LITMIR.BIZ

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and Danny back together and scoot down into Mexico on the lonesome, find his own ways to spend the million dollars—actually a million-and-forty-two—the ass-kicking sum he’d counted out after Danny drifted off to sleep last night. Would be no trouble finding south-of-the-border gash, willing chicks down there plentiful as clap at a Tijuana whorehouse: American tourists, local senoritas, hookers, whatever….

      Yeah, Christ, that would beat hell out of putting dishes in the sink after cooking breakfast, goddamn things Cynthia should be here to do. Woman was at least good for something, even without blowjobs. Last thing he wanted to do was clean the place, housework being woman’s work, not worthy of a man with many pressing and important things on his mind.

      Seriously? said a voice in his head.

      Must be Cyn’s voice. Damn woman was always in his head messing with his thoughts. Stuff used to be easier to figure out before she got in there with her woman’s thinking and goody-goody ideas. One nice thing about whores—they didn’t tell you how to live. Knew their place in life, their purpose. And who the hell’d take the advice of someone got paid for sucking cock, anyway?

      Danny Henning was having fun with his Daddy. Pancakes and sausage for breakfast and now they were getting ready to go to the beach. Daddy was putting the plates and things in the sink before they packed up the beach stuff. Danny had his pail and shovel ready. His Daddy would show him the safe places to dig where he wouldn’t hit a jellyfish and get a sting. Danny thought jellyfish was a funny name for a thing that looked like a balloon with weeds on it. Jelly being what he got with his bread and peanut butter, and a fish being something long and skinny, not round like a tiny beach ball.

      “Can we go to the beach now, Daddy?” Danny said. He was wearing his orange beach shorts and purple Minnesota Vikings jersey mom gave him for Christmas because Daddy always brought home Dallas Cowboys’ stuff.

      That oddly seductive feeling hit Henning again as he picked Danny up and hugged him to his chest. “Soon as I get my swim trunks and the fishing rods, we can go,” he said. “Got all your stuff together, big guy?”

      “Right there, Daddy.” Danny pointed at a pile of plastic toys by the door.

      “Sure you got everything? We can’t be coming back for stuff.”

      Pulling on his father’s ear, Danny said, “Mommy always looks to see if I forgot stuff.”

      “Mommy’s not here now, Danny.” Henning put his son down. “Us men are on our own today. We don’t need women to help us, do we, big guy? All we need is each other, right?”

      “Okay, Daddy. Will mommy come to the beach with us?”

      “Not today, Danny. You need to stop thinking about mommy. We can have fun without her around.”

      Danny’s lower lip drooped slightly and he stared off into space. But then his eyes brightened again. “You gonna catch a shark today, Daddy?”

      “Maybe I will. Never can tell what you’ll catch when you put a line in the ocean, son.”

      Cyn was trying really hard not to pick up her phone and call home, believing she’d made some progress on the independence thing. She hated to give in so easily but the strings of her heart were tugging for her little boy. Faced with another day on her own, an entire one this time, she was vacillating. But now a tiny twinge of excitement percolated within her, the cute Minnesota boy at the diner reminding her what it’s like to have nice-looking men show interest. And the sparkling sun and enticing blue sky beyond the balcony door seemed to be encouraging her to “let loose a little.” But those were her sister Jeannie’s words and not hers and Cynthia felt only half-full or maybe half-empty, not believing the urge to have a cocktail before noon was necessarily a positive step.

      Telling herself that a mother’s bonds should not be denied she gave in to her desire and picked up her burner, made the call. After ten rings without a response she clicked off, worrying that something was wrong with Danny. He did have those allergies and a predilection toward cedar fever, this being the season. Should she call her parents and have them drive out and check on her son? No. That was no good. Maybe Jean could go out to the trailer? But no, that was no good, either.

      Reassuring herself that everything was fine and she was only a normal worrying mother, Cyn glanced at the clock on the bedside table and saw it was nearly eleven-thirty. She set down the phone—it was time to think rationally—and decided to go shopping to pass some time. An outing such as this deserved new clothing. Or, at the very least, some accessories for the beach. A bikini might be pushing things—but a sexy one-piece could be just the right thing.

      And after shopping she could take lunch in the cool of a local restaurant—being careful not to eat too much and spoil the fit of the new swimsuit—and get in the right frame of mind for an afternoon at the beach. Then, with a better state of mind, she could try calling home again.

      If she wanted to.

      10

      Sam had a pain in his solar plexus. Ulcers. Had to be goddamn ulcers. Or those dry-roasted peanuts on the plane looked like year-old rabbit turds—could be them. Sam was never quite sure what caused his discomfort, was struggling to learn, and only knew that his gut hurt. But things were beginning to feel manageable again, the pill finally kicking in and dulling his senses enough to keep going. And going he was, up the highway in the black Escalade Bob Ryan ordered, the man insisting Sam cover the bill—according to Frankie—on the most expensive vehicle at the rental agency. Sam and Frankie were on their way to the place this Trooper Henning called home, evidently to check the driveway for new BMWs and see if the man was lighting cigars with hundred dollar bills. That old familiar discomfort was lying in Sam’s lower-left abdominal region like a ball of lead as Neelan steered the Escalade northward along I-37 past scenery right out of the old western movies Sam liked to watch on cable TV on nights he couldn’t sleep. Roy Rogers and Tom Mix and, of course, America’s favorite son John Wayne, might have ridden a horse across this very land or someplace just like it, all of it looking the same to Sam as his mind churned nonstop trying to find a way to free himself from this vastly unpleasant mess.

      Sam glanced over at Neelan, the mick’s jaw working overtime on a wad of gum, prick’s long thick neck a sizeable target for a sharp object jammed into the jugular vein. Sam didn’t happen to have a sharp object handy but was looking around, trying to think of something, knowing he could wait until they stopped and then take the redheaded dick out before he knew what hit him. Been a long time since Sam killed anyone. But he kept telling himself he could do it again if he had to, flashing back to the surprised looks on those two treacherous Puerto Ricans that tried to rob him on the streets of New York the very first day he landed in America. Snaky bastards’ arrogant expressions had certainly changed, watching their blood pouring down on the New York sidewalk.

      Now Frankie the cretin was turning the Escalade off the highway and bending around the exit road in the direction of an abandoned gas station. Frankie drove behind the station, came around the other side and parked facing the freeway, Sam thinking the economy must indeed be bad if a gas station in Texas went bust. Neelan shut down the engine but kept the radio on blasting out the relentless electronic dog shit he was so goddamn fond of. Headache music. Record scratching, idiot DJs making tons of money so kids can lose themselves in a writhing mass of thoughtless group expression: one mind—five thousand bodies. This dog shit orchestrated by record spinners with ridiculous one-word names brought to mind household cleaning products or machine parts—Italian shoes, perhaps.

      Sam watched Frankie get out of the Escalade, stretch his arms to the vast cloud-dotted sky and then go back and open the rear door of the expensive SUV. After lifting out the leather satchel he’d picked up at the hotel desk when they arrived, package coming courtesy of Federal Express, Frankie returned to the front seat, unzipped the bag and brought out a pair of new-looking binoculars. “See these beauties, Sammy? Bob bought ’em for me, man. Nikon Security Binoculars—ten by fifty—whatever the hell that means. Bring the distance in close, they do. You can see the sweat on a sunbather’s ninnies from half a kilometer.”

      “Must

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