To Sleep Gently Read online

  "Not yet. Getting ready to leave soon."

  "What's up?"

  "I just wanted to check in, see how things were coming along. Have the boys whipped into shape?"

  "I think they'll be fine." Then through a yawn he said, "Yeah, they whipped into shape pretty quick. Much faster than I'd expected, actually."

  "Good, and have you met Gardner yet?"

  "Went over the layout with him yesterday."

  "How does it look?"

  "Looks pretty good so far. I don't see any real problems with it."

  "Good, I'm glad to hear you say that."

  "But honestly, Freddy, I don't mean to sound disrespectful or anything, but I don't like Gardner. I trust him like I'd trust an angry Great White shark."

  "Demp, I'm starting to get the feeling," Freddy said with a chuckle, "that you don't like anybody the first time you meet them."

  "I don't trust anybody the first time I meet them. Not anybody in this line of work." He walked into the bathroom and filled a glass with tap water. "If anything goes wrong, that man is gonna talk. Even if things go right, I think he's gonna talk—to somebody." The water was cold. It felt good on his dry throat and helped refresh him into the day. He studied himself in the bathroom mirror briefly, not sure what to make of the reflection.

  "All right," Freddy said. "What do you want to do about it?"

  "Not much we can do, is there?"

  The sound of birds for a moment.

  Then, "Look," Freddy said, "you know I'm not going to steer you into some bum deal."

  "I never said anything of the sort."

  "I had a good long talk with Gardner the day you left Ohio. He understands the score."

  "Understanding it and being a part of it are two different things," Dempster said, thinking back to his conversation with Sandra in Oklahoma about people who play tricks on themselves.

  "He's a part of it," Freddy told him. "He's an integral part."

  "I'm just saying is all." He drank down the rest of his water. "If he talks, if he blows this—and this doesn't just go for Gardner, it goes for the other guys as well. If I find out this thing is fucked, I swear I'll kill all four of them."

  "It won't come to that."

  "I hope you're right."

  "It won't." A tense, uncomfortable pause, then, "I gotta go. We're heading out in just a few minutes. Charlie or I will call you this afternoon or evening, all right?"

  "All right."

  The moment he hung up, a confrontation broke out down the hall.

  2

  "Jesus, man, let him go."

  Clark stood in one of the bedroom doorways, face twisted in a disgusted grimace. When he saw Dempster he backed out, and in the bedroom Dempster saw Jimmy on his knees with Evan on top of him, a thick arm wrapped around his throat, the other arm over his face, covering his eyes, and he was pulling backwards, a knee pressed into Jimmy's back.

  "What's going on?"

  "Son of a bitch was going through my bag," Evan said through gritted teeth.

  "I swear I wasn't." Jimmy choked, gasped for breath.

  "Hell you weren't, I saw you."

  "You got it wrong," Jimmy cried.

  "All right," Dempster said stepping into the room, "let him go."

  "Break his goddamn neck is what I'm gonna do."

  "I said let him go."

  Evan threw him a wild glare. At the very same second Dempster's fist cracked him in the eye. Evan's head snapped to one side and Jimmy fell away from his arms. Both men collapsed to the floor, Jimmy trying to swallow air, Evan with his hands on his face.

  "You're not in a fucking schoolyard," Dempster told them.

  Evan sat up, a small gash at the corner of his left eye.

  Still sucking air, Jimmy rubbed his neck, glanced at Evan and then to the floor. "I swear I wasn't going through your bag," he said.

  "Then just what the hell were you doing with it?"

  "Moving it," Jimmy said, and Dempster saw tears in the man's eyes. "You obviously didn't notice, but you tossed your bag on top of mine this morning. You happened to walk in right when I picked it up to move it."

  "Bullshit," Evan said.

  "Why the hell would I want to go through your bag?"

  "I dunno," Evan licked his fingers and brought them to his eye, "why would you?"

  "The only reason I had for touching your stupid bag was to get it off of my bag."

  Dempster studied Evan studying Jimmy. There was strength and confidence, a subtle yet sinister grin playing about his lips. Jimmy, on the other hand, was practically crying, still drawing deep breaths, his face red.

