Chapter Eleven
Miah woke on Sunday morning with a brick in his gut.
He’d done pretty well, not thinking about the day’s agenda before now, keeping too busy to register exactly how risky an idea this truly was. For better or worse, Vince didn’t share his aversion to sketchiness. As far as Miah’s best friend was concerned, today’s mission was one to look forward to.
At eleven, Miah climbed on his Triumph and headed downtown. They were going to meet at Benji’s for a quick lunch, then go in search of the first name on Miah’s two-man list.
Steve Rawlins. Miah didn’t know any Rawlinses from Fortuity, and his family was friendly with anybody with any real history around here. He had no clue what to expect from this outing.
He beat Vince to Benji’s and found Duncan alone behind the bar, hardly overcome by the few scattered patrons making small talk over the din of Woody Guthrie. Duncan was studying some papers pinned to a clipboard, his slick cell phone glowing on the counter before him. It was open to a calculator app Miah saw as he took a seat.
Duncan glanced up, surprise passing over his face. As always, he looked all wrong in this bar, in this town, with his pale skin, tailored clothes, clean fingernails. He sounded equally wrong when he spoke, his British accent grating on Miah, as ever. “Good afternoon, Miah.”
“Duncan.”
“What may I get you?”
Miah eyed the chalkboard mounted to the nearest wall and the daily specials scrawled there. “How’s the turkey club?”
“Popular.”
“I’ll have that, and a Bushmills with water.” Something to sip to calm his jangled nerves, but not a straight shot. And no more coffee—Miah’d had four cups since daybreak, and he could feel the caffeine crackling through his veins like electricity. “Make it a double, actually.”
“As you like it,” Duncan said, punching buttons on the modern new register. “Fourteen fifty, please.”
Miah paid and waited for his drink, then moved to his usual table in the front corner. He’d just put his glass to his lips when the sound of Vince’s arrival rumbled in from the front lot. He watched Vince dismount then stroll in, his frame all but eclipsing the threshold.
“Vince,” Duncan said, mustering a polite smile. Those two had a scathing sort of respect for each other these days, though they’d been mortal enemies a year ago.
“Welch. Cheeseburger and my usual,” he called, heading for the corner.
Miah rose and they hugged, slapped each other’s backs.
“Thanks for coming,” Miah said.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Vince got comfy, not looking nervous in the least. “Case would’ve loved the chance, too, but him and Abilene are still on their pathetic excuse for a honeymoon.”
“Oh, right. Where’d they go again?”
“Vegas. Just for the weekend.”
“Who’s watching the baby?”
“They brought her.”
“Yikes. Not exactly a relaxing, romantic getaway.”
Vince shrugged. “I don’t think they mind. Casey’s as loved up on that kid as he is on his good lady wife.”
Miah felt weirdly sad at that. Even Casey had stumbled his way into a full-fledged family, somehow. Raina and Duncan had been playing house for the better half of a year, Vince and Kim for over a year now. All three of his childhood friends in that equation had been commitment-phobes not long ago, Miah the lone romantic, yet here he was the last singleton standing.
At least I got my chance with Nicki, before I manage to blow it all straight to hell.
Duncan delivered Vince’s beer and shot, and Vince told him to keep the change from a twenty. “Ware in the kitchen?” Vince asked.
“Nearly always.”
“Send him out if he gets a lull.”
Duncan nodded and left them be.
“You gonna grill him about Steve Rawlins?” Miah asked.
“Yeah.”
Not a bad idea. Vince had served time with James Ware and they’d stayed civil. Miah didn’t know how small a world the criminal element of Brush County might inhabit, but any info on the afternoon’s target was useful.
“You bring anything?” Vince asked, and Miah didn’t need to ask what he meant. He’d felt Vince’s own pistol in its holster when they’d hugged, and Vince had kept his old leather bomber on for a reason.
“I did,” Miah said. He’d brought his own .22, though it was stashed in the lockbox on the back of his bike. He’d pocket it before they headed out to Bean’s former neighborhood.
“How much cash you bring?”
That’d been a stumper. Miah had no clue how much to bribe a drug dealer for information. “I’ve got three hundred on me, and another three in my bike.”
Vince nodded, seeming to approve. “Start the bidding low.”
