To Sleep Gently Read online

  "Fuck it," he said to himself, and thought about how there was no sense in worrying about the one that got away.

  Chapter Three

  When he pulled into the driveway of 1045 Coyote's End Trail around ten o'clock that night, Dempster was more than ready to be out of the car. After a while the driving had become just like being in a mobile prison cell, in which he couldn't get out as the world passed him by, and he had no choice but to keep a sharp focus on it.

  The night was dark and peaceful, with a million stars sparkling through it like jewels. The air was warm and pleasant and dryer than he was used to.

  Even though it was dark, he could tell the house was big. Also that it was isolated. Rented through a friend of Freddy's—he had no idea who—it had been promised to have scenic beauty, wilderness, and seclusion. Even at this time of night and after such a long drive, there was no doubt that it had these amenities.

  The lights were on inside. Dempster studied the place a while, watched a quick shadow pass by a curtained window. As he made his way to the door, his ears honed away from the night song of crickets and in on rock 'n' roll. He didn't like this as a welcome. It was already destroying the peace he'd finally felt when he climbed out of the car.

  At the front door he hesitated, debated whether he should knock or just walk in.

  To hell with it. He turned the knob, and stepped inside.

  The music became louder. The place was hot and stuffy and smelled like stale beer and cigarette smoke. There were clothes strewn about and the television was on with the volume down and no one watching it. Around the television, as well as around the stereo beside it, was a series of empty beer bottles, ranging from Heineken and New Castle to Coors and Budweiser, and from what he guessed to be the kitchen, he heard voices and laughter.

  Goddammit all to hell.

  Just then someone entered the room, beer to his lips and head tilted back. As he walked over to the stereo and pressed a button on it, he didn't even notice Dempster. The song playing came to an abrupt end, and a second later another song began. The guy cranked the volume up even more, then turned around and caught sight of Dempster standing in the room.

  Startled, he dropped his beer, which shattered on the tile floor.

  "Turn it off," Dempster told him.

  The drunken idiot just stood there, dumbfounded. He almost seemed to be shrinking.

  Dempster crossed the room and switched off the stereo. While he was at it he shut off the TV too.

  "Hey," came a voice from the kitchen. "What are you doing to our tunes?"

  "Answer him," Dempster said.

  "Um..." The kid's eyes flickered nervously from Dempster to the kitchen and back again. He stood like an uprooted dead tree. Skinny as a nail but not nearly as mean looking, more like someone that would fall over if you blinked too hard in his direction. Dempster didn't like him. "I think you guys better come in here." He looked at Dempster for approval.

  Dempster didn't give him any.

  Two men entered the room. Each had a beer in his hand. A cigarette dangled from the mouth of the one on the left. The one on the right, given the presence he embodied, appeared to be the one in charge. He was stocky and standing strong, but weakness and surprise showed clearly through his feigned cool.

  Dempster didn't like these guys either.

  "Something we can help you with, sir?" This from the stocky one. His tone was also feigned self-confidence.

  "Which one of you is Wolfe?"

  "That would be me," the stocky one said. "You the guy?"

  Dempster looked around the disaster of the room again, then took in the sight of the three idiots, the first standing above his shattered beer with his tail between his legs, the second merely confused and smoking, the third trying to keep charge.

  "I should have expected something like this."

  "Something like what?" Wolfe asked.

  Dempster threw him a look. "This the way your parents raised you?"

  "What'd you mean?"

  "What is this?" the guy with the cigarette asked. "This some kind of chaperone party?"

  "Look, pal," Wolfe said, "we don't take kindly to people barging in unannounced and acting like an asshole and making trouble."

  Dempster spun on the man and slapped him so hard it echoed.

  The other two guys, rather than advancing on Dempster, each took a step back.

  Dempster narrowed his eyes at them. "That's nice, real nice," he said. "Glad to know what kind of backup I got. First sign of trouble and you retreat. I feel really confident about this whole thing now." A frustrated sigh escaped him as he looked at each of them in turn.

