tech,
took out his iPhone, and started punching information into the keyboard. “I
checked my odometer when I left. This is less than ten miles away from the
crime scene. Somebody panicked pretty quick.”

“Yeah. Looks like we got hair and blood on the grill.
Probably mixes of the girl and the horse.” Then, referring to the forensics
officer. “He’s almost done, and we can get a look inside the car. But we won’t
need that to identify the owner.”

“Yeah? What, you psychic now?”

“Take a look at this,” Horse said, nodding with his head to
follow him.

When they were in the rear of the car, Horse pointed to the
Mustang’s license plate.
QRTBACK.

“It’s custom. Should be an easy look-up,” Edgars said.

“Yeah,” Horse said, “except we won’t need to.”

“Why not?”

“Cause I know who this belongs to. Seen it around a million
times. It’s one of my heroes.”

“Who?”

“Buck Dearmore.”

“No fucking way,” Edgars answered, shocked. “For real?”
Horse nodded. “Maybe somebody stole it,” Edgars suggested.

“I ran it through,” Horse said. “Nobody’s reported it.”

The tech nodded his head at them. “Okay, I’m finished enough
you can go ahead and take a look inside.”

Horse and Edgars snapped on latex. After nothing jumped out
inside the car, they opened the glove box.

“You got his phone, so you can check his calls,” the tech
said. “The car itself is pretty clean. Looks like somebody wiped it down, but I
lifted some partials. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Horse checked out the fancy screen and was relieved he knew
enough to pull up the phone’s history. The last two missed calls were from two
different unknown numbers, at 6:20 and again at 9:02. He decided to wait until
they got back to the station to run a trace on them. There wasn’t much more to
do here.

Horse still couldn’t believe it. Hell, he’d met Buck
Dearmore, shook his hand. The man had been a cottage industry in this state at
one time. If the ex-Sooner was a lush, Horse had never heard about it, and that
kind of celebrity gossip usually blew through the police station like an
airborne virus.

The whole deal was like discovering some coach played with
little boys. This just wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with All-Americans.

Angie sat in a holding cell with an assortment of
prostitutes, drunks, and bruised faces. She’d sobered up just enough that it
hurt to move her head, even a quarter of an inch. They’d bandaged her cut hand,
but were unwilling to dispense any pain pills. Some bullshit about liability.

At least her throbbing head might keep her alert, she
thought. And with the women in here, she’d better be. They’d been ogling her
silk outfit. Several had already wise-cracked about her expensive bleach job.

“Angie Wesner?” The female cop was opening the cell door,
which caused a cacophony of voices from the rest of the women, asking where
their help was. Where their phone call was.

“Why’s this bitch gittin’ out when I cain’t?” one of them
demanded as Angie moved to the door.

“That’s me,” Angie told the officer.

“Come with me.” She handcuffed Angie in front and led her to
a meeting cubicle. “I guess you know you’re one of the lucky ones,” the cop
said as she ushered her inside.

Indigo Fisher, Gordon’s bold and black lawyer, sporting a
headful of braids and beads, was waiting for her. There had never been any real
fondness between them, but Indigo looked genuinely concerned for her now. “My
God, you look terrible. How are you holding up?”

“This was all so stupid.” Then Angie asked, “Does Gordon
know yet?”

Indigo shook her head. “I was hoping you could tell me where
he is. I can’t get him at home, at his office, or on his cell. That’s not like
him.”

After a moment, with no explanation coming from Angie, she
asked, “What happened to your hand?”

“I cut it. It’s not as bad as it looks. Mainly my head is
killing me.”

“I might have some Ibuprofen,” Indigo offered, going for her
purse.

“They wouldn’t give me anything when they bandaged my hand,”
Angie said. “I haven’t heard from Gordon either.” She paused. “Gordon and me
had a fight.”

“That’s none of my concern. I just wanted to make sure he
was alright. It’s not like him not to check in.”

Angie gave an
I-don’t-know
shrug.

Indigo moved on to business. “Now, I went outside my usual
area as your husband’s personal attorney and spoke with the bar owner. He’ll
settle for damages if he sees a little additional sweetener for the pot. Which
is no problem.”

“How about the asshole?” Angie asked.

“I just finished with him. He’s still hot and bothered, but
he’ll come around when he sobers up and sees green.”

“Fine,” Angie said. “When can I go?”

Outside the motorhome, Tony listened for anything from
inside. But it was soundproof, other than a polite hum from the dual 50-amp
feeds snaking into the monster. He didn’t really want to stick around.
It
would just mean Erika giving him hell.

But he couldn’t keep his eyes off Dell’s Porsche. It looked
like it was solid gold in the light from a nearby security lamp. As noiselessly
as possible, Tony opened the driver door with the keys he’d snagged from the
R.V.

He eased into the sand-colored leather seats, and admired
the dashboard that looked like a plane’s cockpit. He glanced again at the R.V.
then carefully inserted the car keys into the ignition.

