by James Kent
Swann pulled out onto the old Stockton Hill Road and headed south, towards Kingman. He wasn’t sure which way Cricket had decided to go, but he figured he’d soon pass him if he’d gone south. North would be better, thought Swann. Harder to find him. He’d end up in a nowhere kind of place. A lonely gas station and nothing else but desert and emptiness and endless roads to anywhere he liked. Open options in any direction. A blank canvas. Anonymous. He could thumb a ride to anywhere, start over. Who would know? What Swann would do in the same situation. South was a bad idea. First place the Feds would go cruising is Kingman, looking for his dumb ass holding up in some flea-bitten motel thinking he was safe. He’d last a week, tops. Swann hoped he’d decided to head north. To nowhere. The kid needed another chance, like he’d given Eddie the Ferret. But there wouldn’t be a second one.
‘This is not very comfortable you know! Sitting here like this! It’s giving me the shits and it’s undignified! My arms are numb!’ complained Silva. He was sweating again. He looked disgusting. Swann opened all the windows for air, to fend off the fetid stench of sweat and shitty attitudes. Then he turned to look at Silva and smiled at him like he knew something Silva didn’t.
‘You must be getting soft, fat boy!’ said Swann, nudging Silva with his right elbow.
‘Soft? I’m hardly soft you clot! Why do you think people call me the Devil? I’m numb is all. Where the hell are we going? Where are you taking me? We should stay away from Kingman for a while. Too dangerous. Too many cops. We should head the other way. Hold up some place and make a deal. Just my advice. And you should take it if you know what’s good for you! So why are we going south?’
Swann laughed. ‘You’ll soon see. Don’t worry about it. But yeah, soft. You know, your change of heart about the money in that there bag,’ said Swann, indicating with his thumb the black bag of cash on the back seat. ‘That’s a lot of dough to let go so easily. I’m impressed! Not many self-respecting assholes would do that. So, yeah, kudos to you pal!’ He punched him in the shoulder playfully, like he was his best buddy.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ asked Silva, looking at him with undisguised contempt. A frown creasing his brow.
‘You know, giving it away like that. It’s unexpected considering your scary handle, “Diablo”. Who the hell dreamed up that little gem anyway?’ asked Swann. ‘But ok, “DIABLO”, giving away all your “hard-earned” cash is cool, no question! Not what you would expect from someone with a scary handle like yours!’
Silva glared at him. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he repeated. ‘I ‘aint giving it away! It’s mine, like I said. But, sure, we can make a deal if you like, and split it, also like I said! You interested?’ He sat there looking sideways at Swann.
‘How much was in your safe? How much we got there in that bag?’
Silva studied him for a few moments, deciding whose side the big guy was on, whether he was going to agree. Or was he playing some kind of game? Then he said, ‘A bit more than eight-hundred large!’ He continued studying Swann, waiting for a reaction, frightened by the reality that there was really nothing he could do if the big guy just shot him in the head and took the money anyway. What’s to stop him? Nothing. Nothing but temptation perhaps, in Silva’s view. He had no option but to play it cool and sound confident, tempt him with the promise of more. He had nothing more to lose and everything to gain.
‘Pheeew! Eight-hundred thousand! Just think what you could with it!’ said Swann.
‘Yeah, and I have a lot more stashed away besides that! Believe me! So, you interested in our deal? You won’t get a better one! Just cut me loose and we can sort out the details. And then I’ll take you to the rest of it. Let’s say sixty-forty!’ He paused, then said, ‘Ok, fifty-fifty! Whatever.’
Swann smiled, but said nothing more until he got to Kingman. Silva kept looking at him, then out the windscreen, then back at Swann, wondering what he was thinking. ‘Cut me loose already!’ he demanded. Swann ignored him. He hadn’t seen Cricket on the way. Which meant he must have gone north. Good! he thought.
Swann pulled into the first gas station he came to and filled the tank while Silva sat there in silence, waiting for clarity; he had no idea what was going on. Swann finished filling the tank, went inside to pay then he came back out carrying food and a drink. He climbed back in the Raptor, munching on a filled salad roll and a dried beef stick. He had a coffee-to-go which he put in the cup holder. Silva stared at him. ‘Where’s mine?’ he asked. Swann winked at him, smiled and said nothing. Then he pulled out and started driving around Kingman, looking for something specific.
