Free Driven: The Sequel to Drive by James Sallis Page B

gunwale through which plates passed from kitchen to servers. Thin hair parted severely at the side, nose that seemed to be drawing the face relentlessly forward. “Too many black and white movies?”
Just then a group of five, mixed men and women, came in from some affair or another, made out as zombies. Torn clothes, pasty white faces, blackened eyes, splatters of food color, beads of drool. All of them staggered about, arms flailing as though subject to a different musculature, a different gravity. They took a corner booth, where one of them began quietly to chant Flesh! Flesh!
Driver was halfway through his Breakfast-Any-Time. He put his fork down and said, “I need to tell you something.”
“Wondered when you’d get to it.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Not really.”
“But?”
She shrugged.
“Fair enough.”
And he told her. Not so much about the older life, just the bare bones of that. But about how he had stood over Elsa’s body, how in the past he had killed, again and again. How killers were now coming for him. How they kept coming, might well keep coming for the rest of his life. How short that rest might be.
When he stopped talking, she looked away, then back at him.
“They’re eating salads,” she said. “The zombies.” She popped in the last bite of burger. “So in other words, you find yourself unaccountably pursued—fatally, you assume—by unapprehended forces.”
“Those are definitely other words. But yeah, that’s pretty much it. Hard to believe?”
“No, I’m just sitting here wondering what my philosophy teacher would have to say. Dark room, dark hat. Shoulder to the door against an unseen, silent, unknown resistance. An interesting man. ‘Actuality is something brute,’ he’d tell us. ‘There is no reason in it.’ Yet everything in his own life, how he talked, how he taught, the way he dressed, seemed nailed to logic’s door.”
Billie smiled up as the waitress refilled her coffee. Looking back to him, Billie’s eyes dropped to the waitress’ name tag. “Thanks, JoAnne.” Then, as JoAnne moved on: “What I’m thinking is, you could use some help with this.”
— • —
     
Late morning, Raymond Phelps was half asleep in the reclining lawn chair on his patio, half thinking about where to grab lunch, Thai maybe, or one of those crushed grilled sandwiches at the Cuban place. Something took his attention, woke him. A sound, insect, hunger. Something.
When he opened his eyes a face hovered upside down above his.
“You don’t want to be moving,” the face said.
And when he did, a hammer struck him full force in the belly.
“That’s why you don’t want to.” The hammer and the hand holding it came into view. “Found this over by the wall. A long time ago you must have cared, worked at trying to keep things shipshape. Now just look at it. Rust, handle rotting. How much can you tell about a man from his tools, Ray?”
“Who the fuck—”
The hammer struck again before he could finish. He vomited, coffee, juice and stomach acids searing his throat.
The man waited till he was done.
“Eight inches to either side, you’ve got gravel for a hip. Ten inches south…”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to understand that this is not going to be a conversation. I’ll ask questions. You’ll answer. Briefly, directly.”
Raymond started to lift a hand to wipe his mouth, stopped and looked back at the man.
“Go ahead.” Again, he waited. “We’re good?”
Raymond nodded.
“Two days ago you called Richard Cole, had him arrange for a money drop out in Glendale.”
Raymond nodded. More coffee, juice and acid was at the gate.
“That money was to pay talent brought in from Dallas.”
“Yes.”
“Who was the hit on?’
“I’m guessing you know that.” He vomited again, but all that came up were some strings of thin, gluey fluid.
“Did you have a photo?”
“A description. Vehicle. Probable locations.”
“Who placed the order?”
Raymond started to talk, stopped when