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  “It feels like whoring,” he said.

  Hector’s eyebrows went up. “I said you weren’t expected to do anything against regulations, pardner.” In spite of the downbeat on pardner, he wasn’t using his lazy accent now. “We’ve been after this lab for three years. We’ve traced it here. We’ve traced it to her.”

  Wes worked on his coffee some more. Then rather than look at Hector, who might be scowling at him now, or worse, smirking again, he glared at the kids in the diner. They were having way too much fun, rubbing up against each other, laughing at just about everything, possibly flying on some of Annie’s product.

  He’d joined the War on Drugs at least partly because when he’d gotten out of the army, he’d felt something was missing, life was too easy, nothing seemed to matter anymore. He’d tried college and a “normal” job and decided he needed more action. But also, he’d wanted to do something that might do some good. He’d known guys in Iraq who had screwed up big-time due to drugs, like the joker who had stood up when they were all crouched and waiting on a rooftop. He said he just loved the view. He’d enjoyed that view for about two seconds before he was shredded into warm clumps of meat by a rocket propelled grenade. He’d also blown the position of the whole squad. And the Iraqis fought with no concern for their own lives not only because they’d been promised a bevy of virgins. They were jacked on epinephrine.

  Now Wes watched an older couple come into the diner, and they were just as giggly as the kids. A couple of snoose-chewing rednecks in a nearby booth were looking red-eyed too. There was definitely something deeply sick about this town. Hell, every April they held a Hempfest in the city park!

  They might have good coffee and excellent food for a place so far off the grid. Great micro-brews. But the whole population was zonked on some dope or another. You would think at least the rednecks could stick to booze.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll try to get close to her. Learn as much as I can. But I’ll need another car. She made the Cayenne.”

  Chapter 8

  Buzzard was again on Annie’s uncle’s street pretzeled into Fleep’s Lexus IS C, eating a Polish sausage for breakfast. He and Fleep had run out of blow some time during the night, which didn’t improve his opinion of the situation.

  “So tell me again why we’re here,” he said. “You want to dig up more bottle caps? Or how about another dog collar? Now, there was a find. Awesome rabies vaccination tag.”

  “That was kind of sad,” said Fleep. “The dog was probably under there.”

  “Or Annie’s uncle camouflaged his gold with a dog collar. Is that why we stopped digging? You thought we’d disturb the dog’s ghost?”

  “No, we didn’t stop digging just because of the poor dog. I read the metal detector instructions. Did you?”

  Buzzard gave that question the response it deserved, a fart that he’d been working up to for some time.

  Fleep madly twisted the key so he could roll his window down while swearing violently. With his head out the window, between gasps for air, he said, “I didn’t think you were literate. If you were, you’d know that detector would’ve gone off like a jackpot slot machine if the gold you claimed was there was in fact in that yard.”

  Buzzard decided to roll his window down too. The Polish was definitely ripe and fast-acting. “I never claimed I knew nothing about buried gold.”

  “Yes, you did. Don’t you flip on me like those fucking hippies did. They were all happy I was taking bigger risks, getting them a better return.”

  “I said Annie said—”

  “Now they’re talking fraud! They’re talking prison time! Since when do hippies call in the law!”

  Clearly, running out of cocaine was affecting Fleep’s nerves too. So Buzzard tried to explain. “It was like this—”

  “Okay, maybe I did use a little of their money to make some extra for myself. But doesn’t Goldman Sachs do that? And that MF Global guy?”

  Now Buzzard felt obliged to say, “Those guys have friends in high places. From what I can see, the only friend you still got is me.”

  Fleep scowled at that. At least he shut up for a minute.

  Buzzard made another attempt to clarify what he knew. “The thing was Gary and Mercedes were getting sensitive about the money for the band. We could always tell it was screwy, the way Annie dishes it out. She’d sort of implied her uncle was helping her, and she lives with him and all, but Mercedes, she’d met the uncle and didn’t think he looked rich.”

