To Sleep Gently (2 page)

Dempster leveled his gaze right back at the man. "I know."

3

That night Dempster slept in one of Freddy Skeele's guestrooms. Though he was tired as could be, and the bourbon he'd had encouraged him even further down that dark tunnel of sleep, he found his eyes roaming through the darkness, observing the various shadows and shapes around him. A black square on the wall that he knew was a painting of Mosquito Creek Lake. The desk on his right, now just a dark crooked box. A tall bookshelf on his left, a series of potted plants on top of it like hair, which turned the entire form into one giant face. A lamp on a reading table, the only thing in the room directly catching moonlight. All of these things swimming around in not a large room, but considerably bigger than what he was used to. All of it circled, closed in on him, pressed against him until he shook his head and set things right.

It was odd to think that for the past five years, even just yesterday—hell, earlier today—he had been locked up in a cold, dingy, claustrophobic cell, trying to pass the time by reading paperbacks and wishing on falling stars he couldn't see. And while he was doing this, trying to keep his sanity, Charlie was getting married, Freddy was building himself a new house right here in Ohio that included Mission Revival architecture as well as a lake with ducks.

The world had kept on moving, just like clockwork, and it was going to continue to do so, whether he wanted it to or not—whether he was in it or not.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture Santa Fe, but all he came up with was an image of endless desert. Dirt, weeds, mud, and sun like in those old western films, and every once in a while there was a small line of adobe huts, maybe a mule or a coyote trotting about, or someone looking weathered and wearing a pancho.

Bullshit, he thought. It isn't a hundred years ago and you're not Clint Eastwood, Gary Cooper or Gregory Peck. You're a convicted felon in the 21
^st
century, just released after a five-year stretch, not even out an entire day and already agreed to a job that could send you right back for God knows how long...

No, strike that; God probably doesn't even know.

Based on Freddy's description, he tried picturing the Eldorado hotel. Try as he may, he couldn't conjure a thing. Only swirling blackness behind his eyes.

Get some sleep, he told himself, and rolled over. You'll have plenty of time to think about all this tomorrow.

But do I wanna think about all this? Do I really wanna get involved? Do I even know how to do this kind of shit anymore? Am I really gonna just jump right in after all this time, like nothing ever happened? Like the last job I did was yesterday? Hell, I don't even know any of the people I'll be working with. Could be a bunch of psychopaths. Like what about this Gardner guy? Never pulled any kind of job before in his life. Suddenly Freddy suckers him in and he's willing to throw away his entire career and risk facing jail time. For what? What kind of percentage is he gonna get? Probably more than he makes in a year, sure, maybe a lot more, I dunno—but this isn't like skimping a little off the top, clipping a buck here and there. This is a serious high-risk business. Guy must be part shit-for-brains to wanna get involved with something like this.

Come off it, man. Gardner won't be a problem, you know he won't be a problem, not if Freddy says he's on the level. Freddy's a good man. You've never had any issues with him, he's never done you wrong and you've been friends a long time, now drop it and get some sleep, turn off your mind and think about something else, because you'll be hell tomorrow if you don't, and you've got a long drive ahead of you. You're driving all the way to Santa Fe, New Mexico. So think about something else, just like you've done for the past five years. Think of something that will help you get to sleep.

Okay, let's think about all the paperbacks you read while you were locked up. Let's see. How about Hemingway's
Death in the Afternoon?
Brilliant, discusses the drama of bullfighting and its rigorous combination of athleticism and artistry and takes on a sort of metaphysical aspect. Okay,
House Made of Dawn?
N. Scott Momaday? Brilliant use of traditions from both Kiowa and Jemez cultures; the passages are written with loving care and expert style. Okay, all right, and what about
Gold Coast
by Elmore Leonard? Not quite sure about that one. Also not sure why Freddy is sending me in on a job like this with a bunch of guys I've never even heard of. Damn, he even mentioned they were young and fairly new to the game. Probably barely out of the rookie stage, if barely out of high school, not that I'd know anything about that. But that's why he needs me. Yes, that's why he needs me. He needs someone in there who knows what he's doing, right? To make sure everything goes smoothly?

