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  And why was he sending goons like these guys? This wasn’t his normal style. Crane was going to have to go see him in the morning and straighten things out.

  He started the car and kept the headlights off as he negotiated his way into the garage. He heard the door rumbling downward behind him and stepped out of the car. He saw Noelle in the shadows and wanted to tell her about his dream, about his regrets.

  Crane opened his mouth, but nothing came out, so he stepped toward her. But the step took too long, too long. He saw her face in the shadows – and then nothing but shadows.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The phone rang at five in the morning. That made it six in Maryland. At least they can do something right. He reached across the table and pulled it from its cradle. “Yes?”

  “He wasn’t at his house, boss.”

  “What?”

  “He wasn’t there. We looked for him, but he wasn’t home.”

  “So where the hell is he?”

  “He wasn’t there. We don’t know where he is. We’ve been hanging out by his office to see if he’d show up here, but he’s not coming here, either. You want us to try somewhere else?”

  He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. Finally, in a resigned voice he said, “No. Go back to the hotel and wait for me to call.” He hung up without waiting for a response.

  Graciela entered the kitchen in her apron and offered him coffee. He smiled brightly and said, “Yes, please.” Treating the servants well was important. He’d seen too many men taken down because of a disgruntled maid or gardener. He watched her fill the coffee machine and grind the beans. In five minutes, she placed a coffee service in front of him along with some pastries and fruit.

  “Thank you, Graciela.”

  For a short while, he made polite conversation about her children, her brother back in Central America, and her husband. Finally, he asked her to call for his car. Once she had gone, he took his cell phone from his jacket pocket and pressed a speed dial button.

  “Yes, sir?” Gladys didn’t seem surprised to get a call at just after five in the morning. She didn’t ever seem surprised about anything.

  “Get Aiken on the line for me.”

  A moment of silence passed as he waited, until finally he heard his voice, groggy and soft, on the other line.

  “Jesus, what time is it?”

  “The last time I checked, you were not classified as an hourly employee, Aiken.” His driver stepped into the kitchen, hat in hand, and he nodded at him and held up five fingers.

  “Sorry, you just woke me up. What can I do for you?”

  “Did you get anything from the publisher?”

  “No, there is no publisher. These days you can do it all yourself; just put the files online, do some search engine optimization, maybe a little email market—”

  “What have you found?” He drained the last of the coffee in his mug and stood.

  “The site where the books are sold is one of the e-commerce companies. We’re not gonna get any information from them, and their privacy technology is better than the Pentagon’s. Still, the domain name for their website is registered to a company out of Minneapolis.” He heard the clicking of keys. “Nothing there. It’s called Fortley, Inc. and its address is at one of those mailbox office stores.”

  “What about Crane? Anything new there?” He stepped out of the kitchen, through the back door, and into the drive. The car was parked along the roundabout, the driver standing nearby, and the back passenger door open.

  “No, he’s unremarkable in every way. Just some small-time crooked lawyer. He and his partner were brought up on charges. He got disbarred but not convicted and he became a PI.”

  He stepped up, nodded to the driver and got into the back seat. “What about his partner?”

  “His partner had political connections, and he threw Crane under the bus. That guy came out smelling like a rose.” He heard Aiken cough on the other side of the line. “Look, boss, nobody is gonna miss this guy. Nobody’s going to look into him.”

  He thought for a moment. “I’m not so sure anymore I want to kill him. Not yet, anyway.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Crane could smell coffee brewing – or something like that, anyway. His head felt like Roger Clemens had pitched it at Frank Thomas and Thomas had hit it out of the park. He sat up, wincing as he did.

  Where the hell was he? He was in a girl’s room, a teenage girl’s room. The blankets were pink with frills. There were posters of bands popular about ten years ago on the wall. He knew this room. It was…Oh, God, his head hurt.

  He stood up and stretched. On the dresser, beside the mirror, was a picture of a kid. It was a high school kid, seventeen years old. He looked bright and happy and full of promise.

