Chapter 33
Before, out in the parking lot, right after Sipe had dismissed Quinn, and the over-cologned, razor-goateed man stalked off towards The Outpost, Sipe had asked Connie, “Where is she? Millie.”
“I know as much as you.”
“I should’ve tied her up. In Pendleton.”
“Yeah. Well. If it didn’t go to pieces now it would go to pieces later. I’m not dumb. I know that much about her.”
A cop car had driven westbound on Main. It didn’t stop. The monitor inside the unit glowed. The lamppost light illuminated the lower torso and lap of the cop inside. A bare white arm balanced a Coke can on a knee.
“They probably don’t give a shit about any of this, do they?” said Connie. “Us. This.”
“Not right now.”
“Let me help,” said Connie.
“It could get ugly,” said Sipe. “Violent. You don’t want to do this, you don’t have to.”
“Then get Zeke.”
Sipe shook his head.
“No?” asked Connie. “Why ‘no’?”
“He’s too quick to end things quick.”
“What does that mean?”
“He has a gun. He likes to hear it go off. Likes to see what it does. He was like that. Years ago. But people don’t change very much. Not when it comes to things they like.”
“So if not Zeke, then who?”
“Me.”
“What? Alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you see who’s in there? They’re big.” Connie pointed at Bug, a silhouette in a ball cap. “What about him?”
“Naw. Civilian.”
“Hey. I’m a civilian, if you hadn’t noticed.”
Connie tried to think of alternatives. Nothing took shape in his mind.
“I could do it. I can help.”
“You already did.”
“What, the-“ Connie lowered his voice, “-the thing? Putting Millie’s thing in the thing?”
“Right.”
“I can do more.”
Sipe touched him, a tap high on the chest.
“You’re all here, right?”
“Yes.”
“Not distracted?”
“No.”
“Your girl, the cops, all of it…”
“I can compartmentalize.”
“Ok. Ok. So. The thing…”
Connie whispered into Sipe’s ear.
“It’s in the rack. The magazine thing with all the faces. It’s on the side, like you’re walking past it, headed for the bathroom. It’s behind a Self.”
Standing back from Sipe, Connie couldn’t believe he’d been that close to him. The bubble. Then he realized Sipe had touched him. The finger barely into the chest. The first time in all their years they’d touched.
Continuing to almost whisper Sipe said, “When we’re in there, when we’re shaking hands and pretending we’re all gonna get along just fine, I’m going to tag the target. Verbally. Ok?”
“Tag the target.”
“There’s two.” Sipe made a ‘v’ with his fingers. “But the important one, the main one, they won’t look like they got a gun.”
“Jesus.”
“These guys, these massage people, were way too quick to agree to meet here. That means whoever runs this joint, is in it with them, or is being paid enough to just let them do their thing. He’s Mr. Obvious. That guy will have heat. Mr. Obvious. You’ll see it right away.”
“Mr. Obvious. Got it.”
“The person I tag-“
“Verbally.”
“Right. I tag them by just fucking with their name. Listen for it. ‘Quinn Win.’ ‘Bonnie Schlonnie.’ ‘Bret the Vet.’ Like that.”
“Right. Jesus.”
Sipe held up his hand.
“Still want in?”
Connie had nodded.
“When things start to happen, when I start doing what I have to do, Mr. Tagged or Mrs. Tagged, they come second. Second, Connie. Your first priority is to take down the owner of this place. Mr. Obvious. Take him out, get his gun. You’ll need it to deal with Mr. or Mrs. Tagged. Got it? My guess is once we’re all inside there’ll be some sort of pat down, make it look we’re all even, but it’s for show. We take it like we’re chumps. Like we believe it’s all even odds all around the table.” Sipe sighed. “Ok. Repeat it back to me. The highlights. Let’s make sure.”
Sipe convinced Connie knew the script, they walked from under the lamppost towards the truck, Bug and Hope. Connie realized Sipe hadn’t told him exactly what Sipe’s plan was outside of the stun gun, but maybe Sipe didn’t know. Or did know, just didn’t want Connie to look excited, give it away before Sipe could initiate it.
Afterward, Bret dragged Clay outside, and put him in the SUV front passenger seat. At Hope’s appearance at the front door, her whistle, her arm wave, Bug had gone inside.
