Hunter (9780698158504) Page 13

  “Pretty good,” Lance said. “You? How are the kitties?”

  “Bold as ever,” Kevin said. “But what can you do? Cats will be cats. You can’t change their nature.”

  Masatoshi’s spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl, and he started to stand as he finished the last spoonful. “OK, I’m done. Gotta get back to work.” Within seconds, he was gone.

  Kevin watched him go. “Masatoshi does not like me, does he?”

  “You’d have to ask him yourself,” Lance said.

  “He lives in a carnival. His best friend hammers spikes into his face. You’d think he’d be more accepting of differences. You’d think he wouldn’t have any hang-ups about how someone dresses.”

  Lance finished the last of his chili and stood up. “Kevin, I’m happy to talk, but I’ve got a lot to do, and I’m driving Josie into town in half an hour. So we have to either put a pin in this now, or you can tag along after me. OK?”

  “Sure, yeah.”

  Lance carried his tray back to the dishwashing area, then led Kevin over toward the Test Your Strength machine.

  He dropped to his knees behind the machine, and pulled his adjustable wrench out of the loop on his belt. “Every couple of weeks we have to retighten the spring. Otherwise the punters win too many tickets. But you know that, right?”

  “No. Why would I know something like that?”

  “Yeah, that’s my point.” Lance lay on his back and fitted the wrench to the large bolt attaching the spring to the machine’s heavy base plate. He gave it a half turn, then stood back up. “You want the truth? No one cares a blind bat’s butt how you dress, Kevin. It’s how you behave. You’re a diva.” He paused while he picked up the large wooden mallet, then added, “And I don’t mean that in a good way. Sure, your act is popular and it brings in punters, but whenever anyone asks you to help out, you’ve always got an excuse. Stand back.” Lance gripped the mallet’s shaft in both hands, then raised it over his head. He slammed the head of the mallet down onto the machine’s target pad. The small counterweight on the end of the target pad shot up and hit the bell with a loud ding. “Needs to be tighter.”

  Kevin began to speak, but Lance cut him off. “Last Monday it took us all day to set up. We could have used your help. What, is it that you don’t like getting your hands dirty? Because if it is something like that, I understand, I really do. Your act requires you to present yourself as a Vegas showgirl, and that wouldn’t be as convincing if you had bulging muscles and your hands were like mine.” Lance dropped the mallet and showed his hands to Kevin. They were covered in scars—new and old—and there was dirt and grease embedded deep in the folds and lines. “But there’s other ways you can help out. We’re a community, Kevin. A family.”

  Lance picked up the wooden mallet again and slammed it down on the pad, and this time the counterweight only reached halfway to the bell. “That’ll do it.” He pulled a rag from his back pocket, spat on it, and started wiping the grease and dust from the machine’s hand-painted front plate, starting with Hercules! and working his way down toward Hah! Wimp! He picked up his wrench and slipped it back into the loop on his belt. “And like any family, no one person is more important than anyone else. You get me? You are not the star of the show.”

  Kevin started to speak, but nothing came out.

  “I’m saying all this as a friend,” Lance said. “If you want everyone to be more friendly to you, you should get involved, be a part of the family. Otherwise . . . Otherwise this might be the best that things are going to get for you.” He smiled. “You want to be Madame Purrina all the time, that’s fine. But every now and then you might have to ditch the high heels and put on a pair of work boots, because things can get muddy around here.”

  Kevin lowered his head again, and softly said, “OK.” Then after a slight pause, he smiled and added, “You’re right. Dirt and grease wash off. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Look, me and Josie are going into town for supplies. Come with us. The cats will be fine on their own for an hour.”

  • • •

  Masatoshi and Lance met with Parker Lethridge in a bar on the road to Wichita Falls, Texas. It was noon on a weekday—the bar was quiet, with only two other patrons on the far side of the dark room.