He found what he was looking for on North Sierra Road, turned into a wide driveway belonging to a Baptist Church, pulled to a stop and switched off the engine. He turned to Silva and said, ‘Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.’ Silva glared at him again, then he turned around to look at the bulging black bags sitting on the back seat. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ he whispered to himself.
Swann climbed out of the vehicle and opened the rear passenger door. He reached in and grabbed the bag with the money in it. Hauled it out, untied the drawstrings and pulled out six rolls of hundreds which he tossed onto the back seat beside all his gear. He shut the door, retied the bag and walked off up the wide driveway. The bag hung heavily from his right hand. He climbed a few concrete steps to the church then he pressed an electric door bell. It was more like an irate buzzer and gave a loud, aggressive grating sound like grinding gears. Maybe it was broken or it needed an oil change or something. Swann chuckled to himself. Thirty seconds later, a short middle-aged black woman came to the door. Swann could see inside, through the stained glass. She had graying hair and wore thick glasses. She opened it, looked up at Swann who towered over her. She said, ‘Welcome, brother in Christ! What can we do for you?’
‘Howdy there Ma’am!’ replied Swann respectfully in his best fake southern drawl. ‘We was drivin’ along this here road out west,’ he said, pointing vaguely with his thumb over his shoulder, ‘and came across this here bag on the side, like it fell right outta the good Lord’s sky right there an’ all, what is bustin’ wide open with the good Lord’s clams and bacon! What is clearly destined for doin’ good works there Ma’am, and that’s a darned fact! Beggin’ ya pardon an’ all Ma’am. Well we ‘ain’t got no idea who left it ‘an all so we felt you good folk should have it, y’all!’
The woman stared at him in disbelief. She had an incredulous and quizzical look in her eye like she didn’t believe him. Swann answered her unasked question, ‘My old grandpappy once said, when I was short as a stick, “Son, when y’all find the good Lord’s clams and bacon just lyin’ around, why y’all give it to them church folk and no one else!” Well, here I am Ma’am!’ And he plonked the bulging bag right down on the step in front of her. He gave her a polite, respectful semi-salute with his forefinger. Then he turned and walked away without another word. She watched him go. He looked up at the sky like he was checking the weather or maybe saying ‘Thank you Lord!’ But he said nothing. Just smiled at the thought of how Silva would take it.
The woman bent and opened the bag. She gave a loud sigh and said, ‘Oh my, oh my! Thank you, Lord Jesus! Thank you, Jesus!’ Then she called out, ‘God bless you brother!’
Swann waved as he walked back to the Raptor. He got in, started the engine and took off back north. Back into desert country. No doubt the good woman would do the right thing, he thought, and ring the cops before doing anything with the bag of money. They would ask for a description of the person who delivered it; “A very tall man, a nice man, from the deep south . . . maybe Texas or Louisiana,” she would say. Swann is a tall man, she got that part right. But I sure as hell ‘aint “nice” and I sure as hell ‘aint from Texas y’all! he thought with a laugh. The cops would be mystified and wonder what kind of a random dude would just hand over a fat bag full of cash like that instead of keeping it for himself? But they would eventually be compelled to hand it all back to the ch
urch after making enquiries that went nowhere. No one would report it stolen and no one would claim it.
‘What the hell is so funny?’ asked Diablo. ‘And what the hell have you done with my goddam money, give’n it to that bunch of God-bothering assholes? What are those rolls of cash for that you just stole off me? You’re a damn thief!’
‘Shut the fuck up fat boy! I’ve had enough of your damn whining!’
Swann had a plan for the six rolls of hundreds. He’d use it to pay Eddie for a while. And if it didn’t work out, well he’d just hand Eddie over to the Feds, or throw him under a train. And then he’d give the rest of the cash to the chur. . . No! Fuck it. I’ll keep it! What the hell is wrong with you Swann? He chuckled to himself, enjoying the irony of using Silva’s own money to pay Eddie who helped him burn Diablo’s world to the ground.
