Continued from page 1
“Can I – I have to take this off.” She pointed her chin down at the baggy UNLV sweatshirt. “I’m burning up. Please.”
Shake hesitated, then pulled the sweatshirt up over her head. Underneath she was wearing a thin white T shirt, damp with sweat, no bra, her boobs small and perfect. Shake blinked like a man who’d just stepped out of a dark movie theater into the sunshine. Then he looked quickly away and concentrated on getting the sweatshirt over the cuffs. In the end, because he couldn’t find anything sharp, he had to bite the seam and tear the fabric in half.
“Thank you,” she said.
He sat down on the bed across from her and tried to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.
“Your husband. Ronnie? He went out and didn’t come back?”
“It was like he was saying goodbye, when he said goodbye.”
She started crying again, softly. A fat teardrop rolled down her cheek and caught for a second, trembling and translucent, in the corner of her mouth.
“I think he left me,” she said. “I don’t know why he left me.”
“Gina,” Shake said. “Think hard, Gina.”
“There’s nothing, really. I just —”
Suddenly she looked up at him.
“What?”
“He liked to gamble.”
“Ronnie did,” Shake said.
“Everyone at our church tried to help him stop. We’re Mormon? But he just kept borrowing money and I don’t know – I don’t know why I –”
“Gina. Stay cool for me, OK?”
She took a deep breath. Shake glanced over at the clock radio on the table between the beds. A quarter to seven. Tick. Tock.
“Did he ever mention anyone by name? Who he borrowed money from?”
“No,” she said. “Maybe one time. Dick something, or something Dick? I don’t remember, but Ronnie was –”
Shake began to understand what had happened. He felt his stomach do something unpleasant, like a dog turning a circle before it flopped to the ground.
“Dick Moby? The Whale?”
“The – what? Maybe. Yes. Dick Moby.”
She watched him closely.
“What is it?” she asked and Shake knew his poker face had failed him this time.
“I think your husband split because he owed money he couldn’t pay back.”
“But why –”
“Dick Moby couldn’t find your husband. So he put the word out. The person I work for found you.”
“Me? What does he – Dick Moby? What does he want with me? I don’t have any money. Ronnie always kept all the...”
The girl’s voice trailed off. Shake watched as her eyes went slack. She was a smart girl. Shake had been right about that.
“He’s going to kill me,” she said finally, softly, “unless I tell him where Ronnie is.”
Shake stood and walked to the window. He spread the blinds with a finger and squinted out into the hard dazzling light, where the black Town Car was still the only car in the lot.
“Could be he just wants to scare you. Maybe he just —”
“And I don’t know where Ronnie is.”
Her voice was calm and flat. Either she hadn’t heard his bullshit, or she wasn’t buying it.
“Gina,” he said. “I’m sorry. If I let you go? It’ll be me in the trunk of that car.”
He expected her to look away, but she held his gaze.
“I understand,” she said. Shake could tell she meant it, which made him feel even worse than he already did.
A single sharp knock on the door made the girl flinch. Shake looked at the clock radio. Seven on the dot.
The girl lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders.
“I had a really happy life,” she said. “My mom loves my boys and she’ll take great care of them. She has a big nice house, and a pool, and...”
Another bang on the door. Shake reached for the strip of electrical tape he’d set aside on top of the T.V.
“Will it be over fast?” Gina asked.
Shake hesitated, then smoothed the tape back over her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. It came out softer than he intended, sand in his throat, and he didn’t know if the girl heard him or not. She’d closed her eyes and was taking slow, even breaths.
Shake opened the door to the motel room. The Whale’s guy was a big one, with the bottom-heavy construction of an offensive tackle. Round face, sleepy eyes, mocha-colored skin.
He looked Shake over in a mellow but alert way.
“Hey,” he said.
“You the Whale’s guy?” Shake asked.
“He don’t like to be called that.” The statement was more conversational than threatening.
“I’m Shake.”
“Jasper.”
He looked past Shake, into the room, and saw Gina sitting on the edge of the bed.
“She suppose’ to be in the car,” Jasper said after a few seconds, in the same conversational tone.
“Come on in,” Shake said.
Jasper entered the room. He placed the leather briefcase he was carrying on the dresser, then popped the locks and opened the lid. He took a polite step backward so Shake could inspect what was inside.
Inside, set into a custom-cut foam bed designed to protect it from jolts and jounces, was another case. It was the size of a large manila envelope, not much thicker than one, and made entirely of glass. Pressed inside the glass were dozens and dozens of square, thumbnail-sized pieces of what looked like dried, yellowed parchment. Shake counted: ten rows across, ten rows down.
