Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [75]
“You can call me whatever you want. And I’m guilty of a lot of things. But have you ever known me to exaggerate?”
Not while sober, no. Deke had to admit that. Not even while drunk, come to think of it.
“And one more thing.”
“You means besides dropping everything and traveling to Los Angeles?” Deke asked.
“This is serious. Triple the protection around Kendra and Charlie. They know your address. If they can find you, they can find them. Do you understand?”
“What do you mean they know my address?”
“Swear to God, Deke, I’d only been around these fuckers for maybe a half hour, and it was like they had a complete dossier on me. They know I have a family. They know where I send checks. They’ve either got sponsors who are connected or have enough money to buy connections.”
“Hardie, what have you gotten me into?”
By the time Deke thumbed the Off button on his phone, he’d agreed to drop everything and fly to Los Angeles. He had a go-bag in the closet; he could probably book a flight on the way to the airport—they tended to cut FBI agents slack when it came to last-minute travel. But what the hell was he going to tell his wife? Here, enjoy this plate of carne asada all by your lonesome while I go off and help a guy I’ve bitched about nonstop for three years now?
Hardie placed the receiver back on the base and stared at it for a few moments. There was no man he trusted more than Deke Clark. The agent was essential to his family’s survival. But he knew that Deke didn’t like him much. And never had. Some things, though, transcended the personal.
After a while Lane came limping out in nothing but a towel and started picking through Hardie’s suitcase. She asked if he minded. Hardie said no, of course not, and tried hard not to look. None of his jeans would fit her, of course, but one of the T-shirts worked. Black, advertising a Northeast Philly bar called the Grey Lodge, coming down to midthigh.
Hardie said, “You look a lot better.”
“Ugh. I’m banged up and cut and scraped to hell. I’m finding bruises I didn’t even realize I had this morning. Guess I won’t be on any magazine covers for a while.”
“But you’re alive.”
“I am alive.”
Hardie saw her differently now. Not just because the grime was gone, or because she was wearing his T-shirt. All day he’d more or less dismissed her as a snotty bitch who’d gotten herself into trouble. But for the past three years, their lives had been more similar than Hardie ever would have guessed.
“It’s going to be okay,” Hardie said.
“I know.”
There was an awkward moment of silence before Hardie excused himself and walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The off-white tile walls were still damp with condensation from her shower. Hardie put his palms on the enamel sink and looked at himself in the mirror. Hey, tough guy. How handsome are you?
He stripped off his dirty, bloody clothes—ripping the rest of his T-shirt, actually, because that seemed easier than pulling it over his head. He stepped into the shower, cranked up the water. The pressure sucked. The water spat out in a weird pattern that hurt his skin but didn’t actually get him very wet. But it didn’t matter. As long as he could wash off most of this day. The crusted blood, the smoke, the dirt, the film of sweat. His wounds still bled but at least he could replace the old blood with some new.
After tucking the bottle of Vicodin under the pillow, Lane lay back on the bed and allowed herself the luxury of closing her eyes for a moment. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that without worrying about something—her choices, her career, the incident. Usually when she closed her eyes, the demons would pounce. The middle of the night was the worst. That’s when she’d pop awake and think about all the things that could go wrong in the world. Everything from never working again to drinking too much to a global pandemic to catastrophic financial meltdown to an asteroid smashing into the ocean and obliterating every living thing. She hated the night. The morning sucked, too, because most days the