  Crane knew where he was, now. The night before came back to him gradually. There was Ray-Ray, the SUV, Muddy’s, Amos and Andy at his front door, and then Noelle’s garage.

  He looked back at the kid in the picture. So eager. So ready for whatever life was going to throw at him.

  “I never bothered to put that away.”

  Crane whirled around and his head punished him for the movement. He winced and grabbed the back of his neck, applying pressure and trying to make the throbbing stop.

  Noelle crossed the room and picked up the picture. “You know, it’s always been my favorite picture of you. It was all back before you gave up.”

  “Gave up?” God, even talking hurt.

  “Yeah, gave up on trying to be anything you wanted to be and started letting everyone else decide for you.” She put the picture back on the dresser, and Crane found himself grateful that she didn’t put it in a drawer. “There’s coffee on the table for you. I put some brandy in it to take the edge off for you.”

  “God, you’re still perfect.”

  Noelle led him to the table, where a sandwich, potato chips, and the promised coffee waited. Crane sat down and took a sip. It was good, strong and dark, and the brandy was palpable and real in the cup, not just a splash. He took more sips. He looked at the sandwich. “Kind of a strange breakfast, though.”

  “It’s almost three o’clock, Roddie. I called in today. Now, you gonna tell me what the hell is going on?”

  He hesitated and drained his cup. Some part of him wanted Noelle to still think highly of him, in spite of everything. Finally, he said, “It’s an old client; one of the bad ones.”

  Taking his cup and refilling it – this time without the brandy – she asked, “What, did he do some time he didn’t want to do?”

  “No. I … I –” Crane gulped. “I borrowed some money from him and I haven’t been able to pay him back yet.” He could see the words sink in, see the way Noelle sighed, the almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  “I have some money set aside, Roddie. How much do you need?”

  “Oh, Jesus, Noelle. I’m not taking your money. Just get me my phone.”

  His head was clearing up now. The cobwebs were gone. He watched her step out of the kitchen door into the garage and heard his car door open. She was back in the doorway a moment later with his phone and his cigarettes. She handed him the phone, took a cigarette out of the pack, lit it, and tossed the rest on the table for Crane.

  “I thought you quit smoking.” Even as he said it, he realized it was an asinine comment.

  “Yeah, Roddie, I did. I quit you, too.” She took a drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke out deliberately and slowly.

  He lowered his eyes. Fuck, time to get it over with. He dialed the number and waited.

  When Nero answered, he didn’t let him talk. “Listen, Nero, I got seventy-five hundred for you, and I should have more in a week. Jesus Christ, man, call Hekyll and Jekyll off! A dead man ain’t gonna pay you a dime.”

  For a moment the other end of the line was silent – and then Nero spoke, low and soft. “I’ll send Ray-Ray by for the money in while, but listen to me, Crane. I’ve got nobody on you to call off. Nobody. Somebody else must be afte
r you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Crane wasn’t buying it. Nero was after him for some reason, but who the hell knew why? He knew the kind: they were businessmen, albeit illegal businessmen. Still, it didn’t make any sense to go after him. There was nothing they could get out of him from a coffin. He shook his head, and it brought his headache crashing back in like waves to the shore.

  “You have anything to drink around here?” he called out to Noelle, but he got no response, so he stood up and looked through the cabinets. A few bottles of wine, but nothing else.

  Noelle came in as he was pushing cups and plates around.

  “You’ve got a couple of gallons of cheap vodka in your back seat, Rod.” She shook her head and sighed, “There’s some tomato juice somewhere around here, Tabasco, and some other stuff, too.”

  She walked to the cabinet, pushed him out of the way, and pulled down some tall glasses. “Go upstairs and take a shower – you really need one. I’ll fix us a couple of drinks.”

  He nodded and stepped through the door into the garage. He pulled out one of the gallon jugs, opened it, and gulped a bit down. He could feel his body trying to push it back up and out, but he held on until that passed and took another sip. Then he closed the bottle and carried it into the kitchen. Noelle took it from him and pointed to the staircase, so he headed up.

