Page 60 of A Week Away
“Where did it come from?”
“Luca gave it to my mother to hide.”
“Which means it was probably used in a crime. Or at the very least it’s stolen and can’t be traced back to Luca. Either way you shouldn’t have it.”
“You’re acting like the police are going to search the house. I won’t let them do that.”
“And if you don’t you move up the suspect list.”
“I have an alibi. I was with you.”
“And I can’t be anywhere near this.”
“That’s your problem.”
“No, Cass… it’s your problem.”
And then I parked in the driveway. Not bothering with the steering wheel lock, I jumped out of the car and ran to the house. Cass came up behind me and unlocked the front door.
Inside, I rushed to the den and grabbed the accordion folder from the desk and then went upstairs for the shoebox from Joanne’s closet. Meanwhile, Cass got the gun from under his bed. It took some time so either he had another burst of emotion or it was buried under there pretty deep. It was in a Macy’s bag. I looked inside, the gun was a 9MM Ruger, scratched up and badly in need of a cleaning. It looked like it had been buried.
“Where’s the nearest pay phone. I need to call a cab.”
“You can call from here.”
“Not if they check your phone records.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, don’t call anyone except your Aunt Suzie. Speaking of which, where will I find a pay phone? Is there a gas station nearby?”
“You probably want to go to the 7-Eleven right off 10 Mile Road.”
I’d already been there. It wasn’t exactly close. As I walked out the slider into the backyard, he asked, “You’re coming back aren’t you?”
“Tomorrow,” I said, and I had a sick feeling I meant it.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
September 16, 1996
Monday evening
There used to be this thing called flophouses. At some point, corporate America decided that was a business they wanted to be in. Later that night I moved out of Motel 6 and moved into a hotel that was even cheaper and significantly more disgusting. This time, I registered as Charles Henderson and let him pay my bill.
It had taken until sunset to get to the 7-Eleven and call a cab to take me to the nearest car rental place. Hertz turned out to be around the corner, so to make it worthwhile for the cabbie I had him take me to their office in Livonia. I knew I wouldn’t be renting the car as Dom Reilly, but still it might be better if Charles Henderson wasn’t too close at hand. Just in case.
When I got to Hertz I asked for a Crown Vic—I might as well look like a cop—but they didn’t have any. The clerk threatened me with an Aspire, which was more like a go-cart than a car. I finally got him to offer me a black Escort. Four doors. Not ideal, but it would do.
Before I switched hotels I dropped in at a Kinkos. They had a FedEx desk. I bought a large envelope, slipped my driver’s license, phone card and credit cards inside, addressed it to myself in Long Beach and sent it overnight. I was temporarily Charles Henderson.
I checked out of Motel Six, then drove down the street to my new flophouse—er, motel. The new clerk didn’t even ask for my temporary license. Henderson’s credit card was enough to capture his interest. There were a couple of people in the lobby who looked like they were waiting for a ride to the methadone clinic. And as soon as I had that thought I realized it was probably offensive to drug addicts everywhere.
In the room, every single outlet was broken, the grout around the bathtub was crumbling, the sheets had been washed so many times the only thing holding them together was residual grime, the TV didn’t work, the fixtures in the bathroom were so dirty they needed to be replaced. But, hey, for the moment it was home.
It wasn’t a long moment. After I choked down the rest of my Tylenol with water from the bathroom sink, I decided to go back out. But not until I debated whether to leave the Macy’s bag full of credit cards, cash and a gun in the room. The only thing keeping me from being robbed was an electronic lock opened by a plastic card. I took the bag with me.
Driving around, I made a mental list. I needed something to eat. None of that Chinese food had come my way. I needed some bottled water—I’d probably already gotten dysentery from the pipes at the corporate flophouse. I found a place called Meijer, which was huge, an aircraft hangar for food. I bought a loaf of bread, some deli meat, a small bottle of mayonnaise, a six pack of root beer, some bottled water, a large bottle of Tylenol, and a package of plastic silverware. At the last minute I threw some bran muffins in the cart for breakfast. They had a men’s section, so I bought another pack of underwear—I’d gotten separated from the last pack, some socks, T-shirts and a shirt with a collar. I had the feeling I was going to need it.
