Free Man of Wax by Robert Swartwood Page B

casino, others headed back to their rooms. Everyone looked happy, so much so it pissed me off, but at least the noise and brightness wasn’t as intimidating as before.  
    Jason was still at the front desk. He was dealing with somebody on the phone, talking and nodding as he stared at his computer screen. I approached, dreading what I wanted to ask him but knowing I had no choice.  
    He noticed me standing there, smiled and raised a finger, waited thirty seconds until he was done with his call, then said, “Sorry about that, Mr. Chase. How may I help you?”  
    “Has a”—I cleared my throat—“package arrived for me?”  
    He didn’t even hesitate, shaking his head at once and saying, “No, but I’ll make sure to keep an eye out for when it arrives.”  
    I thanked him, a sudden conflicting emotion of relief and dread flashing through me, and began to turn away.  
    “Oh, Mr. Chase?” Jason said. “Your car’s waiting outside.”

    •     •     •

    I T WAS A black Lincoln Town Car, an older model but very well cared for. Its driver, a young guy with a mustache decked out in a black suit and driver’s cap, opened the back door with a smile and a nod.  
    I slid in and the man closed the door and for a moment I was alone in the car, just sitting there staring ahead at the dash at the driver’s name—Gerald—and picture ID and the car number in the usual spot. Over in the corner by the speedometer and gas gauge were two wallet-sized photographs. One showed two little girls, their brown hair in pigtails; the other showed the same two girls with a woman who was no doubt their mother.  
    The front door opened and Gerald slid in behind the wheel. Before he had even fully turned on the car and placed it in drive, I asked:  
    “Is that your family?”  
    He paused, at first not sure what I meant, then a second went by and he nodded. “Sure are.”  
    “I couldn’t really see the pictures well, but they look beautiful.”  
    Gerald was quiet for another half-moment before he said, “Thank you,” and got us rolling forward.  
    I stared out my window and didn’t speak right away. I had made the man nervous, which hadn’t been my intention. What I had intended, I wasn’t even sure, but I wanted to say something, strike up some kind of conversation, and had royally messed that up.  
    “Where are we headed?” I asked.  
    Again, that half-moment pause, and then he said, “I’m not supposed to tell you.”  
    “You’re not?”  
    He shook his head, gave me a warm smile in the rearview mirror. “It’s a surprise.”

    •     •     •

    W E DROVE FOR awhile on the expressway in silence, not even any light music playing, and when he took an exit I said:  
    “I have a wife and daughter, too.”  
    He gave me another look in the rearview mirror, didn’t say anything.  
    “You look surprised.”  
    He shook his head.  
    “Why?”  
    He opened his mouth, shut it, opened his mouth again and said, “I just thought this whole thing was for your bachelor party. Like, your friends set this up and everything, based on where I’m taking you.”  
    “Where are you taking me?”  
    He smiled again. “Remember, I’m not supposed to tell you.”  
    “You can tell me.”  
    “I’d rather not.”  
    “My daughter’s three and a half. How old are yours?”  
    He was quiet for another moment, no doubt debating whether he should continue the conversation, and I wondered just how strict Simon’s instructions had been.
    “Seven and nine,” Gerald said finally.  
    “They must be a handful.”  
    “At times. Still, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.”  
    “How long have you been doing this type of work?”  
    “What does that mean, this type of work?”  
    “Just, you know, driving.”  
    He gave me another look in the rearview and for a moment I thought that I’d screwed up whatever little friendship I’d made with this guy.  
    “Fifteen