  Fleep nodded at this, so he was calming down. “His house is crappier than ours. You’d think the neighbors would be bitching about how he’s running down their property values.”

  “Right. So Annie says he’s eccentric. Then she gets to hemming around like she doesn’t want to tell us the truth until Mercedes tries to give some of the money back.”

  “Mercedes has never been the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree,” said Fleep.

  “No, this was good,” Buzzard said. “Because then Annie breaks down and tells us about the gold. How he doesn’t spend it much because he’s eccentric, but also he bought it back when, I don’t know, the guy’s old. He bought it so long ago he doesn’t know how rich he is.”

  “Yeah, gold’s made a big move over the last fifteen years.” More thoughtful nodding from Fleep. “So he’s got to have it somewhere.”

  “Right, like a safe deposit box.” Buzzard figured that would put an end to this stupidity. He could go back home, unpretzel himself, and if Fleep really couldn’t buy any more toot, he would get some sleep.

  “Or it’s in the house,” said Fleep. “Under his bed.”

  Shit. That was a possibility. “Now we’re going to break into the house? If there’s gold in there, it’s got a burglar alarm.”

  “Maybe not. Since the guy’s such a weirdo and he bought the gold before gold was cool so he doesn’t know what it’s worth. We just keep watching. We figure this out.” Fleep rolled his window back up and turned to Buzzard for emphasis. “I’m not going to jail.”

  Buzzard wondered if he could work up another fart, one so potent it would force Fleep to put down the top. What was the point of a convertible if you didn’t do that in June? With the top down, this clown-sized car wouldn’t be quite so claustrophobic.

  But Fleep would probably claim they needed to keep the top up for secrecy, although that was ridiculous too. Just like the day before, guys sitting in cars seemed to be the thing to do on this street.

  The GMC cargo van with the two coffee guzzlers was still here. The blue pickup was still here with the same guy still holed up in it. The Cayenne was gone, but around the corner, not easily visible from here but still sort of on this street, was another totally out-of-place, high-end vehicle, a BMW X6, and the one time Buzzard had been allowed out for a cigarette, he could have sworn it was the Porsche guy now sitting in the bimmer.

  *

  An iridescent blue BMW “Sport Activity Coupe” for undercover work? Wes had to wonder if his superiors were truly stupid or cunningly pretending to be. This was a question he’d often asked himself in the army too.

  He watched Annie leave her uncle’s house in her Subaru at 10:08. He’d parked farther from her house this time, since he suspected she was a little spooked after running from the Cayenne. He stayed farther back as he followed her too to what passed for downtown in this sick burg. There she parked and went into a used record store.

  Which seemed an ideal place for a cute meet. He found her in the store leafing through vinyl. He began to do the same, starting a few rows away. If she noticed him, she didn’t let it show, apparently immune to his “legendary charm.” He began working his way toward her.

  When he was close enough to talk to her, he decided it would be best to act as if there was nothing surprising about them both being here. After all, they were both music fans, and how many used record stores could there be in this podunk town? He would just casually find a record she might like. He pulled out an album by Rank and File and said
, “Hey, they’ve got the original Sundown,” thinking the beginnings of cow punk should interest her.

  She glanced up but only briefly. She seemed even more skilled than he at acting as if it was no big deal for the two of them to meet here. “You sure it’s not a rerelease?” she said.

  “It says 1982.” And it did, although he would have made that claim even if the thing had been reprinted in 2010.

  She glanced up again but still looked unimpressed. “Got it already.”

  “I didn’t offer it to you, did I?” He tucked the album under his arm and continued on down the row.

  “Hey, here’s a classic. Los Angeles by X. But,” he added, “it’s the 1990,” having apparently been struck by a sudden impulse to be honest, about the albums at least.

  “Got it too. The 1980.” She didn’t even bother to look up this time.

