Page 36 of Race With The Devil

Slayer sipped his pink lemonade through a straw. “I would not say that. You say this job doesn’t involve any administering. I simply have to convince someone—some woman, hopefully—to hand over some security tapes. That sounds quite easy, and will help hone my acting chops!” He looked sad now. It was amazing how many faces he could adopt within the space of one minute. “I do not usually get to practice acting much, when I just go in and pop someone off and leave. There isn’t much personal interaction most of the time. One time, I got into a physical struggle with a heroin kingpin. We both lost our pieces and it became a matter of hand-to-hand combat. He called me idiota and estúpido, and I called him a hijo de puta and a pendejo many times. It was exhilarating! To finally test both my physical strength and acting talent at the same time!”

“Who won?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“I did, naturally. One punch to the face and he was knocked out. From there it was very simple to toss him over the bridge.”

“You were fighting on a bridge?” asked Tanner.

“Yes. I shouted out ‘Que te folle un pez!’ as he flailed downward like a rag doll. He hit a rock instead of the water.”

Slushy frowned. “I hope you get fucked by a fish?”

“Yes. Well. It seemed appropriate at the time. How was I to know he’d land on a rock?”

“Well, then,” said Slushy. “So you’re in?”

Slayer smiled happily. “I should say so!”

Slushy stood. This was club business, so our meals were free of charge. “All right, then. I’ll leave it up to you guys to give Mr. Slayer the particulars. Just give us your word, Mr. Slayer, that you’re not going to leave in the middle of the job for a part in The Many Lives of Alejandro, all right?”

“You have my word,” vowed Slayer soberly. With more excitement, he confided in us, “Although the producers at The Many Lives of Alejandro are currently perusing my resume.”

What kind of resume could he possibly have? He seemed the type to post it on LinkedIn, so I made a mental note to check later. Of course, he was probably using another pseudonym for his acting.

We explained that in Lavinia’s last communication, she had said that she would drive Corey to the U of Arizona in Phoenix to make a delivery. We gave him the date and the make and model of Lavinia’s car, currently parked in her driveway at home. We had the license plate number. Slayer took it all in without asking questions. He made no notes.

Finally, he said, “Now. You said this Tutti Morgan pendejo was trying to convince Lavinia to drive to the Grand Canyon with him.”

We’d forgotten all about that, assuming it never happened. “Well,” said Tanner, “I guess, but I don’t think it happened. I think she took this Corey moron down to the U of A, and he somehow offed her there.”

Slayer pointed at the table as though it were a map. “I think this Grand Canyon thing is worth looking into. They have cameras at the entry gates to all national parks, so it would be very simple.”

I shrugged. “If you want. But I think it’s more likely they went south.”

“Who is the professional here?” asked Slayer haughtily.

“Do whatever it takes,” said Tanner. “Are you staying at my hotel?”

“Santiago Slayer does not do chain hotels. But I also cannot be seen with any of the Bare Bones. So I’ve found an adorable little Airbnb up in the Whiskey Slide area of Pure and Easy. Quite lovely and spacious, with a view of the sunset on the red rocks. They also provide a seaweed soak and a sauna.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, thinking how that place was so not Tanner. I’d often wondered what his dog ranch was like in St. Louis. Anything could be a “ranch,” really. It could be a hut with a line of horrible kennels, though I doubted it, knowing his love of dogs. Or it could be like some of those TV trainers, with miles of manicured lawns, landscaping, and specially outfitted training rooms. What sort of man was Tanner, really? The kind who would not get a seaweed soak and a sauna, that was for sure.

So we bid adieu to Santiago Slayer. He sauntered down the aisle between filthy wooden tables greasy with years of burgers and fries, his hand on his abdomen as though about to bow stiffly to people. People noticed him and nodded, that was the strange thing. Maybe some were affiliated with the Bare Bones. The manager Bobo Segrist knew Slayer, and he gave him a sort of salute as he exited. Everyone seemed to have the highest regard for him. I wondered how slick and undercover he could possibly be with his lavender scarf and shiny white, pointy shoes.

“Let’s go up to my place,” I suggested, not telling Tanner why. Truth was, I wanted to suck his cock. I was ready for it. I was going to touch a man, to pay him back for the immense gift he’d given to me under the waterfall.

He didn’t ask why. “All right.”

When we went down the aisle, no one looked at us. “Why do they call you Leatherstocking?” I asked.

“Do you know Last of the Mohicans?”

“Oh, the movie is great. Daniel Day-Lewis?”

“Right. He plays Natty Bumppo, whose nickname is Leatherstocking, or Long Knife.”

“And . . . you did something like him once?”

He shrugged modestly as we rounded the façade of the Bum Steer where all the bikes were parked, mine included. “I suppose. During a big prison rumble, I made one of those hundred-yard rushes through a field of brawling men with knives to save this one pathetic guy. Guys were always preying on him because he was weak.”