Hadley & Grace(64)
Carron has threatened to sue, and unless the FBI has a solid explanation beyond “no comment,” she might have a case. When asked about it, Carron said, “Crooks. There was no crime. I made a deal, fair and square, and those bastards took my money.” Schwarz seems to agree. “Grace was just trying to help me out. We talked about how hard it is to get going again once you get down on your luck. She was cool, really cool, and she’s going to be bummed when she finds out they took the money. It sucks. It really does.”
It’s unclear what set off the shoot-out outside the restaurant. Witnesses say the women and kids seemed to be enjoying themselves when something happened that caused the group to leave abruptly. No one was hurt in the altercation, and it is unclear whether the shots Torelli took were aimed at anyone or merely warning shots.
The two women and their kids fled in a Chevy truck with California plates.
These women might not be Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis, and there may not be a ’66 Thunderbird convertible or an Oscar nomination, but there is no doubt of the similarity in these women’s story with the fictional Thelma and Louise’s, and we hope for their sake and their children’s sakes that the ending is happier than that of the movie.
Mark sets the paper down, puts his elbows on the table, and, for a long time, sits silent, massaging his temples with two fingers on either side. The media storm around this is going to blow up. He can already see a Lifetime Original Movie being made. Hell, the motel clerk, that scrawny kid at the desk who went white as the walls around him when Mark showed his badge, probably has six marriage proposals by now and a dozen benefactors willing to give him a new smile. Every damn person in the article is going to be a celebrity and a hero, while the FBI is being painted as the Big Bad Wolf hunting Little Red Riding Hood and taking money from little old ladies and young men who need dental work.
He pushes to his feet and goes to the coffee station for a refill. A little girl around Shelly’s age stands on her tiptoes very carefully pouring creamers into her mother’s cup, as if it’s the most important job in the world. He sighs. Tonight was supposed to be his night with the kids. Marcia sounded relieved when he called to tell her he wasn’t going to make it: one less hassle for her to deal with.
Stan the Insurance Man will be around. He’s always around, ever since he became a part of Marcia’s life, less than a month after she told Mark she wanted a divorce. He doesn’t think they were having an affair. Marcia’s too righteous for that. But he suspects a not-so-innocent flirtation that gave her the confidence to ask Mark to leave.
Together they will take Ben to his baseball game, have pizza at Artie’s after, then go home and watch The Simpsons on the couch together until it’s time to tuck the kids into bed. Then, when the kids are asleep, they will go upstairs to have sex in his room, in his bed, his life stolen from him and given to Stan the Insurance Man.
He waits for the familiar fury to wash over him that makes him want to put his fist through the wall or through Stan the Insurance Man’s wide-chinned face. Instead, surprisingly, all he feels is strange resignation. Perhaps he’s tired. Or perhaps it’s because of what happened between him and Hadley. Whatever the case, he just doesn’t have it in him this morning to rage.
He rubs the bandaged cuts on his right wrist. Damn woman. What possessed her to shoot at those bikers? Mattie. He knows it, and his hate for the bastard in the photo is raw.
The door to the café opens, and he turns to see his boss, Garrett O’Toole, filling its frame. When he sees Mark, he scowls with an expression of disapproval and impatience as if irritated, though he is the one who is fifteen minutes late.
He wears aviator sunglasses propped on his bald head, a cream button-down dress shirt that probably started off white, and brown slacks that ride high on his gut and that are cinched too tight with a worn leather belt.
“Wilkes,” he says.
“O’Toole.”
Neither man extends his hand.
O’Toole sits down, then leans forward in his chair, the seat straining with his weight. A large man in both height and girth, he uses his size well, intimidating people by crowding their personal space and making everyone he comes in contact with uncomfortable.
Setting his elbows on the table, he leans in a fraction more, his breath surprisingly fresh, as if he’s just popped a mint. “A full APB, a roadblock delaying millions of gamblers from reaching their weekend destination, half the Las Vegas police force, and every California and Nevada FBI agent on full alert and pulling round-the-clock shifts—not many agents can lay claim to inconveniencing that many people and costing taxpayers that much money because they were dumb enough to be hijacked by two broads and driven away in the trunk of their car.”
Mark holds his ground, his face two inches from his boss’s. “Don’t worry, Garrett,” he says. “I’m fine. Really. But thanks for your concern.”
O’Toole grins a toothless smirk. “On the inside I’m dying of worry.” Then he leans back a smidge, and Mark leans back as well.
Surprisingly, this is the first time Mark’s gotten any grief for what happened. Last night, when he walked into the field office, he was greeted with hearty handshakes and pats on the back, everyone, to a man, relieved he had turned up safe. Guilt lined their faces—confession to their failure to find any lead as to where he was and testament to their waning hope of finding him alive. The only ribbing he got was a few hours later, when a couple of guys joked about not minding being taken hostage by two outlaws as hot as Torelli and Herrick, and wondering aloud if Mark might not have resisted as much as he could have.