Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [86]
“What the?” said Rafael. “Is that him?”
Egan got into his Audi and peeled out.
Rafael waited a few seconds, then followed.
“Smell that?” Paul asked as they passed his driveway.
Rafael inhaled. “Whoa, menthols? Who is this guy?”
They tailed him onto the northbound highway. Halfway to Tulac, he pulled into a truckstop.
“Don’t tell me it’s date night for the doctor,” said Rafael.
They pulled in behind an idling semi and they watched Egan get out and use the pay phone in front of the bathroom hut.
“A doctor who can’t afford a cell phone?” said Rafael.
“Or can’t afford to be triangulated,” said Paul.
Judging by the way Egan slammed the receiver, the conversation wasn’t a successful one. Egan walked in a huff back to his car and peeled out again, continuing north. He took the first Tulac exit and turned into a trailer park on the outskirts of town.
“Manzanita Meadows,” said Rafael, reading the sign across the park’s arched entryway. “Good stripper name. No offense.”
“Again, none taken,” said Paul.
They couldn’t follow Egan into the trailer park without being seen, but from the street they could see him approach one of the trailers carrying a paper bag, go inside, and depart five minutes later, returning to the northbound highway. A few miles later he took the exit to Spirit Rock, the Indian casino.
Egan parked in a distant corner of the big parking lot, where there were plenty of empty spaces. Rafael found a spot a few rows away, facing the doctor’s Audi. It was dark now; they could see the ember of Egan’s cigarette behind his steering wheel.
After ten minutes the parking lot’s fluorescent lights flickered on. A black Lincoln with tinted windows rolled up into the space next to Egan’s. Egan got out of his car and into the Lincoln’s driver-side rear door. After a few minutes, the opposite door opened and Egan came tumbling out.
His face was unmarked, but he was curled in fetal position, holding his sides.
“No smoking in their car, I guess,” Rafael said.
“Lost his Kool,” said Paul.
The Lincoln pulled away and left the parking lot. Still snickering, they discussed following it but decided to watch Egan’s next move instead. He’d made it up to his knees by the time a security guard came over to investigate. Rafael and Paul watched Egan talk his way out of it, flashing a self-deprecating smile, probably making up a story about a jealous boyfriend or practical joke.
The guard let him go and they tailed him all the way back home.
“No more house calls tonight,” said Paul.
They watched from across the street as he staggered up his steps.
“So much for vanilla,” said Rafael.
“I don’t know,” Paul said. “For a menthol-smoking, truckstop-loitering, drug-dealing, casino-beatdown-taking doctor, he still seems kind of . . . blah.”
NOTES:
Lisa,
Now that you’re getting the final chapter, I thought I should accelerate things a bit.
Sorry about your beloved Dr. Egan. That’s what happens when you create a character about as compelling as a collar stay. Note, however, that I didn’t feel the need to kill him. One more difference between you and me.
Dave
P.S. I’d love to see the supposed list of authors you approached for my role. I feel like I took a bullet for every one of them.
Dave,
When I came up with the idea, the obvious choice was to go with a crime novelist, specifically a published one. But then I thought of you and figured this might be a way to mend some fences. If it makes you feel any better, you were only number 4 on the list. David Corbett claimed to be too busy, Tim Maleeny really was too busy, and Domenic Stansberry said he’d get back to me after he read one of my books. I’m still waiting. To be honest, if I had it to do over again, you’d be number 5. I should have asked John Vorhaus. He totally owes me. Satisfied? I’m sure you haven’t heard of any of these people, since the last time you picked up a genre novel was Ellroy in the nineties, but they’re all well respected and published and understand that when you start with a dead body, you eventually