  The dynamic these two had was scary.

  Evan looked over at Dempster. He looked him up and down. His grin widened just the slightest bit, and his expression seemed to say, "Stay out of my business."

  Dempster answered him with his eyes. "What's gonna stop me?"

  Evan read it, checked it, and thankfully decided not to test it.

  "Why so freaked about your bag, anyway?" Clark asked, then stuffed a cigarette between his lips and fumbled around for his lighter.

  "My bag, isn't it? My personal belongings. My privacy. How would you feel if I was going through your shit?"

  "I'd at least have enough sense to ask what you were doing first," Clark told him, and found his lighter. "I'd at least do that much."

  "Well, maybe we'll just have to see about that," Evan told him.

  Clark lit his cigarette. "The hell's that supposed to mean?"

  "All right," Dempster said, "that's enough. Just shut the hell up, all of you. You're acting like goddamn third graders. Any second you're gonna start pointing fingers saying who started it."

  "Now, hang on," Evan said.

  "Shut up," Dempster snapped, then paused, and finally shook his head. "I thought you guys were getting better, growing up." The sigh that escaped him sounded like wind through trees. "Now I see that's all a crock."

  "Jesus Christ," Evan said. "Who do you think you are? Big tough man steps into the picture and starts telling us what to do and what not to do. Big tough man wants to boss us around. Big tough man who screwed up and got nabbed by the cops and spent the last five years behind bars." He sneered. "Why should we be listening to you?" A long pause played out. Taut silence enveloped everything. Then, "But you're right about one thing," he said, "we're not in a fucking schoolyard, we're not in the third grade, so you"—he pointed at Dempster—"stop acting like the goddamn teacher."

  Dempster studied the man's cold dark eyes. To his surprise, it was the first time that he felt a genuine respect for Evan Wolfe. It also solidified in his mind the fact that somewhere down the line, there was going to be some very serious trouble.

  "If you have a problem with me," Dempster said. "If you have a problem with the way things are, feel free to call Mister Skeele and talk to him about it. Or feel free to swing at me." He stepped closer. "If it'll make you feel better then go ahead. Hit me. Prove to yourself that you've got guts."

  Evan clenched both hands into tight fists. His face flushed and his arms shook. Then, in the blink of an eye, his fingers relaxed. "Forget it," he said. "You're a waste of my time."

  "I'm a waste of time? Barely out of diapers and I'm a waste of time?"

  "Hold on," Clark said, trying to interfere.

  "Shut up," Dempster told him. He looked at each of them individually, then as a whole, and sighed once more. "Pack your shit and get out."

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "Now wait a minute—"

  "I'm tired of waiting. Get going."

  "Now come on," Jimmy said. "We have just as much right on this thing as you do. Mister Skeele hired us all. We need this job. We all need this job."

  "That's right," Dempster said, "and you said you would do anything to make sure it goes right. So here's what we're gonna do." He poked his finger into Evan's chest. "You've been given a chance to split. If you stay, mark my word, I'll kill any one of you that doesn't do what
I tell them, got it?"

  "Yeah," Clark said stepping between everybody, the peacekeeper. "Yeah, we get it. Nothing like this will happen again, right guys?"

  Evan and Jimmy glared at one another.

  Then, "Right," Jimmy said softly, defeated.

  That sinister grin returned to Evan's face, larger than before. "Right," he said, "no more trouble." He looked into Dempster's eyes. "I promise," he said.

  Dissatisfied but forcing himself to let it go, Dempster stepped aside and watched Clark and Evan pass by, leaving the room like punks being herded from a classy restaurant.

  Jimmy stayed behind, fingers fidgeting. He wiped his face, then rubbed his neck. "I really wasn't going into his bag. I was just moving it. I don't want anything to do with his stuff; I don't give a crap. Honest. Why the fuck would I care?"

  Dempster looked at him. You really don't know what you're doing, man, he thought. You're way out of your league. This isn't the line of work for you. You're too good of a person inside, you dumb bastard.

