The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(60)

But the water of the shower was delicious. It sluiced over his shoulders and down his back, as hot as it would go, relaxing the knotted muscles and driving the white static down to a hum. He felt his pores opening up, releasing the dirt and dried sweat and the smell of dog.

He rubbed the ancient dried-out bar of soap on his chest, down his legs and the crack of his ass. He wanted to be clean. The noise of the falling water was loud in the cheap fiberglass shower stall. It sounded just like the shower his father had installed in the basement when Peter was a kid. The memory eased the static.

He closed his eyes to wash his hair and stubbled beard with the cheap shampoo. He wanted to sit on the floor and wash his feet, between his toes. He wanted to lean back and fall asleep in there.

He couldn’t help wondering what Dinah was doing in the other room.

He wondered if she thought about him, too.

Peter was not proud of himself.

But that wasn’t the same as being able to stop himself.

He imagined her stepping into the bathroom and standing on the other side of the shower curtain. The water coming down, the steam rising.

He imagined her slipping out of her clothes. How she might part the shower curtain with her fingers and step inside. With him. Under the water.

He imagined how she would look, the sheen of her skin, the water beading up. The slope of her breasts, the gentle mound of her belly. The softness of hair, the slickness between her legs.

The taste of her lips.

He imagined how he would pick her up. He would lift her legs and raise her up and set her slickness down on him. Gently at first, up and down. Up and down, again and again, the strength of his arms made for this, for nothing else, not made for war or fighting in the street, no, not anything else but this, only this.

The heat in the water faded to cold. He opened his eyes. He must have nearly emptied the tank. The hot was gone.

He stepped out of the shower and toweled off, put on Jimmy’s enormous bathrobe. His clothes were missing from the floor.

When he opened the bathroom door, she was gone.

His jeans were neatly folded on the bed, with his keys, wallet, and new phone. The folded shirt lay beside them.

Atop the shirt was the picture he’d been carrying in his pocket.

The picture of Jimmy.





28



The light was on at Lewis’s place. Walking to the door, Peter looked up at the security camera. The door opened before he got there.

Lewis wore the same tilted smile, the world and its inhabitants a source of endless amusement. “You come to sign your ass up? Could make you some serious money. I know you need it.”

“Come outside and we’ll talk about it.”

“Man, what I want to come out there for? It fucking November in fucking Wisconsin.”

“Put on a coat.”

Lewis looked at Peter a little closer. “Why don’t you want to come in here? I know you ain’t scared of me.” The tilted smile grew wider and reached his eyes. “Oh, I get it. You don’t like to be inside. Maybe you had too many of those door-knocks over there. Little too much house-to-house.” He shook his head with genuine amusement. “This just get better and better. How bad?”

Peter wasn’t going to talk about it. “Listen, how much would you make on this job you’ve got coming up?”

Lewis let it go. “Anywhere from fifty to three-fifty. ’Less we get real lucky.”

“And what are the odds you make nothing?”

Lewis looked at him. As if to say, Man, who you think you talking to?

“Come on,” said Peter. “If you don’t even know what the payday is, your intel is incomplete. What if there’s more resistance than you expect? Or some teller trips the silent alarm?”

Lewis smiled at that, too. “Robbing banks is for chumps.”

Peter smiled back. “Isn’t that where they keep the money?”

“Oh, there money all over, you know where to look,” said Lewis. “I don’t steal from nobody in a position to call the police. Takes all the fun out of it. But I do need another body. Ray’s hurtin’ bad. You in for a share?”

“I have a better idea. Let me buy you a beer and explain it to you.”

“Have a beer right here.” Lewis angled his head at the bar next door. “Ain’t nobody listening.”

“Outside is better,” said Peter. He turned to get in his truck. “Come on.”

Lewis shook his head. “Ain’t riding in that damn antique,” he said. “I be right behind you.” The locks chirped on the Yukon.

—

Getting out at Kern Park off Humboldt, Lewis looked around at the empty parking area; the long, curving walkway; the big old trees looming skeletal and dark. He stood easily, unconcerned, the mountain lion ready for anything.

“You not gonna try and shoot me, are you? This be a nice quiet place for it.”

Peter took two beers out of the little cooler he kept behind his seat. “Not right now,” he said, popping the caps with the handle of his knife and handing Lewis a bottle. “Right now, I want to hire you.”

Lewis raised his eyebrows and took a sip. Then tilted the bottle to look at the label. “This pretty good.”

“Goose Island,” said Peter. “Chicago.”

Lewis nodded. “First place,” he said, “I ain’t for hire.” He took another sip of beer. “Might discuss a limited partnership, though.”