Part 8 (1/2)
”Who are you? Why are you calling me?”
”Your old buddy Vince asked me to.”
”Vince who?”
”Don't even try to play me, Archie. It p.i.s.ses me off no end when people try to play me. And you do not want to p.i.s.s me off. Understand?”
”Yeah . . . yes.” Archer wrapped the blanket around himself. All of a sudden, he felt very cold.
”Okay, then.” A long drag off a cigarette, a long exhale. ”I want to know what your plan is, Archie.”
”My plan?”
”Your plan to carry out your part of the deal. The deal you made with Vince and that other friend of yours, the one who died. I want to know what you're going to do.”
”I . . . ah . . .” Archer slammed down the receiver.
”Holy s.h.i.+t,” he whispered. ”Holy s.h.i.+t . . .”
He went into the tiny bathroom and relieved himself, then splashed cool water onto his face with hands shaking so badly they barely held water.
Calm down. You don't know who that was. Coulda been anyone.
Anyone who knew about the game . . .
Then it had to have been Vince. Yeah, that's it. It was Vince. Calling from High Meadow. Pretending to be someone else.
Why would Vince pretend to be someone else?
To scare me. Yeah, just to scare me into thinking it was someone on the outside.
Had the caller said he was on the outside? He couldn't remember.
But it had to be Vince. It had to be.
No one else knows, right?
Right?
Could even have been the FBI. Yeah, it coulda been them.
He tried to remember if he'd said anything that could incriminate him. He didn't think he had.
He pulled on the jeans he'd worn the day before and a flannel s.h.i.+rt from the pile of laundry in his room. Grabbing his jacket, he left the trailer, then paused out front. He avoided the road and walked along behind the other trailers until he reached the end of the mobile home village. He looked around and, seeing no cars, no strangers, he exhaled deeply.
Still, he felt jumpy. As if he were being watched.
He debated with himself, then set out across the field that lay between the trailers and the back of the Well. A short walk and he'd be at the bar, a cold beer in his hand. He'd taken that route on several occasions when he couldn't beg a ride home from anyone. It was dark and a little creepy late at night, but this was broad daylight.
It was with great relief that he rounded the corner of the building and pushed open the door. He went straight to the bar and ordered a shot and a beer, then another. His nerves mildly anesthetized, he finally relaxed, entered into some mindless chatter with the bartender, who was obviously bored. There was only one other person drinking at that hour of the morning, a regular from town who never spoke to anyone.
By noon, Archer was buzzed. By three in the afternoon, he was sleeping in a chair in the back room. Later that night, he was back at the bar with his friends. At midnight, the morning's fear forgotten, he left the bar by the back door, intending to return home the same way he'd arrived.
The door was barely closed before a large hand grabbed him by both lapels, dragged him around the corner, and shoved him back against the back wall of the bar.
”Who . . . ?”
”I hate it when someone hangs up on me before I've said what I had to say.”
The figure was large, the face indistinct in the dark.
Archer cringed and tried to melt through the wall.
”Now, I'm going to ask you one more time. What are your plans for carrying out your end of the deal?”
”I hadn't really thought about it. I just got out. . . .” Archer tried to calm himself. Tried to sound as if he wasn't ready to pa.s.s out from fright.
”Well, then, let's think about it now. You and me.” The man dragged Archer deeper into the shadows.
”Who are you?” Archer asked, hoping to buy himself time.
”You can call me Burt. And I'm the man who's going to make sure that you don't f.u.c.k up, little buddy.” His breath was hot and sour in Archer's face. ”I'm the man who is going to be watching every move you make until the job is done, understand?”
”No.”
”Think of me sorta like your conscience.” He chuckled, but to Archer it sounded more like a growl. ”You know how your conscience tells you what to do? Keep your word, that sort of thing?”
Archer nodded slowly.
”Well, I'm gonna make sure you do what you said you'd do.”
”I was gonna do it,” Archer whispered. ”Soon as I could, you know, get a plan together.”
”This is your lucky day, Archer. Because I am here to help you with that plan.” His grip on Archer never loosened. ”Tell me the names. Convince me that you're still in the game, that you know what you have to do. . . .”
Archer whispered the names.
”Very good, Archie. Very good. At least you know that much.”
”Hey, I know what I'm supposed to do, okay? Just haven't gotten around to doing it. First I need to get a job, I need some money to get around, you know what I mean?”
Archer felt himself lowered so that his feet once again touched the ground.
The stranger backed off slightly, then stuffed something into Archer's left jacket pocket.
”Now that's one excuse you don't have anymore. Tell me what your plan is, Archie. Walk me through it. . . .”