  "Jimmy, have you ever read Nietzsche?"

  "Huh?"

  "Friedrich Nietzsche. Ever read him?"

  Jimmy moved his head slowly from side to side, then wiped his face again.

  "'He who fights with monsters should take care that he himself does not become a monster'." He looked into the hallway and then to Jimmy, who stood confused and concerned, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, face red.

  You fool, Dempster thought. The dumb look in your eyes. Things can't go on this way for you. Get out while you still can—if you still can.

  He looked away and told him, "Get out of my sight."

  Jimmy got up and stumbled out of the room.

  Dempster stood there a moment and regarded the two bags, each nondescript and uninteresting. He couldn't help wondering about Evan's bag, though, given the man's reaction to it being touched. He left and made his way back through the hall to his own room, picturing in his mind the image of himself he'd seen earlier in the bathroom mirror.

  "'When you gaze long into the abyss,'" he concluded, "'the abyss also gazes into you'."

  3

  Hours later, after going over the escape route three times and checking out a couple of alternate routes, Dempster found himself pulling into the parking lot of De Vargas Mall without even thinking about it.

  Stupid asshole, he said to himself, knowing exactly why he'd come here. He'd come to see his old friend Mike Goodman, like he said he would. His best friend since the first grade. The friend he'd smoked his first cigarette with. First discussed girls with. The same friend who once punched him in the face to get his car keys away when he was too drunk to drive. Who stayed up all night to help him with his math homework, and when he still couldn't get it right, let him copy his. Someone who had remained his friend over the years in spite of his many flaws. That's why he was here at the mall, he told himself. To see his best friend.

  More powerful than this, however, though he tried not to admit it, was a desire to see the redheaded girl he'd seen the day before. A burning desire, like match heads flaring. He remembered exactly how she looked. Her soft, clear and pale skin, the only make-up a small bit of lipstick, red to match her hair. Her blue eyes tired and frustrated, giving them an air of indifference that Dempster found appealing. The way she moved, slowly and with a certain poise that went well with the rest of her presentation. She stirred something ferocious and primitive inside him, and he wanted her in incomprehensible ways that brought about an unsettling ache which started in his chest and went down to his knees.

  Contradictory to this, however, he also felt fear. There had been something that drew him like a magnet, while at the same time repelled him.

  He climbed out of the car, pocketed his keys, and made his way to Essentials.

  The music hadn't changed since the day before. Still the same terrible dance song. The lighting was still awful, the atmosphere worse. Instead of heading straight for the book department, this time he took the long way around, through the video section, moving slowly, deliberately, browsing the new releases and others around him. Not a sign did he see of her.

  Mike was in the literature section with some sort of beeper gun, using it to scan barcodes on the backs of books. When the gun made one sound, he placed that book back on the shelf, and when it made another sound, he tossed the book onto a cart.

  "Hey, Perky."

  Mike scanned another book, tossed it onto the cart and looked up. "Hey, Jerky. You have a good night?"

  "Could've been worse." He pulled a copy of The Moviegoer from the shelf. "What about you?"

  "Wasn't bad," Mike said. "Mostly spent the night watching TV."

  "Anything good?"

  "Is there ever anything good on TV?"

  "I dunno. I haven't really seen it in years."

  "There's nothing other than crappy reality shows these days," Mike told him. "Even worse are the reality game shows, where they do things like have ten women each pick an envelope that could have anywhere from zero to a million dollars in it. Then they all date the same guy, and if the guy rejects them, they're out of the game. No love, no money, nothing. If the guy falls in love with one, then that girl has to pick between the love of this man or the envelope." He shook his head and tossed another book onto the cart. "Lame."

  Dempster replaced The Moviegoer on the shelf. "Guess I haven't missed much in that area," he said.

  "You haven't."

  "Say, Mike, I wanna ask you something and it's gonna sound stupid."

  "Won't be the first time."

  "That's true." He reached for a Chuck Palahniuk book then stopped and let his hand drop. "There was a girl working over in the video section last night. Real cute redhead."

