The shotgun bucked in my hand with the recoil, and the man flew back against the wall, then dropped to the ground.
We ran toward the Jeep and jumped inside. As I threw the shotgun behind my seat and started the engine, Stella’s head swiveled, looking for others. One of the white cars, a Chevrolet Cavalier, was parked behind us, blocking our path. Instead of backing up out of the space, I put the Jeep into first and drove right over the concrete parking block, over the edge of the blacktop, and into the muddy field separating the Chestnut Motor Lodge from I-118. Behind us, the man we had first seen standing next to the Cadillac ran out from behind the safety of a Ford F-150 into the center of the lot, the phone still pressed to his ear, shouting over the rain.
6
In the early hours of August 9, Preacher sat on a bench in LA Union Station with a copy of theLos Angeles Timesin his hand. He kept one eye on the newspaper and the other on the large man in the brown suit and funny little hat.
He didn’t get the hat.
He knew it was called a boater and made of straw, but what he didn’t get is why this man wore one. Aside from the occasional costume party, boaters hadn’t been in fashion since the late nineteenth century. You don’t steal two million dollars from the mob, then hang out in LA Union Station wearing a funny little hat. Youdisappear.
The large man in the brown suit and the funny little hat would disappear, Preacher would see to that, but his destination would be radically different from whatever was printed on the ticket he clenched in his hand.
Preacher didn’t much care for the people who hired him. None of them were up to his standards, but the Letto family always paid well, always paid on time, and provided him with referral business. Good word of mouth was everything in Preacher’s vocation. He was fond of Los Angeles and took most jobs that brought him here unless they fell into autumn or early spring—he wasn’t a fan of the Santa Anas. They played hell with his allergies.
The large man in the brown suit and funny little hat was known as Lonny Caley, having changed his name from Elton Engelmann when he dodged the draft in 1972 and sidestepped the skirmish in southeast Asia for a lucrative career in money laundering—first for a series of corporations, then later for the Lettos. He did well for himself, until he decided to steal from them last week. That wasn’t one of his better decisions.
Lonny Caley lumbered across the main concourse with his ticket in one hand and an overstuffed suitcase in the other and started toward the east concourse.
Preacher followed, theTimesfolded and tucked under his arm. As he passed a bank of pay phones near baggage check, one began to ring. He ignored it and followed Caley into the east concourse hall, past a Subway and Starbucks.
Caley leaned up against a wall, set down his bag, and scratched his chin.
Another phone rang, inches from Preacher’s ear.
He snatched up the receiver. “What?”
“We found her.”
“I don’t care,” Preacher said before hanging up the phone.
The line rang again. So did the phone next to that one and the one after that.
He answered the nearest phone again. The others went silent too. “I got the girl out of that house. We’re square. I’m done.”
“You lost her. You let her go.”
“The agreement was ‘get her out.’ You didn’t say anything about babysitting. I told you, I was done babysitting after the shit with the boy.”
“You knew. You set us back.”
“I’m not part of your agenda.”
“You became part when you took the shot. When you ran.”
Across the concourse, Caley picked up his bag and carried it into the men’s room.
“Can’t talk now. I’m working.” He hung up the line and started for the bathroom.
All the phones in LA Union Station began to ring at once, dozens, maybe a hundred, in a uniform shrill, metallic cry echoing over the marble.
All around him, travelers began looking up from their newspapers, their books, their meals and coffee. They stared at nothing in particular; some cocked their heads, others smiled, while others frowned and glanced around nervously at the crowd, at the phones lining the walls and tucked into random corners. Preacher ignored the sound and pushed through the swinging door of the men’s room.
Twelve stalls lined the wall on the right. The left housed a row of urinals with sinks at the back of the room. The floors were polished concrete, the walls covered in white subway tile. Three men stood at the urinals. Three of the stalls were closed. Beyond the bathroom’s only door, the telephones continued to ring.
At the urinals, one of the men glanced at Preacher. “Is that the fire alarm?”
Preacher nodded. “Someone set off a bomb on one of the east tracks.”