  “I bet you do. I bet you’re a big fan of Exene. You can hear it in your style.”

  That got her attention, but not the way he’d hoped. She glared at him across the rack of records. “What do you mean? You think I’m trying to copy Exene?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “She’s got a very distinctive voice. The things she can do with her voice, the way she can bend it.”

  “Yeah, she can wrap it all around a note.”

  “I don’t do that. I wouldn’t even try to do that. You have to find your own voice.”

  “I was thinking more of her energy, her stage presence.” The woman was sure touchy.

  “You think I flounce around on the stage like her? Exene always looks soused.”

  “So maybe I was thinking of her poetry.” Wes was about to duck out of here. Somehow he’d unleashed an artistic rage that none of his training had taught him how to combat.

  On the other hand, it had turned out to be a great record store. He’d been looking for both these albums for years.

  And maybe she was cooling down. “My poetry?” she said, shaking her head. “That’s a new one at least.”

  She went back to her own record search, and he shuffled through more of the raggedy-edged covers, trying to come up with another strategy. Maybe if he stuck to male performers he could avoid such a volatile reaction. But it wasn’t easy to think with her so close. Today she was wearing shorts, cutoff jeans frayed so short they gave tantalizing glimpses of the bottom of her ass. Her tank top was just as revealing, a light shading of freckles along her arms, and on her chest more freckles dipping in a V toward her breasts.

  She definitely wasn’t trying to hide needle tracks, or much of anything. Even when he was doing his best not to look at her, he could feel her, catch the scent of her shampoo and maybe something else, something so primal that it was doing screwy things to his head and his operation plan.

  He grabbed Thirteen Years, Alejandro Escovedo, who had been with Rank and File, so it was another album he’d been looking for. And by then he was close enough to her that all he had to do was pull it out and tip it her way. He didn’t have to say a word. Which seemed prudent.

  “Not a favorite of mine,” she said. “He was in an awfully depressed place back then.”

  The likelihood of this mission achieving success was looking depressing too.

  She had a couple of albums tucked under her arm. “What have you found?” he asked. He wondered if it was more current stuff. Maybe she liked the Dixie Chicks.

  She showed her albums. The first was Townes Van Zandt, Our Mother the Mountain.

  “You don’t think that’s depressing?” He couldn’t hide his surprise.

  She actually smiled. “No doubt. But it’s so pure.”

  He would never have guessed the other one either: Joe Ely’s first record.

  “Speaking of presence on stage,” he said.

  “Yeah, you want to please me, tell me I’ve got his energy.”

  “You’re close. Now that I think about it. You’ve got a lot of his moves. Although they look different on a girl in high-heeled boots and an ass-length skirt.” Shit, that had just slipped out. He braced himself for another volley of her rage.

  But she just laughed. “Like I said, I’m not mimicking. I want to be me. But I’m looking, I’m listening, I’m trying to learn.” She tucked the records back under her arm, a young Joe Ely still visible on the cover.

  “I have that one on CD,” said Wes. “But I’d love to find the vinyl. It’s so much richer.”

  “Yeah, warmer,” she said. “Music’s analogue. There’s no getting around that.”

  “You’ve been recording your band on vinyl lately, I notice. And not CD?”

  “I don’t see the point in making CD’s anymore. Vinyl is making a comeback, and it sells well off the stage. But we also do digital download.”

  “An independent like you can make that choice. The big companies still seem to be committed to the CD format.”

  What was going on now? Somehow she’d quit sparring with him, and they’d slipped into this easy conversation. That was what he’d been hoping for, but now that she was smiling at him with her devilish green eyes, the short shorts and V of freckles had become even more distracting. He had to remind himself what he was doing here.

