The Driver

“When?”

Beau finished his beer. “You doing anything now?”

39

The place was in the hills outside Vallejo. It was a clear evening and, for once, there was a perfect view all the way down to the Golden Gate Bridge and the lights of the city beyond. Beau could see returning saltwater fisherman out in their boats on the San Pablo Bay and the wide, leafy streets of the town. Beyond it, and across the straits, you could see the big iron derricks, the rotting piers, the grey hulks of battleships, the brick smoke-stacks and derelict warehouses of Mare Island. It had been a pleasant place, once — Beau remembered coming here with his father when he was travelling on business — but the cheap housing units of plasterboard and plywood that had been thrown up to accommodate the boom years after the end of the second world war had fallen quickly into disrepair. The seventies had seen the place struggle with race hatred that begat violence and unrest; the stain was only now being washed away.

Beau drove along Daniels Avenue until he found number 225. Hank had given him the address and Beau had had it checked with an investigator they sometimes used when they had ru

“That the place?”

“It is.” Beau drove on and parked out of sight.

“A busy place, drink, maybe drugs? That’ll make things more difficult.”

“I know.”

“Still want to do it?”

“I’m picking him up come hell or high water. You don’t ride your horse into a canyon you ain’t willing to walk out of.”

“How do you want play it?”

Beau looked at the house, assessing it. “You got a preference?”

Milton looked at him with a smile. “Old man like you?” he said. “You go around the back and get ready if he runs. I’ll go in and flush him out.”

“Alright,” he said. “You know what he looks like?”

Smith had studied Beau’s photograph on the drive north from San Francisco. “Big. Nasty looking. I’ll recognise him.”

“Goes by the name of Ordell,” Beau reminded him.

“Don’t worry, I got it.”

Beau held up the cosh. “Want this?”

“Keep it. I’ll give you ten minutes to get yourself around the back and then I’ll go in.”

Beau rolled the car around the block until he found an access road that ran between the back gardens of Daniels Avenue. It was a narrow street that climbed a hill with broken fencing on both sides, wooden garages that were barely standing and unkempt trees that spread their boughs overhead. A row of cars, covered over with tarps, was parked along one side of the road. He recognised number 225 from the peeling blue paint and settled into place to wait behind the wing of a battered old Ford Taurus.

He had barely been there a minute when he heard the sound of raised voices and then crashing furniture.

He rose up quickly.

The back door exploded outwards, the limp body of a man tumbling through the splintered shards.

He took a step forward just in time to intercept the big, angry-looking man who was barrelling out of the shattered doorway. He looked madder than a wet hen. He held one hand to his nose, trying unsuccessfully to stem the flow of blood that was ru

Beau stepped into his path.

“Oh shit,” Ordell Leonard said.

Beau swung the cosh and caught him flush on the side of the head. He went jelly-legged and tripped, Beau snagging the lapels of his shirt as he went stumbling past him, heaving his unsupported weight and lowering him down to the road.

He was out cold before his chin hit the asphalt.

Smith came out of the house, shaking the sting out of his right fist.

“That was easy,” he said.

40

Arlen Crawford was working on the preparation for the next debate. They were in Oakland, another anonymous hotel that was the same as all the others. They were all high-end, all luxury. All the same, one after another after another, a never-ending line of them. The sheets on the bed were always fine Egyptian cotton, the bathrooms were always Italian marble, the carpets were always luxuriously deep. They were all interchangeable. It was easy to forget where you were.

He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. He thought of John Smith and his threats. That certainly was a problem and, if had been left to metastasise, it would have grown into something much, much worse. But Crawford had it under control. He had been with Robinson when he reported his co

The detective had reassured Robinson that there was little chance that his liaison with Madison had anything to do with her disappearance. He went further, just as Crawford had suggested, saying that there was no evidence to suggest she had anything to do with the dead girls. The Governor’s conscience was salved and now they would be able to get back to the business of wi

Some things were just too important to be derailed.

There was Smith himself, of course. He would need to be dealt with but that was already in hand. The background checks had turned up very little. He wasn’t registered to vote. He didn’t appear to pay any taxes. A shitty place in an SRO in the Mission District. He worked nights as a taxi driver and worked days hauling blocks of ice. He was a nobody. Practically a vagrant. They had two good men on his case now. Good men, solid tails, both with surveillance experience, the sort who could drift in and out of a crowd without being spotted. They had already got some good stuff. The man went to meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. That was useful to know. There was no family but it looked like there was a girl.

That, too, might be helpful.

Leverage.

He turned his attention back to his work. Crawford had just been emailed the latest polling numbers and the news was good. They were tracking nicely ahead of the pack and the last debate ought to be enough to nail the lead down. They had blocked out the weekend for preparation. Crawford was going to be playing the role of Robinson’s most likely rival and he was putting together a list of the questions that he knew would be difficult if they came up. Forewarned was forearmed, and all that. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail. Crawford knew all the questions, drilled them into the rest of the team, drilled them into the Governor. That was a difficult proposition given his propensity to shy away from preparation and rely upon his instinct. Crawford preferred a balance, but…

There was a fierce knocking on the door of his hotel room.

He put his pen down. “What is it?” he called.

“Arlen!”

The banging resumed, louder.

He padded across the carpet and opened the door.

It was Robinson.

“Have you seen the news?”