54
Putting out the trash is a virtuous thing in Swann’s estimation. It’s all about cleanliness. Hygiene. Tidying up. Being a responsible citizen and all that crap. Saving the planet. Whatever. Diablo was trash.
Swann drove north for an hour and a half, crossed into Nevada. Turned off east and drove another two hours, miles into unmarked and forgotten desert country. The old dusty road became a narrow, winding track that petered out into nothing as it rose in elevation. Maybe an old vagrant’s hut was out here once upon a time, at the end of the track, thought Swann. Some old hobo who trapped lizards for their tiny slithery pelts or something. Maybe he nailed them all up on tiny boards out in the sun to dry. Like beaver skins, only smaller. Some old drifter with a thing for lizards perhaps. A pilgrim who eventually died all withered and gnarled and eaten up by the desert sun and wind. And then his clapboard hut withered away soon after, leaving no evidence that either had even existed. Forgotten by time. Why the track otherwise? Must have been some reason for it. Swann smiled at the idea.
He kept going. The sun was low on the horizon, not far from setting. The landscape was harsh and barren and hued in the orange-red afterglow of the dying sun. Nothing but sand and stunted scrub and thorns and lizards and scorpions. Nothing but varmints and cayotes and snakes and bobcats, where the Law of Nature never sleeps. Judge, jury and executioner all wrapped up in the arid harshness of the remote desert where there’s no one around to give a shit about you. Except perhaps the ghost of the old lizard pilgrim pointing his crooked old finger.
Silva became more and more agitated, fidgeting against his restraint. ‘Cut me loose goddamit! Where the hell are you going? Take me back! I won’t tell anyone about you! I’ll tell you where the rest of the money is. You can have it all! Just take me back!’ Swann said nothing. Kept driving. On and on. ‘Please!’ continued Silva. ‘To anywhere. You can turn me in! I swear!’ Swann said nothing. Silva knew what was coming. And he knew he wouldn’t survive it. He wasn’t built for it. He had no stamina, no survival skills, no clue. He was like a chocolate teapot; completely useless in the real world. Not fit for purpose. That’s why he constantly needed people around him to do his bidding. And punishers to protect him. Men like Pedro and Randall and Decker and Knox. It’s why he always needed more money, more luxury, more power over people. Without it he was lost.
Swann said nothing. Just looked ahead to where he was going. His silence made Silva even more nervous and agitated. Silva was perspiring from fear. He was starting to shake. ‘TAKE ME BACK TO KINGMAN!’ he screamed. He started banging his head on the side window. Kicking his feet up at the dash like a petulant child.
Swann ignored him. Said nothing. Kept driving.
And then he pulled to a stop. The cloud of desert dust that had been following them for miles carried on, enveloped them and then continued and dissipated with the breeze like a passing specter. Silva suddenly stopped his racket and froze. He looked across at Swann who turned to him and said, ‘Time for your walk fat boy!’.
Swann unclipped Silva’s seat belt and let it retract, then he reached behind him for the nine-millimeter pistol. He climbed out of the Raptor, walked around to Silva’s side, opened the door and roughly hauled him out of the seat by the collar. Silva gave a yelp as he fell sideways out the door and onto the dusty ground with a WHUMP! A cloud of dust rose into the air. Swann bent down and untied the thong around his thumbs. He tossed the bootlace back into the vehicle as he stood. ‘Get up!’ he ordered Silva who was still lying on his side. He nudged him with his boot. ‘Up!’ he said.
Silva slowly got to his feet. He had trouble moving his arms after having them fixed in place for so long. He gradually moved them around, swinging them to regain some circulation as though he was about to go for a swim. Then he looked up at Swann with his small black eyes, sensing what he was going to do. Like leave him out there. Alone. That scared the shit out of him. ‘We need to talk about this!’ he said. ‘There are other ways to resolve disputes. And you must know I have very powerful friends, some in high places who will want your head in a bag!’ But he knew the threat wasn’t convincing and that his “friends” had probably already abandoned him.
‘Sure. Whatever,’ said Swann who stood with his arms crossed in front holding the gun.
