“The only guy I’d place my money on one hundred percent would be Staff Sergeant Gayle Dyche. He’s been there for decades, he’s got a scrupulous rep, he’s even called out bad actors over the years. If he buys what your guy Bob is selling, I’ll play along, at least for a few more days. Then he’s an unofficial agent or CI, at least.”
“Okay. That’s as good as we’re going to get, I guess.”
“And until then?” Swain asked. “What do we do until then?”
“We pretend life is normal,” Sharmila said, “and hope Bob gives us the people behind this.”
42
The suitcases were packed and sitting by the front door, but Terry Perrine hadn’t risen from the couch.
His wife Candy’s frustration grew by the minute. She already had her heavy coat on, a pink fake fur that he always figured looked like something out of a rap video.
“The longer you sit there stewing, the more danger we’re in! Don’t you understand that, you useless…” Her voice trailed off. “You’re goddamned hopeless, you know that?”
A few feet away, their twin six-year-old daughters stood by the back door, clutching glittery toy handbags ahead of them, embarrassed at the latest fight and glum.
Perrine reached forward and retrieved his cigarettes from the coffee table. He flipped the box open, slid out a smoke and lit it. “You keep talking so’s I can’t think, it’s going to take even longer,” he said.
“Think? Terry… God damn. You’re my man and all, and the father of our girls. But this equation is real simple…” She stopped, realizing they were getting louder and louder. She glanced over at the girls. “Girls, room! I need to talk to your daddy in private.”
They scurried down the hall to the back of the house.
“This equation is real simple, and it ends with the two of us getting hurt real bad! Get your ass off that couch. We need to get going, now!”
“But… what if I’m making a mistake? Now, hear me out on this before you go off all hot…”
“The mistake was ever getting involved with your old high school buddies in their drug business, not getting an honest job like your brother,” she said. “The mistake now would be trusting that they actually like you. They ain’t never done nothing but treat you like a worm, and you know that! How many times have you told me that greasy bastard gave you a hard time? Then you come home all covered in dog bites and scratches, and you don’t think I put two and two together?”
“But… I know’d Merry my whole life,” he pleaded. “Maybe if I tell him I didn’t get no choice but to run, he’ll forgive me, take me back.”
“And? Even if he did—which he wouldn’t—the man is crazy. The money’s good, but it ain’t that good. We ain’t living in the lap of luxury or nothing. And chances are, he’s just going to shoot you dead.”
Terry’s head dipped, his shame obvious.
He’d half expected his wife, who liked to spend their ill-gotten gains, would agree with him that it was a mistake, giving it all up. But… she wasn’t wrong.
His head bobbed quickly. “Okay. Okay then, we’ll go to your brother’s in Modesto for now. But… you’ve got to realize what this means. We can’t come back here. Can’t see our friends or family. Probably can’t even stay in California.”
“I know. But I’d rather have my husband and kids healthy. That’s more important than any of this,” she said softly.
He got up. “Get the girls. We need to get this show on the road.”
There was a knock on the door.
“That’ll be the ride share,” Candy said. She wandered over and pulled it open. “We’ll be just…”
She didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence, a mountainous figure shoving her backwards into the room so that his boss could enter.
“Terrance,” Merry said. “We was told you’d been killed by our mystery man, then I heard you’re back here, hiding out. We need to have ourselves a little chinwag.”
“Merry… I swear…”
“Oh, you will,” Merry said with a grin. “Your wife and kids, they ain’t my problem. They can go wherever they want. But you and me? Well…. we’re going to the park.”
“To… the park?”
“Uh huh. We’re going to play us a little game.”
43
The six-pack of stock cars roared around the high dirt bank at Bakersfield Speedway, wheels kicking up mud as they braked and spun, before seizing traction, roaring out onto the next straight.
Bob wasn’t paying attention. He’d arrived early, just before the noon race, to take a look at Jenkins Racing’s team taking part in the sprints later in the day.
Sure enough, the same fueling tanker—or identical, anyway—that he’d spotted in Pahrump could be seen other side of the track, in the large open lot due south, at the far end of the public parking area, near the road. He’d rounded the grandstand to get a slightly closer look, able to make out “NITROMETHANE” in small block capitals, just above a series of cautions, a death’s head and an explosion graphic.
A man in a white Stetson was leaning against the rail, chewing a toothpick as he watched the cars enter the next turn. Bob tapped him on the shoulder.
“Uh huh?”
“Yeah… apologies for the distraction but I’m new to all this. Can I ask a quick question?”
“Surely.”
“Do they run Nitro Funny Cars here? I saw some pictures online, but they don’t look like the stocks I see today.”
The race fan frowned and took out the toothpick for a moment. “Different type of engine. They need straightaways for that, not a banked track. You’d have to go up to Famoso for that. That’s the drag strip up by McFarland.”