“I’ll try, but if this guy knows who I am, he’ll gin me up fast.”
“No doubt.” Anybody who knew anything about Fortuity had heard of the Churches, and most of them assumed they were loaded.
The kitchen door swung out in Miah’s periphery, and a shaven-headed man built purely of muscle and tattoo ink came stalking across the floor in a tight black tee and a stained white apron, a plate in each hand.
“Ware,” Vince said.
“Grossier.” James Ware offered Miah a nod. “Welch said you wanted to talk to me.”
Vince cut to the chase. “You know anything about a shitbag named Steve Rawlins?”
He made a face and set their plates before them. “Who wants to know?”
“Just us,” Vince said, wagging a finger between him and Miah.
“You found out some names all on your own then, huh?”
“You met him?” Vince asked.
“Not personally, but I did business with a couple guys who distributed for him.”
“What’s his reputation?” Miah asked. “He partake of his own goods?” That was his worst fear—that they were on a mission to go asking favors of some jumped-up meth freak.
Ware shook his head. “Don’t think so. The guys who move his shit didn’t, or if they did they kept it under control, far as I could tell.”
Miah looked to Vince. “That’s something.”
“What’re you after?” Ware asked Miah, eyes narrowed.
“Not a hundred percent sure.”
Vince took a massive bite of his burger, speaking before he’d finished chewing. “He a hothead?”
“Couldn’t say. His workers respected him, but I couldn’t vouch for how much of that was fear.”
Miah nodded.
“That’s all I know,” Ware said coldly, clearly ready to end this convo.
“What’s the other name?” Vince asked Miah.
“Dom Gutierrez.”
Ware’s eyebrows rose nearly to his stubbly hairline. “You got business with him, too?”
“Maybe,” Vince said. “You met him?”
Ware nodded. “Never dealt with him personally, but he hangs around some places I used to do business like a bad smell. If you pay, he’ll talk, that I guarantee. Just don’t bank on everything that comes out of his mouth being a hundred percent true. Or even fifty percent lucid.”
Miah frowned, not liking the sound of that one bit.
“He’ll give you quantity, not quality,” Ware said. “Rawlins, he probably won’t give you jack shit. Why you’d get messed up with either of them is a mystery to me, but good luck to you.” He lowered his voice. “For fuck’s sake, don’t let either of them catch you packing.”
Sweat prickled in Miah’s pits, but Vince didn’t bat a lash.
“Thanks,” Miah said, and Ware was already walking away.
Vince made a face. “More useful than I’d expected.”
“Guess I’ll be keeping my pistol in my bike’s box.” That was a relief, in a way. Miah thought of firearms as tools. To carry one with the intent to protect himself from something other than a cougar raised as many red flags as any other aspect of this brazen scheme.
They ate quickly, drank quicker. Every bite that brought Miah closer to his date with the unknown sat more sourly in his gut. A second drink was a temptation, but he wasn’t stupid. Wait, no, he was. But in a very specific way this particular Sunday afternoon.
He wiped his fingers and wadded his napkin, something about the gesture feeling final, resolute. He looked to Vince, and his friend drained the last of his drink and stood. Miah did the same, feeling a sway in his step, a thundering in his veins. Whiskey had nothing on adrenaline.
Or misgiving, come to that.
“Let’s do this,” he muttered, not meeting Vince’s eyes before heading for the door. Normally he was the type to bus his own dishes to the kitchen’s window, but something inside him had clicked into place. The day’s task suddenly couldn’t wait another moment.
In the lot, he fished out his keys, eyeing Vince as he did the same, straddling his bike. “You heard Ware—ditch your piece, for fuck’s sake.”
Vince smiled. “You don’t think I’ll be goin’ in there, do you?”
Miah frowned. “‘Scuse me?”
“I’m your backup, Church. You think drug dealers are going to welcome two guys into their space, one of them an ex-con of local notoriety?”
Miah considered that. “I guess it does sound suspicious, when you put it like that.”
“You,” Vince said, “stand a chance at getting these guys to talk. March in there on your own, and they might let you in just to figure out what the hell the Prince of Fortuity wants with their wares.”
Miah rankled, hating that nickname. He’d been hearing it his whole life and it had always annoyed him, the insinuation being that the Churches were apart from the rest of the residents, better, even, by dint of their business or their reputation. Now that his dad was gone . . . Well, one could say he didn’t feel a worthy heir to his family’s supposed kingdom. A pretender more like. Still, he saw Vince’s point.