  Lethridge was tall, barrel-chested, gray-haired, and wearing cowboy boots and a ten-gallon hat. He was sitting in a booth near the door and looked up as they entered, then nodded when he recognized Masatoshi. “Long time.”

  Masatoshi sat down opposite him, and motioned for Lance to do the same. “Yeah. How’ve you been, Parker?”

  Lethridge kept his eyes on Lance as he spoke. “Pretty good. Hip’s been acting up, but I get more good days than bad. This is the man you told me about?”

  Masatoshi nodded. “Well?”

  Lethridge pushed back the brim of his hat with an index finger and leaned forward to peer at Lance. “Average looks, average height, average build. Not gonna be a problem. How old are you, son?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “All right. How old you wanna be?”

  “Twenty.”

  A waitress approached the table. “What can I get you boys?”

  “Another bourbon, Debbie.”

  “I’ll have a beer,” Masatoshi said. “Hunter?”

  “Nothing for me, thanks.”

  As the waitress walked away, Parker Lethridge said, “No drinkin’ . . . You ain’t a Mormon, are you? ’Cause that could make things a bit trickier.”

  Lance shook his head.

  “Good. OK, so what you need is everything, right? So Masatoshi tells me. Driver’s license, Social Security number, birth details, the works.”

  “That’s right. How do you—?”

  Lethridge abruptly raised his right hand. “No, no, no, no, no. . . . Son, you don’t ask me that kinda question. You won’t get an answer so you’d just be wasting both of our time. This is how it goes. I ask, you tell. Then you pay and I give. Simple as that. We ain’t pals, we ain’t even friendly. This is business. You ever get caught, and you breathe a single word about me to the cops, I will hunt you down and I will kill you where you stand. Understood?”

  Lance nodded.

  “Right. Then let’s talk.” He pulled a notebook out of his jacket’s inside pocket, and as he did so, Lance noticed the gun in the man’s shoulder holster. “Name?”

  “Hunter Washington.”

  “Middle name?”

  “Dillon.”

  “Spelled D-Y-L-A-N, like the singer?”

  “No, the poet. George H. Dillon. D-I-L-L-O-N.”

  “Date of birth?”

  “March twenty-first.”

  Lethridge shook his head. “Nah. Don’t like that. You gotta keep in mind that from now on, this’ll be your birthday. So my advice is you don’t pick anything too close to a national holiday or any important date that’ll bring attention to you. March twenty-first is usually the first day of spring.”

  “Makes sense,” Lance said. “April seventh.”

  “World Health Day,” Lethridge said, nodding slowly. “That’ll do. Height?”

  “Five-ten.”

  After ten minutes, Lethridge closed over his notebook and put it away. “All right. It’s gonna take a month. Stay out of trouble until then. Now, you’ll want to avoid any of those super-folks who can read minds. Like Max Dalton, you know him?”

  Lance stiffened.

  “You steer clear of that guy or anyone else like him—a mind reader would see right through your new identity. And they’d know you talked to me. I can’t afford that sort of trouble in my line of business.”

  “What line of business is that?” Lance asked.

  “None of yours,” Lethridge snapped, then asked Masatoshi, “Where are you gonna be in a month’s time?”

  “We’ll be in Childress for a week.”


  “All right. I can meet you boys there. I’ll be in touch, Masatoshi.” He stood up, and Lance was about to do the same. “Stay put. I’m gonna hit the john. When I come back, you guys’ll be gone, and there’s gonna be an envelope with my eight hundred bucks tucked into that crack in the wall paneling there. Debbie talks to you, you tell her you couldn’t wait around. Give her a twenty to pay for the drinks. Tell her to keep the change.”

  • • •

  On the road back to the carnival site, Lance asked Masatoshi, “So who is Parker Lethridge? What does he do?”

  “He’s one of those guys who gets things done.” Masatoshi kept his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead.