“A hundred,” Jasper said. “They all there.”
“Postage stamps?” Shake asked.
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Shake hesitated, then pulled the sweatshirt up over her head. Underneath she was wearing a thin white T shirt, damp with sweat, no bra, her boobs small and perfect. Shake blinked like a man who’d just stepped out of a dark movie theater into the sunshine. Then he looked quickly away and concentrated on getting the sweatshirt over the cuffs. In the end, because he couldn’t find anything sharp, he had to bite the seam and tear the fabric in half.
“Thank you,” she said.
He sat down on the bed across from her and tried to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.
“Your husband. Ronnie? He went out and didn’t come back?”
“It was like he was saying goodbye, when he said goodbye.”
She started crying again, softly. A fat teardrop rolled down her cheek and caught for a second, trembling and translucent, in the corner of her mouth.
“I think he left me,” she said. “I don’t know why he left me.”
“Gina,” Shake said. “Think hard, Gina.”
“There’s nothing, really. I just —”
Suddenly she looked up at him.
“What?”
“He liked to gamble.”
“Ronnie did,” Shake said.
“Everyone at our church tried to help him stop. We’re Mormon? But he just kept borrowing money and I don’t know – I don’t know why I –”
“Gina. Stay cool for me, OK?”
She took a deep breath. Shake glanced over at the clock radio on the table between the beds. A quarter to seven. Tick. Tock.
“Did he ever mention anyone by name? Who he borrowed money from?”
“No,” she said. “Maybe one time. Dick something, or something Dick? I don’t remember, but Ronnie was –”
Shake began to understand what had happened. He felt his stomach do something unpleasant, like a dog turning a circle before it flopped to the ground.
“Dick Moby? The Whale?”
“The – what? Maybe. Yes. Dick Moby.”
She watched him closely.
“What is it?” she asked and Shake knew his poker face had failed him this time.
“I think your husband split because he owed money he couldn’t pay back.”
“But why –”
“Dick Moby couldn’t find your husband. So he put the word out. The person I work for found you.”
“Me? What does he – Dick Moby? What does he want with me? I don’t have any money. Ronnie always kept all the...”
The girl’s voice trailed off. Shake watched as her eyes went slack. She was a smart girl. Shake had been right about that.
“He’s going to kill me,” she said finally, softly, “unless I tell him where Ronnie is.”
Shake stood and walked to the window. He spread the blinds with a finger and squinted out into the hard dazzling light, where the black Town Car was still the only car in the lot.
“Could be he just wants to scare you. Maybe he just —”
“And I don’t know where Ronnie is.”
Her voice was calm and flat. Either she hadn’t heard his bullshit, or she wasn’t buying it.
“Gina,” he said. “I’m sorry. If I let you go? It’ll be me in the trunk of that car.”
He expected her to look away, but she held his gaze.
“I understand,” she said. Shake could tell she meant it, which made him feel even worse than he already did.
A single sharp knock on the door made the girl flinch. Shake looked at the clock radio. Seven on the dot.
The girl lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders.
“I had a really happy life,” she said. “My mom loves my boys and she’ll take great care of them. She has a big nice house, and a pool, and...”
Another bang on the door. Shake reached for the strip of electrical tape he’d set aside on top of the T.V.
“Will it be over fast?” Gina asked.
Shake hesitated, then smoothed the tape back over her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. It came out softer than he intended, sand in his throat, and he didn’t know if the girl heard him or not. She’d closed her eyes and was taking slow, even breaths.
Shake opened the door to the motel room. The Whale’s guy was a big one, with the bottom-heavy construction of an offensive tackle. Round face, sleepy eyes, mocha-colored skin.
He looked Shake over in a mellow but alert way.
“Hey,” he said.
“You the Whale’s guy?” Shake asked.
“He don’t like to be called that.” The statement was more conversational than threatening.
“I’m Shake.”
“Jasper.”
He looked past Shake, into the room, and saw Gina sitting on the edge of the bed.
“She suppose’ to be in the car,” Jasper said after a few seconds, in the same conversational tone.
“Come on in,” Shake said.
Jasper entered the room. He placed the leather briefcase he was carrying on the dresser, then popped the locks and opened the lid. He took a polite step backward so Shake could inspect what was inside.
Inside, set into a custom-cut foam bed designed to protect it from jolts and jounces, was another case. It was the size of a large manila envelope, not much thicker than one, and made entirely of glass. Pressed inside the glass were dozens and dozens of square, thumbnail-sized pieces of what looked like dried, yellowed parchment. Shake counted: ten rows across, ten rows down.
“A hundred,” Jasper said. “They all there.”
“Postage stamps?” Shake asked.
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