Chapter Text
He hates running late. Personal affairs or professional integrity, a habit of getting off schedule leaves a nasty smear on your personal brand. There's always a reliable watch hugging his wrist, ticking in sync with his sense of order. Traffic, snow, even a meteor rushing down on Earth — none of that is an excuse. If you promise something to a lady, a friend, a boss, your mother, or your goddamn nemesis, you better fire up a nitrous boost out of your asshole and be at the meet point the second the clock strikes. Looking smart and a bit bored. Looking like you had time to spare.
Lawrence Dimmick doesn't have any time. Every hour, every long day that goes by on the road, lost time slowly wears away his hard-won respect. And quite frankly, also makes his bad mood even worse.
It's early morning, several hours after the nicotine-stained, huff-puffing Greyhouse crosses the state line, when a small terminal TV broadcasts the muffled news of the Karina's Wholesale Diamonds robbery. He can't help but pause for a second, basking in the pale light of a screen. Don't you feel just a little bit proud when your hard work is appreciated?
The smug smile fades when it becomes clear the story isn't a carbon copy of the brief squeezed out of the tight-lipped law and circulated over the regional channels the past couple of days. Rarely does anyone look good in their booking photo. Never does a mugshot look flattering on national television — particularly next to the polished image of your boss, who appears sharp sitting in his office leather chair. Larry pulls the sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose, tugs on an ugly-blue LA Dodgers cap from a stranger's bag as the guy shoulders past, and, head down and profanities hot on his tongue, walks the opposite direction of the departing bus.
He knows how to behave when shit hits the fan and there's a need to lay low. Rule one: don't trust anyone. Rule two: avoid contact with anyone to whom you can bring the police, and don't let them do the same to you. But there's no way he pulls a disappearing act without his share of money, not after everything.
"Let things cool down, Junior," he can almost hear the words. No, that just means skipping town without a penny in his pocket and a broken heart. And that? That starts to sound a bit repetitive for Larry.
He dictates the number for the phone booth he's in, and a few minutes after, hears Eddie's voice. Not the kind of person who could ever tame his temper. They shared a short fuse, but the kid was lucky enough to be born with a silver spoon in his mouth. While Larry expects respect through experience, Eddie demands it by default. Past the barking wave, Larry feels deflated — maybe the kid isn't the same brat who used to tail behind him with stupid questions and even dumber pranks. Little Cabot now has the maturity to be the one to lower his voice and offer a solution: continue on the rendezvous point using the provided transportation.
(slack fingers, skin taut with caked blood)
He has other questions, of course. One in particular has been eating away at his insides since the heist. The Nice Guy won't be answering any of them anyway.
A faded, dirty-coloured '85 Chevy Caprice waits for him at the truck stop. The car performs its task of getting the thief out of the LAPD active search radius before the engine warning light winks playfully, as if in on the joke with the busted radio.
Larry hasn't hitchhiked in about twenty years, and he'd rather keep it that way. Were it in other circumstances, his bad luck would have encouraged him to find himself fresh wheels. He knows how to do it quietly (or forcefully), but both are unwise when trying to stay off the radar. He's forced to reach the Rockies riding shotgun with truckers, farmers, and other lonely klutzes who can't spend a few hours on their own without shooting their mouths off. He lets them ramble and takes the chance to rest his eyes.
Perhaps not the best, but definitely the most productive years of "Two Guns" Larry were spent down South. Those parts are closed to him now. He liked it there: crazy people, but simple and fun. Not that he will miss the sticky swamp heat, the mosquitoes, or the gossiping salon ladies eager to tattle on anyone who looks remotely suspicious.
The thought of going North feels strange. Somehow, the life path never stirred him toward Colorado before. The lakes remind him of Wisconsin. Winters are definitely familiar — enough of a reason to escape as much south as possible. He hasn't been home in ages; can't decide if the vague resemblance is a good thing or a bad one.
