Southtown

Page 22

If Luis and Elroy had gotten straight on Highway 64, they might’ve had a chance, but no—they were supposed to fil up the van with gas, so they parked a block away at the pumps of a gas station—the most obvious fucking target in the world.
Back at the motel, the Guide heard the first dry crack of gunfire.
How it happened: Luis went into the Exxon store for a six-pack of cherry Coke and some candy. He was thinking jel y beans, maybe red licorice.
“You’re a fucking kid,” Elroy told him. “How about some beer?”
Luis grinned. “You want them carding this baby face?”
He went inside to get his sweets while Elroy worked the pump.
It was a big goddamn gas tank, so Elroy had time to watch the clouds scraping by overhead. There were hil s in Omaha. Tal pine trees. Parks with lakes. Elroy never would’ve figured that in Nebraska.
He watched a big military plane lumbering toward the horizon, and he thought about C.C.
He missed the scrawny bastard’s smart remarks. He missed his tough-guy act, his stupid Italian suit and matching pistols. C.C. had been a time bomb, sure, but he’d kept things upbeat. He’d believed they would make it to freedom. Another week, C.C. had told them, and they’d al be partying in Alberta, screwing some Canadian chicks. Now, C.C. was six hundred miles south, under a foot of red earth, food for Oklahoma worms.
Night before last, in a Kansas trailer park, Luis and Elroy had held a kind of memorial.
While the Guide retired inside the rented Winnebago, they had lit a barbecue fire and got drunker than hel , cooking up brisket and talking about C.C.
Elroy took Luis down to the creek, where they shot the bow-and-arrow set Elroy stole in Oklahoma City.
Then they realized they’d have to find the arrows, so they tromped around in the dark and col ected a few until they heard a rattlesnake and ran like shit back to the picnic table. They laughed about it afterward, their hearts pounding, and Elroy felt good for the first time since C.C. died.
But they couldn’t keep up their spirits. The Guide was always close by, always giving orders. He looked at them like they were heavy, worthless packages he didn’t real y want to deliver—the same way he’d looked at C.C., bleeding to death in front of that sporting goods store.
Nobody leaves the group.
Walking to Target, Luis had told Elroy, “We can make it the rest of the way, ese.”
“You mean without him?”
“Fuck him,” Luis said. “We steal a car, head north our own damn selves. What do you say?”
Elroy understood why Luis hated the Guide. The Guide was a flesh smuggler, same as Stirman. Probably kil ed more Mexicans in his life than he’d kil ed flies. Be like asking Elroy to trust a Klansman.
But Elroy was doubtful. He wanted a new identity, money to start a life, al those things the Guide had promised. He didn’t trust the Guide or Stirman worth a shit, but Elroy had to get to Canada—for C.C.’s sake, as wel as his own.
Here at the Exxon station, this was the moment to decide. As soon as the tank was ful , as soon as Luis came out of the store, they could either go up the block to the motel, or they could get on the highway.
Elroy wanted to find a good woman to marry. He wanted to buy a decent house, join an old-fashioned gospel church.
Not that he believed his soul could be saved. He knew better than that. Since the day he drove his fist through that racist foreman’s nose out in the oil fields of West Texas, Elroy had accepted the fact his temper would damn him to hel .
But he wanted to get a job, have some kids. Maybe if he raised a couple of children right, that would count for something. He could have his own van with Cheerios and juice boxes in the back. He could take his kids into woods, somewhere up north where the wilderness went on forever, and teach them to shoot a bow.
They’d buy an endless supply of arrows, so they’d never have to go looking for them, just shoot them into the sky and watch them disappear.
Elroy didn’t hear the police car pul ing up behind him until the doors opened.
A cop’s voice on the bul horn: “Driver of the Sienna van. Put both hands slowly on top of your head. Do it now.”
Elroy turned.
The policeman yel ed, “Do not turn around. Put your hands on your head. Do it now!”
There were two of them, shielded by their car doors, guns drawn and pointed at him. No way could Elroy reach the gun tucked in his jeans, under his shirt.
He started to raise his hands, but he kept hold of the pump nozzle, stil squeezing so it came out of the tank gushing. Gasoline sprayed up the side of the van, toward the cops.
That bought him a half second. They weren’t expecting it.
Elroy dropped the nozzle and ducked around the front of the van. He hoped the cops knew better than to shoot at high-octane fuel. One of them fired anyway. The shot sparked off the fuel door. Elroy crouched against the front bumper, breathing heavy. He pul ed his gun.
He weighed the odds of running, and didn’t like them much. He saw Luis come out of the convenience store, a plastic grocery bag under one arm and a gun in the other.
Before Elroy could say anything, Luis let loose a ful clip at the police car.
Then Luis jerked back. The glass behind him spiderwebbed. A hole ripped through his grocery bag, then another—cherry Coke and jel y beans dribbling down his shirt.
Elroy thought about his imaginary children, shooting arrows into the sky. He thought about Floresvil e State, the death sentence that was waiting for him.
