‘I don’t think he’s looking for a long-term relationship. The deal was eight thousand for one hour.’
‘So it’s fucking for the sake of fucking. Taking for the sake of taking. That seems so hollow to me. So empty. And that little girl in Mexico …’
She fell silent and watched Iowa roll by. Then she said something, but so low I couldn’t make it out.
‘What?’
‘Monster.’ She was still looking out at the miles of dead corn. ‘I said monster.’
*
We spent Halloween night in South Bend, Indiana, and the first of November in Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. As we checked in, my phone binged with a text from Giorgio.
GRusso: Petersen, RK’s assistant, wants a picture of Darren Byrne’s cousin, for identification purposes. Send it to [email protected]. She will pass it on at no charge. She’d be happy if RK ran into some bad luck.
Petersen wanting a photo was worrisome but not surprising. He was Klerke’s on-site security as well as his assistant, after all.
Alice told me not to worry. She said she would cut and re-style the black wig I’d worn to Promontory Point. （‘Sometimes it’s good to have a sister who’s a hairdresser,’ she said.） We went to Walmart. Alice found a pair of aviator-style glasses and some cold cream that she said would give me an Irish pallor. Also a small clip-on gold earring, not too ostentatious, for my left ear. Back in the motel she combed the black wig back from my forehead and told me to prop the aviators on it.
‘Like you think you’re a movie star,’ she said. ‘Put on the shirt with the high collar. And remember that as far as Klerke and this guy Petersen know, Billy Summers is dead.’
She took the picture against a neutral background （the brick wall of the Best Western where we were staying） and we examined it together, and closely.
‘Is it good enough?’ Alice asked. ‘I mean, you don’t look like you to me, especially with that snarky grin, but I wish we had Bucky to help us.’
‘I think it is. As you said, it helps that they think I’m buried in the Pauite Foothills.’
‘This is quite a little conspiracy we’ve got going,’ Alice said as we went back inside. ‘Bucky, your make-believe literary agent, and now some big shot Vegas madam.’
‘Don’t forget Nick,’ I said.
She stopped halfway down the corridor to our rooms, frowning. ‘If any of them called Klerke and told him what’s going on, it would probably be a nice payday for them. Not Majarian or Mr Piglielli, and Bucky wouldn’t ever, but what about the Blatner woman?’
‘She won’t, either,’ I said. ‘Basically, they’ve all had enough of him.’
‘You hope.’
‘I know,’ I said, and hoped I did. In any case I was going in, and it looked more and more like Alice would be going in with me.
*
We stayed in New Jersey on the night of November 2. The following night we checked into the Riverhead Hyatt, fifty miles from Montauk Point. Giorgio had indeed made reservations from his fat farm prison in South America. Because he knew I had no Steven Byrne ID, I was reserved under the Dalton Smith name. And because this place was quite a bit more fancy-shmancy than the motels where we’d previously stayed, Alice had to show her new Elizabeth Anderson ID. Giorgio, maybe thinner but as sharp as ever, had also reserved a double room, prepaid, for Steven Byrne and Rosalie Forester. Klerke wouldn’t check, such chores were beneath him, but Petersen might. If the clerk told Petersen that Byrne and Forester hadn’t checked in yet, Petersen wouldn’t be too concerned. Pimps weren’t known for keeping regular schedules.
Before leaving the desk, I asked if there was a package for me. Turned out there was, from Fun & Games Novelties in Las Vegas. A nonexistent company, no doubt. Giorgio had ordered it at my request. I opened it in my room with Alice looking on. Inside was a small unmarked aerosol cannister about the size of a roll-on deodorant tube. No oven spray this time.
‘What is it?’
‘Carfentanil. In 2002, the Russians pumped a version of this into a theater where forty or fifty Chechen rebels were holding seven hundred people hostage. The idea was to put everyone to sleep and end the siege. It worked, but the gas was too strong. A hundred of the hostages didn’t just go to sleep, they died. I doubt if Putin gave a shit. This stuff is supposedly half-strength. It’s Klerke we’re after. I don’t want to kill Petersen if I don’t have to.’
‘What if it doesn’t work?’