  Then, "Yeah, I'm the guy. I'm the guy that just pulled in all the way from fucking Ohio. The one you were all told about, I'm sure. Now, I'm gonna ask you three mooks just one thing, and I want you to be real damn honest with me. Do you behave like this all the time, or is this just a one night stand?"

  The three of them exchanged glances. Dempster waited, feigning patience.

  Wolfe, with his hand on his cheek and a different, weaker tone of voice, asked, "What business is it of yours? What do you care?"

  Dempster raised his hand again and the boy cowered. After a second, realizing he wasn't going to be struck, the kid resumed his original stance, holding it with less confidence than before. His cheek had gone red.

  "I ask because you idiots are clearly irresponsible," Dempster told them. "You're messy. You're unaware, and you obviously don't give a shit. Now, if this is the way you are every day of your life, then to hell with you all. You can just get the hell out. I'm not wasting my time and I'm certainly not going to waste Mister Skeele's time on a bunch of loser fuck-ups. If this is your constant behavior, then there are about fifty million ways you can fuck up what we are all here to do, and I have no tolerance for that—none whatsoever. I don't want your blood on my hands and I definitely don't want mine on yours." He walked to the man with the cigarette, plucked the cigarette from the man's hand, and dropped it to the floor. "However," he said, "if this is not every night behavior, and you fellows are just having a good time, blowing off some steam, maybe getting psyched up or something, and you'll be cleaning this all up and getting ready to get to work tomorrow, then let's do just that." He stepped away. "It's up to you."

  A long silence played out. A deaf silence, like right after an explosion. Dempster stood, waiting.

  "Of course," the one that'd had the cigarette said. His voice quavered and sounded like sand. "Course it's just a one night thing, ain't it, guys?"

  "Yeah," the first guy said, still seeming to shrink. "We were just blowing off steam, like—like you said. We always do this. I mean, we always do this right before a job. Right before we get serious and down to business."

  Dempster shifted his focus from one to the other, not in the least bit convinced. Then he brought it to Wolfe, who now stood with his shoulders slumped and his head down, as though he were trying to admire his own shoes.

  "What about you, tough guy?"

  Slowly, Wolfe shook his head. "No." He lifted his head and looked Dempster right in the eye. "We don't do this every night."

  Once again Dempster looked at each in turn. A weight of despair tugged at him and he couldn't help questioning the whole deal. He had been worried from the start, and now he knew that it had been with good cause. These guys were in fact, for all practical purposes, a bunch of mooks.

  Dammit all to hell again.

  "Okay," Dempster said. "I just want things clear from the get-go." He patted the kid's shoulder. "I'm Dempster. You're Wolfe."

  "Evan Wolfe."

  "Who are these two?"

  "This here's Clark"—he indicated the one who'd been smoking—"and that's Jimmy."

  Dempster nodded to each of them. They both responded the same way.

  Back to Evan Wolfe. "So what's the score so far?"

  "We just got here a couple days ago," Evan said, his tone lightening, becoming more conversational. "The tourism is just
starting to pick up and really get going. Gardner—our guy on the inside—he says that the place should be busting at the seams in about another week or two. He's taking all kinds of hotshot reservations."

  "I wanna meet this Gardner guy."

  "You will. He'll be stopping by in another day or two."

  "Is he in touch with Mister Skeele?"

  "Sure. Everybody needs to be in touch with everybody, right?"

  "Okay, then I'm gonna go get my things. Where's the master bedroom?"

  "What's that?"

  "I'll take the master bedroom, if you don't mind."

  Evan, with anger flaring in his eyes, clenched one hand into a fist, then simply nodded. "Yeah, all right," he said. "I'll move my things out of it."

  "Good."

  Dempster turned and went out to the car.

  When he got there, he climbed in and shut the door, then took out his cell phone and dialed Freddy Skeele back in Ohio.

  "Hey, Freddy, it's Dempster."

