Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(27)

Peter did the math in his head. The number on the Mustang’s FOR SALE sign was double or triple the value of the Honda. He’d expected to pay a premium, but this was a little steep. He thought about the black Explorers pulling off the two-lane. They definitely needed the wheels.

“For that kind of money, June gets legal title,” he said. “How about your mom signs it over, dates it two weeks ago, and we register it next week in another state. That protects her and you.”

“Done,” Al said, and stood to shake hands. From the speed of his agreement, Peter could have done better on the price, but he didn’t care. It was only money, and not even his. At least not originally.

Peter pointed to the phone on the desk. “May I?”

Al shook his head. “Use this one.” He fished around in his desk again, came out with a basic flip phone. “It’s a prepaid,” he said apologetically. “I got some old friends who are a little paranoid. They still worry about the Man listening in.”

A smile ghosted across June’s face.

Peter went to the window and keyed in a phone number he’d memorized. It helped a little to look outside. He could see the highway, too. No more Explorers out there yet.

“Who the hell is this?” The voice was like heating oil, slippery and dark and latent with combustion.

“How are Dinah and the boys?” asked Peter. “That dog chew your ass up yet?”

“Holy shit, it’s the jarhead.” Peter could hear the tilted grin. “Let me call you back from another number.”

Al’s friends weren’t the only ones who were paranoid.

The phone rang thirty seconds later. Peter flipped it open. “Who the hell is this?”

“Motherfucker,” said Lewis. “Where you been, Jarhead?”

“Jarhead” was a term of pride, if you were a Marine. From anyone else it was an insult. Except for Lewis, who’d earned the right.

“Working out a few things,” said Peter. “I need some money.”

“No money here,” said Lewis. “Sad story. All gone. Blew it at the track.”

“Uh-huh.” Lewis was a career criminal who had put his profits into real estate and the stock market. If Lewis had grown up in Palo Alto instead of a rust belt ghetto, Peter figured he’d be piloting some venture capital firm in Silicon Valley. He’d helped Peter with a problem in Milwaukee the year before. The way it had turned out, there was quite a bit of cash in the end. In an uncharacteristic move, Lewis had refused to take most of his share. He’d gotten a windfall of other intangible benefits: reconnecting with Dinah, his childhood sweetheart, and her two boys.

“Listen,” said Peter, “I can’t talk right now. Let me give you an account number.” He read the number that Al had written on a piece of notepaper, then told him the amount he’d agreed on for the Mustang.

“Gimme a sec,” said Lewis. Peter could hear the clicking of a keyboard. He imagined Lewis sitting at the long walnut table in his office, laptop at one end, 10-gauge shotgun broken down for cleaning at the other. “Done. Where the hell are you? You need a hand with anything?”

“Not yet. I’ll let you know. Everybody okay on your end?”

“We’re good. Boys are growin’ like weeds. I’m over there every day, bein’ all domestic, but Dinah don’t want me to move in just yet.”

“She’s doing the right thing, you’re a bad influence. Hey, I need some walking-around money, too. Can you set up an account for me, put a few bucks in?”

“Jarhead.” Lewis said it the way someone else might say dumbass or dipshit. “We got more than twenty accounts. Switzerland, Caymans, Bank of fuckin’ America. You just need to log on.”

“A bear ate my ATM card.”

“Excuses, hell. Don’t be embarrassed, just say you lost it. Where are you?”

“North of San Francisco.”

“Let me know where you go to ground. Any half-ass city will do. I’ll hook you up.”

They said their good-byes and Peter turned away from the window. June was staring at him like he’d stepped out of a flying saucer.

Al had turned on his computer and was peering at the screen through his glasses, occasionally hitting a key or clicking the mouse. “Okay,” he said. “Money’s there.” He picked up his office phone and punched in a number. “Ma? Do me a favor and drive your van over here. I got a surprise for you. Ma, c’mon. You’re gonna like it, I promise.”

“Tell her to meet us in the back,” Peter said, still mindful of the black Ford Explorers and capable men with expensive guns.

In the back, they’d be out of sight from the road.

? ? ?

PETER LIMPED OUT of the shop’s rear door into low gray clouds like a ceiling overhead. It wasn’t standing on a mountaintop under clear blue skies, but it was better than being inside. The rain had started again, soft and cool, and his chest started to open up a little.

Although June had stopped looking at him.

Al’s mom was a round, smiling woman in a designer tracksuit with purple eye shadow and glossy black hair under an orange paisley scarf. When Al handed her the keys to the Mustang, she jumped up and down, smiling so wide they could see the lipstick on her teeth.

The Honda van was pale green and showroom-clean, with a pine-tree air freshener hung over the rearview mirror. “She’ll do a hundred,” said Al’s mom. She stood on the gravel talking to June, who’d climbed into the driver’s seat. “Rock solid at speed on a good road. And she’s like invisible to radar, the cops don’t even see her. Either that or they think you got screaming kids inside and they don’t want to deal with it.”