  The vodka had cleared his head a bit, and he peeled off his clothes, laid them out nicely on Noelle’s bed and walked to the hall bathroom. He sighed when he walked in. The last time he’d showered here was after that night, the first night.

  The water sputtered from the showerhead, but eventually the pressure evened out and he was soon lathering up with some woman’s body gel that smelled like kiwis and strawberries.

  Ten minutes later, he stepped out to find a towel and a large terrycloth robe hanging from a hook on the bathroom wall. He dried off, put on the robe and walked to Noelle’s room. His clothes were gone, so he walked downstairs.

  Noelle handed him a bloody Mary with too much vegetation hanging from the glass. He smiled at her, pulled out a celery stick and took a sip. Too little vodka and too much Tabasco. “Thanks, Elle, that’s perfect.”

  “So, the first time you come by the house in years, and you don’t even have the decency to try any moves? After all the sappy shit at Muddy’s, I figured you’d be all over me.” She rolled her eyes and sipped primly at her own drink.

  Crane walked to the counter and poured a few more ounces of vodka into his drink. He took a long sip and said, “I’d love to get you in the sack, but I don’t just want a night or a day, Elle. I want what I never should have lost. Now you’re with Ty, that shit, and I just want—”

  His cell phone ringing cut him off mid-sentence, and Crane had rarely been that grateful for an interruption. It was an unidentified caller. He pressed the button and brought it to his ear.

  “Rodney Crane.”

  “Tell your girlfriend to wait for a while.” It was Ray-Ray. Crane felt his stomach sinking. “Two blocks south is a liquor store. Meet me there with Nero’s money.”

  The line went dead. Ray-Ray and small talk weren’t acquainted.

  Crane looked at Noelle. “I need to step out for a minute. I’ll be back in a few.” He stood up, realized he was still wearing the robe, and asked after his clothes.

  “They’re in the wash, but hold on.” In a few minutes she was back with a pair of jeans, socks, and a t-shirt with a Led Zeppelin logo.

  “What the hell are these?” Noelle had no brothers, and Crane was damned if he would wear any of Ty’s clothes.

  “God, Roddie, has it been that long?” She shook her head. “They’re yours, from the camping trip that summer.”

  He felt a rush of embarrassment and then a flood of memories from the trip into central New York after they got their bachelor’s degrees. That was before law school, before she went west to the library program out there. “Uh…oh yeah.” He grabbed the clothes. “I’ll get dressed in the garage.”

  She nodded and told him his keys were in the car. “I’ve done some research on Lester Twill, so let’s plan on a few hours of work when you get back.”

  “Okay.”

  “That means keep the booze under control, Roddie.”

  It was only after he left that she realized she hadn’t told him she was done with Ty.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Crane walked the two blocks to the liquor store. In the front pocket of his slacks was an envelope with $7500 for Nero.

  $7500. That’s what the first diagnostic round of treatment for Sienna had cost. The phlebotomist who recommended the strange dialysis-like procedure for the disorder was adamant that it was Sienna’s only shot.

  The first treatment would determine dosages for the twelve that would follow. Poison her blood and clean the poison out. Do it over and over until she’s well.

  Of course, her shot missed, and every second of every day was filled with thoughts of her or thoughts of the treatment he’d begged Nero’s father to front him the money to try.

  The liquor store up ahead was typical for the area—one of the small Asian start-ups hard working groups of immigrant families built up, stabilized, and then left to the first of the families involved. They’d set up another business for the next family and all work together to make that one work. They’d keep it up until each family in the group had an operating business.

  Crane knew all about it. He’d defended one of Nero’s thugs for killing three Vietnamese business owners who’d refused protection money. God, I really was an asshole.

  He stepped into the liquor store and bought a half pint of cheap vodka from the cashier. AM an asshole, I guess. As he often found himself doing, he wondered if he could do any of that again.

