Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [20]
Tate wasn’t behind the bar, which meant he was probably in the office in back. Paul had never seen him hurt anyone firsthand, but there was almost a hum of violence about him. Like a lot people around Mercer, he had a side job that was more lucrative than his main one, as a kind of supervisor—more like pimp, Terry liked to say—for the couriers who took product back and forth between L.A. and the north. He had a stable of drivers of all ages and backgrounds, and was quick to let them go if they didn’t execute perfectly.
Paul sat down at the bar, feeling the envelope in his front pocket bend. He smelled menthols and perfume. The woman on the next stool spun to get a look at him. It was Deena, Terry’s first ex-wife.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Paul Hansen, Jr.,” she said, in her sultriest voice.
“Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?” It was their running joke.
Paul was glad to see her. If anyone knew about what was going on under the surface in Mercer, she did. She had a fat man’s capacity for booze and a marine’s discipline when it was time to stop.
“Seen Terry lately?” he asked her.
“Nope.”
“Is he behind on his checks again?”
“Nope. Maybe he took a run up to Spirit Rock, for old times’ sake.” Spirit Rock was the Indian casino outside Tulac. “If you see him, give him a kiss.”
Before Paul could get the bartender’s attention, Deena said, “Two more John Dalys”—Arnold Palmers with vodka. They made small talk for a while. When it became clear she wasn’t going to dish up the gossip, he asked her what the latest was.
“Hmm, I guess nothing. Unless you count ‘Mysterious Plane Explodes.’”
“Come on, there’s always something.”
“Okay,” Deena said in a stage whisper, leaning toward him. “But this one is not for general consumption.”
“Agreed,” said Paul.
“You know Sheriff Ed’s hot little wife? Turns out she might have dipped a toe into some very, shall we say, deep waters. From what I hear, things could get really complicated really soon for her. I really shouldn’t be talking about this.” Then she drained her drink. “You know, I think I just reached my quota. See ya, sweetie.”
Paul turned to the bartender on shift. “Tate around today?”
“Your name?”
“Paul Hansen.”
Without another word, the bartender went to the back of the bar and into the office. He came out and gave Paul the okay with a thumb over the shoulder.
Paul went back and through the open office door. Tate was sitting behind a big metal desk.
“Have a seat,” Tate said, and Paul did.
“I have some money for you from Terry.” He handed over the envelope.
Tate didn’t even look inside. “Where is he?” he asked.
“No idea,” Paul lied. “He dropped this off at my place.”
“How much is here?”
“Two thousand.”
Tate shook his head a little. “One more time. Where is he?”
“If I knew, I’d tell you,” Paul said, looking him in the eye but not overdoing it. He could lie okay.
Tate lowered his head, put his elbows up on the desk, and stroked his ponytail hand-over-hand.
“Can I go?” Paul asked.
Still no reply. After a few moments Paul tentatively stood up and started back toward the bar. Before Paul reached the door, Tate said, “Tell Terry I won’t take any more payments.”
“Okay,” Paul said. When he got Tate’s meaning, he added, “How much is the whole thing?”
Tate gave him a look like it was an interesting philosophical question. “All of it,” he said.
Paul sat in his truck, trying to pull himself together. His first impulse was to get out of there, to just flee from whatever insanity had overtaken Mercer. If he had been alone, he might have done it, too—headed to the coast for a few weeks. But Lacey depended on him to keep the business running, and money was tight even before the day’s unexpected expense. Paul decided to go straight to the only person who was tied to the body. Whatever was going on, Darryl was involved in it, and probably deeper than Paul was.
Paul hadn’t been out to Darryl’s house for almost a year—not since he and Darryl had argued about the best way to water an associate’s big hillside plot. Darryl was the best irrigation