took a drag on his Camel. Lyle said, “And don’t go throwing that Camel on the ground. You always see in cop shows where somebody finds a cigarette butt.”
Cappy nodded again, and Joe and Lyle put on the gloves and together rolled the dead men into the contractor’s bags, while Cappy sat in the van door and watched. When they hoisted the bodies into the back of the van, thought Joe Mack, they looked exactly like dead men in garbage bags.
“Don’t want to go driving around like this,” Cappy said.
“No, we don’t,” Lyle Mack said. “I know a place we can dump them. I got lost one day, driving around. Way back in the sticks. Won’t find them until spring, or maybe never.”
To his brother: “Joe Mack, you take their car, drop it off at the Target by their house.”
They scraped up the last bit of blood, wiped the grain scoop with a horse towel, and threw the towel in another bag, along with the rubber gloves. “Burn that when we get back to the bar,” Lyle Mack said. “Take no chances.”
“How far to the dump-off spot?” Cappy asked.
“Eight or nine miles. Back road, nobody goes there. We can put them under this little bridge. Hardly have to get out of the van. No cops, no stops.”
“What about the woman that saw me?” Joe Mack asked.
“We gotta talk about that,” Lyle Mack said. He looked at Cappy.
“What woman?” Cappy asked.
3
SAME TIME, SAME STATION, doing it all over again.
Weather slept less well, with the anxiety of the prior day weighing her down. Again she got up in the dark, dressed, spoke quietly with Lucas, and went down to a quick breakfast and the car. Driving down the vacant night streets, to University, along University to the hospital complex. Nothing in her mind but the babies.
Alain Barakat waited for her, one flight up from the security door he’d opened the morning before, freezing in his parka, smoking. The place was a nightmare; dark, brutally cold. Barakat had grown up in the north of Lebanon, with beaches and palm trees. That he should wind up in this place ...
When he finished here, one more year, he would move to Paris. He’d gone online and found that his American medical certificate was good in France, though there would be some paperwork. Paris. Or maybe LA.
Only one good thing about Minneapolis: he could still get Gauloises, smuggled down from Canada. No: two good things.
The cocaine.
He took a long drag and thought about going back inside. Fuck this. He had nothing to do with anybody being dead.
BUT OF COURSE he did. The whole thing had been his idea. He’d seen a chance to steal a pharmacy key, and he’d taken it, without even knowing why at that moment. Or maybe he’d known why, but not how ...
Barakat had started with cocaine at the Sorbonne, buying it from a fellow student who was working his way through college. He’d tried other stuff, uppers, downers, a little marijuana, a peyote button once, but none of it did it for him: the idea wasn’t less control, it was more control.
That’s what you got from the cocaine.
It had helped him through med school, but after that, in Miami, getting cocaine had not been a problem. Once in Minneapolis, for his residency, he’d asked around, found a guy who was recommended as a source for decent marijuana, the imported stuff down from Canada. A guy like that knew where to get cocaine.
So he bought his coke from a dealer named Lonnie, and then from a redneck named Rick, who took over Lonnie’s route when Lonnie moved to Birmingham. Then Rick got hurt in a motorcycle accident, hurt really bad, and Barakat went stone cold sober for a week and a half, and it almost killed him.
One day Joe Mack showed up on his porch with a free baggie of blow.
Like the cocaine Welcome Wagon.
“Our friend Rick said you were one of his best guys, but he’s gonna be out of it for a while ...”
At that point, Barakat was spending eight hundred dollars a week on cocaine, with no way to get more money. He hung
Cappy nodded again, and Joe and Lyle put on the gloves and together rolled the dead men into the contractor’s bags, while Cappy sat in the van door and watched. When they hoisted the bodies into the back of the van, thought Joe Mack, they looked exactly like dead men in garbage bags.
“Don’t want to go driving around like this,” Cappy said.
“No, we don’t,” Lyle Mack said. “I know a place we can dump them. I got lost one day, driving around. Way back in the sticks. Won’t find them until spring, or maybe never.”
To his brother: “Joe Mack, you take their car, drop it off at the Target by their house.”
They scraped up the last bit of blood, wiped the grain scoop with a horse towel, and threw the towel in another bag, along with the rubber gloves. “Burn that when we get back to the bar,” Lyle Mack said. “Take no chances.”
“How far to the dump-off spot?” Cappy asked.
“Eight or nine miles. Back road, nobody goes there. We can put them under this little bridge. Hardly have to get out of the van. No cops, no stops.”
“What about the woman that saw me?” Joe Mack asked.
“We gotta talk about that,” Lyle Mack said. He looked at Cappy.
“What woman?” Cappy asked.
3
SAME TIME, SAME STATION, doing it all over again.
Weather slept less well, with the anxiety of the prior day weighing her down. Again she got up in the dark, dressed, spoke quietly with Lucas, and went down to a quick breakfast and the car. Driving down the vacant night streets, to University, along University to the hospital complex. Nothing in her mind but the babies.
Alain Barakat waited for her, one flight up from the security door he’d opened the morning before, freezing in his parka, smoking. The place was a nightmare; dark, brutally cold. Barakat had grown up in the north of Lebanon, with beaches and palm trees. That he should wind up in this place ...
When he finished here, one more year, he would move to Paris. He’d gone online and found that his American medical certificate was good in France, though there would be some paperwork. Paris. Or maybe LA.
Only one good thing about Minneapolis: he could still get Gauloises, smuggled down from Canada. No: two good things.
The cocaine.
He took a long drag and thought about going back inside. Fuck this. He had nothing to do with anybody being dead.
BUT OF COURSE he did. The whole thing had been his idea. He’d seen a chance to steal a pharmacy key, and he’d taken it, without even knowing why at that moment. Or maybe he’d known why, but not how ...
Barakat had started with cocaine at the Sorbonne, buying it from a fellow student who was working his way through college. He’d tried other stuff, uppers, downers, a little marijuana, a peyote button once, but none of it did it for him: the idea wasn’t less control, it was more control.
That’s what you got from the cocaine.
It had helped him through med school, but after that, in Miami, getting cocaine had not been a problem. Once in Minneapolis, for his residency, he’d asked around, found a guy who was recommended as a source for decent marijuana, the imported stuff down from Canada. A guy like that knew where to get cocaine.
So he bought his coke from a dealer named Lonnie, and then from a redneck named Rick, who took over Lonnie’s route when Lonnie moved to Birmingham. Then Rick got hurt in a motorcycle accident, hurt really bad, and Barakat went stone cold sober for a week and a half, and it almost killed him.
One day Joe Mack showed up on his porch with a free baggie of blow.
Like the cocaine Welcome Wagon.
“Our friend Rick said you were one of his best guys, but he’s gonna be out of it for a while ...”
At that point, Barakat was spending eight hundred dollars a week on cocaine, with no way to get more money. He hung
Similar Books