  "Hiya, Demp. You in Santa Fe?"

  "Yeah, I just got in. Listen, I'm sorry to call you so late, but I need to ask you about these imbeciles you're sticking me with. What's their story?"

  "Oh, they're all right. They're good men."

  "I'm not sure I trust them, if you want my honest opinion. They seem like completely unreliable assholes."

  "You can trust them. Don't worry about it. I'll admit, they're young and maybe even a bit wild at times. They certainly aren't in your league. Of course very few are these days. Times change, Dempster. Sadly, most of the really good ones are gone. But trust me, when it comes down to doing their job, they're professional as can be."

  "All right," Dempster said. "If you say they're okay, then they're okay. When are you gonna be in Albuquerque?"

  "I'll be there the day after tomorrow. You'll get the number and address immediately."

  "All right."

  2

  "I don't like him," Evan said to Clark and Jimmy, staring at the front door. "Smug son of a bitch, comes in and starts pushing us around. Slaps me in the face."

  "I wouldn't try crossing any lines with him," Jimmy said, cleaning his shattered beer up from the floor. "He's kind of a legend in this world, you know, not someone you want on your bad side, I don't think."

  "To hell with that," Evan said. "He's not in charge. He's no more in charge than any of the rest of us."

  "Don't be stupid," Clark said, lighting a fresh cigarette.

  "Who are you calling stupid? He's not so tough. We could take him if we had to."

  "Maybe," Clark said, "but we're not gonna. You start anything with that guy, Evan, you're gonna find yourself doing it alone. You won't be getting any help from me, anyway. We need that man. Need him a lot more than he needs us."

  Evan looked at the door again and clenched his fists, then drew a breath and resigned. "Okay, maybe you're right. But I still say he's a smug son of a bitch."

  "No one disagreed with that," Clark said.

  3

  Dempster unpacked the things Freddy Skeele had supplied him with. There was an uneasy feeling in his gut as he removed the clothing and toiletries, the extra pair of shoes, the wad of cash, the false identification naming him Jack Driscoll, and the Colt Series 70 Government .45 and its rounds. None of these things were the cause of his apprehension, however. Rather it was where he found himself now, as opposed to earlier this afternoon, or yesterday, or the day before or the one before that.

  Time moves quickly, he said to himself as he placed a couple of shirts into the drawer second from the top of his dresser. Changes are erratic.

  He looked about the large room with its king-sized bed and expensive furniture, its southwestern paintings hanging on the walls. Probably one of the nicest rooms he'd ever stayed in. Even had a private bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub.

  Yet despite the luxury he found himself in, through the door and just down the hall were three individuals he still considered, at this time, to be risks. They had to know he was showing up today. Hell, Evan said it himself:

  Everybody needs to be in touch with everybody, right?

  Right, so why was the place such a dump? A beautiful home and the first thing they do is trash it. Can't be sure of anything when the others involved leave so much crap behind, make such huge messes and have clearly been drinking since the moment they arrived. That's not professional. It's not even irresponsible—it's just downright dumb, which makes all of this downright dangerous.

  He would have preferred to be back in Oklahoma, walking along with Sandra Colvin, talking with her in stimulating ways, having her hand slip into his and squeeze tight. He knew he could have kissed her. That would have been very nice. He had wanted to do that; but he hadn't, and was glad. He couldn't allow it to be more than ships passing in the night. He'd gone his way and she'd gone hers, and now all that remained was the sweet memory of a brief encounter, and that's all there was to it. That's all there was ever going to be.

  A knock came at the door.

  "Come in."

  It was Clark. He stood in the doorway, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat for longer than he should have had to. Then, "I just wanna apologize," he said, "for all three of us but mostly for my friend. Evan likes to think of himself as the boss and, well, having a real professional brought in sort of threatened him, I think."

  "That's his problem," Dempster said.

  "True," Clark said, looking down at the floor. "But look, the different levels of experience aside, okay? Given that we're all in this together, and we're going to be spending a lot of time together, whether we like it or not, at least for a little while...if we can't be friends, can we at least not want to kill each other?"

