"And last night? After it went south. You didn't think to call?"
Yes, I did think to call. You're the first person I thought to call. But getting in touch with you isn't like just picking up the phone and dialing. It's a process. Call, leave a message, wait--sometimes days--for you to get your damned messages. And even then, I might as well be talking to voice mail. I'd tell you the hit went bad and you'd say, "Not your fault." Three words. That would be the entirety of the conversation, and I'd hang up feeling foolish, like I'd bothered you.
A half hour later, the car turned and I looked up to see we were pulling into a roadside motel.
"Oh," I said. "This isn't my--"
"Yeah. Found yours. Twenty fucking miles back. Brought your stuff."
"I hid my passport--"
"Got it." He nodded at the motel. "Gonna check in. You need rest. I come back, you'll be here?"
"I wasn't trying to run away from you before, Jack. I was confused." I rubbed my face. "I don't need to rest. I should head home. If you can just take me back to my rental car--"
"Car's gone. Phoned it in."
"Then I'll rent another and--"
"You'll stay here while I check in. You bolt . . . ?"
Normally, I'd joke, "You'll shoot me?" and he'd make some wry retort. He glanced at me, as if waiting. When I said nothing, he reached over and opened the glove box, then tossed a pack of cigarettes onto my lap.
"Have one. Won't be long." He opened the door, then glanced back. "Can smoke in here. Already did."
I fingered the package of cigarettes. Jack's brand. Irish imports. I used to wonder if it really was his brand, or an affectation, like the slight brogue, presenting a fake background. He really is Irish, originally, at least. The brogue only comes out with those he trusts. Same as the cigarettes.
He's also usually careful about doing things like smoking in rental cars. It makes him memorable, like the cigarette brand. If Jack had a hitman motto, it would be "stay invisible." With fewer syllables, and maybe a "fuck" thrown in for good measure.
So smoking in the car meant something. So did the plastic drink cup lid overflowing with butts--he's been down to a cigarette or so a day since I've known him. Jack was stressed. Worried I'd gone off the rails and now I'd do something stupid and put him at risk. He'd been driving around for hours, looking for me and working his way through a pack of cigarettes.
I emptied the makeshift ashtray. I'm not good with messes. When I'm already anxious, I'm really not good with them. As I returned from the garbage, he was coming back.
"I really should go home," I said as he approached. "I'm fine. Crisis averted. If you'll just take me to--"
"Room twelve. Go."
I leaned on the car roof, looking at him. "I'm serious, Jack. I know you have better things to--"
"Nope. Got nothing. Room twelve. Go."
Once inside I took off my jacket. Jack noticed my gun with a grunt of satisfaction.
"Yes, even during a meltdown, I don't wander empty roads unarmed." I sat on the end of the bed. "I know you don't want me to keep telling you I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to say. You shouldn't have had to do this."
"Didn't have to. Chose to. Owed you anyway. You did it for me."
"At least you had the sense to stay in your motel room."
"No choice. Wouldn't have gotten far."
Last May, I'd been the one getting a call from Evelyn. Jack had broken his ankle on a job and was holed up in a motel outside Buffalo. He was too stubborn to ask for help, so she wanted me to fetch him back to my lodge to recuperate. I'd w
alked into a room full of cigarette smoke, and thought something had gone wrong on a hit. It hadn't. Jack only hurt his ankle in the escape.
The problem was what it meant: that this was a job for young men and he was almost fifty. Retirement was coming. That was tough. A contact of his had retired too late, his reputation shot to shit by the time he went. Jack didn't want that. Yet he understood the impulse to keep working. This was his life. There wasn't a retirement plan.
"So we're even." He pulled a chair toward the bed. "Wanna talk about it?"