Maybe Luis had nailed at least one of the cops. Maybe there would only be one left.
He raised his gun and charged around the side of the van, straight into crossfire from the second and third police cars, which had just pul ed up.
Elroy didn’t have time to marvel at his bad luck.
He smel ed gasoline turning to flame, and the world erupted like a ful blast of Texas summer sun.
The Guide pul ed out of the motel in a stolen Honda Accord. He could see the black smoke boiling, a couple of blocks away.
The dragnet was already going up, but he eased past the scene at the gas station long enough to get the idea what had happened. The cops stopped him. His Nebraska driver’s license was valid. They didn’t bother checking his registration. He didn’t look like anyone they wanted.
He got on the highway and headed in no particular direction—just away.
Eventual y, the police would check motel records. They would get an ID on Elroy and Luis and wonder about the third man who’d checked in with them—who didn’t quite match Wil Stirman’s description. They would start wondering where Stirman had gone.
“We’re even,” the Guide told Wil over the phone. “I’m gonna disappear for a while.”
“You promised me a week,” Wil reminded him. “I need a ful week.”
Nothing on the line but the hum of the highway.
Wil felt his old friend’s disapproval. Wil should have left the country already. He’d had plenty of time. It shouldn’t take him a week to tie up his loose ends.
“You sure you’re thinking straight, Wil ?” the Guide asked.
Wil had trained this bastard. He had saved his life once on the border.
“You sent them out on purpose, didn’t you?” Wil asked. “You knew they couldn’t handle anything alone.
You knew something like this would happen.”
“We’re even,” the Guide repeated. “And Wil ? That emergency account I set up? Don’t try to withdraw any cash, you hear? I emptied it.”
The line went dead, and Wil shattered the phone against the warehouse’s brick wal .
He threw the iron bolt on the storage room door. Inside, Erainya Manos was sitting cross-legged on an old mattress, her hands no longer tied behind her back. She was eating chicken soup out of a can.
Pablo sat by the window, thumbing a Sports Illustrated, his gun and portable radio on the table next to him. The news was just coming on: “Breaking story in Omaha, a possible connection to the Floresville Five—”
Wil turned it off.
“Hey,” Pablo complained.
“You heard enough news about yourself.”
“What’s your problem?”
“What’s my problem?” Wil repeated. “Who told you to untie her hands?”
“She’s got to eat.”
“Then spoon-feed her.”
“Fuck that.”
Wil went over to Erainya Manos and slapped the soup can out of her hands.
She didn’t even blink. She gave him a look of pure black hate. She held up her spoon, like she was inviting him to slap that away, too.
“Your memory any better today?” he asked.
“I don’t have your goddamn money. You’re wasting your time.”
If she’d shown any weakness, Wil couldn’t have held back from hitting her. Her anger saved her. That, and the doubt that had started to creep into his gut, the feeling that maybe he’d read things wrong. Perhaps very wrong.
“Put down the fucking magazine,” he told Pablo. “Pick up your gun and keep it on her.”
Wil yanked the woman’s wrists behind her back and tied them.
He looked at Pablo. “She stays that way, understand? I’l be back in a couple of hours.”
“When do I get to eat? That soup was it.”
“When I get some money, you get to eat.” And then, sensing rebel ion, Wil forced himself to add: “A few more days, Pablo. You’l be loving on your wife again. Patience.”
Wil could tel Pablo wanted to believe him. That was al that mattered. Even a slim hope would keep him in line a little longer. As soon as the money came through from Barrera and Navarre . . . Stirman would figure out the rest.
He walked out, conscious of their eyes on his back. The concrete floor felt spongy under his feet.
Maybe it was the lack of food. How long had it been since he ate? Fourteen mil ion dol ars coming, and he didn’t have ten bucks for a meal.
From the milk crate by the loading dock entrance, he took a 9mm and a clip of ammunition.
He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t have a plan.
For the first time since the Fourth of July, Wil thought about his Floresvil e cel , his Bible sketches blowing in the fan breeze.
You were better off in that cage, he thought. You’re falling apart.
No. He could keep himself together. He had to, or eight years of praying for vengeance went for nothing.
Just a brief errand, now. Something to clear his head.
He tucked the 9mm under his shirt and went out to find cash and food.
Erainya pretended to sleep for almost an hour. She waited for Pablo to nod off, but it was too much to hope for, even though he’d been guarding her al night and half the morning.
After a while, Pablo turned back on Texas Public Radio. Under different circumstances, this would’ve struck Erainya as funny. A con who liked the Diane Rehm show.
Pablo listened dutiful y as Diane refereed a debate between a Catholic priest and a Buddhist monk on the sanctity of marriage. Stil Pablo didn’t snooze. The guy was made of iron.
A newsbreak came on: two fugitives shot dead in Omaha. Identification was pending, but the men were believed to be part of the Floresvil e Five. Police were confident more apprehensions in the case were imminent.