The snow hasn't fallen here yet, but the damp wind seeps through thin layers of a man who comes unprepared. Golden leaves scatter like a path of gold coins, leading up the serpentine road toward the intimidating mountains.
Sidewinder lies buried under the weight of the Colorado Rockies. Maybe once, it was Aspen's rougher cousin. Now it's just bones. Some places are destined for decay. At some point, life stopped here. The people too stubborn to leave have nothing left to do but stay in a skeleton of a once-prosperous city.
A perfect place to disappear.
In the autumn of 1992, the pay phones still work, the coffee is thick as tar, and the locals don't much care who you are, as long as you tip and stay in your lane. Exactly what Larry needs.
While buying a carton of cigarettes and a map, he thinks he sees Blue. It'd be good to make the last push, having a free ride; he has no notion how to reach their hideout. It'd also be pretty damning to be spotted together. The locals may not care now, but they will remember strangers. He hesitates, and before he makes his final decision, the old man is already gone. Might not have been him at all. Besides, he suspects Mr. Blue never cared much for him anyway.
The buses don't go any further than this, and it doesn't seem like there's a lot of demand for rental agencies or even used lots in Sidewinder. Larry browses the streets for an idle cab and eventually starts dolefully eyeing the bicycle racks. He spots a public library and wonders if the small, vine-covered building has any potential of making his confinement with a pack of thugs a little more bearable. The sheriff's office is grave-quiet, but he quickens the pace anyway and swivels into a bar, its parking lot crowded with boxy pickup trucks.
The barkeep looks at Larry like he's a half-wit.
No, man, no one's going that far up the mountain.
Why not? Don't have any hunters around?
Some, just not going that way. Something to do with natural anomalies, geological bullshit. The ground "hums", he says, scares off the wildlife. No birds, no deer. Certainly no people.
He's past the age of a forty-mile hike, at least not in this weather and not without gear. It's getting dusky; soon enough, he will need to find some shelter in this town of Assfordshire. He can't lose another day. So he gambles, even though he's never been any good at games, his cue technique aside.
The shy bastard behind the bar needs some encouragement, because that's definitely not the whole story, and Larry's just the man to give it. So he drops his bag, settles onto a high stool with a dead-tired sigh, and orders a drink. It's almost a personal challenge — he's convinced he can make the man talk without ever pulling out his hunting knife.
Later, a few bucks too many spent on the refills, he seeks attention of the broody hicks beside him. Not the ones sober enough to sit behind a wheel, but those drunk enough to lend him their car without question.
A hand grips his shoulder, and he braces for a fight. Nothing you can do about it; a matter of habit. What else do you expect in a bar? A blowjob in the john? More of a West Hollywood kind of thing, not Sidewinder.
"My bad, brother." The stranger jerks his hand back, palms up in a peaceful gesture. "Didn't mean to startle you. Name's Charlie. You need a ride?"
Larry's looking out the passenger window down a steep slope, the deadly fall hidden by pine peaks melting into the multicolour of aspens. The view would be breathtaking in daylight, like a jeweled dagger at your throat would be breathtaking. But with the sun folding behind the ridge, the precipice looks back with the hunger of a black, bottomless maw.
His unexpected driver is careful and somewhat nervous, both hands clamped on the wheel like he's trying to choke it. He refused money, so there must be something else to gain.
Larry is calm. The car is warm, and two nines tucked under his ribs are warmer still.
"So, you're heading up toward the Overlook?" He must have waited to shoot that one since they walked out of the stuffy bar.
"What?"
"The Overlook Hotel. I used to work there. You know, back in the day."
"Okay."
"You don't seem local. The tan gives you away. We been off season for a while, man. That's why I'm askin' — why on earth would you be going up there?"
"Never said I was."
Charlie gives him a look. "So I'm not driving you to the Overlook?"