Tony entertained the possibilities. Dell could come out
shooting as he drove off. If he got stopped, the cops wouldn’t waste ten
seconds on him before hauling him in. But there was the lush smell of the
leather, the sensuous stretch of his legs toward the accelerator. And he wanted
to see that world class dashboard lit up.

Without thinking it through any further, Tony turned the
ignition key.

Instead of roaring to life, there was only a dull click.

He frowned and tried again.
Click
.

A moment later, the door to the R.V. opened. Dell stood
there, bare chested but in his pants, with a 9mm in one hand and a beeping
remote in the other. He smiled and shook his head, as though to a mischievous
child. “Come on, kid. Did you really think I’d park a car like this outside
without a kill switch?”

“And a silent alarm,” Tony grimaced. “You prick.”

“You weren’t going to leave your girlfriend, surely.”

Tony’s body constricted with anger at being caught. Growing
up, he’d watched the rich boys do the same shit as him, but with their high
dollar lawyers always showing up and making it go away. All he’d ever got was another
beating when he got home and the threat of something worse the next time.

The last time it happened his dad had been drunk enough to
belittle and shame him, but too drunk to administer the required whipping. When
his father had lunged for him, something snapped inside Tony. He had grabbed
his father’s belt away from him and, as the cops later described it, “cut the
old man to pieces with it,” with his mother screaming and crying at him from
the corner. It left him feeling disgusted and betrayed. He couldn’t remember
any tears from her during Tony’s years of daily beatings.

At the age of fifteen, he had been sent up for fifteen years
for killing his dad, who’d never received so much as a misdemeanor for pounding
on his family every day of his rotten life.

Tony stared up at Dell with hate-filled eyes. This fat cat
wouldn’t last two minutes in his shoes. Tony thought he might be able to get
out of the Porsche and go for his .38 before Dell could react. He was seriously
considering it when he heard Vivian scream from inside the motorhome.

“Motherfucker,” she yelped and appeared at the door a second
later. She had Erika, half-naked and wild-eyed, by the arm. “Look at what she
did,” Vivian said, pointing to her naked torso, stained with vomit. “I’m going
to gag.” She turned back inside, and a second later dry heaves were heard.

Dell took Erika’s wrist and pulled her out onto the porch.
He reached inside and threw her purse and clothes through the door at her. He
spoke inside to Vivian without taking his eyes off Tony. “It’s okay, hon.
They’re leaving.”

By this time, Tony had jumped out of the car and was
indignant. “What’d you do to her?”

Dell almost laughed. “Do you believe the balls on this guy?
You’re a piece of work.”

“I’ll turn your perverted ass in,” Tony threatened, his hand
edging toward his gun at the back of his waistband.

“You’re not thinking of going for that, are you?” Dell
asked. Tony slowly dropped his arm to his side in response.

“Good,” Dell continued. “I don’t want to kill anybody
tonight, not even in self defense.”

Erika, who was stumbling, pulled on the rest of her clothes
and grabbed Tony’s sleeve. “Let’s just go, Tony.”

But he couldn’t let go of it. He stood there, trying to find
another angle, a different play.

Dell stayed on guard, as though he knew how volatile the kid
was. “Just listen to your girlfriend. You don’t want to fuck with a lawyer.” He
motioned toward his weapon. “You’d have better luck taking on this nine mil,
buddy.”

Tony was trembling with rage but had no comeback.

Erika, now more sober, took a step back. “Let’s go. Now.
Tony.”

“It’s the smart thing to do,” Dell added, looking weary and
ready for the whole episode to be over.

“I know that,” Tony spit back at him. “Maybe I don’t feel
like being smart.”

This was too much for Erika. She started walking away. “I’m
gone.”

Dell and Tony glared at one another for another moment. Then
Tony relented and backed away, not taking his eyes off Dell. “You’re gonna get
yours.”

“That I am, kid,” Dell said, giving him something to walk
away with.

“Someday,” Tony said, “you’ll get yours.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Damn right I’m right.” And with that, Tony turned and ran
after Erika, who had almost disappeared from view in the darkness.

He knew she could still hear him. “Erika, wait up.”

“Go away.”

“Come on,” he said hustling to catch up to her.

“Come on? What just happened back there, huh?”

“What do you mean?” Tony tried to figure how to play this.

“I woke up half naked, Tony. And those people…” Erika broke
down and started crying.

“You did look like you might be in a blackout or something.”
It was lame, he knew, but it was all he had.

She stopped walking and turned to him. “And you left me with
them.”

Even through the cloud of drunkenness hanging over her,
Erika stared at him with scorching scrutiny. “Is any of you real? Do you even
care about me at all?”

“Honest, Erika, I’m so sorry.”

“You know what, Tony?” she said, her voice tired and raw. “I
don’t believe you.”

He watched her walk away, her swaying figure silhouetted by
the red
VACANCY
sign at the entrance to the park.