Read Online The Empress File by John Sandford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Sandford
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“I like it.”
Marvel looked at him in surprise, then took another turn around the room before she finally nodded.
“All right. I guess we’re in. When do you start?”
I glanced at LuEllen and told them the first lie.
W E ’ D BE IN Memphis for a couple of days, getting some equipment and taking care of last-minute personal business, I said. Marvel suggested that we eat dinner together that night, but LuEllen vetoed the idea.
“We can’t be seen with you,” she said. “Even this meeting is risky. We’re talking about felonies. If there’s ever a trial, I don’t want to be tied to you guys by a waitress or a bellhop or a maître d’ or anybody else.”
“That’s kind of pessimistic,” Marvel said.
“I’m a pro,” LuEllen answered. “I’ve never been arrested on the job because I try to think of everything in advance. If they ever do get me, I want them to have as little as possible.”
The decision to attack the town had been a mood elevator. LuEllen’s comments sobered them up, and by six o’clock they were gone. The minute they were out the door, LuEllen made a call.Five minutes later we were standing on a curb along the riverfront.
“We’re running late,” I said. “If they don’t show soon…”
“They will. These guys are good.”
“Better be,” I said. I was getting cranked and turned away. Below us a string of barges was pushing upriver, driven by a tow called the
Elvis Doherty.
The pilot sat in his glass cage, smoking a pipe, reading what looked like one of those fat beach novels that come out every June. At the tow’s stern an American flag, grimy with stains from the diesel smoke, hung limply off a mast between the boat’s twin stacks. I was watching the tow, thinking that it would make a very bad Norman Rockwell painting. LuEllen was watching the street.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” she muttered. I turned in time to see a blue Continental turning a corner a block away, followed by a coffee brown Chrysler. Neither was a year old. LuEllen held up a hand, as though she were flagging a taxi, and the two cars slid smoothly to the curb.
“Take the Ford,” she said. She picked up a black nylon suitcase that she’d carried up from the
Fanny
and headed for the Chrysler. I stepped into the street as the driver got out of the Continental, the car still turning over with a deep, un-Continental-like rumble. The driver, a heavyset, red-faced guy with no neck, a Hawaiian shirt,and zebra-striped shorts, peeled off a pair of leather driving gloves.
“Go easy on the gas till you’re used to it,” he said laconically. “It’s clean inside.”
That said, he walked around the back of the car, joined the driver of the Chrysler, and they strolled away down the sidewalk. LuEllen waved and got into the Chrysler. I climbed into the Continental, pulled on my own driving gloves, and spent a minute figuring out where the car’s controls were. Then I shifted into drive and touched the gas pedal. The Continental took off like a young Porsche. I never looked under the hood or figured out what LuEllen’s friends had done to the suspension, but you could have taken the car to Talladega. On the way to Longstreet I found a stretch of flat, open highway and pushed it a bit, climbed through 120, had plenty of pedal left, and chickened out.
“T HAT WAS STUPID ,” LuEllen snapped. We were in the Wal-Mart shopping center on the edge of Longstreet, with a couple of hundred other cars. It was not quite dark. “A fuckin’ speeding ticket would have killed us.”
She was in her preentry flow, a weird state of mental focus that excluded everything but the job at hand. She would not be a pleasant woman to be with, not for a while, but she would be frighteningly efficient. “Sorry,” I said, and I was.
“Stay with the program, goddamn it.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s time.”
We took the Chrysler, as the less noticeable of the two cars. LuEllen drove downtown, taking the routes
Marvel looked at him in surprise, then took another turn around the room before she finally nodded.
“All right. I guess we’re in. When do you start?”
I glanced at LuEllen and told them the first lie.
W E ’ D BE IN Memphis for a couple of days, getting some equipment and taking care of last-minute personal business, I said. Marvel suggested that we eat dinner together that night, but LuEllen vetoed the idea.
“We can’t be seen with you,” she said. “Even this meeting is risky. We’re talking about felonies. If there’s ever a trial, I don’t want to be tied to you guys by a waitress or a bellhop or a maître d’ or anybody else.”
“That’s kind of pessimistic,” Marvel said.
“I’m a pro,” LuEllen answered. “I’ve never been arrested on the job because I try to think of everything in advance. If they ever do get me, I want them to have as little as possible.”
The decision to attack the town had been a mood elevator. LuEllen’s comments sobered them up, and by six o’clock they were gone. The minute they were out the door, LuEllen made a call.Five minutes later we were standing on a curb along the riverfront.
“We’re running late,” I said. “If they don’t show soon…”
“They will. These guys are good.”
“Better be,” I said. I was getting cranked and turned away. Below us a string of barges was pushing upriver, driven by a tow called the
Elvis Doherty.
The pilot sat in his glass cage, smoking a pipe, reading what looked like one of those fat beach novels that come out every June. At the tow’s stern an American flag, grimy with stains from the diesel smoke, hung limply off a mast between the boat’s twin stacks. I was watching the tow, thinking that it would make a very bad Norman Rockwell painting. LuEllen was watching the street.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” she muttered. I turned in time to see a blue Continental turning a corner a block away, followed by a coffee brown Chrysler. Neither was a year old. LuEllen held up a hand, as though she were flagging a taxi, and the two cars slid smoothly to the curb.
“Take the Ford,” she said. She picked up a black nylon suitcase that she’d carried up from the
Fanny
and headed for the Chrysler. I stepped into the street as the driver got out of the Continental, the car still turning over with a deep, un-Continental-like rumble. The driver, a heavyset, red-faced guy with no neck, a Hawaiian shirt,and zebra-striped shorts, peeled off a pair of leather driving gloves.
“Go easy on the gas till you’re used to it,” he said laconically. “It’s clean inside.”
That said, he walked around the back of the car, joined the driver of the Chrysler, and they strolled away down the sidewalk. LuEllen waved and got into the Chrysler. I climbed into the Continental, pulled on my own driving gloves, and spent a minute figuring out where the car’s controls were. Then I shifted into drive and touched the gas pedal. The Continental took off like a young Porsche. I never looked under the hood or figured out what LuEllen’s friends had done to the suspension, but you could have taken the car to Talladega. On the way to Longstreet I found a stretch of flat, open highway and pushed it a bit, climbed through 120, had plenty of pedal left, and chickened out.
“T HAT WAS STUPID ,” LuEllen snapped. We were in the Wal-Mart shopping center on the edge of Longstreet, with a couple of hundred other cars. It was not quite dark. “A fuckin’ speeding ticket would have killed us.”
She was in her preentry flow, a weird state of mental focus that excluded everything but the job at hand. She would not be a pleasant woman to be with, not for a while, but she would be frighteningly efficient. “Sorry,” I said, and I was.
“Stay with the program, goddamn it.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s time.”
We took the Chrysler, as the less noticeable of the two cars. LuEllen drove downtown, taking the routes
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