Homesick Blues

by Steve Brewer

  "I think there's gonna be plenty of blame to go around. I'll be lucky to keep my job."

  Pugh steered the Plymouth into a parking slot in the shade of a wind-whipped tree. All the way across the parking lot from the entrance to the aviation building, but Santiago understood why Pugh didn't want to get too close. He'd suffered enough exposure for one day.

  A tall chain-link fence separated the parking lot from the tarmac where private planes were tethered. Santiago could see across the asphalt expanse to his shiny white jet. The door was open, and the pilot was already there, ready for takeoff, as instructed.

  Pugh shut off the car's engine and turned to Santiago.

  "You've got to compensate me in some way for dragging me into this mess," he said. "If I get caught up in a federal investigation, the lawyers alone will cost me a fortune."

  Santiago smiled before he caught himself.

  "What's so funny?"

  "You norteamericanos," Santiago said. "It is always about money. You can talk about how wrong it is to shoot a federal marshal. You say you're in danger because of the investigation. But what it comes down to is money. Always."

  Pugh tried smiling, too, but his smile flickered on and off, as if it had a short in its wiring.

  "Money makes the world go round," he said finally.

  Santiago stared out the window, mulling it over. After a moment, he said, "I suppose you want a down payment now."

  Pugh's smile returned. High beams.

  "I wouldn't object to it, that's for sure. There's gonna be lots of expenses, if I'm gonna keep the feds from getting on your trail."

  "Let me see what I have here," Santiago said. "Perhaps it will be enough."

  Pugh watched eagerly as Santiago reached inside his jacket, as if going for his wallet. Before the hand re-emerged, the captain realized his mistake. His eyes went wide with panic.

  Santiago pulled the little Ruger from his inside pocket and swung it up to point at Pugh's face.

  Pugh said, "Wait—"

  Santiago pulled the trigger. The bullet punched a hole in the cop's head, right at the bridge of his nose. The window behind him was instantly painted red.

  No need for a second shot, which was just as well because Santiago's gun was empty. He wiped it clean of fingerprints and pressed it into Pugh's hand. While he didn't really expect investigators to believe it was suicide, it might confuse matters.

  The gunshot had seemed very loud inside the car, but no one came out of the building to check on the noise. A few vehicles were scattered across the parking lot, all unoccupied.

  His ears still ringing, Santiago got out of the Plymouth and walked across the asphalt toward the airport building, leaning into the wind, his hands in his pockets.

  This entire trip had been a failure. One piercing loss after another. It infuriated him that he was no closer to getting his hands on Jackie Nolan. But it clearly was time to go home.

  Chapter 71

  Jackie Nolan smiled as she got out of the Chevy Malibu outside the modern brick post office. Some graffiti artist had doctored a "NO SKATE BOARDING" sign above a broad sidewalk that fronted the building. Letters and parts of letters were blacked out, so it said, "NO KAT HOARDING."

  She straightened her spine and boldly walked into the post office. She was ready with Nancy's ID if needed, but no one asked for it. Her possession of the yellow slip was enough to persuade a sleepy-looking clerk to leave the counter and go backstage in search of the oversized package.

  Jackie's heart pounded so hard in her chest, she felt sure the other two clerks would hear, but they were absorbed in wrapping up their cash registers and neatening their stations. The workday was nearly over.

  Sleepy came out two minutes later carrying a white cardboard box. It was wide and flat and rectangular, about the size of a briefcase. Someone had used a black felt-tip marker to neatly write the P.O. box address on the outside. The return address, Jackie noted, was Nancy's home on Mackland.

  Her hands trembled as she took the parcel from the clerk.

  "Thank you."

  The box was heavier than she expected. She tucked it under one arm and hurried out to the rental car. Once she was inside the Malibu, she set the box on the passenger seat. She was dying to open it, but it was taped up tight, and it probably wasn't a good idea to loiter in the parking lot. She decided she'd wait until she was back at Nancy's. It was only a few minutes away, and she and Romeo could open the package together.

  As she drove, she wondered how Romeo would react to the find. He was such a Boy Scout, he might refuse to accept a share of the money. Would he try to make her give it back?

  She laughed. "Good luck with that, pal. Finders keepers."

  Every red light seemed a deliberate test of her patience, but finally she arrived at Nancy's house. More cars were parked on the street than before, people getting home from work. A quick glance told Jackie the coast was clear.

  She locked up the rental car and carried the flat box into the house.

  Chapter 72

  Joe Dog watched as the woman walked to Nancy Ames' house, carrying a white cardboard box. The flat box was too thick to be a pizza. Could it hold Grant Sheridan's missing briefcase?

  She let herself into the house, no doubt using the keys she'd taken off him the day before. He wondered if she had his gun, too. He'd brought a different one today, a 9mm Browning Hi Power that was heavy enough to hammer nails, but he wanted his other pistol back.

  The thought of yesterday's humiliations sparked a rage that surged through his body, making him feel overheated. He got out of the Crown Vic, which was parked at the curb two blocks away, and clomped along the sidewalk toward Nancy's house.

  He casually walked past, watching the house through his mirrored shades.

  The curtains didn't move and no one shouted an alarm. Were they even keeping watch? The idiots. Only idiots would come back to this house after crossing Joe Dog here. Didn't they think he'd check?

