XXXV: Worrier King
This was a first. He couldn't see a way out of it. Hibbs was somewhere – where? – but he couldn't think about the other guy at the moment. He had to think about himself. A bit shaky but none the worse for wear, Sawyer leaned against the brick wall of the Italian restaurant, pulled out a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, lit it up. The routine of smoking was familiar. It calmed him a little, though not as much as he would have liked.
The marks had figured out the fakery way too early, and he had been run out of the restaurant. Lucky him, to play the poor man. It was pretty galling, really. To be kicked out of a restaurant like that: It bothered him lots, and he wasn't sure why.
He had left the jewelry at their table. All that had gone right. And he looked the part of the poor man, too, with a cheap flannel shirt and his beat-up leather jacket. He had expensive stuff and didn't know it, was the idea, and Hibbs was the buyer, with money to burn and with more discernment about the jewelry than he himself had. That was the way it was supposed to go. They had figured out the target here in Tampa, had haunted the place for the last week making sure that their marks were stupid enough and greedy enough with their nightly meals out to fall for this. They had been, Hibbs assured him.
It was strange, though. Hibbs hadn't left as quickly as he should have, and he had missed his timing, and timing in this was crucial. So even though he had recovered nicely enough, there was still something off about his patter, and they knew it. One look at their eyes told him that much. So he had pocketed the jewelry when they weren't looking and beat it for the door, and then – there he was, standing, smoking, trying to figure things out, waiting for Hibbs to show up again.
For all of Hibbs' planning, things sure had been figured out way too easily. Something nagged at him about that, something that felt oddly like betrayal. Hibbs wouldn't have set him up, but, really, what other explanation was there? He had done nothing wrong. He was too experienced at this sort of thing, and theoretically, Hibbs was too. They should have been fine.
"Sawbucks." Hibbs' voice, and he couldn't quite place the emotion behind it. He hoped that it was apology, but didn't think it was.
Sawyer took a drag on the cigarette, not looking up. The hell with Hibbs. "What the hell was that?" was his answer to yet another hated nickname. "What the hell were you trying to do? We went over this time and again, Hibbs, and when it comes down to it, you screw it up? Ain't exactly gettin' off on a good start, is it? We were supposed to get five thousand bucks out of this. I fronted two thousand, and that's two thousand I'm not gonna get back, 'cos we already gave it to them – all for some cheap costume jewelry." He resisted the urge to take the Woolworth's box out and throw it at the older man, but with difficulty.
"Yeah." It wasn't an agreement. Sawyer could tell. "I wasn't trying to do anything. You should've figured out the timing. You didn't. Your loss, for the money."
"We had this planned, Hibbs," Sawyer hissed. He was past caring, though, and so the statement didn't carry a lot of weight to it. "We had this planned, and the least you could've done would've been to get the damn thing right. You hired me because I'm good, and you screwed it up."
He took a step towards Hibbs, and then another, tossing his cigarette away. If it came to it, he could beat him up. He was bigger and stronger than Hibbs; Hibbs was rounder and shorter. He didn't feel imposing, though, or angry. He felt drained. The fight to come didn't entertain him like it might have when he was ten years younger. He would have rather avoided it. With the way he was looming down on his boss, though, he knew that avoidance wasn't an option. "Next time we do this, if there is a next time, I'm callin' the shots. Got it?" His voice snapped out to Hibbs, crackling. Above them, a street-lamp buzzed and then went out. Hibbs looked up, and Sawyer took the opportunity, closing in fast. If he was going to beat the guy down, he would have to catch him by surprise and work fast.
No such luck. He'd underestimated Hibbs. As he drew back his hand to throw a punch, he saw something metal gleaming. Knife or gun? He didn't want to find out from experience. He hung back, staring at the other man, momentarily struck speechless.
Hibbs smiled, flipping the knife – he saw it was a knife – away. "Good," he declared approvingly. "You caught yourself. You're smart. That's what I've always liked about you. That's the only thing I've liked about you. If you weren't smart, boy, we wouldn't still be doin' business."
