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                                            CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
                                                
                                                Pack It In, Pack It Out

7:35 a.m.

I.Q. and Reggie hadn't offered the rest of them any details about Kenny's relationship with Jackie or mentioned the bracelet. Reggie wondered if this boy had gone nuts and killed Jackie. His first impulse had been to go in and beat the holy crap out of him, then get answers. And if he wouldn't talk, shoot him. They couldn't just turn him over to the cops–not now that he knew about their whole set-up in the hangar. But what if he didn't kill her?

It was almost four in the morning before Adams, Josh and King gave up squeezing Kenny, warning him that they weren't through with him. While looking for something to restrain him so they could sleep, I.Q. offered to talk to him. Josh had taken I.Q. aside and whispered, "Let shithead do it, you get some sleep. Got lots of meth to cook. We have less time now." Adams nodded, drilling a harsh stare into them. He apparently hadn't informed Josh that I.Q. had quit, but he let them both know with a frown that quitting wasn't in the game plan.

I.Q. insisted. He made a good case for finding out what Kenny was up to and who knew they were out there.

"He could be some baby-faced DEA agent," he suggested.

Adams sputtered, "With I.D. on him?"

Josh chuckled without a smile. "Give it a try anyway. But get some damn sleep. I want to smell ether by ten, you got it shithead?" I.Q.'s jaw muscles flexed. "And the little shit in there has to be...well, you let me worry about him. Get what you can out of him first."

Reggie had held back his ego, figuring that I.Q. was handling this. Maybe if he gave him more of the lead, pulled him into the center of the picture, he'd finish the deal. No matter what, the deal hung in his mind like a clock that ran too fast.

Now at sun-up, Kenny could barely stay awake in the chair. What he had been able to do was keep his mouth shut. I.Q. had tried quiet coaxing and sleep depravation to get answers. It wasn't working. He was becoming frustrated. He knew if he didn't get some information–the right kind of information–this kid was dead. He held up the bracelet for the umpteenth time and softly asked him why he planted it in Reggie's car, if he was framing Reggie for Jackie's murder or if he did the deed himself. Kenny's head lolled to one side, his eyes closed. Before he could wake him again, Reggie said:

"Ivan. He's out. Let's sleep."

"You know what they'll do to him, don't you? Take over." He stuffed the bracelet in his pocket. "Break his arm or something. You're good at that."

"Cut it out. I'm not breaking any arms."

I.Q. sighed, glancing at Kenny. Kenny had fallen asleep with his head on the dining table, his arms sprawled out, saliva drooling from the corner of his mouth like a dozing baby. "He didn't kill her," he said with assurance.

"I have to sleep," Reggie said, "let's just tie him up."

I.Q. nodded and Reggie searched the motorhome for the twine he'd used to tie up the laboratory glassware boxes. Unsuccessful, he rummaged through the pile of cabinets and appliances taken from the motorhome to create the lab. He was sifting through a box of trash, when he heard a shuffling near the door of the hangar. The light from the Quonset hut was behind him, shining brightly, making it impossible to see into the dark. Josh was asleep in his room in the back of the hut, Adams on the couch, and the other three slept under the tree at the side of the hangar near the rattlesnake cages. Perfect company. He tip-toed to the edge of the hangar door and looked out. I.Q. stood staring off into the desert.

Anxiously, Reggie asked: "Where's Kenny?"

"Asleep."

"Help me find something to keep him in the chair."

"You find something."

"Hey, man," Reggie said, hinting impatience, "keeping it from you was wrong, I know–I'm sorry, all right? But you can't–"

"Don't tell me what I can't do," I.Q. said, his jaw quivering, exhaustion hollowing his eyes. "You're out for yourself–always have been–and I've been a damn fool to think you were my friend."

"You're not a fool."

"You say we're going to make movies–hell, I bet you had no intention of making a movie with the meth money. Did you? You can't be trusted."

"I can."

"I should believe you? After the way you treated Jackie–like dirt? You don't care about anybody–except yourself. Deep down, I always knew that. I guess I hoped I wasn't just anybody."

Reggie had not seen I.Q. this assertive. It was something he was at a loss to talk back into–assertiveness was best tested with brute strength. But he couldn't hurt Ivan. He didn't want to lose him. He'd really been his only friend. There wasn't anyone more loyal or willing to stand up for him. And he blew it. He wasn't about to destroy him.

"Ivan...I...care about you. I...I don't know how to show it. I admit it. But I do. How can I prove it to you?"

When I.Q. turned to him, he was grinning. It was frosted with a peculiar deviousness, a trait Reggie didn't expect from Ivan.

"Pack it in," I.Q. whispered.

Reggie frowned, confused. "Cut loose on the deal?"

I.Q. nodded. Reggie wiped his face with his hand, the stirring of a bitter recipe bloating his empty stomach. How can I do that? What about all the money? What about our movie? What about Josh and King–they'll kill us. What would this prove?

"Means a lot of money, Ivan."

