1
It wasn’t the best night to dump a body.
It wasn’t the best night for doing anything outside, especially in a boxy Ford van.
Besides, I was beyond tired.
Plus the wind roared so loudly I couldn’t hear the engine, and I was sitting right next to it.
Too much rain smacked against the passenger side and splashed hard across the windshield. The van rocked like it was getting broadsides from an old battleship.
The wipers were practically useless. They whacked left, struggled back to the right, whacked left again. They weren’t much good, but the headlights were okay. The road was mostly straight anyway.
The blackest part, that was the road. The edges were a little less black. I only noticed those where the road slanted a little. Veering around some rancher’s land.
That’s all I had to do. Just push along. Chase the off-black pool from the watered-down headlights. Stay on the white lines that flashed in the center of the windshield before they disappeared under the van.
*
Man, no moon, even. Or at least the light didn’t make it to the ground. That was okay. I knew where I was going.
Two hours on the road, two more to go. Or maybe three. The wind and water kept me at a steady 50 miles per hour.
But I wasn’t sleepy. And besides, the heat from the engine kept my left knee hot. Kept me awake.
Lightning flashed on the left, lit up the desert, sort of.
I looked. I had to. That scene from Twister where the lightning revealed a massive tornado.
Only bushes. Low, rolling land that looked flat in the dark and bushes. Creosote from the smell.
Well, and mesquites. There were always mesquites.
And yuccas. The narrow sticks that gave the staked plains their name.
The thunder didn’t come, or it died in the wind.
Something brown flashed left to right in the windshield. Antelope, maybe.
Maybe a coyote made bigger by the water on the windshield.
Man, this wind was something.
I squeezed the steering wheel and my knuckles lit up in the green glow of the dash lights. I held it slightly to the right against the wind. Kept my attention on the black ribbon of state highway.
The van had no noticeable hood. I might as well have been rushing through the rain and wind and dark in a bubble. Nothing between me and the elements but a thin sheet of noisy glass.
That’s okay. I hadn’t seen another vehicle for almost an hour. A crew truck turning onto the highway toward town. Oilfield guys going home for the night.
Might not see anyone else the rest of the way. That would be good.
In two hours, give or take, I’d get there. And I’d been there before, so I knew pretty much how it would go. A thing like this, every second matters. It pays to be efficient.
I’d park on the bridge, nobody coming either direction.
I’d get out. I’d be shielded from the wind and the rain at first. It would be coming from the same direction, only harder. The wind would be racing along the gorge.
Then I’d round the driver’s side back corner of the van. That’s when the wind and rain would hit.
I’d have to open the doors. The right one first, a little, because it overlapped the left one. But then the left one would go easy. I’d have to hold it to make sure it didn’t slam against the van. Make sure it didn’t spring the hinges. But that was okay.
And then I’d open the right one again, all the way. The thing was too wide to pull it through only one door. When I got the right one open, probably I’d have to block it with my back.
Okay, then I could grab the bag with my right hand. I’d brace my right leg against the bumper for leverage and pull it out. Feet first. The light end would come out first.
Once I got the thing halfway out it would bend a little over the edge of the cargo floor. The thing’s a stiff, but it ain’t solid. So then I’d have to lean down a little. I could hold the door against the wind with my butt and jerk the heavy end up. Heave the whole thing onto my right shoulder. It would bend pretty good in that direction. Then I’d step away quickly, turning to my left. Let the wind have the door.
It would slam in the wind. That was okay. It had nothing to lock against with the left door open, but the wind would get it out of the way. And I’d have to be ready for the wind too.
With the thing on my shoulder, I’d turn into the wind. So left again. And I’d have to lean forward a little, let the weight of the thing help brace me against the wind.
Then I’d take it to the rail. Three steps, maybe four. The rail’s just a little higher than my waist. I’d balance the thing there for a few seconds, make sure I wasn’t attached anywhere. The little things matter a lot sometimes.
Then I’d touch it on the chest for balance. I’d step back just a little, double check to make sure I wasn’t hooked up, then give it a push.
And over the side it would go.
It would drop 1500 feet into the gorge.
That was it. I could leave right then if I wanted to. I didn’t even have to wait for it to hit.
What I mean, the thing was dead anyway. It was dead for probably a half-hour before they put it in the bag this morning. Longer than that before they put the bag in the van early last night.
Besides, when it hit, the wind would probably carry the sound away anyway.
But I’d wait.
If you’re gonna do a job, you do the whole job. Go through the objective. Come out the other side.