Connie held a gun on the leather clad dark skinned woman, the woman standing against the dividing wall. Quinn Dobbs sat in his chair like the lone survivor of a New Year’s Eve bash. Hope now had something like three pieces of gum going in her mouth, all smiles, some saliva dripping out around the grin. She stood close as she could to Connie. He made her feel safe.
Minutes ago, the shit hitting walls, she’d looked away from Sipe zapping Clay in the throat to Connie, an entire table wire rack in hand, running at Merritt Lowry.
So entranced by Sipe using the stun gun, she’d missed Connie standing, flinging glass bottled condiments at Merritt, then rushing him. The old man’s hand flustering with the simple holster. The flap resisting attempts to get clear of the gun. Connie on top of him, swinging the wire rack, hitting him in the head, little sugar packets flying everywhere, then Connie gripping the napkin dispenser, the heart of the wire rack, and slamming it into Lowry’s head. The old man forgot all about his gun, and tried to protect his marbles, and still, he went down for good. Hope looked across the table, Sipe punching Bret in the crotch, and Hope didn’t even notice Faye or Quinn until Connie had Merritt’s handgun, pointing it at Faye.
A puddle had formed under Bonnie. Soaked into the carpet. Not blood. Bret lurched over his sister like he was trying to figure out where to grip her, where it wouldn’t snap her in half.
“What is that?” asked Bug. “Her water break?”
“Help him get her out of here.” Sipe pointed at Bret. The smear of ooze on Bret’s pants, Bug wondered if that had come out of Bonnie, and when he crouched down, picking her up at the ankles, he caught a whiff off of Bret, and hoped the sinus-clearing scent hadn’t come out of the pregnant woman. Sipe walked ahead of them, gun in his hand, and held the door for the men and the unconscious woman.
Outside, Bug still holding Bonnie’s ankles, Bret leaned back, lifted his older sister and set her upper back against his chest and the side of his head while he opened the SUV driver side passenger door. He gathered her in both hands and then in a gentle and firm manner he and Bug pushed her in, on her back. Throwing a body on a slab, thought Bug. Bret slammed the door shut.
“Is she ok?” asked Bug.
All Bret said, he said “Thank you,” and opened the driver door, climbed in behind the steering wheel, the rig sagging once all his mass settled. Next to Bret, Clay slung into his seat, facing the driver side, his mouth loose and unstructured wet. Bug reminded of basic training, the kid in the bunk next to his, at the end of each day during Hell week. Rode hard, put away wet. Bret shut the driver door, turned the engine over, and backed up, then turned in a tight angle towards the street. He turned left out onto Main Street, headed for Butcher’s Camp. La Grande, maybe, depending on how sick Bonnie might be. Bug wondered if the cops had a unit outside of town, stopping anyone headed east. Everyone knew Bret, the SUV, he probably got the special service, waved right on through.
Back inside, Hope and Connie still had the leather clad woman under
gun. Pale, limp, Quinn Dobbs sagged against his seat back. Sipe knelt over Merritt Lowry, watching the bloodied man secure ice in a cup against his ragged scalp.
“We won,” Hope told Bug. “I hope we killed her fucking baby.”
“He drove out of town. Bret,” Bug told Sipe. Sipe stood up. Down on the floor, still on his back, Lowry turned his head a little back and forth, his chest rose and fell in what looked a normal rhythm of respiration.
“What’re we,” said Bug, “what’re we doing with the money?”
Sipe pointed at the woman. “It’s hers.”
“Bullshit,” said Hope.
Sipe didn’t look at Hope. He rubbed a spot in between his eyebrows. Dropped his hand. Looked at the woman.
“You need help. Faye?” He pointed at Quinn. “Or is he going to help you get it out to your car?”
“She doesn’t deserve it,” said Hope. “Fucking skank. Bitch. Fucking cunt. Fucking mulatto. Half-breed piece of shit.” If that wasn’t enough, Hope spit her gum out towards Faye. The waxen lump’s arc short-lived. She wiped the trail of spit off her lower lip.
“Done?” Sipe asked.
