Lowland Rider (25 page)

Bob Montcalm didn't believe in God, but something that he prayed to that day was kind. After Jesse Gordon finished his hot dog and coffee, he walked across the terminal and down a flight of stairs. Montcalm followed, and before long he saw Gordon enter an alcove which he knew had lockers in it. His heart began to race, and he looked down the short corridor in which he stood, looked and saw no one. He listened as well, and heard nothing, no footsteps of anyone approaching. There would be time to kill Gordon, open the locker, and take whatever was inside. Mont-calm took out the gun, held it at his side, and stepped into the doorway.

Jesse Gordon was standing at his locker, but the first thing Montcalm noticed was a uniformed policeman leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. The officer had his eyes on Gordon, so Montcalm had the time and the presence of mind to put the gun behind his back. When the officer turned and looked at him, Montcalm saw that it was a man he did not recognize. He glanced at Gordon, who was standing at the open locker with his back to him, then turned, keeping his gun hand away from the policeman, and walked out of the alcove and down the corridor.

He rounded a corner, pushed the pistol into its holster, and waited, remembering where Gordon had been standing, remembering the position of the locker —second one in the top row. That was good, that was fine. When Gordon came out he would follow him, and when they were alone he would kill him and take the key, then go back to the locker and take his own sweet time opening it and cleaning it out.

Montcalm looked around the corner and saw no one. He waited five minutes before he began to suspect that he missed Gordon, that the man might have come out of the alcove right behind him, or in the time it had taken for him to round the corner, think for a second, and look back. Sweat sprang out on
Montcalm's
forehead, and his face felt hot as he trotted down the corridor the way he had come.

This time, there was no one in the alcove. Both Jesse Gordon and the policeman were gone. The locker at which Gordon had been standing was closed and locked. Montcalm clenched his fists until the nails dug tracks in his palms. He had lost him. He had had him with the money and had lost him, and might never find him again. But then he made himself relax and start to reason calmly. The locker, which he saw now was number 4602, was still locked. That meant that Gordon had locked it, and he had locked it because something was in it, something that he would be coming back for sooner or later. And when he did, Montcalm would be ready for him…

Or would he?

Then the plan all fell into place for Bob Montcalm, full-blown and beautiful. He would not have to kill Gordon after all.

Duke Sinclair would do it for him.

~*~

"The sweetest part is that this guy is wanted for questioning in a murder—killed a kid or something —so whoever nails him might just nail a citation as well."

Montcalm grinned over his beer, but Duke Sinclair didn't grin back. "But I
gotta
kill him," Sinclair said softly.

"Only way," Montcalm answered. "You do him, right away put the stuff in his locker into the one next to it, lock it up, and then go get assistance. For all anybody knows, you surprised this guy, he thought you recognized him, pulled out a piece, and you had no choice, you
hadda
shoot him."

Sinclair took a sip of beer and a drag on his cigarette before he spoke again.

"The money be worth it?"

”It should be. Three, four thousand apiece."

"That ain't much." Sinclair's mouth twisted. "Not for a hit."

"This isn't any
goddam
hit."

"Hell it ain't. What is this shit, Bob? We into killing people now? It come to that? I've never killed anybody for you, man."

Montcalm's
smile was long gone. His mouth was nothing but a thin, straight line that opened only a fraction of an inch when he spoke. "It has to be a stakeout, Duke. The guy would recognize me if he saw me. He won't recognize you. It has to be done. You can do it, I can't."

"This guy
knows
you? What the fuck is this, some personal stuff you got going?"

"Look, the guy has no connections, none at all. In fact, Rodriguez would be very happy to see him disappear, and I think he'd be deeply grateful, if you get my meaning."

"This guy's not working for anybody else?" Sinclair said, terrified of killing someone he shouldn't, terrified of killing someone, period.

"He's a maverick, a nut case. He's a fucking
skell
, Duke, who put his nose where it shouldn't be, and that's all he is. I don't know why the hell you're so dainty about this. Odds are you can just do the thing, take the money, and walk away. If a cop's around, you got the perfect excuse for killing the guy. He'll have a gun in his hand, for
crissake
."

"And you got a clean gun."

"That's right. I do."

Sinclair shook his head. "I don't like this."

"Duke, I don't give a fat fuck whether you like this or
not
!" Montcalm spoke softly, but so forcefully that his spittle cast droplets onto Sinclair's beer glass. Sinclair was afraid to make a move to wipe it off. "Now you listen to me. You've been on the tit for a
helluva
long time with me, doing little crappy things that have made you a
helluva
lot of money. Now, when I ask you to do one
goddam
job that's a little more complicated than rousting winos on trains, all of a sudden you're Mister Clean, you're a fucking prom queen, and that doesn't sit too well with me, pal. Three thousand dollars you get, and—"

"Three? I thought you said four."

"
Three
, asshole. You just
pussied
yourself out of an extra grand."

Sinclair swallowed hard. "Yeah? Well, maybe I'll pussy myself out of this whole damn deal."

Montcalm looked at him so hard that Sinclair thought he was going to come across the table at him right there, in front of the whole damn cocktail lounge. "Yeah, well, you might just pussy yourself into the cemetery, and I'll tell you one thing that's for damn sure—you don't do this for me, at the least, at the very, luckiest
least
, you're off the tit. No more good times, Duke. You pull your weight or you don't play, that simple."

"But you're asking me to
kill
a guy."

"That's right. And it's just like anything else. Just easy money and no risk."

"No risk?"

"All right, a little risk, there's a little fucking risk in anything." Montcalm sighed, sat back, and looked at the two empty glasses, the dried, white foam webs inside. "You want another beer?"