After, I could maybe even spot the thing with a flashlight. That’s what I’d do. I’d spot it.
In my business, verification is everything.
Then when I called in to say the thing was done, I’d mean you could stick a fork in it.
It wouldn’t bleed.
2
It was Jimmy the Dope. The thing in the back, I mean.
Guy died of stupidity.
Made guy, blah blah blah. Untouchable, blah blah blah.
Maybe in New York the guy was untouchable except maybe for an accident.
Maybe even up in Philly or down in Atlantic City or even Miami.
But that ain’t the same as out here.
The farther you are from your home turf, the less things like that matter.
It’s like if you’re walking down the street in a light rain. You know, the umbrella keeps you dry mostly.
But if you step out from under your umbrella, hey, you’re gonna get a little wet.
And maybe the rain’s about the same along the east coast. Or maybe it’s a little harder down in Miami than it is up in the northeast. Maybe the rain in Miami’s more like the rain in New Orleans or Houston. Things are different down there. Day-own say-owth.
And it’s a little harder still over in Chicago and Detroit.
But out in Vegas, the rain’s pouring down in buckets. Just like now, coming in sideways. You might as well not have an umbrella at all. In fact, carrying an umbrella in a gale like that can get you soaked.
Hey, in Vegas they got made guys being floor jockeys. They got made guys working security. They even got made guys mopping up.
So in Vegas, the best policy is forget about it.
When you come into Vegas, you might think you’re bringing your creds, but they don’t make the trip. Not unless you’re really good at something the guys in Vegas need. And they don’t need much that they don’t already have.
Other words, you show up in Vegas, you’re just another tourist.
Only maybe you’re a little more full of yourself, and maybe you think you know some things. Maybe you think you can have whatever you want.
None of those is a good idea.
Rumor has it that’s how Jimmy the Dope came in.
Made guy, big umbrella and all.
*
‘Course I don’t know all the particulars. I can’t. I’m not allowed. I mean, it’s pure accident I even know what’s in the back of the van. By its name, I mean.
Not my business anyway. I’m just the tail of the cleaning crew on this one. The disposal guy.
Only the transport guy was still hanging around when I drove up in my Lincoln.
Stupid. Some associate trying to make good. He was supposed to park the van, drop the keys under the front seat, and go away.
Only he didn’t.
If I’d seen him, I wouldn’t have stopped. That’s procedure. Somebody’s standing around, you just keep going. It’s better for your health.
But I didn’t see him.
And it was dusk then, but I could still see pretty good.
When I came around the corner and pulled into the alley, the van was there like it was supposed to be. It was parked across three parking spaces just past the back door of Simpson’s Carpets, just like before.
Nobody was around, so I pulled into the last parking space on this side of the door and parked. Looked around again.
All clear.
Turned off my Lincoln, got out and looked around again.
Nobody.
Locked the car, closed the door, pocketed the keys. Looked around again.
Still nobody anywhere in sight.
Okay, so the job was on.
I walked to the driver’s side door of the van, opened it, reached under the seat for the keys.
They weren’t there.
My heart did a little jump in my chest and I took a step back. I was imagining what a Fed’s fist closing on my arm would feel like.
Only where would they come from? There was nobody there.
But the keys weren’t there either. That was a fact.
I turned away for my Lincoln.
In mid-pivot someone with a weasely voice said, “I got the keys.”
My heart did that thing again and I ducked a little and looked around quick, like maybe I was hearing things. Only I couldn’t see as good because the van was right there.
Then the back door of the van slammed and a wiry little guy stepped around the back corner. I’d never seen him before.
He was about 5’8”, maybe 140 pounds with a skinny, pinched face. Dressed in dark blue coveralls but with a fedora on top. Comical.
His right arm came up, extended in my direction.
Not comical.
But it wasn’t a gun. It was the keys. The keys were dangling from his right hand.
That wasn’t funny either.
I took one step and snatched the keys away from him. It was all I could do to keep my voice quiet. “What’re you doing? You ain’t supposed to be here.”
“Yeah, I know, but—”
“But nothing. Get the fuck outta here.”
He took a step back, put up both hands. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s legit.”
“Yeah? How’m I supposed to know that?”
I looked at him for a moment. Then I grabbed the front of his jumpsuit with my left hand and jerked him hard. I’d already dropped the keys in my right jacket pocket and pulled the piece that was in that pocket originally. I shoved it up under his nose. “Come to think of it, I don’t know you.”
“Percy. Percy the Putz Manelli. And I’m legit. Really.”