  If he magically received his credentials back, would he still defend guilty clients with illegal and unethical tactics? He just didn’t know.

  He stepped out and stood by the newspaper vending machines in front of the store. In five minutes, the half pint was empty and he was busy with his second cigarette.

  Ray-Ray still hadn’t arrived.

  He shuffled back and forth, smoked, and considered heading back in to get more vodka. Then a voice called him from the alley, and he sighed. Finally.

  It wasn’t Ray-Ray, but that wasn’t all that uncommon. Nero almost always said he was sending her because of the effect it had, but essentially, he sent anyone available.

  The two thugs in front of Crane were a little more lowbrow than Nero’s ordinary group. Junior had been doing all he could to be a gentleman mobster, and it was a little surprising to see these two, with their grey hoodies and crude attempts to appear intimidating. Their faces were in the shadows of their hoods, but with all Crane had seen, they didn’t seem scary so much as comical.

  “What you got?” It was the taller of the two, a massive guy that looked half fat and half Arnold Schwarzenegger. He had his hands at his sides, fists clenched.

  “I already worked it out with Nero. You don’t need any information from me; you’re just the delivery boy.” Crane reached into his pocket for the envelope.

  “What did you call me?” The man stepped forward threateningly, but Crane ignored him. Nero’s money made him untouchable. Of course, who could tell what might happen an hour from now? In fact, delivering the money might convince Nero that the Oliver and Hardy team harassing him was a good decision. Too late now, though.

  “I called you a delivery b—”

  He didn’t get the rest of the word out before the man’s fist crashed into his nose. Crane’s head shot backward, bouncing on the wall as lightning pain shot through his face. He looked down, shocked. Blood covered his face. “Are you stupid? You can’t…” He trailed off, but it was just as well because the smaller man had a gun out and was pushing it to the side of Crane’s head.

  “I think we can do whatever the fuck we want, asshole.” He glanced at the taller man. “See what he’s got, Tiny.”

  Tiny, yeah.
Fucking original as hell.

  “Holy shit, man, the guy’s loaded.”

  Crane felt everything inside him sink. These guys weren’t from Nero at all. Just a couple of muggers.

  “There’s got to be four or five grand here!”

  “Oh fuck!”

  “Yeah, man, what do I do?”

  “Jesus, Tiny, put it in your goddamn pocket.” The smaller man turned and looked right at Crane. “Sorry, buddy, but guys come looking for that much money.”

  He thumbed the safety off, and Crane closed his eyes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Calling Thomas Norwood fat was like calling The Beatles a band, calling Citizen Kane a movie. Calling Hemingway a writer.

  Norwood collected similes and metaphors the way some collected postage stamps. He wasn’t fat. He was enormous. Last time he’d weighed himself, he’d been five-hundred and seventy-three pounds. It made a great many things difficult and a great many more impossible.

  Difficult: engage a girl in conversation.

  Impossible: get laid.

  Well, get laid without paying for it, anyway.

  Fortunately, he was flush now. Sage’s stories weren’t just paying the bills and keeping him from wasting his writing talents on the content for the porno sites. They were filling his bank account quite nicely. That meant he could afford real call girls now, not just the cheap crack whores who were beyond caring what or who they did.

  As far as Tommy was concerned, five hundred dollars for a girl who wasn’t completely used up made it all worthwhile.

  Of course, the only thing he could manage was oral sex. It was the only thing a girl could do for him with all of the maneuvering his bulk required. Hell, he could barely manage to stand for the time it took him to move from his mobility chair to his bed. Still, he’d imagine all sorts of positions and activities while the girl was busy working.

  There was a girl on her way tonight. She’d show up at about nine.

  But first Norwood would hit the Viking Pub first and have some conversations. He liked the pub. It was a gay bar, and somehow that meant nobody had trouble speaking to him. Of course, every now and then, he had to resist someone or other looking for a strange thrill, but for the most part, he just got people who didn’t seem all that concerned about his appearance.