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Authors: Dennis Lehane
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everything the same wayâwith that set look on her face, that the-hell-with-you-if-you-canât-keep-up air about her. Could people sleep that way?
She went straight up Merrimack, so we gave her a few blocks, waiting to see if we were the only interested party. It seemed to be the case, and if not, I wasnât about to lose my only lead. We pulled out, and with one last look at my thirty-seven thousand dollars worth of automobileâinsurance company estimate, mind youâwe tailed her through Wickham. She went straight through the center of town and hopped on I-495. I was tired of being in the car and hopedlike hell she didnât have Jenna stowed away in Canada. Thankfully, that didnât seem to be the case, because she got off the expressway a few miles later, turning off into Lansington.
If possible, Lansington is uglier than Wickham, but in imperceptible ways. In most respects, theyâre identical. Lansington just feels dingier.
We were waiting at a traffic light near the center of town, but when the light turned green, Simone didnât move. I felt two cold spades press together around my heart and Angie said, âShit. Think sheâs on to us?â
I said, âUse the horn.â
She did and Simoneâs hand went up in apology as she realized the light had changed. It was the first undetermined thing sheâd done since Iâd seen her, and it felt like a jump start: we were close.
All around us were squat two-story clapboard buildings, circa the late 1800s. Trees were sparse and gnarled in hideous ways where we saw them. The traffic lights were old, still round, no Walk/Donât Walk signals or neon pictures for those who couldnât understand the Walk/Donât Walk parts. The lights made clicking sounds when they changed, and as we drifted along the two-lane road, I felt that we could just as easily have been in rural Georgia or West Virginia.
Ahead of us, Simoneâs left blinker went on, and a fraction of a second later, she pulled off the road into a small dirt parking lot filled with pickup trucks, a Winnebago, a couple of dusty American sports cars, and those wretched testaments to Detroitâs bad tasteâEl Caminos. Two of them. A car that couldnât decide whether it wanted to be a truck; a truck that couldnât decide whether it wanted to be a carâobscene, hybrid results.
Angie kept going and a half mile down the road, we U-turned and went back. The parking lot belonged to a bar. Just like Wickham, you wouldnât have known what it was without the small neon Miller High Life signs in the windows. It was a low two-story building, a little deeper than most of the houses, stretching back an extra ten yards or so. From inside I could hear glasses clinking, a smattering of laughter, the babble of voices, and a Bon Jovi song coming off the jukebox. I amended that last thought; maybe it was just a stereo tuned to a radio station and no one inside had actually paid money to listen to Bon Jovi. Then I looked at the pickups and the bar again, and I wasnât hopeful.
Angie said, âWe going to wait here too?â
âNope. Going in.â
âGoody.â She looked at the building. âThank God Iâm licensed to carry a firearm.â She checked the load in her .38.
âDamn straight,â I said, climbing out of the car. âFirst thing you do when we get inside, shoot the stereo.â
Â
Simone was nowhere in sight when we entered. This was pretty easy to ascertain, because the moment we stepped through the door, everyone stopped moving.
I was wearing jeans, a denim shirt, and a baseball cap. My face looked like Iâd had a disagreement with a pit bull, and the jacket that covered my gun was a raggy, faded army thing. I fit right in.
Angie was wearing a dark blue football jacket with white leather sleeves over a loose white cotton shirt that hung untucked over a pair of black leggings.
Guess which one of us
She went straight up Merrimack, so we gave her a few blocks, waiting to see if we were the only interested party. It seemed to be the case, and if not, I wasnât about to lose my only lead. We pulled out, and with one last look at my thirty-seven thousand dollars worth of automobileâinsurance company estimate, mind youâwe tailed her through Wickham. She went straight through the center of town and hopped on I-495. I was tired of being in the car and hopedlike hell she didnât have Jenna stowed away in Canada. Thankfully, that didnât seem to be the case, because she got off the expressway a few miles later, turning off into Lansington.
If possible, Lansington is uglier than Wickham, but in imperceptible ways. In most respects, theyâre identical. Lansington just feels dingier.
We were waiting at a traffic light near the center of town, but when the light turned green, Simone didnât move. I felt two cold spades press together around my heart and Angie said, âShit. Think sheâs on to us?â
I said, âUse the horn.â
She did and Simoneâs hand went up in apology as she realized the light had changed. It was the first undetermined thing sheâd done since Iâd seen her, and it felt like a jump start: we were close.
All around us were squat two-story clapboard buildings, circa the late 1800s. Trees were sparse and gnarled in hideous ways where we saw them. The traffic lights were old, still round, no Walk/Donât Walk signals or neon pictures for those who couldnât understand the Walk/Donât Walk parts. The lights made clicking sounds when they changed, and as we drifted along the two-lane road, I felt that we could just as easily have been in rural Georgia or West Virginia.
Ahead of us, Simoneâs left blinker went on, and a fraction of a second later, she pulled off the road into a small dirt parking lot filled with pickup trucks, a Winnebago, a couple of dusty American sports cars, and those wretched testaments to Detroitâs bad tasteâEl Caminos. Two of them. A car that couldnât decide whether it wanted to be a truck; a truck that couldnât decide whether it wanted to be a carâobscene, hybrid results.
Angie kept going and a half mile down the road, we U-turned and went back. The parking lot belonged to a bar. Just like Wickham, you wouldnât have known what it was without the small neon Miller High Life signs in the windows. It was a low two-story building, a little deeper than most of the houses, stretching back an extra ten yards or so. From inside I could hear glasses clinking, a smattering of laughter, the babble of voices, and a Bon Jovi song coming off the jukebox. I amended that last thought; maybe it was just a stereo tuned to a radio station and no one inside had actually paid money to listen to Bon Jovi. Then I looked at the pickups and the bar again, and I wasnât hopeful.
Angie said, âWe going to wait here too?â
âNope. Going in.â
âGoody.â She looked at the building. âThank God Iâm licensed to carry a firearm.â She checked the load in her .38.
âDamn straight,â I said, climbing out of the car. âFirst thing you do when we get inside, shoot the stereo.â
Â
Simone was nowhere in sight when we entered. This was pretty easy to ascertain, because the moment we stepped through the door, everyone stopped moving.
I was wearing jeans, a denim shirt, and a baseball cap. My face looked like Iâd had a disagreement with a pit bull, and the jacket that covered my gun was a raggy, faded army thing. I fit right in.
Angie was wearing a dark blue football jacket with white leather sleeves over a loose white cotton shirt that hung untucked over a pair of black leggings.
Guess which one of us
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