Chapter 3: .22

My fourth day in DC, Thursday.

Wednesday had been devoted to tearing down a lot of what I’d worked a lifetime to build up. Including some considerable amount of self-esteem. I felt an odd detachment looking into the mirror. A strange sensation for me.

Matt understood that I was displeased. And he was certainly sensitive enough not to tease me about my temporary appearance.

I tried for bright, “So what’s today’s agenda?”

“Contact lenses. Ever wear them?”

“No. Well, a couple of times. Wanted to see how I liked green eyes.”

“Good, then you know the drill.”

“What else?”

“Movement lessons. Walking, slouching — maybe Roland will put a little gimp in your step.”

“That’s all?”

“No, tattoos too. Melissa will give you some ink. Not a lot, nothing that shows.”

“But temporary, right?”

“Right.”

Something.

I said, “Full day.”


“Yeah well, tonight too. Dental work.”

“A real dentist?” Hope, hope.

“Same as.”

O tempora. o mores. Which, if you’ve let your classic Greek lapse, means, “Holy fuck.”

By Thursday night, Greek leftovers had lost their appeal. I said, “Let’s burn some ganja.”

“Deal.”

To steel myself for my Monday departure, the start of my search for Dixie Wexler, I stripped and made myself slump in front of Matt’s full-length bathroom mirror.

Top to bottom ... a 50-year old woman, mouse-brown hair, streaked with gray. Life lines, deep life lines around my eyes. Deeper lines parenthesized my mouth. My faint laugh lines, once flattering, were now age-markers.

Which went well with a missing upper canine and two half-chipped front teeth.

My tan still looked healthy, but that would fade over the course of my travels. My braless boobs hung down almost against my tummy. Well, the fake dugs did. My right boob hung a little lower. At Mr. K’s insistence.

An erect penis, about three inches long, pointed up at my chin from between my new tits. Class. A tramp stamp, not that bad actually, a small butterfly, completed the ink work.

My curly beaver pelt merkin matched my wig, except it had fewer grays threaded through it. Mr. K told Matt, “Pubes gray slower.”

The varicose veins in my calves would pass inspection unless someone stripped off my knee-length compression socks and did an up-close and personal inspection.

I was getting used to the new me. Starting to feel more comfortable with Ms. Dowdy.

Friday was a comparative breeze. At first.

Matt introduced me to Gerda Hoffstatter. It was seven in the morning. We were in a small apartment off Connecticut Avenue. Gerda is around 40, Germanic. Brisk and efficient. A voice coach. Accent coach. Short, black pixie hair. Handsome face, erect carriage.

She winked at Matt, bussed him on the cheek. Nodded at me, “Another pretty one, no?”

Another?

She addressed me, “Okay, we have only the hour. So listen carefully, let it sink in. You have to practice on your own.”

“Okay.”

“You want an upper Midwest accent. The most common mistake amateurs make is to exaggerate. Ham it up.”

“Okay.”

“Think Minnesota, think “Fargo”. That’s what you don’t want. Too obvious, too blatant, too phony.”

“Okay.”

“Here’s an example. Let’s say you wanted a Southern accent. The best way is to underplay it. Don’t go Blanche Dubois. I’d aim you for someplace between Mobile and New Orleans.”

“I see.”

‘Include gentle question marks at the end of declarative sentences. Subtle, not Valley Girl.”

“Okay.”

“I’m giving you some Wisconsin tapes to study. While you’re driving. Listen, listen, listen. Don’t even try to imitate them until you hear that faint nasally twang in your mind clearly.”

“Okay.”

“And even then, underplay it.”

I resisted the urge to salute.

Matt and I were on the way to our next appointment. After a heartfelt Gerda-to-Matt hug. Something about that sad-faced man.

As we drove a Hertz Ford Focus, blue, toward Ocean City, Maryland, Matt smiled at me, “My name is Randy. Can you remember that?”

“Hmm, I’ll try. I’ll think about last night, Randy.”

We skipped the boardwalk and theme park and headed straight for a seedy section of town. As he parked beside a doublewide, I didn’t ask Matt if the license plate could be traced back to him. He knew how to do these things.

A large black man, amiable smile, opened the door, “Randy, my man!”

They did a complicated ritual handshake that involved fist bumps, intertwines, a high five, interlocks, and, finally, a one-armed hug.

Matt — Randy — said, “Mill, say hello to Bones. Best in the biz.”

Matt didn’t sound like Matt. He was using a false name and had somehow acquired a different personality to go with it.

I smiled, showing my fractured teeth, “Mildred Hawkins. Pleasure.”

Bones laughed, deep in his chest, “At these prices it better damn well be a pleasure for someone.” He was completely bald, head freshly shaved and polished.

He looked at Matt, “How’s things in the Big Apple, my man?”

Matt nodded at the trailer door. Enough. Let’s conduct our business inside.

And what an inside! Well, once we got past the actual living area. Fully half of the trailer looked like the inside of ... I don’t know. IBM shacking up with Paramount Studios? A professional photo studio and, in another room, a short wall and long wall lined with computerized ... um, computer stuff. Thick cords, wires running all over the place, surge suppressors, printers, things humming, clicking, purring. A 3-D printer as well.