Silva had a pleading, pathetic look. He was trembling. Close to panic. Swann ignored him. ‘Take your shoes and clothes off, fat boy, and toss them in the vehicle. You can keep your boxers on. Small concession.’ Silva looked at him, uncertain. He was shaking like a leaf. Like he was cold. Swann waited. Nothing happened, so he pointed the gun at his head and said, ‘Or don’t. Whatever. I’ll just shoot you in the head right here!’ Silva kicked off his shoes and waited for a second, watching Swann. He slowly moved his hands and took off his filthy suit jacket, letting it drop to the ground. Then he shakily undid his belt, his pants zipper and dropped his trousers. He stepped awkwardly out of them, his feet turning them inside-out as he pulled them free. He stood there in his sweaty T-shirt and giant underpants. His white hairless legs had goosebumps and he trembled as though from cold. He stared back at Swann.
‘T-shirt too!’ ordered Swann.
Silva didn’t move. Swann pointed his gun at him and said, ‘T shirt! Or I’ll shoot you in the head!’ Silva slowly complied. He was all white and fleshy and pasty-looking. He held his arms down in front, embarrassed, trying to hide his semi-nakedness. He kept looking around as though someone might see him.
‘Throw the clothes in the vehicle,’ said Swann. Silva bent down, picked everything up and tossed it all in through the open passenger door, then he stood waiting.
‘Where the hell am I?’ he asked with a tremor in his voice. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Because you’re an asshole. You’re over two hundred miles from the nearest anything! No shelter of any sort. No help, no water, no nothing. You might as well be on the Moon. There’s nothing in any direction except all the shit that’ll kill you. And it will. You can count on it. But your worst enemy will be the sun tomorrow because that’ll kill you slowly if you ain’t got water. That is if the wild cats and rattlers and scorpions don’t kill you first, which they always do. So don’t worry about it. The desert’s all yours, fat boy! Nock yourself out,’ Swann said as he walked over to the Raptor. He shut the passenger door, went around to the other side, put the gun away and grabbed the can of high-octane caffeine drink from off the back seat. He tossed the can over the top of the Raptor’s roof to Silva who caught it in both hands. Silva looked at it, then back at Swann.
‘What the hell am I supposed to do with this?’ he asked angrily.
‘Drink it! You’ll be dying of thirst by noon tomorrow. Got to keep your fluids up,’ said Swann with a chuckle.
‘This’ll make it ten times worse!’ replied Silva.
‘That’s your problem pal. Be thankful for small mercies.’
Then Swann climbed into the vehicle, shut the door and started the engine. He put it in gear and took off into the darkening desert leaving Silva standing there watching him disappear into the dusk, being swallowed up by the dust and the approaching night.
*
> Swann opened a fresh bottle of water and drank the entire pint. He headed back west, then south. Back towards Arizona and Kingman. It took nearly five hours. He pulled into a gas station to refill the tank late at night. The same place he’d stopped at before. While there, he tossed Silva’s disgusting, stinking rags in the bin. After filling up, he re-parked the Raptor and went into the adjacent diner for a burger and fries, and a coffee. He felt he deserved it after the long day spent sorting out other peoples’ shit for them. He felt revived after his third cup of coffee, more human, so he dropped a tip on the table and left. He cruised around Kingman looking for a motel. Found a dump he liked. Anonymous and quiet, like the other place, but worse. Good enough. He showered and cleaned up, sat on the bed to think. He was still buzzed, so he decided to read through one of Silva’s black notebooks to see what kind of hooks he had into people. See if he recognized any names. It made valuable reading. A treasure trove of scandals. That was for damn sure. Silva had a hook into dozens of influential people, from cops to politicians and judges, just like Eddie had said. Swann wondered what kind of crap they’d gotten themselves into that had allowed Diablo to put the screws on them. Gotta hand it to Silva! He’s a real piece of work! he thought, shaking his head.
Then he turned out the light and slept like the dead.
Over a breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup and more coffee at the local diner across the street from the motel, Swann thought about Lavinia and what to do about her. He decided to make a trade. But first, he needed to ring Sally with an update for Simms. He walked back to his motel room, sat on the bed and booted up the satellite phone. Then he dialed Sally’s number.