Hard news - Jeffery Deaver [81]
Motion is like smooth whisky. Motion, like a drug. Randy Boggs kept up his meditation.
And the best part of all—when you’re driving, you’re a moving target. You’re the safest you can ever be. Nothing can hurt you. Not bad love, not a job, not your kin, not the devil himself …
“Crabs,” Nestor said. “Keep an eye out for a crab place.”
They couldn’t find any and instead got cheeseburgers at McDonald’s, which Boggs preferred to crabs anyway and Nestor said was better for him because he was on a diet.
They drank beer out of tall Double-Arches waxed cups they’d emptied of soft drink. They drove the speed limit but at Boggs’s request had rolled down all the windows; it seemed like they were racing at a hundred miles an hour.
Randy Boggs lowered the passenger seat and sat back, sucking the beer through a straw, and ate a double cheeseburger and thought again about freedom and moving and realized that was why prison had been so hard for him. That there are people who have to stay put and people who have to move and he was a mover.
These were thoughts he had and that he believed were true in some universal way. But they were thoughts that he didn’t tell to Jack Nestor. Not that Jack was a stupid man. No, he’d probably understand but he was somebody Boggs didn’t want to share much with.
“So,” Jack Nestor asked, “how’s it feel?”
“Feels good. Feels real good.”
“How ‘bout that little girl back there. She’s a pistol. You get any?”
“Naw, wasn’t that way.”
“Didn’t seem to have any tits to speak of.”
“She was more like a friend, you know. Wish I could’ve leveled with her.”
“Did what you had to though.”
“I understand that. Couldn’t’ve stayed Inside for any longer, Jack. I gave it my best. But I had to get out. Somebody was moving on me.”
“Spades?”
“Nope. Was an asshole from, I don’t know, Colombia or someplace. Venezuela. For some reason he didn’t take to me. Got cut.”
“Cut, huh?”
“Two weeks ago. Hardly hurts anymore.”
“Yeah, I was cut once. I didn’t like it. Better to get shot. Kind of more numb.”
“Prefer to avoid either.”
“That’s a good way to think,” Nestor offered. He was in a good mood. He was talking about restaurants down in Florida and fishing for tarpon and the quality of the pot they had down there and this Cuban woman with big tits and a tattoo somebody’d given her with his teeth and a Parker pen. Talking about the heat. About a house he was buying and how he had to live in a fucking hotel until the place was ready.
“How long to Atlanta?” Boggs asked.
“Tomorrow. Then I’m going on to Florida. You interested in coming with me, you’d be welcome. You like spic women?”
“Never had me one.”
“Don’t know what you’re missing.”
“That a fact?”
“Yessir. One I’s telling you ‘bout? Man, she could probably do both of us at once.”
Boggs thought he’d pass on that. “I don’t know.”
“Well, just keep ‘er in mind. So you gonna pick up that money?”
“Yessir.”
“You got the passbook with you?”
“Got her good and safe.”
Nestor said, “Funny about how that works. You just let some money sit in the bank and there she be, earning interest every day. They just throw a few more dollars into the till. And you don’t do nothing.”
“Yeah.”
“Bet you made yourself another ten thousand dollars.”
“You think, no foolin’?”
“For sure. I think that account earns maybe five, six percent.”
Boggs felt a warm feeling. He hadn’t remembered about interest. He’d never had a savings account to speak of.
“You know, there’s something you ought to think about. You hear about all those bank failures?”
“What’s that?”
“A lot of savings and loans went under. People lost money.”
“Hell you say.”
“Happens a lot. Last couple of years. Didn’t you watch the news Inside?”
“Usually was cartoons and the game we were watching.” Boggs was tired. He put the seat way back. The last car he’d owned was a big ‘76 Pontiac with a bench seat that didn’t recline. He liked this car. He thought he was going to buy himself a car, a new one. He lay back, closed his