***
That evening, Mike drove to Highland to spend the night. New Paltz was farther down the road, and Mike had to make a guess of which town he would go to first. Nelson was simple and could probably not think too far in advance. Mike needed to count on that, since otherwise he had nothing else to go on. Tracking was not his style, and he had called McBride when he arrived and restated that point. Mike's plan was to just stay there for a few days and see what happened.
Nelson would only be driven by a few things—booze, food and whores—and would not be able to keep his mouth shut and stay hidden. The brothels and clandestine drinking parlors would be easy enough to find, and he would plan to make a few discreet calls to see if Nelson had been spotted. Mike found a small hotel in the central part of the town, a place where traveling businessmen and visitors would stay as they moved through. The establishment was comfortable enough, and as he stretched out on the bed, he checked over his guns to be sure he had what he needed.
He always carried what he thought would be the bare minimum of ammunition, since if the first shot missed, the second one would do the work. The only time he'd had to use two shots was with a bar owner that had failed to pay his rent. The job had been a sloppy one, and he had to hurry the hit. The man saw him coming and moved at the last second. The first shot caught him in the ear but only slowed him. The second was squarely between the eyes from close range, his favorite place. Right at the top of the nose, and when the aim was perfect, he felt a sense of pride in the accuracy and neatness of the result. Small caliber, little blood and mess. A professional job. Men like Nelson gave the pros a bad name.
Mike picked up a magazine that was lying on the nightstand and started leafing through the pages, but his mind kept getting drawn back to his job. Nelson would be easy, but Eddie would run. Two at once, hopefully only two shots. Nelson would have to be first, since he would surely be carrying that big piece of iron he always had. Eddie...well, Mike had a notion he might have to let him slip away. There had been enough written about him that Mike knew his type. He was the kind of man who always found a way to sneak through and come out the other side, maybe bruised, but still standing. The time in prison would have only made him wiser and more aware of when to hide. Probably an interesting fellow, and when they met in the car a month or so before, Mike wanted to talk to him, warn him as he was supposed to, but also to see what he was about. Mike flipped through the magazine without really reading anything and then laid it aside. He was probably a good kid, but now Mike would have to kill him. He leaned over, turned out the light, and settled into the bed. Within a few minutes, he was fast asleep.
42
That night, Nelson had parked the car in the woods behind a cornfield. Nelson produced two sets of handcuffs and locked Eddie's wrist to the steering wheel, then cuffed his feet together. For once, as Nelson settled in the back seat to sleep, the man was quiet, and Eddie could rest as well. Being tied took away any chance of really making an escape. Between moments of napping, Eddie figured that at some point he would make a break for it. He thought he had made himself useful to Nelson, but there was no telling where his thoughts would wander to. Eddie fell into an uncomfortable sleep, slouched against the car door.
The next morning, Nelson bolted upright in the back seat. They drove into Poughkeepsie and across the river, then stopped at a gas station in the first small town they came to. Nelson pulled up to the pump and shut the engine off, much to the relief of Eddie. For the past hour, he had not said a word to Nelson; instead, he did the best he could to ignore the screaming engine that was a few feet in front his legs. Nelson was not nearly the driver he thought he was; he continually put the car in the wrong gear, alternately lugging then over-revving the motor, all the while lurching down the road.
In the sudden silence, Nelson turned to him and said, "Hell of a day's work, wasn't it?"
Eddie nodded his head in agreement as he watched the service station attendant approach the car on the driver's side. When he was closer, Eddie saw he was a red-haired teenager with freckles, wearing a mostly clean green uniform. "What'll it be, sir?" the young man said, standing at the driver's side window.
"Fill it. Ethyl. Check the oil and clean the crap off the windshield," Nelson said. The attendant went about his duties. "Look at him. That could me. Pumping gas for a few cents an hour. Probably come back in five years and see the same kid doing the same job. What we do—maybe three hours' work made about three thousand dollars. What is that per hour?"
"About a thousand," Eddie said. The stupidity of the man next to him was astounding. He had just robbed two banks and shot a man, and here he was in broad daylight without a thought other than being puzzled over a simple math problem. Eddie could have said ten or ten thousand, and Nelson would not have known the difference.
"A thousand an hour." The twisted grin stayed on Nelson's face as he looked out the front of the car while the young man looked around the engine.
"Need about half a quart," he said. He disappeared into the station and returned with an opened can. A few minutes later, everything was done. "You got some old looking belts there. Might want to have that changed first chance you get. $2.25 for the gas and oil."
"To hell with the belts. Here." Nelson paid him and started the engine, doing his best to tear out of the station.
A few miles down the road, they came to a truck stop. "Robbing banks makes me hungry," Nelson said, getting out of the car. "Remember what I said. Try anything, and I'll take you down. I gotta make a call before we eat." Nelson again locked Eddie to the steering wheel and then went inside to the phone. Eddie could see him through the window, watching to see if he made a move.