“The Putz?”
“The boss. He—”
I didn’t know this guy from anyone. Maybe somebody sent him. Maybe he had a vested interest in the load I was supposed to haul.
I pressed the barrel of the gun against his upper lip. “You’re boring me.”
His head tilted back a little and he was up on his tiptoes. His eyes were bigger than any eyes I’ve ever seen. “The load’s legit, I swear. It’s—it’s the dope.”
I pushed harder with the revolver. “Wrong answer. I don’t carry no dope.”
“No! No, no! Not dope! The Dope! Balducci! It’s Jimmy the Dope Balducci!”
I glared at him for a second, shoved him back against the van. “Jimmy the Dope? How do you know? Do you know him? You work for him, maybe?”
“No! No, I never met him. Guy’s from outta town or— But I bagged him. Me and Anthony Purselli bagged him. Just this morning. Anthony followed me in his car when I left the van.”
Okay. I knew Anthony.
One more test. “So who popped him? Anthony?”
“I don’t know. I mean, no, it wasn’t Anthony. When me an Anthony got there, nobody else was in the room.”
Okay, good. That’s how it’s supposed to work. A guy pops a guy, he makes a call. Then someone else shows up to bag the thing and someone else makes it disappear.
“Yeah? So why ain’t you with Anthony? You were supposed to go with him, right?”
“I—I didn’t mean nothing. I was gonna make sure the other end came through, that’s all.”
“What? The other end of what?” Then I got it. I put the gun to his gut and pushed. “You were checking up on me?”
“No, no. Just making sure it was picked up. The thing. By somebody. Not you. Just anybody.”
“Yeah? Well that ain’t in your job description.”
A shudder ran through him. “I know. I know. I—I just wanted to see, that’s all.”
I glanced toward the back of the van, then back to the Putz. “Jimmy the Dope, eh?”
He nodded hard. “Yes. I swear.”
I’d heard around that the Dope might end up zipped into a bag if he didn’t back off.
I guess he didn’t back off.
Guy came into town a few weeks ago like he owned the place. Only thing is, he don’t own anything here. Especially now.
I turned the little guy so his left shoulder was against the van, then stuck the barrel of the revolver in his ear. “Can you still hear me, Putzy?”
He nodded again.
“Good. I gotta think what to do about this, a’right? So when I let you go, you start walking, understand? Don’t run. If you make it to the end of the alley, turn right. Then turn left at the next street and keep walking for a half-hour. Then go straight home, got it?”
He nodded again.
“Home, Putz, not anyplace else.” I shoved him to get him started. When he was three paces away, I cocked the hammer for effect.
His legs jerked hard, like he was walking on stalks. But he held steady. Kept walking.
When he turned the corner, I got in the van, started it and drove away.
At the end of the alley, I turned right, drove a few blocks, then turned left. After the first mile or so, I stopped sweating so bad.
Then I looped around to the state highway and followed it out of town.
3
Okay, so it was all good.
Then the stinking rain started about a mile out of town. And the wind.
Now and then there was a gust, and the van rocked a little more than usual.
When that happened I tightened my grip on the wheel and my knuckles went white again in the glow of the dash lights.
And me sitting right up front against the glass, chasing that pool of headlights down the road.
Rain slashing right to left across the windshield.
The wipers all but flying to the left, then struggling back to the right. Water rolling over them as they did.
Lightning lighting everything up now and then for a long second before it all went black again.
The smell of wet creosote coming in through the vents, mixed with cold wet asphalt oil.
I had to make my grip relax again. You been there, right? You know I was fighting the urge to hold the wheel harder to the right. You know, against the next gust? Yeah, we’ve all been there.
But stuff like that can put you off the road. One thing I don’t need is this stupid van stuck in mud up against some rancher’s barbed wire fence out in the middle of nowhere.
The miles piled up, passed under the van and fell away behind me.
And right at midnight, the rain stopped.
I mean, now and then if I passed under a powerline across the road, a big splat or two hit the windshield. But otherwise, nothing.
In the headlights, the road was still covered with water. But the lightning was farther away. A lot of it to the left, and still a little to the right. Like I was in a bowl and everything had backed away from the center.
The air coming in through the vents was still cool. It still smelled of wet desert and oil seeping out of the roadway.
I still stared out through my glass bubble. The place was only another five miles or so. Almost there. Almost done.
I heard a thunk, scree, thunk, scree, thunk, scree. For a moment I wondered where that was coming from. Then I realized the wipers were still on.
