Jackson shook his head. 'No. Things were going downhill even before all this happened. I knew I wouldn't hear anything from her in prison. It's not really her style, is it? Visiting her man in prison with all the other trailer trash wives and girlfriends.'

'I suppose not,' Dixie said and rubbed his nose with the heel of his hand. He took a sip of warm coke to ease the dryness in the back of his throat. What the hell made him bring this up?

Rachel had been a friend of Ellie's and Dixie had introduced her to Jackson. The four of them had spent some time together—even gone on vacation—during Jackson's roller coaster relationship with her. But Jackson was right; he couldn't imagine her visiting him in prison, even if the relationship had been on one of its highs when he got sent down. She'd moved on by then.

'Does she still live in the same place?' Jackson asked.

'As far as I know.'

'Maybe I'll drop round,' Jackson said with a grin. 'I'm sure she'd be pleased to see me.'

But Dixie wasn't listening to him. An idea had taken root in his mind and the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He smiled to himself. Yes.

Jackson gripped his arm and shook him. 'Hello?'

'Sorry. I've just had an idea,' Dixie said, his attention snapping back to Jackson's confused face. 'I think she might be staying with her.'

'What are you talking about? Who's staying with who?'

Dixie knew he was grinning stupidly. He couldn't help himself. He leaned towards Jackson and grasped his arm. 'I didn't think of her before. Seeing you reminded me. Ellie must be hiding somewhere. She wouldn't want to stay in a hotel because she knows I could get somebody to check.'

Jackson put his hand over his face, pulled it down, closing his eyes for a moment. 'Isn't it a bit obvious? A bit too easy for you to find her.'

'Not really.' He let go of Jackson's arm, started tapping his fingers on the bar. 'I haven't seen her for . . . over two years. It's only talking to you made me think of her. It's got to be worth a try. I've got nothing to lose.'

'What are you going to do if you find her?'

Dixie thought about it. He wasn't sure what he was going to do. Despite his initial reaction at the self-storage facility he didn't think he'd be able to actually do anything to her, to hurt her, however much she might deserve it. He'd probably just do what she'd done to him—take the money and run.

'I don't know yet, but I know one thing for sure.'

'What's that?'

'We're looking at a fifty-fifty split now. Congratulations, you just earned another half million dollars.'

Jackson's grin split his face in two. He raised his hand for a high five. Dixie looked at his hand and shook his head.

'I must have made a mistake—I thought you'd only been inside two years. Looks like it was twenty. Nobody does that stuff any more.'

Jackson curled the hand into a fist and punched him on the arm instead.

'That's what I call a good day's work.' He raised his glass in a salute. 'Let's do it again.'

Dixie laughed. 'Sounds good to me. What about Friday?'

 

Chapter 39

Earl Munroe sat in his pickup and picked his nose absently. Country music played softly on the radio. He listened to Willie Nelson singing On the Road Again while he inspected the contents of his nose on his fingernail and tried to calm down. If it was up to him, Willie'd be in the White House and the country would be a better place all round. Hell, he sure couldn't do a worse job than the peanut farmers and second-rate movie actors and all the rest of them. He wiped a large booger carefully on his pants and slammed the heel of his hand into the dash. He thought about what had just happened in the bar. At times like this his tongue—what was left of it—felt like it was on fire as his teeth gnashed uselessly against each other inside his cheek.

He knew a gook-loving, commie faggot when he saw one. Hell, the pussy was even drinking Coca Cola. He wouldn't have been surprised if he'd had one of those bendy straws or maybe a cocktail umbrella in it. Cocked his pinkie while he sipped it too. Earl wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer but even he knew it rotted your teeth. And that wasn't all. They'd thrown him out after just the one beer. He always got two free beers before they gave him the bum's rush. Was it his fault they let a cock-sucking commie faggot into the place? What did they expect him to do? Pretend the guy wasn't there? Act like there's nothing wrong? Give him a big kiss?

He twisted his left arm and pulled the fabric of his sleeve taut so he could look at the latest patch he'd sewn on. He would have been happier if it had been a little straighter and more in line with the others, but hey-ho. His momma had been much better at it than he was before she passed away, but then she would be, sewing being a woman's job an' all. His fingers were way too big and shook too much. They didn't used to shake. Besides, it wasn't so bad and it was the sentiment that mattered: Don't let the gray hair fool you; we can still kick ass.

He settled back in the seat and let the music wash over him while he waited for the commie faggot and his faggoty friend to come out. Jesus Christ, you couldn't get away from them these days. Anyone would think he'd moved to San Fag-cisco. Things had been different when he was young, that was for sure. They knew how to deal with them back then. On top of which, the guy now owed him a beer. He didn't look like the kind of guy who paid his dues either.

He leaned across and opened the glove compartment, checked to make sure his Colt M1911 was still in there. There was more than one way of paying your dues.

Chapter 40

The young woman with the long, dark hair paused with her key halfway into the lock of number twenty-three. At first she ignored the name being called behind her. She was tall and attractive with the sort of figure that made other women—the ugly, fat ones mainly—want to spit in her face. She had a good bust with maybe a little too much meat on her thighs and well-rounded ass, but it was all in proportion and she was used to men calling out to her in the street. But then she laughed to herself. Even now she sometimes forgot to respond to her new name—Christ, she still hadn’t got round to changing all her documents. Where did the time go? She turned round at the sound of the name being called a second time.

'Yes?' she said as a large brown fist crashed into the side of her jaw.

Her head snapped sideways and her legs crumpled. Strong hands caught her under her armpits and held her up. The key was still in the lock. The guy who'd hit her reached across and opened the door and the one holding her hustled her inside. The first one followed them in and shut the door behind them.

The guy holding her dragged her down the hallway to the kitchen. If she hadn't still been dizzy from the punch she might have thought: it's always the kitchen.

But it made sense (if you were a psychopath). Lots of good stuff in there—knives, hot plates, boiling water, Drano, you name it.

The guy holding her let go of her and she stood looking at them, gently swaying. She put a hand up to her jaw. Ow! Why do people do that? It hurt when she touched it just like she knew it would. Her whole face throbbed, her teeth felt like they'd been knocked loose.

The two guys let her get herself together for a moment. They both looked Mexican, although neither of them looked particularly nasty. Not the sort of men to make you cross the street if you saw them coming towards you on the sidewalk. Appearances could be deceptive, obviously. She didn't know how they'd managed to creep up on her. Probably because her mind had been on other things.