“I don’t know how to talk to a criminal, though,” Miah said.
Vince snorted, grinning. “You been talking to me and Case since before any of us hit puberty.”
He rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“Use it, then,” Vince said. “Nobody’s gonna suspect you of being after anything except revenge. This guy might just respect you for it.”
He sighed, a heavy, weary sound that made him feel about ninety. “This is fucking crazy. The detectives have probably pestered all these guys already. Why the fuck would they tell me shit, if there’s even anything to tell?”
“Why the fuck would they tell the authorities?” Vince countered. “Listen, Church—don’t you fucking dare talk yourself out of your own plan.”
“I’m not.” He stood a little straighter, finding that steel he’d mustered moments before in the bar.
“Good. So let’s do this,” Vince said, echoing Miah’s own words.
Miah nodded and straddled his bike. “Let’s do this.”
* * *
Step one had been to figure out exactly where Rawlins lived. Miah had been formulating a half-cocked plan to solve that problem for the ten minutes it took to ride over, but as they turned onto Bean’s former road, Vince had pulled over and called out to a woman smoking on her stoop. “Hey, you know where I can find Steve Rawlins?”
She’d nodded down the street. “Red double-wide.”
He’d dipped an invisible hat. “Much obliged.”
Miah had been as annoyed as he’d been impressed; Vince really was the man for the job, not him. He was thinking way too hard about this shit.
Step two . . . Well, step two was to find Rawlins himself. The red trailer appeared a couple blocks up, planted dead center on a weedy lot, its patchy, brown lawn at least free of the empty beer cans and bottles dotting most of the neighboring ones. Vince parked in plain view of the front picture window, the idea being for Miah’s backup to be obvious, but not imposing.
Vince smiled as he knocked his kickstand down, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one up. Whether that was just something to do or a tiny little tell that he was anxious, Miah couldn’t guess.
“Godspeed, Church. Signal if you need me, otherwise I’ll see you when I see you.”
He nodded, throat too tight to offer a reply. He checked for his wallet, his phone. The latter was already flipped open, and all he had to do to call Vince was hold down the five key, the one with the little bump on it. Benefit of having a fossil for a cell phone, he supposed as he stared across Rawlins’s lawn, that the thing had an actual, physical number pad.
There was an aging muscle car parked in the rutted dirt that passed for a driveway, its red paint faded to a mottled pink but its hubcaps gleaming. What did that say about a man, that he’d buffed his rims but not bothered to get his paint redone in the better half of a decade?
Hell, it was pointless to theorize. Any intuition Miah possessed was relegated strictly to livestock.
He dismounted, waited for the ground to grow solid beneath his feet. He looked to Vince, needing who knew what. What he got was a curt nod, a smoothing of the man’s jacket, reminding him, as backup went, he probably had the best one could hope for in Fortuity.
Miah nodded in reply, and took the first of a couple dozen steps toward the craziest decision of his life.
His boots sounded so loud as he crossed to the trailer’s front stoop, every pebble grinding, reverberating so it felt as though they were crunching between his teeth, setting his hair on end. The steps were stacked cinderblock, and it struck Miah as odd, that a supposedly successful drug dealer should live in such a shithole.
No doorbell. He opened the screen door and gave the inner one a long, firm knock, the sound only half as loud as his hammering heart. Over its palpitations, he heard somebody bark a muffled “Hang on.” The flimsy home vibrated with the approaching steps, and the door swung in. And then Miah was staring into the eyes of a very, very dangerous man, with nothing but a mosquito screen between them.
“Help you?” the man asked. He was weathered, probably fortysomething, with pale skin, pale eyes, and a tidy brown pompadour whose grooming betrayed everything the yard and house advertised.
Miah had settled on honesty as his strategy. Here went nothing.
“Maybe,” he said, pleased his voice sounded firm. “I’m looking for Steve Rawlins.”
“You found him. What do you want?”
“My name’s Jeremiah Church. I own Three C, the ranch out on the east side of town.”
Rawlins smiled through the screen. “I know who you are. You were on the news enough last spring.”