Oh, for fuck all's sake, man, go to sleep.

Chapter Two

Having passed El Reno, Oklahoma, not very long ago, Dempster saw the car off on the side of the road. A Subaru wagon, faded blue, late 1980s model from the look of it, hood up, small U-Haul attached to the back, and an older gent in a plaid shirt standing beside it, waving his arms over his head for help. Dempster saw other people in the car, too, and one of the doors on the passenger side was open, most likely due to the crushing heat the day was forcing.

Pulling to the side of the road just past the Subaru, Dempster killed the engine of the Honda Freddy had given him, and climbed out. Other than himself and this family of. three, it looked like, the highway was deserted.

"Thanks for stopping," the man said. "We've been stuck here for over an hour."

"Apparently not a big day for travel," Dempster said, looking once again up and down the road.

"Guy came by about fifteen minutes ago," the man said. "Slowed down, laughed in my face, and took off. Asshole. You got a cell phone on you?"

"Yeah, but I already know it's out of range. What's the problem?"

"Not sure. I don't understand cars to save my life. I look there under the hood, and all I see is a jumble of metal and rubber. It's like a jigsaw puzzle and I've never been good at those. I could stand here a whole year and not know a damn thing about what I was looking at."

The front passenger door opened. A woman, give or take around the man's age—late fifties or early sixties—stepped out and joined them at the engine. With the years she had on her, she wore them nicely. Her warm smile, for whatever reason, made Dempster think of honey, and a certain gleam in her eye said that she'd spent a lot of time at the bottom but could still see the top.

"Well, I'm no mechanic, but let's have a look and see what we find."

"I appreciate it," the man said. "Hillary and I here, we're on our way to Taos. Sandra, in the car, stayed to finish school. Folks moved there about a year ago. Now we're helping move her. Haven't seen my brother since they left Tulsa."

Dempster looked down at the engine. "What did the car do?"

"We were driving along, and all of a sudden it just cut out"—he snapped his fingers—"like that. Had the thing tuned up right before we left, too.

Wanted to take it to Jimmy Landis. Been my mechanic for years, but he couldn't do it in time so I took it to one of those chain places. Didn't want to but sometimes you don't have much choice. I bet, though, had Jimmy done the tune up, we wouldn't have been sitting here for the last hour."

"You could be right," Dempster said. "Fortunate for you, though, it looks like it might just be, go try it."

"What, already?"

"Yeah, give it a shot."

"You've barely touched anything."

"Hopefully I don't have to touch any more."

The man stood there, looking at him. An unsaid message passed between them. A moment later the man removed his indignant stare, shrugged, and walked around the car.

Dempster glanced at Hillary. The woman tapped her foot at nothing in particular on the ground, then smiled, and asked with a soft voice, "Where are you headed?"

"Actually I'm heading to New Mexico myself," Dempster said. "Santa Fe."

Just then the engine cranked and the car came to life.

"How do you like that?" the man said climbing back out. "Man practically just looks at the thing and he gets it going. You got some sort of divine power or something?"

"It's nothing," Dempster said. "The coil wire just came out of the distributor. Probably didn't put it on well enough during the tune up. Simple mistake."

"Well, all the same, I'll be giving those goofballs a call when we get back to Tulsa, that's for sure. And where the hell are my manners, anyway? I'm Burt Colvin." He offered his hand.

"Jack Driscoll," Dempster said, accepting it.

"Nice to meet you, Jack. Guess you already know, but this is my wife Hillary, and still tucked away in the car there like a mole in the ground is our niece Sandra." Then to his niece, "Sandra, come out here and meet Mister Driscoll."

The door had been open since he'd first pulled up, but what emerged from it took him by surprise. First of all, she wasn't some seventeen-year-old google-eyed little girl like he'd expected when Burt said she had just finished school. If she
had
just finished high school then she had to be dumb as a post because she looked to be closer to around twenty-four or -five. The innocence that stared from her eyes could have been interpreted as a sign of stupidity, but Dempster knew it wasn't. Her delicate, almost porcelain-like face was accented lightly with freckles, while her auburn hair was cut to tickle her shoulders, and her tiny impromptu smile sent a buzz through Dempster he didn't know he could have.

