Endings by Linda Richards (e ink manga reader txt) 📕

“I want something small but roomy. An RV. Not flashy. It should be used, but in good enough condition that it doesn’t stand out.”

“Stand out from what?”

“It shouldn’t be trashed. Or trashy,” I add, almost as an afterthought. “It shouldn’t draw attention to itself in any way.”

“How many does it need to sleep?”

“Two. Tops. Maybe not even that.”

He arches an eyebrow in my direction but chooses not to comment, taking things, instead, to a different, more neutral place.

“All of our used vehicles are in good condition,” he says, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. I ignore it.

“Good,” I say. “Then we won’t have a problem. Show me.”

He indicates the suitcase. “I gather you’re planning on making a deal today.”

“I am.”

“You’ve got cash.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay,” he says, echoing my tone. “Good. Then we won’t have a problem.” I know from all of that, that he is someone I can do business with.

He shows me three vehicles. I like the second. It is more like a van than an RV. And small enough that I know I’ll have no trouble handling it on my own. At the same time, it is large enough to have room inside for two people to move. Just. Also, it has a bathroom with a full shower. It is old and worn-looking enough that, had I been heading onto a long journey I wouldn’t have touched it. But the trip I have in mind is shorter than that and there won’t be a lot of miles involved.

The price is fifteen thousand. I offer him twenty. I let the number sink in before I explain.

“There’s a catch,” I say.

“There’s always a catch,” he says with no change in his expression.

I see him sit up to pay closer attention when I shut his office door.

“I want you to lose the paperwork on the transfer.”

“Come again?”

“I want the vehicle to stay in your name. It won’t be for long.”

“I can’t possibly do that,” but the way his eyes shift around, I know we aren’t far from a deal.

“Twenty-five.”

He blinks. Says nothing for ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Then: “How long?”

“If you keep the paperwork in your desk for a week, that will be enough.”

I can see the avarice in his eyes, so I push for home.

“You’ll probably get the vehicle back in any case.”

His head goes up at that. Then the blink again.

“In that case,” he says, “maybe I don’t even transfer it.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Maybe I hold the paper for a week, then report the vehicle stolen.”

I look at him evenly. “That would be best for me. If it were to happen that way, and without any ID from me today, another five thousand would show up for you within the month. Plain envelope. Unmarked bills.”

“We’re talking thirty grand, all in?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation.

He extends his hand. “Deal,” he says when he lets go. I suppress the urge to wash my hands.

We shake, then he helps me load my suitcase before giving me a tour of the van’s features. A solar panel. A generator. A refrigerator. A microwave. Where to fill the propane. Where to plug it in to fill the water. Where to plug it in to empty it out. And so on. I only half pay attention. I know that I won’t be around long enough to use most of these features.

I stop at a Walmart on the way out of town: home away from home for RVers everywhere. Inside, I shop, pushing my cart with purpose and direction. I get a first aid kit, Polysporin, hydrogen peroxide, and a big bottle of ibuprofen. I get a lot of small bottles of water and a plastic jug of vodka. The vodka is not for drinking so I am more interested in quantity than quality and there’s a lot in that jug.

I get tins of soup and some fresh fruit and a cheap camping kit that has plates and cutlery and even a little multipurpose cooking pot and a can opener. A few pre-made sandwiches. Towels. A stack of single sheets and a couple of blankets. Toilet paper. Garbage bags. Battery acid.

I have already unloaded my shopping cart before I realize—too late!—that the person in line in front of me is none other than L.A. news reporter Curtis Diamond. His purchases look exactly right for the situation: toothpaste, a three-pack of men’s briefs, a six-pack of Gatorade, and a couple of chocolate bars: nice quality, I notice. Probably the best they have. It’s obviously the purchases of someone who is going to be away from home longer than expected. As I take note of what he is buying, I also consider how what I am buying will look. I think to start packing my purchases back into the cart and heading to another register—or even just abandoning the stuff I’d accumulated and starting again—but before I can organize my thoughts enough to get in motion, he looks over at me. Any hope I have of him having forgotten me is banished instantly.

“Oh, hullo!” he says in a loud and friendly voice. “Written any good books lately?”

“Oh, yuh. Heh, heh,” I say, aiming to sound just as cordial. Likely failing miserably.

I see him move his open smile from my face to my waiting purchases and I cringe inwardly. He takes in the huge vodka. The piles of sheets. The battery acid. The giant bottle of ibuprofen. Garbage bags. His eyes rove on.

“Looks like you’re heading to an interesting party,” he says in a tone that’s intended to be light, like he’s making a joke, but that I can tell is covering up genuine curiosity. And maybe something more than that.

I search my brain but there’s just no good explanation for what I’ve got there. So I decide not to try.

“You don’t wanna know,” I say honestly, but also finally. He can tell I’m not going to say any more, and so maybe he’s curious? But he decides not to press. He has a pretty good idea I’m