Miah felt his face go weird, though whether he’d turned white or red, he couldn’t guess. Just tingly all over. “May I come in for a few minutes?”
Rawlins’s eyes flicked over Miah’s shoulder, assessing Vince.
“That’s my friend,” Miah said. “I don’t mean any harm. This just didn’t seem like the sort of visit a man would show up for alone. Not when he has no idea what to expect, that is.”
“Well, now I’m just intrigued,” Rawlins said, and he smiled once more. “What the hell? Come on in.”
Miah pulled the screen open and Rawlins stepped aside.
“Gonna pat you down,” the man warned.
Miah nodded, extended his arms and suffered the brief intrusion. It reminded him of the night he and Nicki had caught Lorna Bean.
“Have a seat,” Rawlins said, nodding to a couch. “Shoes off.”
Miah was struck in an instant how the inside of this house didn’t match the exterior. It wasn’t flashy, but the furniture was nice—it matched, and it looked like real leather—and there was a gleaming glass coffee table and a big TV mounted on the wall, a solid wood bookcase filled with DVDs and albums. Miah wondered if the lack of curb appeal was some kind of cloaking device designed to put off would-be burglars.
He pushed his boots off on the mat inside the door, then crossed to take a seat on the couch. He clasped his hands between his knees, leaning forward.
“Smoke if you feel like it,” Rawlins said, grabbing a metal travel mug off the bookshelf and sitting on the arm of the love seat. His shirt was one of those bowling-style ones, black with white panels down the sides. It looked ironed and was tucked into his crisp slacks. He crossed his arms, a fancy wristwatch flashing, and raised his eyebrows.
“I’m here looking for answers,” Miah said. “I was asking around about who might’ve done business with Chris Bean.” He was careful not to say anything too explicit about Rawlins’s livelihood, lest he accidentally paint himself as some kind of mole. “I don’t care what history you two might’ve had. I’m only trying to find somebody who might have any kind of clue who could have hired him to set the fire at my family’s ranch. In short, I’m hoping maybe he was a bigmouthed motherfucker, and maybe I can find somebody he might’ve shot that big mouth off to.”
Rawlins nodded slowly, looking stern and pensive. After a long pause, he said, “Nasty business, what happened to your father.”
Miah nodded right back. “Word is it was meant to be me who took that bullet. You can understand why I’d be eager for some insight. Unfortunately, the authorities haven’t been much use so far. I’m probably wasting my time and yours, but my only other option is to sit on my ass twiddling my thumbs, so please forgive this surprise visit.”
Rawlins cracked a tiny grin at that. “Who gave you my name, exactly?”
“A local dirtbag who shall remain unnamed, per our agreement. All I was told is that you’ve had dealings in a certain product that Bean was known to have been an enthusiast of.”
Another smile, a little shrug of Rawlins’s shoulders that Miah took for a muted laugh.
“Nobody’s implying that you ever did any business with Bean,” Miah added. “I’m grasping at straws here, that’s all.”
“Desperation is a quality I’ve always valued in my fellow man,” Rawlins said sagely, and took a deep drink of whatever was in his travel mug. Coffee, Miah guessed. The man seemed sober, his hazel eyes clear, and moreover, he seemed the type to value control over self-medication.
“Anything,” Miah said again. “If you know anything at all, I’m prepared to pay. And you’ve got my word as a fellow businessman, no one will ever hear me mention your name in relation to any of this.”
“Same go for your massive friend planted on my curb?”
Miah nodded. “He’s his own fucked-up breed of honorable.”
“Fuck honor.”
“Discreet, then.”
Rawlins grinned, looking impressed. Miah was caught in some sort of a test, it seemed, one passed only by saying the exact right thing. Like a minefield, though at the same time, his feet felt deft, his reflexes tight. He could do this.
“That’s Vince Grossier,” Rawlins said.
Miah nodded, unsure if it was a question.
“He punched my cousin’s teeth out in a bar fight,” Rawlins said.
Miah winced, didn’t bother trying to cover it up. “Oops.”
The man shrugged. “I hate my cousin.”
“Oh. Well, that must be a consolation.”
Rawlins laughed again. If Miah wasn’t mistaken, the guy was taking a shine to him.
“My mom used to go out with Tom Grossier, back in the day,” he went on. That was Vince and Casey’s estranged father. “She always had appalling taste in men.”
