boulevard. And you’d have to have world-class hunger going on for that to happen.
The sidewalk was heating up now and Jimmy felt grime on his skin, the swirling wind kicking up particles of sand. He was moving away from the tall and breezy glass-and-steel moderns into an area of older, smaller structures and soon the surroundings were familiar. And then there it was, angling off to his left, the street he was on last night.
Bayside Motel.
That was it. The café he wanted was across the street from the Bayside Motel. And the motel was a block removed from being truly bayside. Evidently close enough for horseshoes and Texans. Moving slowly, checking out oncoming foot traffic like he was running a fast break in slow motion, Jimmy saw the Bayside Motel sign up ahead of him.
Cyn hadn’t slept very well but the room wasn’t the problem. Accommodations at the Bayside Motel were decent, regardless of the parking lot view from her window. Stopping her mind from flying every which way but where she wanted was the problem. She was still torn up from calling home last night, Danny sounding cute and cuddly and unsuspecting while she lied and told him she’d be home soon, not really knowing if she would or not. Big Dan, however, couldn’t hide his anger and frustration, snapping off clipped words in Danny’s presence and then getting down to it when the boy ran off to play, telling Cyn she was insane, neurotic and delusional and commanding her to return home immediately.
Well, that kind of stuff wasn’t going to work on her anymore. A couple hours alone with his kid and the man was already stressed out. Big dummy could handle the lowlifes and the scofflaws but panicked handling a five-year-old kid. John Wayne’s legacy coming home to roost.
Standing in a beige bra and panties in front of the mirror, Cyn looked at herself and fluffed her blond hair. Should she get it cut or let it grow? The fitness efforts were starting to pay dividends. Seeing stress lines in her face, she resolved to be strong. She’d only been gone one night. Her boy was with his father. Why was she so worried? Had she become so dependent on routine that even the thought of change caused panic? Seemed so. Needed to be worked on. Time to find her pioneering spirit. Think positive and meet the world face-on and try to make things work. Wasn’t that the message in all the magazine articles about women’s empowerment? Cyn knew she was beautiful. Knew she was powerful. Knew she was strong. And, most of all, knew she was lovable.
She just had to prove it to everyone else.
Come on, Cyn, one step at a time and first things first.
Get in the shower and then have breakfast. She’d seen a cute diner across the street, the Sand Dollar Café. Nerves were eroding her appetite but you had to have something in your stomach. New beginnings needed fuel and firmness and resolve.
Should she call her parents and have them pick up Danny or was it too soon for that? Maybe she should call and reassure them. Or first call Jean and explain things so Jean could tell the parents. But you could never predict how Jean might spin it, her sister often too caught up with herself to listen properly, so that was a potential problem.
Cyn’s stomach did a few somersaults as she went into the bathroom, slipped out of her underwear and turned on the water in the shower stall.
6
Gray clouds roiling below his window, Sam Arndt pressed his hands against his stomach and gazed out along the wing as the puddle jumper airplane bounced and dipped in the unruly sky. Rough ride all the way from San Antonio and it wasn’t getting any better as they approached Corpus Christi. Getting downright scary in fact, goddamnit. This connector flight, Sam was now recalling, was on the same airline that recently had one of its planes land at the wrong airstrip, pilot putting down at an old Navy runway several miles from the Corpus Christi commercial airport. Now Sam knew why the travel guides advised against connector flights on these small planes undoubtedly held together with bailing wire and duct tape.
Death tube, Frankie Neelan called it when they boarded in San Antonio, the words shrinking Sam’s nut sack. But Frankie the big Irish prick wasn’t doing so well now, was he? Neelan’s oversized red head was jammed down on a pillow in his lap, been that way for the last five minutes as the plane dropped and shook in the turbulence.
In the middle of the next weightless, gut churning free fall, Sam heard a loud bang outside his window, metallic and sharp like a piece of wing falling off or a bolt snapping.
Goddamnit, man, what the hell?
Sam turned his head toward the sound then tried his best to act nonchalant as Frankie’s spiky red head jerked up above the seat back; Frankie’s eyes open wide, jaw muscles twitching. “What the fuck was that?” Frankie said, loud enough for everyone in the plane to hear. The passengers ignored Frankie but Sam noticed a lot of them gripping the seat arms a little tighter behind their masks of exaggerated indifference.
“Just the gremlins having some fun with us, Frankie,” Sam said. He was enjoying the fear he saw in the Irishman’s eyes. It made him feel stronger. “Do not despair, we’ll be on the ground soon.” Laying it on thick.
“As long as it’s not too soon,” Neelan said, turning back around, his neck stretched out and looking tight.
Big goof seems like a nice enough guy for one of Ryan’s thugs, Sam thought. A little fear makes him seem almost human. Sam was beginning to sense some possibilities, noting the chinks in the big boy’s armor. Half a foot taller but could he go the distance?
Ten minutes later Sam was breathing easier as the wheels touched down on the runway and the plane went into its shaking, rattling, rapid slowdown phase. Another escape from the jaws of death. Heavenly virgins would have to wait for a while. Although Sam was never really on board with the virgins-as-heavenly-reward concept, not being a Muslim and having known only ugly virgins in his time in America, almost thirty years now.
Shuffling around in the terminal waiting for the luggage, Sam studied Frankie, the tall rangy kid’s body language getting back to brave and upright now that they were safely on the ground. Sam was thinking the goon’s square red head was a big enough target, should he have to put one in there someday. But he was hoping it wouldn’t come down to that.
“We need a cab, Frankie?” Sam asked. “There’s several out front.”
“Bob said some bloke would be here for us. One of Bob’s border boys.”
“Border boys?”
“What he calls them. Fancies himself an international mucky-muck, Bob does. Wants you to believe he’s got eyes in all corners of the globe.”
“Maybe he does.”
“Not likely,” Frankie said, shaking his head and staring at the slot where suitcases, were popping out.
Sam picked his suitcase off the shiny metal track and rolled it outside into the warm mist. Air was soft and mild, despite the slight rain, and a great deal gentler on Sam’s Middle Eastern flesh than Minnesota this time of year. Soothing. Looking across the pavement, Sam saw a light-skinned Mexican standing in front of a black Chevy Suburban, the man holding a hunk of cardboard with Frankie scrawled across it in black magic marker. Sam watched with a little resentment as Frankie came out of the terminal wheeling his bag and went up to the guy, said a few words. The Mex made a face resembling a growl more than a smile and motioned toward the idling SUV.
This stunk. But at least he wasn’t bouncing around in the sky anymore. Sam crossed the street with his bag and climbed in the back seat of the SUV. He pulled his bag in and watched the Mex driver hand Frankie a small parcel wrapped in butcher paper. Assuming it was a gun, Sam waited for his package. But nothing came and then he remembered how sick he was of the back of Frankie Neelan’s large square head. Stuck with it on the plane and now there the mick was in the front seat of the SUV and Sam was trapped behind that big, ugly red thing again, goddamnit. Sam leaned back in the seat and shrugged on the inside. You can’t fight fate; you can only adapt was his longtime motto. Had served him well in his previous journeys.
Sam entertained no doubts about the pecking order here. Bob Ryan was in charge