He saw a way out, then, and he took it, pulling his jacket closer to him."That's right, Hibbs. We ain't doin' business any longer." He thought he saw a look of approval cross Hibbs' face, but wasn't sure. Maybe it was a trick of the light. In any case, he shook his head, pulled himself together. "If you can't run a decent fiddle-game con, I don't want a damn thing to do with you."
"And what are you gonna do, then? You won't change. You're just gonna be the same guy you always were. You think you're gonna do something different than being a con man?" He shook his head. "You were lying to me from the moment you gave me your name. Frank Sawyer. Right." Sawyer must have looked shocked, because Hibbs nodded towards him, grinning. "Didn't think I figured it out, did you? See, you're smart, but I'm smart, too. I saw your letter. You wrote that to Frank Sawyer."
Sawyer stood there, blinking. He wasn't shocked by the information. He was shocked that Hibbs had figured it out, though. He shrugged, tried to cover. "Yeah, and? Big deal; I didn't tell you my name."
"Point is, you're never gonna change. You're just gonna be frozen there, same thing that you always were. You can't leave this sort of thing. What is your real name, anyway? It ain't Sawyer."
"It ain't Sawyer," Sawyer confirmed. "It's James, all right? James Ford." Using the name again felt strange, put a tinny taste in his mouth. It was alien to him now. He drew away from Hibbs, shaking his head. He needed to think. He needed to figure out why this had gone so wrong. This was awful. He ran a hand over his face, moved to light up a second cigarette. "James Ford," he repeated, still trying to get used to the name. It took some doing. "You can't use that name in public, though. The guy – the money – he'll come after me." He had explained it more in detail before. "I don't even know why I'm trustin' you with it. You never did anything for me anyway."
Hibbs nodded. His voice was even, almost measured. "You're trusting me because you haven't used that name for a while. You need to use it with someone. I won't let on, though. Don't you worry. If I do find this Frank Sawyer for you, though, I'll let you know. I'll search through our files."
The reference jerked Sawyer back to the facts: Hibbs had been a cop. He had been a crooked cop, and he was no longer a cop, but he was a guy with plenty of connections, nonetheless. He could be a resource, then. He was offering that much, and Sawyer would have had to be a fool not to accept. "Right," he said, trying hard not to sound like the prospect meant as much as it did. "Thanks."
"Anything I can do to make up for things tonight," Hibbs replied. Sawyer sensed a hollowness in the other man's voice, but he didn't care about it. "For now, here's some money to get you out of Tampa." His boss opened up his wallet, giving up the money in such a ready way that Sawyer knew he had to have plenty more in the billfold. Sawyer stared, but didn't ask for more. "You got somewhere to go?" It was a formality. Hibbs didn't really want to know.
"Yeah," Sawyer lied. There was no reason to unburden himself on the guy. "Yeah, I'll be fine." He turned away from Hibbs. Now seemed an appropriate time to make the threat he'd wanted to earlier, before his acquaintance had gotten the drop on him. "And listen, Hibbs, next time I see you again, I'll kill you." The casualness of the threat startled him a bit, but he didn't dare evidence his surprise at himself.
"You won't," Hibbs replied, and Sawyer knew it was the truth. He stopped, about to turn back towards Hibbs, and then decided, It's not worth it. He's not worth it. It isn't like he's got anything to do with anything anymore. "You aren't the killing type, Sawyer." He used that name, not the name he had heard being claimed, and Sawyer wondered about that, too, but didn't inquire. "If I come across anything, I'll let you know. Where will you go?"
"I'm gettin' the hell out of Tampa, for one," Sawyer replied. "Ain't nowhere around here to go." That was not entirely the truth, but he gave Hibbs a broad smile, and Hibbs believed him. People generally did.