  "How does your friend feel about that?"

  "Oh, he agrees, we all agree. Evan just sometimes gets overly confident, that's all. Me and Jimmy, we try harder to keep a grasp on the situation."

  "That why you both backed away when I bitch-slapped him?"

  "Thing is," Clark said, "we all know who you are. You're not some two-bit crook like the three of us. You're the big time, man. Honestly, we're sort of honored to be working with you, especially on your first job since—"

  "Can I get back to what I'm doing, or is there something else you need, Clark?"

  Clark stuttered and removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Just spoke with Gardner," he said. "He's coming by tomorrow."

  "Good."

  "He'll have a layout of the hotel with him too."

  "Fine."

  "I'll let you get back to whatever you're doing now."

  "Make sure you close the door."

  Clark lipped a cigarette and left. Dempster loaded his gun.

  Chapter Four

  At ten the next morning, Dempster came out of his room to find the place in immaculate condition. It hadn't been long after Clark had left last night that Dempster had collapsed onto his bed and succumbed to a deep sleep. He was pleased to find that, as the hours had winked by, the words he had spoken to his three new roommates had taken hold, and they'd done something about it. The beer bottles were all gone from around the television and stereo. There were no clothes strewn about, no garbage, and it appeared that someone had even gone over the floors with a broom. When he entered the kitchen it smelled faintly of disinfectant, the countertops shined like new, and he saw Evan, Clark and Jimmy, all sitting around the table reading different sections of the newspaper, with bowls of cereal and cups of coffee in front of them.

  Clark looked up and said, "Good morning," and when he did the other two did the same.

  "There are bowls and spoons and stuff over there," Jimmy said, "and there's a mug next to the coffee maker for you."

  Dempster fought an urge to smile. Instead he crossed the room to pour himself some coffee and said, "The place looks great."

  "We started on it last night after you sacked out," Clark said. "The hardest part was respecting your sleep as we cleared out all the bottles."

  Dempster took a
seat at the table and sipped his coffee.

  "Aren't you gonna eat anything?" Jimmy asked.

  "This will be fine for now. My stomach isn't awake yet."

  Evan brought down his paper and looked at him. His face was darkened and there was fire in his eyes, but his voice came off chipper enough when he asked Dempster if he had slept well.

  "I slept fine," Dempster told him. "Thank you."

  "Good," Evan said. "Everyone needs their rest. Can't be walking around half dead, not in the line of work we're in."

  Dempster took a slow deep breath, then said quietly, "That's right," and had another sip of coffee.

  If there's one to worry about, Dempster said to himself, it's that one right there. There's something about him that's just not sitting right. You can't let him get to you, though. If you let him get to you, he's gonna figure it out, and he might try to play upon that, might even try to pull something, and that's the last thing anyone needs. You've dealt with many people tougher than him— much tougher. So don't let him get to you.

  He looked across the table and saw that Jimmy's lips moved as he read.

  For a while there was no sound in the room. Dempster found his eyes ceaselessly patrolling the kitchen for no good reason. A natural instinct, perhaps, one as natural as blinking, only it had been lying dormant for several years and was just kicking back into gear since his release. Since he'd come back to real life.

  He watched Clark set down his paper, ease back and light up a cigarette. Breakfast time seemed to be coming to an end.

  Dempster said to him, "You told me last night that Gardner is coming by today."

  Clark sucked on his cigarette. "That's right," he said. Two trails of uprising smoke eased from his nose. "Should be bringing by a layout of the hotel."

  "What time is he showing up?"

  "Probably somewhere between five and six."

  "All right. I have to run into town. Have some other business to attend to. I'll be back by then." He got up and carried his coffee over to the kitchen telephone, where beside it sat a phonebook. He flipped through the yellow pages until he found the hotel section, located the Eldorado, saw it was on West San Francisco Street, and committed the address to memory.