"So what."

"It's part your money." He shrugged. "Won't bring her back."

"I know."

"What would it prove?"

"It's exactly the thing that got you and me to this point. Nothing else. The deal. If weren't for this, you'd've told me about Jackie. Maybe she'd be alive, too."

"This's crazy. I can't believe you want to give up on all we've done–"

"We've done? You haven't done jack shit–and you won't. I'll do all the work–always do. You'll make half. Better for me to do the deal myself, keep all the damn money. Send some to Jackie's mom. You wouldn't do that, would you?"

I.Q.'s chin pointed up into Reggie's face.

The deal's compromised anyway, he tried to convince himself. Quinn, Wallace and now Kenny–they all know we're out here. And maybe what we're up to.

After a moment of silence, he realized there was only one right answer. I.Q. was the only one who knew how to cook. If he agreed now to cut on the deal, he'd save the friendship. I.Q. might change his mind after some sleep and reflection. He had to get over the shock of Jackie's death, that's all.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"We'll pack it in."

I.Q.'s chin backed off, his chest heaved. His eyes watered, and he looked at the ground.

"Josh won't let this go," Reggie explained softly.

"What do we do?"

"I don't know yet."

"You'll figure something out." He pursed his lips.

Reggie felt like a fighter who'd taken a dive to the mat for somebody else's good cause. He regretted the feeling. It was selfishness in disguise, he knew. Ivan was right.

Suddenly, Reggie remembered Kenny and ran back into the hut. He was met by the drain-sucking sound of Josh's snoring from the back room. The room was cooler. He felt a breeze. The chairs around the dining table were empty. The front door was open, swinging back and forth.

Kenny was gone.

* * *

Joe's urge to be unfriendly heated up in the shower when he remembered Dutch's deception–not to mention he was an embezzler. Otto deserved it, but it was still a mixed reaction that resembled a boring, raunchy play that had been rewarded with rave reviews.

Joe entered the room drying his hair. Dutch sat in the armchair wearing a red robe, flicking a Bic lighter at the end of a cigarette. It wouldn't light.

"What're you doing here?" Joe asked. "How'd you get in?"

"Had some business with John, saw your partner out front last night–"

"You were across the street at Quinn's?"

"Yeah. Show opens in three weeks, you know." He checked the empty ashtray on the night stand. "Any matches around here?"

"Where's Leah?"

"Next door with Teddi, I suppose. Said I could stay here since you wouldn't be back until today. Gave me the spare key."

"What about Robby?"

"Robby who?"

"The kid staying here with us. One of the kids I came here to find."

"No idea, guy."

He hoped Melissa came and picked him up last night. When he'd called yesterday, he got her answering machine and Leah was supposed to follow through with it. He wished he hadn't missed her, though. There was something about successfully completing an assignment that was better finalized by a face to face with the client. Don't try making this out to be just business, he scolded himself. You wanted to hook into a relationship using the success–he stopped the thought. It wasn't his success. Leah found Robby. Leah brought him back, kept him busy yesterday watching football and playing cards. No doubt she made that clear to Melissa Catlin. And if not, Robby would have.

Dutch was rifling through every drawer, looking for matches.

"Wait a minute," Joe said. "If she's next door, where's her car?"

Dutch shrugged. "You got four ashtrays and not one pack of matches."

Joe put on his jeans and knocked on the door between the rooms.

"Yes?"

"Joe."

After a moment, Teddi, her eyes red and puffy from restless sleep and weeping, cracked the door. She saw Dutch and motioned Joe to come in, closing the door behind him.

"Did I wake you up?" Joe said apologetically, glancing around the empty room.

"No. Any news?"

"Not yet. Where's Leah?"

"Left late last night."

"Took Robby home," he said hopefully.

Teddi yawned and found a seat. "No. She was watching that creep across the street. He was leaving, so she followed him."

"What time was that?"

"One, two. After Dutch came over."

"Melissa picked Robby up?"

"About eleven, yeah. They're staying in a room downstairs."

"Melissa's here?"

"Room one-oh-eight."

He was relieved that Robby was taken care of, and thrilled that he hadn't missed Melissa.

"You knew about the Paley Playhouse?" Teddi asked tersely.

Biting his lip, he nodded. Her look was haggard and defeated. Joe felt such a compassion for her, that he went to her, gave her a hug. "It won't affect Sad Café's success, Teddi. Dutch'll do what's right. Or I'll–let’s just say he’ll answer to me."

Teddi tried to appear uplifted, but her depression seemed to slap down any good feelings that tried to console her.

"I want to go home today," she said, almost pleading. "I want to take Jackie home. I can't stay here anymore."

The phone rang in his room. Joe assured her he'd work it out. The connecting door opened.

"Sorry, Joe," Dutch said. "Phone for you."

Joe took the call, and Dutch left to give him privacy.

It was Leah. "I need some help, Joe."

"Where are you?"

"Paley Ranch. Is Dutch there?"