–––
"I know you're there," she said, and he started in surprise. He hadn't meant for her to discover him. He had meant to head in, grab his stuff, and take off, but she was standing there, and as she flicked the light, he caught a glimpse of her, her hair unnaturally bright in the sudden light. Glowing, almost. Distracted by it for a moment, he didn't notice that she had been asleep. She had said she would wait up for him and she hadn't. He took that as a sign, almost. She didn't need him anymore, and he was sure that he didn't need her.
"James," she began, as if she wanted to apologize for something before he could say anything else. "You look upset."
"I am upset." He went for a beer, first, grabbing it, taking a sip. There was a moment of uncomfortable recognition, the taste of the beer registering unpleasantly. "Budweiser. You got Budweiser. You know I don't drink this." He'd been living here for a few months, off-and-on. She had never bought that stuff before. Why tonight?
She gave him a smile. It was apologetic, too. Everything about her was apology, tonight. He didn't know why. He didn't think she was screwing around on him. They weren't committed, and he'd hooked up with a few girls since he'd started hanging out at her place more often, but things like that didn't happen to him. As if to confirm his thoughts about himself, she drew close to him, affectionate. "How did it go tonight?"
"Like hell," he replied, honest. He ran a hand through his hair, pulled away from her arm on his own. "They made us. They made us and they had me kicked out of the damn restaurant." His anger at that rose, and he choked it down, shaking his head. "Damn. I mean, I was hoping – you know." His voice caught again, and he had to sigh to get it back on track.
"Yeah," she said, more aware than he had previously given her credit for. He did not need to explain. "I know. You're leaving, right?"
"For a little while," he said. He knew that it was a lie. She knew that it was too, from the half-smirk that drifted onto her face at that. As if to make things even more pathetic, seemingly unable to resist, he added, "But I'll be back, darlin'." He tried his best for a broad grin.
"You won't." She said it like she already knew. She probably did. She tugged at the collar of her nightgown, signaling nervousness, pushed the sleeves down on it. It was one of his T-shirts he'd lent her. He wanted to stay down here in Florida with her. If the job tonight would have worked, I would have done well. But I can't stay here. Next time I go out, someone will make me, and they'll toss me in jail, and that's the worst place for someone like me. In a way, it was easier just to cut his ties, to take off without her and to hit the road again and find some new marks to swindle, than to face up to jail. He felt like a heel for that, but it was the truth.
"That shirt you've got on. Yeah, the Volunteers. Keep it." He managed, at last, to smile. "And if Hibbs comes around asking about me, or any of his friends, or any of Kilo's friends, or any-damn-body else, you ain't seen me, got it?"
She paused for a moment and then nodded. Her bare feet dug into the kitchen rug. "James," she repeated his name, "Promise me that if you find what you're after, you'll let me know."
"Second person on my list," he replied. Given the chance, he would tell her. He resolved that to himself. "And Jeannie?" She looked up. Caught by surprise, she looked vaguely suspicious, somehow, like she was thinking something she did not want to share with him. That was all right, though. He didn't want to get into a fight tonight. He wasn't nearly drunk enough, and she wasn't nearly loud enough. "Look, I didn't mean for this to turn into anything. Just so you know." He was not sure why that would be a comfort to her, but something in him told him it would be. He hoped his instinct was correct.
"Us or the job you were doing?"
That, he couldn't answer. He shrugged at her weakly, started for the room in which he'd been keeping his duffel bag when he'd been staying over here. "I have to pack. I'll see you around, huh?"
She did not answer. As he walked towards the door, he started to worry. What if she really didn't see him again? He remembered how they'd left the last time they'd broken up, her heading for the Mack truck and hitchhiking back to Knoxville proper, him trying his damnedest to push the car out of the ditch. She had left him then, and now he was leaving her. The symmetry of it was too perfect. He would not see her again. He was sure of that. He trusted his instincts, and his instincts told him to tell her goodbye. Instead, when she was in the bathroom, he took the opportunity to slip out without saying goodbye. It was so much easier that way.
When he gunned the motor to his beat-up car, he could have sworn that, through the Venetian blinds, he could see her outline with a telephone cord leading from it. He did not care who was being called, though. She was free now, and he hoped he would be, too.