It's so easy. Two to the body, one to the head. Hell, one to the head is enough. Decorate the windshield with greyish pink chunks, drive yourself the rest of the way in peace. Get rid of the motor and its owner there. If the barkeep was telling the truth, no one would be looking too hard. The dense woods of these parts are just too ideal for burying problems.
He chuckles instead, trying not to make it sound too dark.
"You got me. But I can't say much. If my publisher finds out I got nothing but an outline of the story and I'm sharing it with you instead of him, well…"
"You a writer?" Larry's answer seems to make him more uncomfortable than the damp hairpins of the road.
"Yeah. Thought I'd get a feel of the place. Take some photos. You said you worked there, right? Must have some stories."
The interrogation successfully flips. Charlie hesitates, even more uncomfortable, but there's little chance he's lying. Maybe just curious. Maybe another wolf in sheep's clothing, one that Larry would be only too happy to stuff with bullets.
"Stories," Charlie echoes, quieter. "That place's full of 'em. Every hotel is, at the end of the day, don't you think? Same beds, same bathrooms, same dinner tables — different people passin' through. You don't need me to tell you anythin'. You'll write your own."
He lets it hang. For a strange moment, it sounds like a threat.
"But if I were you…" He takes his time, measuring each word to find the most convincing. "That place ain't ever been right. Don't like quiet. And always hungry. When it lost its… food, it gnawed at my home till there was nothin' left. Just… don't stay too long. Last writer up there never finished his story."
Larry's left speechless, for a minute. That is the biggest, steamiest pile of bull he's ever heard. Remoteness from the rest of the civilization must have gnawed at their brains. Inertia in tandem with fear breeds superstition. That's human nature — reach for some concepts of faith. There's a reason ninety percent of Americans believe in something: be it an old grey man in the sky, aliens, horoscopes, or heroin.
Larry leans back, watching the slope again. "So you believe in evil hotels?"
"I believe in the evil of men."
Guess he'll fit right in.
And that's that. Eventually, the guy slows down, apologizing — can't drive any further, an excuse about soft ground at the top. The cold chews through Larry's jacket. Following the guardrail way further than the promised five hundred yards, he has a growing suspicion that people in Sidewinder already know all about their little band of crooks hiding in an empty carcass of a hotel.
He doesn't know much about Joe's plan and even less about the building. In his head, there's a two-story log cabin, small but fit for a taste of an LA mobster. What he finds instead is a full-fledged resort monstrosity. Only one floor higher than his imaginary version of the Overlook, it sprawls this way and that, probably big enough to fit four or even five hundred guests. An empty pool, a neglected garden leading to some sort of posh game field. He can picture British lower royalty spending a season here. This is Joe's idea of keeping it low profile?
Peeling himself off the security fence around a playground, Larry carefully makes his way toward the porch stretching the building's entire front. The parking lot's empty. Which isn't immediately a bad sign; quite the opposite. Means the guys are smart enough to hide their rides. Still, no reason to be careless. The windows are dark; no movement inside.
The double doors aren't locked. The sound of his footsteps is swallowed by darkness. Instinctively, he waits for warmth. Instead, it's somehow colder. He's in a vast lobby, much wider than he can see, lit only by weak spills of moonlight through the open doors and half-covered windows.
A sharp click. A soft, metal kiss at the back of his head.
"Hey, Mr. White."
Larry doesn't need to turn to know that Blonde's smiling.
"Jesus Christ, Vic," he makes an effort not to wince as his voice booms, ricocheting off the thick pillars; Vic's hush doesn't. "The hell you doin', sneakin' up like that?"
"Not even a warm hello? Don't tell me the cold killed your sense of humour. Hasn't even snowed yet."
"Excuse a man on the lam for being a little bit on edge. Now, you're gonna shoot me, or just need to feel powerful for a second?"
Gun lowered, Larry exhales softly. A thin cloud of white gusting out of his mouth betrays his relief.
Blonde makes a move to feel him up like he's checking for wires, knowing exactly where to touch and exactly why it riles Larry up.