  Lance wasn’t going to give up so easily. “I’m pretty sure he used to be a cop.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He mentioned a problem with his hip, and the way he walked . . . I’m guessing he was shot. And his tone of voice tells me he’s used to people doing what he says. And he knows everything there is to know about faking an identity—cops are trained to look out for fake IDs. So he used to be a cop, and he got shot. He’s overweight now so that was probably a few years back.”

  Masatoshi smiled. “He’s a private detective now. And it’s sounding like you should be one too. He’s got a couple of people working for him. Mostly they serve papers and track down deadbeat dads—it’s not all slinky dames and gunfights in seedy bars like in the old movies. And he’s got a nice sideline in hiding people like you.”

  “And you? Is that how you know him?”

  “No, I met him before he retired. I was living in College Station, and I woke up one night when I heard someone breaking in. Lethridge was the detective called in to investigate me because there were . . . some questions about how I dealt with the situation.”

  “You beat the crap out of the burglars?”

  “Yeah. Two of them. Put one in the hospital for three weeks. His own fault—he came at me with a knife. A few months later a bunch of swords got stolen from a store and Lethridge came to me as an expert witness.” Masatoshi glanced at Lance. “They were specialist blades, and the thieves knew what they were after. Lethridge figured I might know where something like that could be sold.” He returned his attention to the road. “So anyway, that was pretty sharp how you worked out he was a cop. What else did you notice?”

  “He used to be married, but not anymore. His left hand is tanned except for a pale patch where a wedding ring would be.”

  Masatoshi nodded. “Good. Anything else?”

  “He wanted to make a specific impression on me, I think. He made sure I saw his gun when he pulled back his jacket to take out his notebook. And his hat . . . When he pushed it back, there was no distinct tan line on his forehead. He doesn’t wear it much. So why would he wear a hat at all?” Lance mused aloud. “Because it’s a very recognizable feature. People will remember the hat more than they’ll remember the birthmark on the side of his neck. I saw it when he . . .” Lance grinned. “Oh, very good. That wasn’t a real birthmark. He wanted me to notice that too.”

  “Yeah. It’s all about the first impression,” Masatoshi said. “Guy in his business has to be able to blend in if he’s undercover. So he makes a big splash first time you meet him, but you still might not recognize him if you passed him on the street and was just wearing a baseball hat and a T-shirt.”

  Lance considered this. “Bet he’s already checked me out, hasn’t he? Probably came along to the carnival last night or the night before.”

  “Maybe. I didn’t spot him if he was there.”

  “That’s what I’d do if I was him.”

  • • •

  One month later, Lance and Masatoshi met Parker Lethridge at a dusty roadside diner outside Childress, Texas. He was sitting at the counter, dressed as he had been when they’d met him in the bar. He grinned as they approached, swiveled around on the stool, and greeted them like long-lost friends. He grabbed Lance’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Hunter Washington! How the heck are you, kid? Been a long time.”

  “I’m good, Mr. Lethridge. Yourself?”

  “You know me, Hunter—no point complaining because there’s no one to listen but me an’ God. And the good Lord’s got enough on his plate without me whining in his ear. Sit down, boys, sit down!” He gestured toward a corner window booth. “Norma? Coffee for the boys here. And bring a coupla menus—they look hungry enough to eat a steak through a straw.”

  Masatoshi and Lance sat, and Lethridge joined them. Almost whispering, he said, “Norma here knows me as a window-blind salesman. So right now, that’s what I am. Got your stuff out in the car, Hunter. It’s all there. You’re official. Whoever you used to be is gone for good.”

  “Great, thanks. I could—”

  “Couple of things, kid. There’s no changing again, got that? At least, not through me. It only works once. Second thing . . .” He tossed a set of car keys to Masatoshi. “Get the package from my car, would you, Masa? It’s on the passenger seat. And when you’re coming back, walk slow.”

  When the diner’s door closed behind Masatoshi, Lethridge said, “He told me you figured me out last time we met.”

  Lance nodded, wondering where this was going.

  “That makes me uncomfortable. But . . . it’s got me thinking. Let me give you a little test, Hunter. Woman comes up to you, says her son has gone missing. She wants you to help find him. What’s the first thing you do?”