Her voice embodied genuine friendliness, too, light and bouncy without seeming inane when she said, "Nice to meet you, Mister Driscoll. Thanks for stopping and helping us out."

Reaching to shake her hand, Dempster fought an urge to pull her to him. It had been a long time since he'd felt anything like this. Fortunately he won against the temptation and simply replied with, "Nice to meet you, Sandra. Glad to be of service."

"Where you on your way to, Jack?"

Dempster tore his gaze away from Sandra and brought it to the inquiring Burt. "Santa Fe," he said. "Heading out there for a job and to see an old friend."

"Well, that's not more than a little over an hour from Taos. We'll practically be neighbors, at least for a couple days." He looked at his wife and niece, then back to Dempster. "Tell you what. Next town can't be too far by now. You wanna follow us in, make sure we get there all right, we'd love to buy you some lunch."

"That's not necessary, Burt."

"Of course it isn't, but we'd sure like to. Only decent man on this side of the Mississippi, I'd like to buy that man lunch. C'mon, what do you say?"

Dempster looked down the lonely stretch of road. When he brought his attention back, his eyes instantly focused on Sandra, who was smiling and giving the smallest, subtlest nod of encouragement. She didn't even seem aware that she was doing it.

"Well," Dempster said, "I guess I would be a fool to say no."

2

The Weary Traveler was a large place, behind the times, high-ceilinged and grungy, with metal furniture appearing rustic only due to its loss of varnish. The corner booth they sat in was much too large for four people, the music being played was the undesirable and forgotten stuff from the 50s and early 60s, and the air-conditioning was too high. The walls boasted photographs of old movie stars, as well as classic film posters. On the wall, directly behind Burt, was a framed picture of James Cagney, while to the left and right were posters for the Cagney films
White Heat
and
The Public Enemy.
High above was a mock road sign that said CAGNEY CORNER. Dempster saw no connection whatsoever between the diner's name and interior scheme.

"They don't do a bad chicken fried steak," Burt said cutting away at it. "I sense it's probably a triple bypass served up on a platter, but it works well enough for me." He shoveled another bite into his mouth and looked at Dempster. "So what are you supposed to do when you get to this museum?"

"On this trip I'll mostly be studying and appraising," Dempster said. "Some questions were raised not long ago as to whether some of the pieces were legit. You know, the real thing? If they are, then it's up to me to see if the value held on them is accurate, and if they're not the real thing—forgeries—I need to find out if they're anything worthwhile at all, or if they should just be junked."

"Don't take this the wrong way, Jack, but from the looks of you, you don't strike me as someone that would deal with works of art."

"You're not the first person to ever tell me that."

"You seem more rugged and masculine than the common image of an art appraiser."

"All different kinds of people for all different kinds of jobs," Dempster told him, and tossed a casual glance toward Sandra and found she was watching him. The buzz inside him returned, and so, for a change of pace, he diverted the conversation in her direction. "What did you just finish studying in school?"

"Literature," she said. "I wanted to be sure that I got a degree in something that would never get me a real job."

"You might have actually done just that, honey," Burt told her with a snicker, diving once more into his chicken fried steak.

"I'm not interested in any great job," Sandra said. Her attention was on Dempster. "I don't necessarily care what I do, so long as my soul is still intact when I die."

"Here she goes," Burt said, almost apologetically.

" 'The Human Race is but a monotonous affair,' " she quoted. "'Most of them labor the greater part of their time for mere substinence—' "

"'And the scanty portion of freedom which remains,' " Dempster finished for her, " 'so troubles them that they use every exertion to get rid of it.' "

A look of surprise crossed Sandra's face. It blossomed into admiration, and finally into a smile. "That's right," she said. "I didn't expect—"

"The Sorrows of Young Werther,"
Dempster cut in. "Wolfgang Von Goethe."