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Geoff and Sal woke up late on Tuesday. By the time they showered and left the motel it was already four in the afternoon. They drove into Owenton to find the Owen Lodge. When they arrived, the man running the front desk reported that Pierre Jackson was a not a registered guest. Not that they expected it to be that easy. Geoff and Sal found a truck stop diner and killed some time over breakfast and coffee.
From behind his mug, Sal said, “Geoff, stop worrying. Did you think we were just going to knock on the guy’s door, hit him and go home?”
“You have to admit, Sal, normally we know something about the guy we’re meeting. Where he works, where he lives, his gym, his mistress’ apartment. You know what we have on this guy? ‘He looks like Elvis.’ I guess we’re supposed to drive around—where the fuck are we?—drive around with our heads out the window like dogs, looking for the guy?”
“He’s a transient, Anton said.”
“Great. So he could thumb a ride out of town any minute.”
“He won’t. He wouldn’t get Anton’s money if he left town. It’s the whole reason he came back here from New York in the first place, remember?”
“So he’s here. Hey, how about we put an ad in the personals? How do you not see the problem, Sal? We have to find this guy before Friday.”
“Don’t forget Anton’s woman.”
“Aw, Christ. And we got to find that trick too. We don’t know where she is either, do we?”
“Is that a nice thing to say? She’s doing a favor for our uncle.”
“Sal, stop acting like you’re a saint. I’m just saying, we don’t have a lot to go on.”
“They can’t all be easy.”
“None of them are easy. But I expect ‘possible’.”
“She’s not even getting here until tonight. Hopefully, the thing will be done, we’ll call her on the phone number Anton gave us, and we’ll all make a big U-turn.”
Geoff pounded catsup on the last of his eggs. “I was thinking we should split up. I could take the car; you could work this strip here. We’ll check out all the bars and fast food joints.”
“You’re not taking the car.”
“Why should I walk around all night?”
“What if you get pulled over? The car is rented in my name.”
“Sal, I won’t get pulled over.”
“But what if?”
“Jesus. I’ll walk. What if one of us finds the guy?”
“You hit him, get a ride back to the motel and call me. Or in my case, I’ll drive.”
“Funny. How about I’ll hit him and call you for a ride?”
“Fine, but if we don’t hear from each other, we still meet at the motel before sunrise.” Sal held up both hands in front of his face and wiggled all ten fingers.
“And don’t forget to do his nails.”
Geoff wiggled back. “No prints. Meet at the motel. Got it.”
***
Sal left Geoff at the diner and went to the gift shop to buy a map of Owenton. Other than Main Street, there were three small highways leading into town. Sal asked the cashier if there was a homeless shelter in town and she smiled sweetly, saying that they didn’t have a homeless problem. She directed him to the town’s Baptist church, which did have a shelter, but according to the minister no one had stayed there for over a year.
He started his search by driving thirty miles north out Highway 127, stopping at every diner or bar along the way. Every now and then, he’d spot someone who he felt it was safe to ask a few questions—a young waitress hurrying to wrap up her shift so she could run out and meet her boyfriend, a drunk construction worker spending a good part of his day’s cash at the bar—but no one knew Pierre Jackson. He drove for hours, heading further away from Owenton each time he hit a new highway.
It was just after 10 p.m. when Sal spotted Pierre hitchhiking on Highway 22. He slowed down to get a good look at him, passing him at about 15 miles an hour. Right height. Fucked up sideburns. Right weight. Hitchhiking. Exactly as Sal imagined him. He stopped a few yards up, turned in the middle of the road and drove back to Pierre.
“Heading back to Owenton?” Pierre called out.
“Yeah, sure. Get in.” Sal leaned over the front seat and opened the door.
“Thanks.” Pierre pulled a beer can from under his shirt and opened it with a hiss, offering it to Sal. “Want some?”
Sal shook his head.
“Suit yourself.”