“He had his redeeming qualities,” Miah offered, though he was hard-pressed to actually think of any.
“And I’m sure shithouse rats make wonderful conversationalists,” Rawlins said lightly. “Anyhow. Tell me what you’re offering for this so-called information, and I’ll decide if I got anything worth selling.”
“Depends. Two hundred for a name that might get me closer to whoever hired Bean for the hit. Less for less.”
“Names are dangerous, and they’re also the only thing that matters.”
“Three hundred,” Miah said, pulse racing anew, heart thundering at the thought that Rawlins might know something, might even share something. Don’t be naive. He’s a drug dealer. He’ll sell you a lie as happily as he might the truth. It wasn’t as though he had much to fear from Miah as retaliation went, and no doubt he knew it. All Miah had on his side was Rawlins’s word.
Again, drug dealer.
“Three hundred,” Rawlins mused. “Five suits me better.”
“I’ll be frank with you,” Miah said, resigned to fanning his entire hand out on the table between them. “I’ve got six hundred on me, between my wallet and my bike. I’m desperate and I’m not about to get stingy where justice is concerned. If you know something worth knowing, you’re welcome to every last cent of it.”
Rawlins’s brow creased with surprise or amusement. “What’ll you do with this fucker who hired Bean, if you get your hands on him?”
Miah frowned. “I won’t know until I’m standing there in front of him,” he admitted. “I’m not a violent man. Or I wasn’t. But you fuck with my family the way this person or people did, and I can’t say exactly who it is I am. Only that I’d bankrupt myself to find out.”
Rawlins sat up straight, regarding Miah for a long moment, swirling his mug. “I like you, Mr. Church. You’re like the hero at the start of the western, two hours before the world turns him into a stone-cold killer.”
Miah shivered.
“I’ll level with you. I got no names.”
His heart sank.
“Not the sorts of names you’re after, that is. I never dealt with Bean directly, neighbors or not. I don’t deal with hardly any clients face-to-face these days.”
“Ah.” You about to leverage that aforementioned six hundred bucks from me in some less courteous fashion?
“But I know one of my freelancers has supplied him. Not on the regular, but now and then. And he just might be amenable to the odd bribe.”
“Okay.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you his name, pro bono. I got a niece who’s goddamn horse-crazy. Your ranch do pony rides and that shit?”
“No, we’re a cattle operation. How old’s your niece?”
“Twelve.”
“She ever been on a horse?”
“Not sure. You think you could arrange that?”
Miah pursed his lips, not liking this creative bargaining bull. He didn’t want this transaction crossing over into his actual business. “How about two hundred bucks and the name of a horseback riding camp on the other side of the freeway? That ought to buy the girl a few lessons.”
Rawlins grinned again. “I’m just fuckin’ with you—I ain’t got no niece. Just curious exactly how desperate you were.”
“Not enough to let whoever it is I am today take this madness home to my own doorstep,” Miah said. “But not far off.”
“I don’t need no money,” Rawlins announced, popping the lid off his mug. He eyed the contents and tipped the last drops into his mouth before setting it aside on the table. Miah smelled coffee, and something sweet. Vanilla creamer, maybe.
“Were you fucking with me when you said you had a name?” Miah asked.
“Nope. That you can have for free. Last name’s Devon. I don’t rightly know his first,” Rawlins said, looking amused, as though he’d not realized that before just now. “There’s details you need in my line of work and those that only get in the way. Anyhow, Devon, like I said. He lives off the highway, out near the Mexican encampment.” The little village of migrant workers who’d come to town with the casino project, he meant. They’d mostly dissipated with the construction on seeming permanent hold, but the shacks and trailers and tents remained, turning red from the desert dust as the months wore on.
“There’s a little road,” Rawlins went on, “maybe a quarter mile before you hit the camp. Heads east before it dead-ends. It’s like the fucking playa out there, and Devon does his business out of an old bus, one of those faggy psychedelic hippie deals, done up like he’s headed to Burning Man any minute. Don’t let it fool you, though—he just likes the burnout market. Pacifists and all, a good crowd if you can stand talking to the idiots. But Bean was one of his regulars, too.”
“Okay.”