  “Ask her what makes her think he is missing.”

  Lethridge considered that for a moment. “All right. That’s a good answer. Four outta five missing person cases are solved within the first couple of hours, by my reckoning. Another one. You’re walking down the street and you pass an alley where you see one guy selling drugs to another. What do you do? Call the cops or tackle them yourself?”

  “Neither. I’d memorize what they look like and keep going. In a situation like that, I don’t know who else is around. A drug dealer might have someone watching out for him. Maybe more than one. He could be armed and desperate. And I wouldn’t call the police, because by the time they get there the dealer would be gone.”

  Lethridge turned and looked out through the window. “Masatoshi’s coming back. Last one, real quick . . . You’ve only got a split second to memorize something about that dealer—what do you do?”

  “I’d check out his shoes,” Lance said. “Most guys only have a couple of pairs of shoes at most.”

  “All right.” The door opened behind Lethridge, and as Masatoshi was approaching the booth, Lethridge said quietly, “You and me will talk again, Hunter. If you’re as smart as you seem to be, you’ll already know why.”

  The three of them spent the next hour in the diner, and Masatoshi and Lethridge did most of the talking. They talked about football and women and politics and movies.

  Lance kept quiet for the most part. He watched them as he ate his burger and fries, and only occasionally offered an opinion, but his mind was racing.

  Three days later, Parker Lethridge turned up at the carnival. He was wearing a baseball cap and a loose sweater, and looked like a father who’d come to pick up his kids. He only spoke one sentence to Lance: “You thought it over?”

  Lance nodded. “I’m interested.”

  Lethridge handed him an old envelope, then moved on, disappearing into the crowd. Inside the envelope was a sheet of paper with a long handwritten list of books. Some of their topics made sense—self-defense guides, correct use of firearms, first aid, legal responsibilities of a private investigator—but there were others that seemed relatively useless for the job: politics, history, geography, mathematics, basic sciences. At the end of the list Lethridge had written a note: “Find these books. All of them. Read them, learn them, understand them. You’ve got four months. I’ll be in touch. Until then, stay out of trouble and keep your head down.”

  Lanc
e knew what that meant, and for the first time in years the path ahead was clear.

  THAT DECEMBER, winter hit Arkansas harder than usual, and Morty was forced to cancel two two-week engagements—the locations were iced over and no one was venturing out anyway. Nigel accompanied Lance on the long, snow-clogged drive into Fort Smith to see if the city would give them a place to stay for the month.

  “Has this ever happened before?” Lance asked as he drove.

  “A couple of times, yeah. A lot of carnivals just shut down completely for the winter, especially up north. But Morty figures it’s worth the risk. Better to book a place and then hope the weather holds than just assume it won’t.”

  “Man, I hate driving in snow. . . . Coming up to Eighty-Third Street,” Lance said. “Where’s that on the map?”

  “You think this is snow? This is nothing. Back home we’d be wading through three-foot drifts by now.” Nigel unfolded the dog-eared, frayed map and quickly scanned through it. “Not seeing it. . . . Got it. All right, we’re on target and we’ve got plenty of time.” He refolded the map. “If we’re lucky, they’ll find us a place pretty cheap, cut our losses. Probably for the best—I haven’t had any real time off in months. Neither have you, Hunter. When did you last take a whole day just for yourself?”

  Lance thought about that. “I don’t know. . . . I haven’t had time. There’s always something that needs to be fixed.”

  “Hah, now you’re starting to sound like Jerry! He never takes a break either. But . . . I gotta say something. Been meaning to say this for ages, but, you know how it is when everyone else is around.”

  Lance grinned. “If you tell me you’re in love with me, you’re going to be disappointed.”

  “Yeah, you wish. No, see, the fact is it’s a good thing you joined us. The carnival is doing better than it has in years, and Morty thinks that’s mostly down to you.”

  “Me? Seriously?”