I turned them off and the only sound left was the rumble of the engine.
I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel. Home free. I was home free now.
I glanced out the driver’s side window.
The gorge was right out there somewhere. Right out there to my left. It couldn’t be far away.
But everything looked flat, featureless. Scrub brush, a little low grass that I couldn’t see but knew was there, a few yucca stalks.
A half-mile or so later, I came into a big looping curve. The road curved north-northwest, then northwest, then west.
With another mile gone, black and silver reflectors appeared. Those were the poles, and then they had a bright orange circle at the top. One on each side of the road.
That’s where the bridge started.
And the wind was gone and there was no rain.
Easy peasy.
About halfway across the bridge I slowed the van and stopped. Got out.
Nothing coming either way up the road.
I walked to the back, turned the corner.
A breeze, but no wind. Probably there was always a breeze being sucked along the gorge. North to south, almost always. But no wind.
I popped the right door and it stayed open.
Opened the left door.
Reached in and grabbed the small end of the bag and pulled.
The thing slid out easily, all the way up to its waist.
It bent slightly like I knew it would.
I leaned over, hooked a fistful of bag just outside the shoulders of the thing and jerked it upright. “C’mere, Dope.” I kept the motion going, stooped and let it fall across my right shoulder.
It hung there like an elongated sack of something.
Like loading bags of feed corn or sacks of potatoes into the back of a pickup.
Except this was like two bags sewed together end to end. The top one was full and the bottom one was half-full or maybe a third full.
I straightened under the load, turned to my right, used my left hand to pull the right door toward me. It clunked against the load bed of the van.
I wondered if the door felt as empty as that sounded. Like it was expecting its opposite number to be there, only it wasn’t so it had nothing to latch into.
*
Like when I got home early this morning from that trip to LA for the boss.
Marilyn didn’t meet me at the door.
Tomorrow’s our anniversary, so I wanted to be back for that. And I told her I would.
Only I got the thing in LA done a little early, so I came home a day early. And I remembered to bring flowers. I brought them a day early as a surprise. Even had tickets to a big show.
So I opened the door like always, you know. And I walked in like always. Happy and smiling. I was happy ever since I met her.
Only she didn’t come walking in from any other part of the house like she always did when the door opened. I felt that little empty thing. Nothing to latch into.
So I called out, “Marilyn? Honey? Hey, I’m home and I got a surprise for you.”
She still didn’t come in.
But I heard some stuff. Like some scuffling. Some hurrying and whispering.
And I’d heard stuff like that before.
So I crossed the room.
I opened the bedroom door, and there was Marilyn.
And there was Balducci.
Balducci was standing behind the bed. He was hunched over, trying really hard to pull on his trousers.
He looked up. His mouth formed an O just before the bullet slapped him at the V of his unibrow. Right where his ugly nose met his sweat-covered forehead.
Marilyn put her fists to her mouth. Screamed once.
Then she caught one in the heart. Right between the elbows.
She was propped up, a big, thick pillow behind her back.
She liked those big plush pillows. It’s why I got them for her.
I pocketed the piece, crossed to the bed.
Pulled the sheets loose from the corners, let her bleed into the big, plush pillow as I bundled her up.
She didn’t weigh much. She was only 5’1” maybe 5’2” and maybe 100 pounds.
But I still struggled a little to get her to the incinerator chute.
And Balducci?
I didn’t do anything with him.
Took my time putting fresh sheets on the bed. Pulled a new pillow out of the closet, matched the pillowcases for the sheets.
Then I walked out into the living room and called a guy.
I asked him to assign Anthony to cleanup. I know Anthony’s good.
The guy on the phone said, “You got a preference for the delivery guy?”
I said, “Ooh, pick me, pick me.” Then I laughed and hung up.
*
It really was a piece of cake with no rain and the wind not blowing.
I got the thing over to the rail in two long strides.
I set it hard up on the rail, put my hand on its chest to balance it.
Glanced down. Made sure it didn’t have hold of anything else that belonged to me.
And I grinned.
I never grin at such a circumspect time, but I grinned.
There was a light breeze. North to south, like always.
The breeze might be stronger under the bridge. Hey, 1500 feet is a long way. Pretty much a quarter of a mile straight down.
“Hey,” I said, and let the grin drift away with the breeze.
I pushed against the thing’s chest with one finger. You can guess which one.
Then I turned and walked to the other side of the bridge. Bent at the waist. Looked over.
I didn’t see the thing hit.
But I heard it.
* * * * * *