  Mike scanned another book, put it back on the shelf. He nodded slowly as he reached for yet another. "That would be Carly," he said.

  Carly. He liked the name.

  "What's her story?"

  "I don't know."

  "What'd you mean you don't know? You work with her, don't you?"

  "Lots of people work here, Demp, and just about everyone hates working here. As a result, we all associate with each other as little as possible."

  "That seems weird."

  "Yeah, maybe, but that's how it is."

  "So you don't know anything about her?"

  "I know her name is Carly. Carly Whittaker." He shrugged. "She seems pretty cool." He threw another book onto the cart and looked up at him. "She's a bit younger than you."

  "She can't be that much younger than me."

  "Don't forget, you did age while you were locked up."

  The statement struck a painful chord inside him. He realized he had no choice but to brush it off.

  "So that's all you can tell me about her."

  "Unfortunately, yeah, I don't have anything else to offer on the subject." He scanned another book. "Sorry."

  Suddenly Dempster's mind clouded with guilt for pushing Mike unfairly.

  "All right, cool," he said. "Whatever. You get your lunch any time soon?"

  "In another twenty or thirty minutes, yeah. Where you wanna go?"

  "So far I've eaten at the pizza place and that's it. We could go there again, or you could pick something else. Doesn't matter to me."

  "Okay, well, I've still got a little while here. I'll think about it."

  For the next fifteen minutes Dempster browsed around the store. He read the backs of a dozen books, found a couple that interested him, but decided not to buy them. He sampled CDs at a listening station and discovered that he didn't like contemporary pop music with the exceptions of Liz Phair and the Hollis Wake. He studied the movie rentals. Some looked good and some looked bad. Some looked abysmal.

  He was reading the back of a video box when his arm bumped the shelf and knocked several movies to the floor. He crouched down to pick them up, and as he gathered them into his arm a pair of feet entered his vision.

  He looked up, then stiffened, staring at the red hair and blue eyes of
Carly Whittaker.

  They were quiet for some moments, ogling one another, each trying to read the other's mind. Up close she was even prettier, and though he felt that it was high time he looked away, he found it impossible.

  "I saw you in here yesterday," she said.

  "Could be," he told her, "given that I was in here yesterday."

  Once again he tried looking away. But her eyes were like magnets that pulled his eyes to hers. He watched her place a hand on her hip, and shift her weight to one leg. She was wearing jeans today, and a white blouse, which made the redness of her hair stand out like flames on a snow hill.

  "Well?" she said.

  Dempster looked deeper into her eyes. She was daring him. "Well what?"

  "You gonna put those movies back on the shelf?"

  He felt the videos in his hands. He'd forgotten he was holding them, and suddenly they were very heavy. He managed to break eye contact, turn, and put them back on the shelf.

  He wasn't sure what his thoughts were, but he didn't want to look at her again. He was afraid that if he turned back and looked into those blue eyes, he would never see anything else as long as he lived.

  "You okay?"

  "Sure."

  "You seem nervous," she said. "Am I scaring you?"

  "I don't scare easily." He knew that much was true.

  He could smell her, feel her electricity. Only now did he realize that she wasn't wearing her green apron. He told himself not to, but looked back into her eyes. And cursed himself.

  "It just seems," she said, "that your I.Q. has suddenly dropped to doorknob status."

  "Thing is." His voice was tight, though he did manage a grin. "I like redheads too much." There was nothing complimentary in the way he said it.

  She smiled as sparks came into her eyes. "In what way?"

  Before he could come up with the proper phrasing, his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, looked at the Caller I.D., and saw that the number was Charlie's cell. Connecting, he said, "Charlie, hang on a second." Then to Carly Whittaker, "See ya."

  She smiled, then turned on her heel and vanished.

  He brought the phone to his ear and asked Charlie what was up.

  "We're in Dallas," Charlie said. "The flight out of here doesn't leave for another hour." He cleared his throat. "We're suddenly having a bit of an issue. Freddy hasn't completely explained it to me but it looks like our fence man in Albuquerque is no longer our fence man."