Page 43 of Long Way Down

Nine

Unless he had specific errands, or was working a sting, like the Waverly deal, Pongo, in truth, had very little that hehadto do each day. He might have been in possession of more free time than any Lean Dog on the planet.

Pongo chose to spend most of that free time in the gym. He went to a shabby place that had been in business since the fifties, run by a gnarly old curmudgeon who looked alarmingly like Popeye, and who knew all the ins and outs of boxing. There were weights of all sorts, and treadmills, if used and a little battered, but the main draw for Pongo was the bags. Heavy, light, speed – what had started as a way to pass the time had, over the past several years, become a true interest in the sport, and the concept of pushing oneself physically to a point past pain to peak physical condition.

It was called Rydell’s, and Jim Rydell, the Sailor Man Curmudgeon, was the owner/operator, a ‘Nam vet and a vet of the ring back here at home. He could tell you how to build a submarine and how to lay a man out in three moves. He entertained an admittedly rough clientele: toughs, hired muscle, gangsters, and guys out of the pen looking for a second chance. Rydell’s one rule for membership was this: don’t be a little bitch. No matter your background, no matter the paths you traveled through the underworld, he would take you on if you were tough enough, and if you threw yourself into the training. “Whiners, crybabies, and shit-talkers can get the fuck out,” he’d told Pongo on his first visit.

Pongo liked to talk, sometimes even shit-talked, but not in a way that pushed Rydell’s buttons, apparently.

Pongo usually headed over mid-morning, between the early and lunch crowds. When he rolled over in Dixie’s bed at eight, he decided he had time for breakfast before he set out.

He took a moment, first, stretching luxuriantly between her cool sheets, to marvel that he was here alone for the first time.

Light skimmed across the ceiling, diffuse through the sheer white curtains over the windows. Her bedroom looked different in the daylight. He saw that the walls were a crisp, pale blue, and that the art on the walls – small, framed prints of birds and flowers – had all been done by the same artist, the signature distinct in the corner of each. Her closet door stood open, hangers askew like she’d dressed in a hurry, in the dark – which she had. Every sleeve and pants-leg he could see was dark, simple. No patterns, no florals, no bright, girlish colors.

He rolled over onto his stomach and reached to push the curtain aside so he could glimpse the street outside. AC units in the windows of the building across the way; a mother pacing back and forth in front of one, rocking a bundled infant; a little boy with messy hair resting on his elbows on the ledge of another, watching traffic crawl past below with a listless stare.

Aside from the muted, through-the-wall thumps inevitable in every apartment building, Dixie’s place was quiet this morning. Eerily so. He could hear the fridge humming, and a low, more-felt-than-heard buzzing where small, domestic sounds should have come from the kitchen – should have come from her.

He had a dim memory of her trying to rouse him, earlier. “Pongo.Pongo. Are you serious?” She’d shaken him. Then flown around the room, huffing unhappily; sound of zipper, of feet stomping into boots. “I swear to God, if you go through my stuff, or steal anything…”

That last part was just insulting. Did she really think he’d steal?

He glanced at the top drawer of her nightstand a long moment, battling his own curiosity. What secrets might it yield? He already knew that she was terribly repressed, that she wore Mean Bitch armor on top of an insatiable sexual appetite. What else might he glean?

But, no. That was a violation. And less fun, besides. If he went snooping, it would deny him the fun of watching her go red-faced and stuttery when he figured something out about her on his own.

He sat up, stretched again, and went to see about a shower.

Forty-five minutes later, wearing yesterday’s clothes, he locked her door from the inside and pulled it carefully shut behind him on his way out. Hair wet and curling as it dried, lit cigarette between two fingers as he unwrapped a protein bar he’d found in her cupboards, he turned left on the sidewalk toward the garage where he’d parked his bike overnight.

His phone rang while he was buckling on his helmet, a blocked number. He almost let it go to voicemail, but answered at the last second. “Yeah?” he asked, cheerfully. He naturally was cheerful, but ratcheting it up a notch had served him well as a Dog. No one was ever expecting a smile and a laugh and a friendly voice; it put people off their games and allowed him glimpses of their cracks.

A low, flat, vaguely familiar voice on the other end said, “I asked around.” Followed by the distinct sound of a drag off a cigarette.

Pongo took a drag off his own, and then realized who this was. “Kat?” he asked. “Hey, man, that you?”

Slow rush of an exhale. “Yeah.” He did not sound like a man happy to have been identified. “You still want that intel?”

“Yeah.” He smiled to himself in the empty parking garage, fingers tapping along his fuel tank. “Hit me.”

“Not here. Face-to-face.”

He was dramatic, this one. “Sure,” Pongo said easily. “Hey, I was on my way to the gym. We could meet there.”

No response.

“You know Rydell’s?” He was betting a guy like Kat was familiar with the place, at least in passing.

A long beat passed, and he was prepared to suggest somewhere else when Kat said, “Yeah. I know it.” Pongo would have sworn there was a wry edge to his voice.

“Cool. Meet you there in fifteen.” Whistling, he pocketed his phone and cranked the engine, the garage filling with the Harley’s rough growl.

~*~

By the time they arrived at the hospital, Lynn Wheatly had been cleaned up, undergone a preliminary exam, including rape kit, and was propped up in an ER room, conscious – if barely. Both her parents sat with her, her mother’s chair dragged up close to the bed so she could hold her daughter’s hand.

The smell of antiseptic hit Melissa like a slap as they crossed the threshold. She blinked and composed her expression quickly.

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