"Knock it off," he snaps, batting the unwelcome hands away.
"I know you're happy to see me." Vic sidesteps into view, hair slicked back, grey eyes sparkling with amusement. He nods at the guns under Larry's jacket. "Still carrying the same pair? Always the sentimental one."
Larry ignores the faux innuendo and the jab at the end. He won't admit it, but it stings a bit that the flash bastard beat him here. And Vic knows it too. Probably been parked by the window since the arrival, waiting to gloat. Not that it's a race, but apart from him and Joe, Vega's name was another one going around the news. At least his mugshot did him just as dirty.
"You touch me again," Larry jabs his finger at Vic, "and I'll shove one of those pieces so far up your ass you gonna cough black powder."
"Whoa!" Vic laughs, bright and excited. "Buy me dinner first, you old flirt."
Larry looks around, scanning the shadows. "Where's everyone?"
Vic shrugs. Underneath, he's buzzing with energy, as if genuinely happy to see him. Must be bored out of his mind.
"Somewhere between drunk and stupid."
"You don't say! I'm heading that way."
"Already leaving? That's no way to treat your brother in misfortune."
"Don't you worry. Plenty of time to kill each other later. Now, be an angel, point me in the right direction."
Vic looks like he's contemplating if he wants to play some more, blank smirk tugging at his lips. Make another stab, draw blood, raise a rowdy reaction. The offer seems very enticing to him — probably already working out a plan of extravagant execution. His finger lifts lazily to another double doors right of the registration desk. It's quiet and dark.
Halfway there, the entrance doors slam shut, making Larry glance back. Eyes adjusted to the dark, he makes out a tall silhouette moving toward him and stopping at the far end of the desk. Yeah, he sees the temporary station now. A small paperback flips open. A whiff of grape soda from a can reaches him suddenly. Man, isn't he freezing out here?
Travel bag first, Larry makes his way into another vast room. Plastic sheets covering some furniture glint and shift with him like ghosts. He can't see the ceiling, but an arch of orange glows at the opposite wall. It feels warmer. The boys must have a heater on.
The closer he gets to the light, the louder the voices are. And yet, the closer he gets, the more he lingers. Straining his ears. Listening.
He shakes off the moroseness and pushes the batwing doors.
Pink jumps, half of his cards spilling to the floor, and Brown cheers. Eddie's already on his feet, barreling into Larry with a familial hug.
"Hey, Unc!" he pats him like he's checking for any wounds. "Finally! We've been waiting for ages! These punks started to think you've been had. But I said… I said, No way. Not Mr. White. This sonuvabitch will dodge the slammer even if it means goin' down guns blazing, am I right?"
Larry cranes his neck. Blue's watching Pink crouch to gather his ruined hand.
"What's the point of callin' him Mr. White?" he grumbles under the table. "His name's all over the news."
"Shut up or I'll spell yours out letter by letter."
They're all crammed in a booth made for two. This is a drinking lounge with a big horseshoe bar right across the entrance. There's no barkeep behind it. Cigarette smoke in the air, damp with boozy breath. Wary, Larry moves a searching gaze around, aware of every table running in two rows on his right and left.
"Is that it?" he asks quietly. "Is that everyone?"
"For now, yeah."
He was with you, sits heavy on his tongue, but makes no sound.
(slack fingers, taut with caked blood)
(his grip slips; the palm comes away empty)
"I assume you've already run into Toothpick," he adds with a smile.
A smile is good, right? Then why do his fingernails jab painfully into the flesh of his palms?
"Ah! Yes, and our new member — Mr. Cranky Pants over here," Eddie's face contorts with annoyance as he looks over Larry's shoulder.
Larry turns his head, slowly, ready to see the face of a stranger. But it's him. Of course it's him.
Was he running? No, his perforated guts were nearly hanging out of his stomach just a couple of weeks ago; he can barely walk. The chest is heaving from exertion. And he looks like shit.