Sinclair shook his head. "I don't like being threatened, Bob. I really don't like that."

"Okay. Okay." Montcalm suddenly seemed very tired, as if all the anger had gone out of him. "Sure, hell, nobody likes that. Fuck. Fuck it. If you're scared, you're scared, I can't blame you . . ."

"I didn't say I was scared, I just don't like it, that's all."

"Look, don't tell me you're not scared."

"I'm not scared."

"Then do it. No reason
not
to do it, good reasons
to
do it. I meant what I said about being off the tit, Duke. I did mean that. And I need this done now. Right away. Otherwise I might lose this guy forever. Now. Can I count on you?"

"Why do we gotta hit him at this locker? I mean, why not wait till he comes back to it, then follow him, hit him somewhere safer, and take the key?"

"There
isn't
anywhere safer. He's a
skell
, Duke. He's on trains, in stations, hell, there's always the chance of people around. But this place with the lockers has got a long
hall
running off in both directions, you can hear anyone coming, and you can leave either way. It's not perfect, but you're not gonna find a better place. Besides, even if the fucking
mayor
walks in on you, you got your story all set up."

Sinclair pondered. There was no reason for Montcalm to be setting him up in something that wasn't safe. If he got caught doing something
shitful
, then Montcalm got caught too. And if this thing came through all right, he was a couple grand richer and further in with Rodriguez. Besides, he'd heard rumors of a white dude who'd been messing up deals with both Rodriguez's people and with the people he had, unknown to Montcalm, been watching out for. Maybe, if this was the same guy, he could ingratiate himself with two factions by killing this one bird. And if the guy was wanted for murder…

"All right," Sinclair said. "I'll do it. Tell me where."

She could not return to him empty-handed. But she had to return. Enoch had worked on Gladys H. Mitchell like alcohol had worked on her years before. He was in her blood, was her blood, that part of her without which life was colorless, devoid of feeling, warmth, sensation itself. She remembered the first line of an old hymn that she had sung with her mother when she was a little girl—
Jesus is all the world to me
—only it wasn't Jesus anymore, was it? It was Enoch now, not that coward Jesus.

What had Jesus ever done for her in all the years she had prayed to him, prayed even while the strangers were lying between her legs, filling her up with their seed, trying to make a breeder out of her? Where was Jesus those times she was ripped open, when she called out his name, called for him to come and help her? She never even saw his face. He never even
tried
to come and help her, to pull those bastards off, nail
them
to some wooden crosses for a change, drive those big spikes up their
ass
, make
them
feel what they did to her. God of justice? Jesus fair? Bullshit.

But Enoch would have done that. He would have spiked them out, hung them up by their balls the way they did that young boy, that damned little
dago
breeder who was stupid enough to try and lie to Him. Imagine lying to Enoch! Imagine trying to get away with that with a man who looks into your head and heart as easily as reading a station sign.

Baggie sat on her bench and chuckled at the foolishness of it, then sighed deeply and wiped a ball of mucus from her upper lip. If she could have gotten to that
dago
boy quickly enough, before he was dead, she might have taken something from him, a sacrifice to give to Enoch. But the others who had worshipped before were too fast for her. They knew what was happening, she did not, and she could only stand there stunned into immobility by the glorious power of her savior, those eyes that blazed at that stupid liar.

Oh, she would have loved to have gotten one of that liar's eyes, those bright and shining and still living eyes that the faster ones had plucked from the sockets and held out to Enoch. The way He had
smiled
at them! The way He had laughed when they tore that fool apart, her own rollicking God, His hands crossed upon his chest once again, oh God, how she loved Him, how she wanted to bring Him something, not just an eye or a tongue or an ear or a hand, but a whole body, a full carcass to show that she would slay for Him willingly and lovingly…

But the time was never right. No matter how she hunted and waited and stalked, the time had never been right, and she felt like those in the purgatory in which she no longer believed, in torment from no induced pain, but at their absence from their God. She felt as though she could stand it no longer, felt like rushing into a crowd, slashing as she went, killing for Enoch, and at last, when they were about to take her, turning the knife on herself, making herself the last sacrifice to her white and red Lord, giving all for Him.

But she could not. She was still afraid to die.

She would go above then. She would go above and look for a victim, and kill it, and bring it back down to Enoch. This time she would not fail Him.

When Baggie pushed herself to her feet, her muscles felt unaccustomedly strong and vital, and it occurred to her that perhaps this sense of refreshment was a sign, an indication that today—this night—she would find her prey, reap her harvest. She walked up the stairs of the 86th Street station, and found herself on Central Park West. Across the street, one of the streetlights was out, another sign, and she chose that spot to sit and wait. It didn't take long for the cattle to begin to pass by. It was early in the morning, Baggie thought perhaps three o'clock, but people still walked the street, breeders, all of them, on their way to fuck and breed and spread their seed and make more of themselves, over and over and forever. Most, at this hour, walked together, as if they knew what they were and were afraid to be alone, afraid of Enoch's justice. And there were men together with their arms around each other, or their hands on each other's asses, and that was bad too, but at least they didn't breed, at least there was that comfort, and Baggie watched them approach, and glance at her, and chuckle, and move away again.

Two boys in leather jackets came near to her bench and one said, "Hey,
grammaw
, what you got in your pockets?"

She reached in and took out the knife, its blade open and long and gleaming, and held it up so they could see it. "Go away," she told them. "You little fuckers."

The boy who had spoken laughed. "Right on,
grammaw
. You're not worth the hassle." As the two walked away, she heard the other one say, "Old ladies with blades, shit, what's this town coming to?"