  *

  The more they talked, the more Annie got to thinking the guy might be all right. Too cocky, probably in all ways, but considering he wasn’t a musician himself, he seemed to have an ear. At first when he’d showed up in this record store, she’d thought he might be stalking her, but he seemed to be in fact looking for rare old records, and it was kind of fun going down the aisles with him, both of them getting more great finds. A Flesh Eaters for him, Sister Rosetta Tharpe for her.

  He was also damn sexy—which, of course, he knew—reaching over her with his long arms, flipping through records with his strong-looking hands, sometimes so close she could feel his breath on her hair. At the same time, he wasn’t coming on as strong as he had in the Caterpillar Lounge. That was nice too. Maybe now that she was no longer working for Russ and Char—no longer having to worry about all that secrecy and risk—she shouldn’t completely give up men.

  But he was a booker, or claimed to be, and above and beyond her general bad experiences with men, she’d determined one essential rule. A rule she’d made after her very first love, who had been the leader of her very first band, a guy who had “loved” her so much he’d cut her songs from the playlist as soon as the crowds started liking them better than his.

  So after she and Wes had worked their way down every aisle, probably snagging all the treasures the store had taken in since the last time she was here, and he was making noises at the door as if maybe they should continue their conversation somewhere else, possibly his place—which was what, a motel room out on the Wal-Mart strip? Had he in fact come to Moscow just to find her and her band?

  She stopped right outside the door and said, “This has been fun. Maybe you’re okay. But I’ve got to make one thing clear, I’ve learned it’s a big mistake to mix business and sex. So you have to make a choice. You want to be my booker, you give up on any other kind of fooling around.”

  That stopped him for a moment. But only for a moment. “I want to be your booker.”

  Chapter 9

  As soon as Michael was out of the house, he didn’t feel good about this. Because Annie wasn’t touring with her band right now. When she was on the road, he didn’t tell her every time he left the house. At first when she’d come to live with him, and then she would leave on a tour, he did call a couple of times to tell her he was going out, and he’d reached her when she was busy setting up for a show, or driving in difficult traffic. She’d made it clear he didn’t need to tell her everything he did.

  But when she was home in Moscow, he would say if he planned to go out.

  The problem was his new friends had told him not to tell anyone about their meeting today. This was disturbing in itself. And when he came up to where they were waiting for him, just a little upwind of the dumpsters in the shopping center parking lot, and t
he first thing Hank said was, “Our van is right over there,” he was so uncomfortable he stepped back and just stared at the ground.

  The two of them started to move away, to go to their van, but they stopped and came back. Michael still didn’t look up. He could see only their feet, two pairs of big, black combat-looking boots.

  “Come on,” said Hank. “We said we’d take you to lunch. We’ve found a great rib place.”

  This was a reasonable plan, of course—Michael knew that—but he said, “I thought we’d just have a sandwich at the coffee shop.”

  “Bad idea. We’ve been seen there already,” said Smith.

  “Also too close to where you live,” said Hank.

  Michael puzzled over these objections while studying his scuffed tennis shoes. “Why?”

  “We’ll explain in the van,” said Smith.

  “They have pretty good sandwiches at the coffee shop,” Michael said.

  “Come on.” Hank spoke quietly this time, in fact gently for such a rough-looking man. “Don’t you get it? You’re Old Red. You’re important. They could be watching you.”

  Michael dared to look at him then. “I don’t think I’m important.”

  “You warned us about the risk of new dental fillings.”

  “I said that was only a possibility.”

  “You told us about the FEMA re-education camps.”

  “I read that somewhere else.”

  “Don’t you like ribs?” said Smith, and he didn’t sound gentle. He was almost snarling with impatience and took hold of Michael’s arm, which made Michael really uneasy, but Hank gave Smith a look, and Smith let go.

  “It’s not far,” Hank said in his quiet voice.

  “Nothing’s far in this town,” growled Smith.

  Hank gave him another look. Then, still quietly, he said, “Afterwards we’ll bring you right back here. But don’t you think they’re watching you?”

  “I think they’re watching all of us,” Michael said.