The brunette stood up. Juan stood up. The cops looked them over.
The cops huddled. One cop shook his head.
The girl walked toward the parking-lot door. Juan followed her.
The lot fed into an alley. The alley was lined with hot-sheet-hotel doorways.
Pete was just outside.
Juan and the girl disappeared. Kemper counted to twenty. A cleanup man started slapping tables with a rag.
Kemper walked outside. A light mist stung his eyes.
Pete was pissing behind a dumpster. Juan and the whore were strolling down the alley. They were moving toward the second doorway on the left-hand side.
Pete saw him. Pete coughed. Pete said, “Kemper, what are you–?”
Pete stopped. Pete said, “Fuck… that’s Juan….”
Pete ran down the alley. The second door on the left opened and closed.
Kemper ran. They hit the door together at a full sprint.
A center hallway ran back to front. Every door on both sides was closed. There was no elevator–the hotel was one story only.
Kemper counted ten doors. Kemper head a stifled screech.
Pete started kicking doors in. He threw his weight left, then right–clean pivots and clean flat-heel shots sheared the doors off their hinges.
The floor shook. Lights snapped on. Sad old sleepy winos cringed and cowered.
Six doors went down. Kemper crashed through number seven with a shoulder snap. A bright ceiling light caught the face-off.
Juan had a knife. The whore had a knife. Juan had a dildo strapped to the crotch of his blue jeans.
Kemper aimed at his head. His one round in the chamber went way wide.
Pete pushed him out of the way. Pete aimed low and fired. Two magnum shots blew out Juan’s kneecaps.
He spun over the bed rail. His left leg dropped off at the knee.
The whore giggled. The whore looked at Pete. Something passed between them.
Pete held Kemper back.
Pete let the whore slit Juan’s throat.
o o o
They drove to a doughnut stand and drank coffee. Kemper felt Dallas ooze into slow motion.
They left Juan there. They walked to the car. They drove off law-abidingly slow.
They didn’t talk. Pete didn’t mention his toy-with-fate number.
This weird adrenaline had everything running in slow motion.
Pete walked over to a pay phone. Kemper watched him feed coins into the slots.
He’s calling Carlos in New Orleans. He’s pleading for your life.
Pete turned his back and hunched over the phone.
He’s saying Banister fucked up. He’s saying Boyd killed the henchman he never should have trusted.
He’s pleading specifics. He’s saying, Give Boyd a piece of the hit–you know he’s a competent guy.
He’s pleading for mercy.
Kemper sipped coffee. Pete hung up and walked back to their table.
“Who’d you call?”
“My wife. I just wanted to tell her I’d be late.”
Kemper smiled. “It doesn’t cost that much money to call your hotel.”
Pete said, “Dallas is pricey. And things are getting more expensive these days.”
Kemper laid on some drawl. “They surely are.”
Pete crumpled his cup. “Can I drop you somewhere?”
“I’ll get a cab to the airport. Littell told that charter man to wait for me.”
“Back to Mississippi?”
“Home’s home, son.”
Pete winked. “Take care, Kemper. And thanks for the ride.”
o o o
His patio booked out on rolling hillsides. The view was damn nice for a discount motel.
He requested a southern exposure. The clerk rented him a cabin apart from the main building.
The flight back was beautiful. The dawn sky was goddamn lustrous.
He fell asleep and woke up at noon. The radio said Jack arrived in Texas.
He called the White House and the Justice Department. Second-string aides rebuffed him.
His name was on some kind of list. They cut him off midway through his salutations.
He called the Dallas SAC. The man refused to talk to him.
He called the Secret Service. The duty officer hung up.
He quit toying with it. He sat on his patio and replayed the ride start to finish.
Shadows turned the hills dark green. His replay kept expanding in slow motion.
He heard footsteps. Ward Littell walked up. He was carrying a brand-new Burbeny raincoat.