"Downstairs."

"I started thinking about Quinn after you left last night. You said he wasn't telling you everything, right? So I watched him from my room and Dutch shows up about nine-thirty and a half-hour later he and Quinn leave in Dutch's van. They drive to Baker–that's up Highway 15 a few miles–"

"I know where it is."

"East end of town, there's a motel, and next door there's an ice dispenser–you know, one of those big boxes with the block ice and crushed ice that pop down a chute. I can't see them, because they're behind it and there's no cover, but it looks like a door opens. The van's parked back there and they're doing something–I don't know–maybe loading ice, can't tell.

"Then they drive back to Paley, and I'm getting out of the car at the motel, when Dutch spots me, comes over and asks about you, so I tell him you're out somewhere–but I didn't say where–and I'm afraid to ask what he's doing, you know. Maybe they got ice for a party–a big party. He invites me for coffee, I tell him I'm bushed. I tell him he can stay in your room, since Robby and Melissa have their own–you knew that didn't you?"

"Yeah. So why are you up at the ranch?"

"I set up at my window–Teddi's in and out of sleep–and I sit there in the dark with binoculars. I fall asleep. Luckily the phone in your room woke me up. Thought you were calling, so I put my ear to the door between our rooms and I hear Dutch talking. It was after two, I guess. I look outside. The light's on in the van. Quinn comes out of the house and gets in through the side doors. In a minute, Dutch goes out and meets him. They're in there maybe two minutes, then come out and close it up. Then Quinn goes ape-shit–excuse my French–starts kicking the hell out of the side of the van. Dutch pushes him back and they argue about something and go inside Quinn's place. Twenty minutes later, Dutch comes back to your room–he has your spare key, by the way–then Quinn leaves in the van. I run down and follow him. The lights in your room were off, so I don't think Dutch saw me go."

She stopped for a breath. Joe heard the relieved excitement shuddering in her vocal chords. She'd waited for hours for the chance to tell her story.

"I almost lose him. Then I see his tail lights, you know, going up Lakeview Drive, and I blast up there just as he pulls into the Paley's private road. And that's where I am. Sitting west of there."

"Quinn's still there?"

"Far as I know. I can barely stay awake, Joe–you have to relieve me."

"I haven't had any sleep either, but okay, stay there–and stay awake–I'll be up in an hour or two. I have to see someone first."

"What happened in Vegas?"

"For once I came back a winner," Joe replied, and quickly recapped his conversations with the Paley cops. Leah listened attentively.

"We definitely have to stay on Quinn," she said, trying on her new-found professionalism. "Maybe he picked Jackie up after she left the police station."

Joe didn't reply, but he was impressed. She'd paid attention. And she'd followed Quinn all the way to Baker and back and up to the Paley's. Not an easy tail on these roads with no cover. And she was putting pieces together. Made him apply one of his grandfather's sappy sayings to himself: Eating Crow Makes You Grow, So Don't Mind the Bad Taste It Leaves In Your Mouth.

"Leah," he said, "good job."

At the other end of the line there was a surprising pause.

He hung up. The door opened and Dutch shuffled into the room.

"Jesus," he complained, the still unlit cigarette between his lips. "Front office don't have matches, your car lighter doesn't work...."

In his mind, Joe edged to the abyss as Dutch rambled on about getting a light for his cigarette. Should he ask him about last night? If he did and Dutch had a good explanation, he'd look pretty silly, but more importantly, he'd know that someone followed him. What could Dutch be up to that Joe needed to know about? He surely wasn't involved in Jackie's death. He ripped Otto off. Why did that mean he had to be doing something else dirty? And if he was...well, friendships were as easy to stop as they are difficult to start.

"Try the lighter in your van," Joe suggested, pushing things, taking something clean from his suitcase.

"Ah, the van's not here. John borrowed it to haul some things." Dutch went to the closet and scooted the hanging shirts aside. "Ah!" He grabbed a black, Members Only jacket off the bar, patted the pockets. His hand stopped, massaged it. Delight came to his face, and the cigarette rose between his lips like an erection. He fumbled inside the pocket and drew out a pack of matches between his fingers. He quickly lit up.

Getting dressed, Joe said, "Sick habit. Outside with it."

Dutch exhaled. "Sorry. Forgot. What about breakfast?"

"I got work to do."

"What about some sleep?"

"Something came up. Maybe lunch. We need to talk, though."

"Leah told me about the girl last night. Poor Teddi. I can’t imagine what she’s going through."

He picked up the jacket from the bed to hang it back up in the closet. The matches dropped on the floor at Joe's feet as he buttoned his shirt. He picked them up. Dutch turned and waved the cigarette smoke out of Joe's face.

"Don't lose these," Joe said, handing the matches back.

Dutch laughed and took them. Joe caught a name in bright red across the match cover. In bold letters, it read: WINKLE'S.

He stared into Dutch's face. Dutch shook his head and said:

"I'm going, I'm going–Jesus, you non-smokers!"