They turned back toward town and drove for a few miles without talking. Pierre didn’t notice when Sal unzipped his fanny pack and pulled the Glock. “Hey. Over here.”
Pierre looked over to find the barrel of a gun pointed at his forehead. He dropped his beer over the side of the car.
Sal was driving with one hand, the other arm remained extended. “I know who you are. Now, you don’t know me, but I bet you can guess who sent me.”
“What is this about?” He was sweating and starting to squirm. “Just tell me what it’s about and, and you’ll see. You’ll see we can work something out.”
“Sorry. You negotiated yourself into this, but you can’t negotiate your way out. It has already been decided that this is your fate. Just sit still. Don’t move, or I’ll blow your brains all over this rental. We’re going to get this over with as soon as I find a stretch of woods where we can pull over.”
Pierre started crying. “Look man, I swear I don’t know what this is about. Just tell me. I don’t have any money. I can get some. Is that what you want?”
Sal shook his head. “You got some balls talking to me about money. Know what? No more talking.” He eventually turned down a dirt utility road and cut the lights.
“Put your hands on the dashboard.”
Pierre did as he was told, saying, “Can’t we talk about this?” He started to shake.
Sal pulled on two latex gloves, put a hypodermic between his teeth like a cigarette and stuck the gun to Pierre’s head. “Get out of the car and walk over there to that tree.”
They both hurried out of the car. Pierre had wet his pants. He was crying. “What’s in that needle, man? I don’t do drugs. I drink and, and I cheat on my girlfrend, that’s all. Shit, is this what this is about? Did Gina do this? Goddamn, just let me go. I’ll disappear, I’ll...”
“Watch your language.” Sal prepared the needle. “Lay down on your back and stop crying. Take a few deep breaths and this will all be over in a minute.”
Pierre laid in the damp leaves and took deep, choppy breaths. His arms were crossed on his chest. “Please don’t. What is that stuff? Please. I’ll just go away. Whatever it is, I’ll go away.”
Sal put the gun to his head. “Give me your arm.” He looked Pierre in the eyes. “If you have any confessions, now is the time. You can’t fight it. Just let the angels take you home.”
Pierre let Sal uncross his arms. He squeezed until a suitable vein appeared and injected the burnt russet liquid. He put the needle back in his pack and turned around while the nicotine ran roughshod over Pierre’s heart muscles. Sal could never watch a kill. All the gurgling, gasping for air and retching in the world was fine. He just couldn’t stand to see the last twitches. A man’s final moments were personal, Sal felt, and nothing he needed to be a part of.
When the rustling stopped, Sal turned back around. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and shined the tiny flashlight into Pierre’s eyes to see if he was dead or just in a coma. He was dead. Sal took the hunting knife from his pack and chopped off each of Pierre’s fingertips, which became messy and took an unfortunate amount of sawing. He wiped down Pierre’s nose and face with an alcohol swab then destroyed Pierre’s teeth, chipping them with the chisel and hammer until they were an unrecognizable, jagged crop. He gathered the tooth fragments and the fingertips, sealing them in a small Ziploc bag. The first faint smell of decay was already coming from Pierre’s mouth. Sal closed the eyes, closed the mouth, and laid the body out flat on his back, legs straight out, arms down by his sides, palms up. Corpse pose. Sal once dated a yoga instructor, and when he found out the name of this pose, he started using it professionally. He loved the symbolism.
Sal backed out slowly onto Highway 22. On his way back to the motel, he tossed Pierre’s fingertips out of the car one at a time, into the fields and ditches, with at least a mile between each one. Then he did the same with the teeth. He shoved the bloody bags and gloves into his fanny pack, cruised back to the motel in Bromley and took a shower.
With his splattered clothes soaking in the tub, Sal emptied the remaining hypodermics into the sink and called Geoff on his cell phone. He got no answer but left a message, saying, “Yo, Geoff. I saw that guy I was telling you about. Give me a call. I’m at the motel now, but I’m going to run out and grab a bite. See you soon.”
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