Killing the Blues - Michael Brandman [10]
“Board of selectmen,” Jesse said.
“I knew it was related to the car thefts.”
“How much,” Jesse said.
“Well,” Hasty said, “seeing as how I have to import them, they’re not gonna be cheap.”
“Come on, Suit,” Jesse said, as he stood up. “We’re going to O’Brien’s.”
“Okay, okay,” Hasty said. “Sit down. Sit down. I’ll discount them.”
“Hasty, these cars are for official business. I’m not here to play footsie with you over the price. I’ll buy them from you only if you’ll undersell the market,” Jesse said. “And the transaction needs to remain confidential. No blabbing.”
“Blabbing. You think I’d blab about this,” Hasty said.
“All over town.”
“You disappoint me, Jesse.”
“Cut the crap, Hasty. Just get the two cars. You have until noon tomorrow. The bill goes directly to Carter Hansen.”
Jesse and Suitcase started to leave.
“I wish I could say it was a pleasure doing business with you,” Hasty said.
“Noon,” Jesse said.
10
The big Greyhound bus pulled off the highway and into the Sun West Service Center just outside Topeka, Kansas.
The driver brought it to a stop in front of the Trail’s End Restaurant & Gift Shoppe and announced to the passengers that the rest period would last for ninety minutes.
Rollo Nurse climbed out of his seat at the rear of the bus, wrestled his shoulder bag from the overhead, and stepped outside.
He stretched and took a deep breath. The air was tangy with the odor of gasoline.
Rollo was tall. He stood six feet two but weighed barely a hundred and seventy-five pounds. He was a most unsightly man. The left side of his face drooped dramatically. His eyes were unbalanced, his mouth lopsided. He oozed unpleasantness.
He sat alone in the Trail’s End Restaurant, eating a chickenfried steak and muttering to himself under his breath.
He was thinking about the big cop from L.A. Rollo knew he had been wrong to challenge the cop by feigning ignorance of the crime. He knew he should have followed his instructions, but he hadn’t. The cop reeked of booze, which had unsettled him.
The cop had hit him with his gun. Twice. In the head. He had attempted to surrender, only to be hit again.
He had gone down hard. He was dazed. His head had hurt terribly. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the big cop standing over him, staring at him, dead-eyed.
He was put in a cell. Alone. Isolated. Over time, the pain receded. But now he had trouble remembering things. He had become vague and uncertain. He was damaged. The cop didn’t have to hit him like that. Didn’t have to hurt him so bad.
He was visited by dark voices that came in the night. They whispered rage. They filled his head with images of vengeance.
Then California’s economy collapsed and he was suddenly free. With no parole restrictions.
Free to go where he wished. Free to do what he wished. Free to heed the dark voices.
The PA system in the restaurant blared the announcement that the Greyhound bus to Boston was now boarding.
Rollo was first in line.
11
When Jesse and Suitcase returned to the station, they found Alexis Richardson sitting in the waiting area, reading a copy of Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers: The Story of Success.
She was wearing a colorful Missoni sweater over dark-rinse blue jeans. Her jet-black hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon. She wore a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. When she noticed Jesse, she looked up at him and smiled.
He invited her to join him in his office. She collected her things and went inside. Jesse exchanged a quick glance with Molly, then went inside himself.
“Thank you for seeing me without notice,” Alexis said.
Jesse leaned back in his chair.
“May I ask you a question, Alexis?”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s just that I can’t help but wonder how a woman like yourself gets a job like this one.”
“I studied public relations in college,” she said. “Then I served an internship with a well-known event planner in New York.”
“Where you actually planned events of your own,” Jesse said.
“Not exactly.”
When Jesse said nothing, she continued.
“The event planner gave me access and taught