November 19 — 7:05 am
That Crazy Bitch’ll Know Someone
Son, you and me, we gonna have one helluva party.
Big Ed was still waiting. Sure, Hiram paid well enough; kept him in booze and bitches, so long as he wasn’t too picky. Big Ed had learned long ago not to order from the top shelf. And three years earlier, when he’d staggered into Westbank delirious with blood loss and fever, Hiram had done right by him. The doctor may have been a veterinarian, but at least the man’s work was sound. Hiram even paid for the electrolarynx—a used, obsolete model—and spread around enough cash to misdirect the investigators from the state police who showed up to ask questions on behalf of the Portland cops. Hiram didn’t like spending good money to fix a fuck-up, but he also knew Big Ed could hurt him if the OSP got hold of him.
In retrospect, the smart move might have been to sink him in a bog. Big Ed expected exactly that during the long, empty days of recovery, laid up in Hiram’s attic staring at the exposed ceiling joists or watching the flies tick against the dusty window. He knew as well as anyone how easy it was to vanish a body in Givern Valley. But in the end, Hiram’s pleasure in owning a man seemed greater than the satisfaction he might derive from putting Big Ed down like a broke leg mule. His life now carried a second mortgage at an interest rate that’d make a payday lender blush. He spent his days intimidating migrant workers, breaking the occasional thumb, and laying low.
This little adventure was supposed to be his redemption, the means through which he’d repurchase at least a partial share in himself. Simple enough: enter the house, grab the little boy and his mother, then out the door and gone. The negotiations would be up to Hiram, but the results were a given. Get the kid, get paid, with some respect as bonus.
No wonder everything went sideways.
All he could figure was the kid bolted from the back of the car while he helped Hiram into the front. More than likely he was back home with his mother and her fucking gun. Which meant they were genuinely screwed. “She won’t call the cops, no worries about that, so long as we make the grab and go.” So Hiram had insisted. But who knew what would happen now? Maybe she still wouldn’t call the cops, though a whole-grain fairy like the husband might talk her in to it. Even if she didn’t, the element of surprise was shot.
They abandoned the Accord in the Mount Tabor parking lot, and hobbled together to the Suburban. Hiram’s bleeding had slowed to a seep, but when Big Ed changed the dish towel it was clear the wound was serious. He managed to get it wrapped tight, then helped Hiram into the passenger seat. Moved around to the driver’s side and climbed in.
When he reached under the seat for the Eagle, Hiram’s tendons rose in his neck. “Just leave the goddamn gun where it is. You have a call to make.”
He felt a muscle twitch in his cheek as he opened his phone and dialed, tapped in Myra’s room number at the motel phone system prompt. Just when he was sure it would kick into voice mail, she answered, her voice raspy and ravaged. “It isn’t even daylight. What are you calling me for?”
“I did not think you ever slept.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“We have a problem. Hiram has been hurt.”
“I told you to be careful.”
He didn’t want to get into it. “Do you know anyone who can deal with a gunshot wound?”
“Christ. What the hell happened?”
“It does not matter.”
“Is he going to die?”
“Do you know anyone or not?”
He heard her light a cigarette, cough. “I know a guy who stitches for some bikers in town. I’ll call you back.” She disconnected before he could respond.
“What’d she say?”
“She says she knows someone. She will call back.”
“You don’t sound happy. Even through that fucking dildo I can hear the gripe in your voice.”
“She is calling some outlaw biker medic.”
“So?”
“You cannot trust a biker, Hiram.”
“I ain’t gonna trust him. I’m gonna buy him. You know how the hell it works.”
Ed put his phone and the electrolarynx in the center console and started the Suburban. Whoever Myra called, they’d need to meet up with her. He left the park and wound down to Burnside, then headed west. Hiram sat quiet, only wincing when the street curved through Laurelhurst, and again when Big Ed slowed abruptly for a police car that appeared at a side street. The cop turned east after the Suburban passed.
“Ed, dammit, call that crazy bitch back. I can’t sit here leaking half the day.” Hiram’s voice was more hiss than clear vocalization. He grabbed the cell phone from the console and tossed it into Ed’s lap. Big Ed couldn’t drive and talk on the phone at the same time, so he tossed the phone back, then stuck the larynx to his throat.
“Goddamn right you need to find the boy. But you need to get this hole in my leg dealt with too.”
“She said she will call back.”
“Today, you think?”
“I can always take you to a hospital.”
“Now you think you’re a comedian.”
A cell phone chirped, the sound muffled.
“About fucking time she got back to—”
“It is your phone, Hiram. Not mine.”
The chirp sounded again and Hiram awkwardly fished into his pocket. “Hello? ... How did you—?” His abrupt silence drew Big Ed’s attention. Hiram listened for a moment, then managed to smile through his pain. “Could be we can work something out. I’ll be in touch. Don’t do nothing stupid.” He closed the phone.
“What is it? That could not have been Myra.”
“It wasn’t.”
Big Ed continued down Burnside, waiting Hiram out. The old man was thinking, rarely a rapid process, if sound in the end. As they neared Myra’s motel, a rattletrap hellhole called the Travel-Inn, Hiram whistled softly through his teeth.
“She called the house. You believe that? Rose gave her my cell.”
“Who?”
“You know the fuck who.” Now Hiram was grinning. “The kid’s still out there somewhere. She doesn’t have him. Now if you can do something right for once in your sorry excuse for a life, maybe we can turn this shit around and get what we came for.”