Bones accepted the thick envelope from Matt, thumbed through the bills, nodded. Left the room without counting the cash and came back smiling.

The room temperature was a little warm, but certainly tolerable. Although I felt some sweat starting to build in my armpits. Beaver pelt.

Bones led off with photos. Posing me in different lights. Having me change into different outfits that I’d brought along. Courtesy of Mr. Kenneth. I guess this is my undress-in-front-of-strangers week.

Bones shot me from several angles, color and black and white. He nodded at Matt, “Full deck — license, passport, cards. I have all the blanks, just need to insert the photos. Age everything some.”

“Good man.”

“The Hawkins history is already activated. Financial, police, personal. It’ll hold up to a routine background check. Long as no one digs too deep.”

“Fine.”

I said, “Police?”

Bones said, “Nothing major. A couple of possession charges. Soliciting. D & D, the usual.”

“Oh.”

For a large man, Bones moved gracefully. Surprisingly delicate fingers did the close-work adroitly. He ceremoniously handed Matt each finished piece, one at a time.

Wisconsin driver’s license. Passport — Canada the only foreign country visited. Capitol One credit card with a $300 limit. Expired Sears card. Blockbuster. Mobil, also expired. Three unpaid parking tickets from Milwaukee, Ft. Wayne, Cincinnati. A ratty savings passbook from a Milwaukee credit union — zero balance, down from a high of $248.76.

Matt inspected each item carefully. Handed each one to me. I checked them out and dropped them into the worn and stained A & P cloth shopping bag that would be my purse. After New Hampshire. I’d swap it out for local versions in the other states I visited.

Bones had started work around eleven; it was now after six. He hadn’t taken a break — just worked steadily. Slowly, but steadily.

I ignored my tummy signals. If the men didn’t need to eat...

Bones started wrapping up a little before nine. It had been dark for almost three hours. He stood. Sighed and placed his hands in the small of his back, stretched and rolled his shoulders. Smiled at Matt, “A pleasure, Randy, like...”

Matt shot him in the forehead with a .22 pistol that I’d never seen before.

Bones had died instantly, a look of mild surprise on his face. I was trying to breathe.

Matt led me back to the trailer’s living room. For some reason — probably to keep from thinking about the murder that Matt had just committed — I said, “Money?’’

“I’m leaving it. We want it found.”

We?

There was a rushing sound in my head. I was, literally, stunned.

Matt started the rental car, glanced at the rearview and side mirrors, and carefully K-turned and headed back to Highway 50. And home.

I faced him. He was composed, concentrating on driving. I was trying not to throw up.

He pulled the Ruger .22 out of his jacket pocket and asked me to hold the wheel while he unscrewed the suppressor. Also from Ruger. Matt methodically wiped both pieces with a thin leather chamois cloth that smelled faintly of some chemical astringent.

I steered.

He placed the pistol and suppressor in a small, black canvas bag that had heavily-weighted corners. Took over the steering wheel. Numb, I tugged the leather pull-strings tight. Tied them in a square knot. Accessory. After the fact, that’s what I’d claim.

Ten minutes later, I said, “Matt?”

“Bones made contact with someone to sell you out. Last week when I had him start to build the Mildred Hawkins legend.”

I closed my eyes. Opened them immediately. Nausea.

He placed a gentle hand on my thigh. “I couldn’t say anything, couldn’t tell you about Bones ahead of time. Obvious reasons.”

My mind was reeling. Ricocheting in a dozen directions at once. The Ford Focus purred along. I asked one of the least important questions, it just popped into my mind, “Does she know? Constance?”

Matt gave me a small smile, “I don’t share operational details. Connie wants results, not play-by-play.”

I crossed my arms, hugged myself. A sports metaphor for killing someone without hesitation. With premeditation. And driving calmly away. We didn’t exchange another word, although I had plenty of them bottled up, until we got home well after midnight.

We stopped first on a narrow Maryland bridge. No traffic. Matt reached up, clicked off the switch for the dome light before he opened the Ford’s door. He walked around the back. I watched through the side mirror as he tossed the black canvas bag. I assumed the river was deep enough; he wouldn’t make that kind of mistake.

Back home, in his kitchen, Matt opened a couple of bottles of Heineken Dark and poured. He put the lamb shoulder — still plenty left to carve into sandwiches — into the oven. I sat on that leather banquette, arms folded again.

He gave me a sympathetic look, “Want to talk now or in the morning?”

“I won’t be able to sleep.”


“Okay. You were comprised before you left Kansas City. Mildred Hawkins was blown. The name anyway.”

I was so tired, “How?”

“We’ll try to find out. Together. But focus on Hawkins for now.”

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “You killed Bones. Knew ahead of time. Just fucking shot him IN THE FUCKING HEAD!”

He nodded, placed an arm around my shoulders. I shrugged him off.

Matt nodded again, “Let’s revisit Bones later. Think about yourself, your mission.”

“You ... you... “ Tears formed in my eyes. “You knew all along. That Impala, the makeup, the wig, the ... the fucking merkin.”

“That’s right. I made the decision to take it all the way. Those early steps — the makeup, the wig, all of that, were necessary to get beyond Bones. He wouldn’t fully betray you, not until he had the entire deck — photos, license, passport — to show whoever is buying him off.”