… of course. But there is no way to get any of it quickly … no, no, no, he couldn’t say… looks like millions though, way more than we’d even suspected… yeah, right? I know …. No, no, I asked and he just couldn’t … he was doing us a big favor just telling us this… anyway, the Trustee of course, has total power over all the money, and can get this big salary just for being in charge. I know, I know, it’s so dumb. I knew that since they aren’t Christians they’d … right, right, yes, of course God is on our side, I know that. Darn it. So … no, no, no. Right, if he’s… gone, it’s me. Oh, what? Oh, Randa is next in line after me, can you imagine? Okay, okay. Wait, there’s more. No, stop, listen. We have to meet Logan and Randa to get the stuff tonight. At eleven. I know, I know. It’s ridiculous. No, I don’t see any way out of it. Behind the church, in the lot by the stupid Hole In the Wall. I have no idea why there. No, not a clue. I can’t talk to her anymore, you know that. You sure Jorge will …. I know, but can we count on that? Okay, have faith bla bla bla right. Just talk to Reverend Polk, let him know it’ll be just a few more hours, okay? All right… all right. Love you too. Bye.”
TWENTY
Paul really wanted to get to his house and show Detective Fagan the gun. Let him bring it to the lab or wherever and see if it was the weapon that killed Tina and Mark. Wanted to call out Miranda in front of the police and hopefully shake loose whatever the truth was about her involvement in the murders and her possible framing of him. He wanted to file a complaint against Reverend Fish and his cronies because there was no way they should be able to get away with what they did to him. Paul wasn’t going to get them back on his own. He was surprised to find that he believed in the system. He was certain the Modesto Police Department would take his complaint seriously and make things difficult for those religious homophobe nut jobs and Reverend Fish. He thought he could maybe even get a lawsuit out of it, and get some settlement out of that, which coupled with the money he was going to get from Tina’s insurance and pension, set him up nicely. Get him out of his mother’s house. Make it so he could get more custody of his kids.
That’s what he wanted to do. Instead, he wound up driving Logan Swift’s Ford pickup in the totally opposite direction with Logan sitting next to him pointing the shotgun at the side of his head.
“Uncle Paul,” Logan said, after they had driven north on McHenry until they were just about out of town, now surrounded by almond orchards on both sides of the road. “You need to calm down.”
“I am calm,” Paul said. “I was never not calm. I just want to go home. I need to go to my house. Jesus Christ.”
“Hey, Randa told me you were off to meet the po-po there waving this shotgun or some such shit. That’s like suicide by cop, you know? We couldn’t let that happen to you. No way, man.”
Just after Paul turned left off of Sylvan, Logan appeared next to him and used his truck to force him into the parking lot of a Baptist church. Paul had to slam his brakes and make a hard turn into the lot to avoid being hit by Logan’s truck. He parked and Logan parked just inches in front of him. As Logan jumped out and approached his passenger door, Paul thought about pulling into reverse to get away, but he was just too slow from drugs and pain. And, as usual, he was fascinated by what Logan was going to do next.
Which, this time, was to open the door of the Honda, grab the shotgun off the seat, open it up, take two shells out of his pocket, load each barrel, close the gun with a gangster-like flick of the wrist, and point it at Paul.
“Okay, Uncle Paul,” he said. “Let’s go.”
He motioned with the gun toward his truck. Paul looked at Logan and the gun, then out onto the busy street and raised his eyebrows like, “are you kidding me?”
“Please,
TWENTY
Paul really wanted to get to his house and show Detective Fagan the gun. Let him bring it to the lab or wherever and see if it was the weapon that killed Tina and Mark. Wanted to call out Miranda in front of the police and hopefully shake loose whatever the truth was about her involvement in the murders and her possible framing of him. He wanted to file a complaint against Reverend Fish and his cronies because there was no way they should be able to get away with what they did to him. Paul wasn’t going to get them back on his own. He was surprised to find that he believed in the system. He was certain the Modesto Police Department would take his complaint seriously and make things difficult for those religious homophobe nut jobs and Reverend Fish. He thought he could maybe even get a lawsuit out of it, and get some settlement out of that, which coupled with the money he was going to get from Tina’s insurance and pension, set him up nicely. Get him out of his mother’s house. Make it so he could get more custody of his kids.
That’s what he wanted to do. Instead, he wound up driving Logan Swift’s Ford pickup in the totally opposite direction with Logan sitting next to him pointing the shotgun at the side of his head.
“Uncle Paul,” Logan said, after they had driven north on McHenry until they were just about out of town, now surrounded by almond orchards on both sides of the road. “You need to calm down.”
“I am calm,” Paul said. “I was never not calm. I just want to go home. I need to go to my house. Jesus Christ.”
“Hey, Randa told me you were off to meet the po-po there waving this shotgun or some such shit. That’s like suicide by cop, you know? We couldn’t let that happen to you. No way, man.”
Just after Paul turned left off of Sylvan, Logan appeared next to him and used his truck to force him into the parking lot of a Baptist church. Paul had to slam his brakes and make a hard turn into the lot to avoid being hit by Logan’s truck. He parked and Logan parked just inches in front of him. As Logan jumped out and approached his passenger door, Paul thought about pulling into reverse to get away, but he was just too slow from drugs and pain. And, as usual, he was fascinated by what Logan was going to do next.
Which, this time, was to open the door of the Honda, grab the shotgun off the seat, open it up, take two shells out of his pocket, load each barrel, close the gun with a gangster-like flick of the wrist, and point it at Paul.
“Okay, Uncle Paul,” he said. “Let’s go.”
He motioned with the gun toward his truck. Paul looked at Logan and the gun, then out onto the busy street and raised his eyebrows like, “are you kidding me?”
“Please,
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