Hope wiped the spit off onto the leg of her jeans then crossed her arms under her chest. Connie had lowered his right arm. Faye no longer under immediate threat. Hope looked at the gun, dangling, but only looked. Bangs fallen into her eyes, she reached up and combed blue follicles away.
Faye walked across the room like the last few minutes, the delay, hadn’t mattered. Girl only had one walk and it was a saunter. Hope stormed out of the restaurant. Sipe asked Connie to follow her. He stopped just before exiting, marched back to Sipe and handed Sipe Lowry’s gun. Sipe slid Faye’s svelte gun into a suit jacket pocket.
Faye repacked her purse. Set it on the table and held the People magazine up, looking at Sipe.
“Master of distraction,” she said.
“Yeah,” he held out his hand. Took it from her. Tucked it back inside the inner suit jacket pocket.
Faye grunted, dragged the duffel bag zipper shut. She looked at Sipe.
“You know you’re costing me money.”
“You got money. You secured that money. Portland ought to be happy about that.”
“I don’t know.” She smiled. “I just don’t know how you all run your business, in Seattle, right? but people I work for, they’re very specific about the accounting. Receivables. Payables. They’re older than the sun, those bean counters. Boys like you that shoot your guns, you come and go and don’t mean shit. Bean counters? Baby, they’ll still be around long after we’re wiped away by worms and the wind.”
“You’re bright. Talk to them.”
“They don’t want to talk to me. They hear anyone from Butcher’s Camp on the line they put the call on hold, in-def-in-itely.”
“They gonna put you in charge?”
“Ha. Those white boys want someone in charge they want them bright, right? I’m so bright, where’s my gun? What happened to that gun of mine? I’m so bright, why aren’t you the one on the floor here, something leaking out of your head, out of your pussy?”
She whistled at Quinn. A whistle for a dog. Said, “C’mon, Bush. Get up. Grab my money. We’re going.” And she walked out ahead of him, she knew he’d obey. The door’s bell jingled upon her exit. Quinn not looking at Sipe or Bug, not when he stood up, not when he struggled with the duffel bag strap, not as he walked out, throwing his hip a little into the door to get it open, bell tinkling with his exit.
Sipe thought the quiet was lasting a little too long, and then the engine for the sports car outside turned over. He’d started imagining something more operatic. A gunshot. Hope unleashing a hidden firearm. Taking frustrations out on Faye in lieu of Bonnie’s absence. The engine revved, driver’s always revved engines on that kind of car, Quinn’s kind, and then the noise got even worse, and then it sounded like they were racing away, 80 in a 25.
Sipe walked over to Merritt. Stopped. Looked down at Merritt, Sipe’s hands braced on his thighs. Bug thought it looked a little like a coach in the middle of a game asking a player about the extent of an injury.
“How’s the head?”
“Hurts.”
“It should. Some aspirin. Some ibuprofen. You’ll be ok.”
Merritt nodded, swallowed.
“Married?” asked Sipe.
“Yes.”
Sipe nodded.
“You knew they were gonna take her back?” When there wasn’t an answer, hand remaining braced on the thigh, Sipe raised his left foot, poked Merritt’s ribs. “You knew?”
“Yes.”
“Ok. What about the other thing Bonnie was saying? You know. About Hope’s friend. Kidnapping her friend, raping then letting other people pay to rape her. What about that?”
“That I didn’t. I didn’t. No. That wasn’t. No.”
“Ok. Ok, “ said Sipe. “Look at me. Merritt. Mr. Lowry, look at me. I hear of anything happening to her, Hope’s friend? I will come back here. I will cut off pieces of you. I will cook them. And I will eat them. And you will watch me eat you until there isn’t enough left of you to keep you alive. Figure a couple pounds off you. Maybe more. And just so you know, so you can form a kind of loose timeframe, the duration of all of that, even before I start on you, I’ll take Bonnie’s baby, and I’ll cook it. I've seen your pans here, in your kitchen. They’re big. A baby would fit in a pan big as that. I don’t know how long it takes to cook a baby on a burner. I could Google it, sure, but that’s just hearsay, some random idiot’s estimation. But we’d find out, how long it takes, you and me. What it smells like. What it sounds like. A baby. And maybe Mrs. Lowry, she can listen to it, too.”