“Try him. He’s got a way about him. What do they call that? Bedside manner. He don’t mind letting his clients treat him like a goddamn shrink. I always send the chatty ones out his way—can’t stand that shit myself.”
Miah nodded, though he couldn’t help but think Rawlins was a talker himself. If he didn’t want any money, Miah had to wonder why he was being so helpful. He hoped the man wouldn’t try calling in some shady favor somewhere down the line. Then again, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and Miah wasn’t above begging where information was concerned.
“I appreciate this,” he told Rawlins. “You sure there’s nothing I can offer you in return?”
The man shook his head, arms crossed, eyes shutting momentarily.
Miah held in a final question, curiosity and relief all jumbled up in his chest, ultimately making him bold. “Can I ask you one more thing before I go?”
“Shoot.”
“How come your rims are shiny but your paint job’s a mess?”
Rawlins laughed softly. “My old man picked that color. It’s been a bitch tryin’ to find a shop that can match how it used to look. You know that exact red, the color of the shit they dip candy apples in?”
Miah nodded, not actually sure.
“Red. Almost pink-red,” Rawlins said, attention pinned somewhere in the middle distance. “Kind of paint that goes on so slick it looks wet. Looks gooey,” he elaborated. “I ain’t found its match yet. But I bet you know somethin’ about tryin’ to honor your father’s wishes, after they pass,” he said, gaze mild, settling on the table between them. “Don’t you?”
Miah swallowed, upended. “I may.”
“Anyhow, that’s all I got for you. You ever wrote my name down, you best burn it. And you ever speak it to anybody in a uniform and I’ll slit your throat.”
By some miracle of physiology, Miah didn’t flinch. “Understood.” He got to his feet.
Rawlins did the same and extended a hand. Miah shook it.
“Good luck to you, Jeremiah Church. If circumstances brought you to my doorstep, no doubt you’ll need it.”
“No doubt at all.”
He let Rawlins’s hand drop and walked to the door, tugged on his boots. With a final nod over his shoulder, Miah opened the door and strode, squinting, out into the bright September sunshine. He felt everything he’d worked so hard to ignore inside—his hammering heart, his slick pits, his shaking hands.
He gave Vince the gist.
“Devon,” Vince repeated.
“Out by the migrant camp.”
Vince nodded. “That’s not nothing . . . I was just starting to get nervous when you came out. You were in there ages.”
Miah nodded, wiping his damp palms on his jeans. “It was worth it. He didn’t even want a bribe, in the end.”
Vince did a double take. “The fuck you say?”
“Weird, I know. He was weird. Chatty as he was cagey.” He held back the part about their fathers, feeling a strange loyalty to Rawlins, not wanting to share that bit. A powerful sort of charisma, that man had, to have Miah nearly respecting him in spite of his profession, and after having known him less than half an hour. No wonder he did well in his chosen field.
“You want to go now?” Vince asked.
“Fuck, yes. Gutierrez sounds like a maniac, and if there’s no guarantee he knows anything, I say we try this Devon guy next. If Rawlins handpicked him, he’s probably half rational.”
Vince nodded. “Sounds good. And a nice ride.”
True—it was a good stretch of smooth highway, resurfaced only a couple summers ago. Though Miah doubted the adrenaline would let him register a single mile of it.
“Here goes nothing,” he announced, and started up his bike with a roar of throttle. On to the next criminal.
But as fate would have it, Miah was in for a heavy dose of both frustration and relief.
ON THE ROAD, read a painted plywood sign hung along the side of what used to be a school bus, but now more closely resembled a child’s art project. A child on mushrooms anyhow. BACK WEDNESDAY.
“Well, shit,” Vince said, stealing the sentiment from Miah’s own mouth.
“That sucks.”
“Gutierrez instead?” Vince asked.
Miah didn’t relish the thought. He could admit this entire prospect scared the shit out of him. A few days’ reprieve was welcome, and a chance to strategize, having gone through with this mission once already now. “Let’s wait. I’d rather be patient and bug some hippie Rawlins told me about than go after a psychopath Dancer name-dropped.”
Vince nodded.
“I’ve been waiting six months already for answers,” Miah added. “Another three days won’t kill me.”
“Unless this Devon guy literally kills you,” Vince put in.
“That’s always a possibility.” But at least he’d live long enough to get his hands on Nicki again, come Tuesday evening.