"You look like shit, Larry."
Larry laughs. "Gee, thanks for the confidence boost, kiddo. Must be real bad if it comes from a man who's supposed to be dead."
Wrong thing to say. Fucking idiot.
Orange's smile twitches. No one would notice if they didn't look closely enough. Larry was devouring every feature.
Eddie pulls him aside before he can dig himself deeper.
"Have you heard anything from Daddy?"
"Joe? He's not here?"
"No."
"Well, where the hell is he?"
"Good question."
"Don't you think we're sitting ducks here?" Pink slams his cards down, immediately regretting the loud rattle it makes. "Since the big boss might be… you know, out of commission?"
"Out of comm—" Eddie exhales, exasperated. "He is the damn commission!"
"That doesn't make any sense," Blue mutters to himself, cutting the deck again.
"Yeah, but is it wise to stay?" Pink pushes.
"Could be worse," Brown reassures him, conversationally. "We could be dead."
"Shut your traps! You all want your money? Then no one's dying or leaving till Daddy gets here. Clear? The whole op depends on his presence!"
Larry lifts his hands up, pacifying. "Alright! Chin up, fellas!" Feels like he made a wrong turn somewhere and stumbled upon an abandoned shelter with a handful of scared dogs. "We've got the goods, right? Soon enough, it'll turn into a shit ton of money. We just gotta wait."
"Well," Blue starts, "that's certainly no Hawaii Joe promised us."
Body aching from exhaustion, Larry agrees. As everyone settles back down at the small table, he joins a chorus of tired chuckles, eyes drifting toward
(slack fingers, taut with caked blood)
Orange.
The kid stands by the doors, separate from the others, eyes distant. Larry copies his stance, leaning back on the wall beside him, and brushes his fingers — feather-light touch — when he doesn't react. They are cool, soft. Clean.
"Hey," Larry murmurs. "I'm glad you're okay." Then, even softer: "Are you?"
"I am now."
"Where were you?" The question is just to fill the silcence. He's not sure if he asks for his thoughts, or if he saw him from the second-floor window and rushed down to greet him, or for whatever that happened between this moment and their last. He's pretty sure it's all three.
Larry thinks he's about to hug him, but he doesn't. There's something wrong. Orange had been glad to see him just a minute ago, jittery with suppressed energy. And Larry's definitely fucking glad to see him.
But the air is awkward. The moment is gone. He can't feel the restless thigh pressed against his own, nor find a reason to swipe a hanky across a freckled cheek. It seems the most intimate they're ever destined to be is in a pool of blood on the hard concrete floor of an abandoned warehouse.
Back to strangers, but at least they're both alive. Meaning, they have time.
There was no need to worry about letting down his wristwatch. In the end, he has all the time in the world.
Eddie turns in his seat impatiently, interrupting any response Orange is about to give. "You two have a therapy session over there, or you gonna join the game?"
"Deal me in," Larry says, even though he's never been any good at games. "Just don't complain when I fleece you."
"Dream on, pops!"
Larry nudges Orange's shoulder. "C'mon, sit with me. Might as well act like we belong."
The kid doesn't move. Floppy hair getting more bothersome than ever, long enough to hide his gaze, fixed at the empty bar. "There's a drink waiting for you."
"What?"
"Over there," he nods, voice untroubled. "Glass of whiskey. Neat, as you like it."
Larry looks. There's nothing. Just polished wood, empty shelves, and a mirror, catching their reflection in orange light. He swallows and forces a small laugh.
"You've been on morphine too long, buddy."
"Guess so."
Larry scratches the back of his neck and exhales, hollow with frustration.
They never should've been separated. He should've been there when they dragged the kid to the surgeon, when he finally came to. He'd promised not to leave him. None of them can care for him like Larry does. Eddie owes him some answers.
He gives Orange one last look, face pale and unreadable, then walks toward the noisy table.
"Alright," he says, voice steady. "Let's play."