Way Down on the High Lonely by Don Winslow Read Free Book Online Page B

coming. He knew they were.
    “Reverend Carter was getting a little worried. Seems there were some people coming around asking about you,” Neal said into the door.
    There was a long silence. Neal could almost hear him thinking.
    “Worried about me?”
    Just open the door, Harley. Just open the door and all our worries will be over. “Yeah. I guess you have some sort of situation? With your wife? Reverend Carter thought maybe we could be of help.”
    Graham was crouched at his feet now. Two of the muscle guys were flat on the ground under the window and by the door. Levine was squatting a few feet behind Neal.
    “How could he help me?” the voice asked.
    The tone was a little belligerent. Is he stalling for time? Neal wondered. Getting Cody up, getting him dressed, getting ready to go out the back window?
    “Ohhh …” Neal answered, “a little money, maybe.”
    The door opened a crack. Joe Graham stuck his artificial arm in the gap as the man tried to slam the door shut again. Neal jumped out of the way as Levine slammed into the door, ripping the security chain from the wall.
    The two hitters burst in. One tackled the man around the waist as the other slipped a black hood over his head. The first hitter clasped him around the neck, put one huge hand over his mouth, and lifted him up onto his toes in a lock that would break his neck if he tried to fight. The second hitter closed the door as the van pulled up alongside. This all took about three seconds.
    Levine went over to the bed to pick up Cody.
    Cody wasn’t in the bed.
    Graham came out of the bathroom shaking his head.
    “Where’s the boy?” Levine hissed.
    “What boy?” asked the voice muffled under the hood. The voice was shaking.
    Levine grabbed the hood just under the chin and pulled hard. “You can tell me now or tell me later, but you’ll be feeling a hell of a lot worse later, so tell me now.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    It wasn’t a voice of defiance. It was a voice of terror.
    “It isn’t him,” Graham said.
    “What?” Levine asked.
    “It isn’t him.” Graham lifted the man’s left arm and pointed to a spot beneath his white T-shirt. “No tattoo.”
    “What’s your name?” Levine asked him.
    “Harley McCall!”
    There couldn’t be two of them, Levine thought.
    “What’s your real name?”
    “Paul Wallace.” He was crying.
    “Why are you using Harley McCall’s social security number, Paul?”
    “I found his wallet. I needed a new name. Are you going to kill me?”
    “I haven’t decided yet. Where did you ‘find’ it?”
    “In Las Vegas.”
    “When?”
    “Month or so.”
    Ed signaled for Graham, Neal, and the other hitter to get out, then said, “Paul, I have to leave now. There’ll be someone watching from across the street. You stay in here for ten minutes with this hood on. If you don’t—”
    “I will.”
    Graham cracked the door open, looked outside, and then moved quickly into the van. Neal followed him in. The hitter strode to the phone booth outside and ripped the receiver cord from the phone. Then he headed for the truck.
    Levine came out the door, lifted his hands, and made a gesture like a stick breaking. The hitter got into the van just as it slid off down the street. Then Levine climbed into the van.
    Anne Kelley was crying. She was beating her fists on the seat cushion, crying and saying, “Cody, Cody, Cody.”
    Levine said to Neal, “Get in that car and drive like hell. Don’t go to Reno airport. Just get across the state line, dump the car, and meet us back in New York. We’ll start all over again.”
    “I’m sorry,” Neal said to Anne.
    She nodded but kept crying.
    “Move!” Ed yelled to him. “The bartender can ID you!”
    Neal was looking at Anne Kelley. She was a study in misery, a study in loss.
    “Get going, son,” Graham said quietly.
    Neal opened the van door and got out. Vinnie threw the van in reverse and rolled out of town in the opposite direction