  He left the sidewalk and crossed the lawn to the narrow space between Nancy's house and her neighbor. No one seemed to be home next door, but he walked with purpose in case anyone watched, as if he were briskly cutting through to the hidden park. When he reached the back of the house, he paused, standing next to an evergreen shrub that was as tall as him.

  The only people he could see in the narrow park were a dad and two kids at the far end, two blocks away. They weren't looking this direction. They were too busy frolicking in the grass, the dad crawling around on all fours, chasing the squealing tots.

  Joe Dog remembered playing like that with his brother Ricky, on those rare occasions when they ran across an expanse of green grass. They'd never had a father figure join in the fun. Ricky, who'd given Joe Dog his name, was only a few years older, but he was the closest thing Joe Dog ever had to a father. And Ricky was gone now, killed three years ago by a fellow inmate at the county jail in a dispute over a candy bar.

  Joe Dog shook the thoughts from his head. No time for an indulgence in loss and remembrance. He needed to stay sharp.

  He tiptoed around the corner, checking windows until he found the bedroom where the boyfriend slept. Romeo looked to be naked, just a sheet thrown over his midsection. The window was open a few inches, and Joe Dog could clearly hear Romeo snoring. He couldn't see the rest of the room through the narrow gap between curtains, and he couldn't see the woman anywhere.

  He looked around the park again. Nobody seemed to have noticed him here, leaning against Nancy's house in the dappled shade from the elms. He should be patient, watching and listening. He should time his strike perfectly, catch his prey off-guard, the way an Apache warrior would.

  He was tempted to dip his fingers in the black soil at the base of the shrub and draw stripes across his face. Wouldn't they shit themselves when Joe Dog sprang through the door, armed with the Browning and wearing warpaint? But he restrained the impulse. Better that his bruised face be covered by the mirrored sunglasses. Let these idiots see their reflecti
ons, the terror in their own eyes, as Joe Dog put them away.

  The last thing they'll ever see.

  Chapter 73

  When Romeo Sandoval awoke, he found Jackie standing over him with a shiny pair of scissors. He sat up in bed, the sheet puddling in his lap.

  "What the hell?"

  Jackie was fully dressed and seemed normal enough, except for the six-inch-long scissors clutched in her hand. Her eyes were shining, though, and her face seemed flushed.

  "What's the matter, Jackie?"

  "I found it."

  His mind was still cobwebby from sleep. "Found what?"

  "The money. Look."

  She pointed with the scissors toward the foot of the bed. Sitting there was a white cardboard box that had been sealed shut with clear packing tape. The tape had been slit in several places so the top flaps of the box could be pulled open.

  That explained the scissors. Whew.

  Inside the box was a black leather briefcase, the slim, hard-sided type of attaché favored by executives who don't do much actual work. She lifted the lid of the briefcase. The interior was stacked full of banded decks of currency.

  "I didn't take time to count it," she said, "but that looks like a hundred thousand dollars to me."

  "Holy shit. Where did you find it?'

  "Post office box. Nancy mailed it to herself before she skipped town, in case someone was right on her heels."

  "Which turned out to be the case."

  "Right. She must've thought it gave her deniability. She could claim she was robbed or something. She could even offer to let her boss search her house, her car. Then, in a few days, she could pick the money up at the post office."

  Romeo nodded. "Makes sense. Except that somebody killed her."

  "She didn't allow for the stupid factor," Jackie said. "She stopped for Joe Dog, maybe even recognized him, and he killed her because he was too stupid to bring her back alive."

  "Jesus Christ."

  Romeo slid out from under the sheet and started putting on his pants.

  "Where are you going?"

  "Nowhere," he said. "I just feel like I should be dressed around that much money."

  "You mean, out of respect or something?"

  "Self-defense. If we have that much cash, somebody will try to take it away. Maybe several somebodies. I'd rather not chase them down the street naked, if that's okay with you."

  He buckled his belt, then pulled the polo shirt over his head. He was still barefoot, but he felt better now. Less vulnerable.

  Romeo went around the end of the bed for a better look at the money. He riffled through the decks. Hundred-dollar bills, through and through.

  "Looks real enough," he said. "What do you plan to do with it?"

  Jackie laughed. She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek.

  "What do you think? I'm taking it. I'm starting over."

  "You sure you want to do that? Maybe we could use it to buy our way out of trouble, like you said before. Offer to return it to Sheridan if they drop all charges, something like that."

  Jackie shook her head.

  "Or," he said, "you could buy a good lawyer with a hundred thousand dollars. Good enough to get us both off the hook."

  She shook her head again, more emphatically this time. Romeo felt like a baseball catcher. He kept suggesting pitches and she kept shaking him off, waiting for the right one.

  "All right," he said. "Let's say you keep it—"

  "Yeah, let's say that."

  "What do you do with it? Move to a different town? Set up under a new identity? Get a job? How is that any different from what you had in WitSec?"

  "No offense, but I trust myself more than I do the marshals," Jackie said. "I'll find a way to keep myself safe."

  "From Santiago?"

  "He's still out there somewhere. He's got lots more guys with guns."

  "If those guys at The Coffee Shop were even his people—"

  "He's out there," she said. "And he's not going to rest until he finds me. I can feel it."

  Romeo started to dismiss such feelings as simple emotion, but he saw the haunted look that passed over her face. He reminded himself that she'd been living for two years with the specter of the drug cartel's revenge.

  "Money can't buy peace of mind," he said. "Not even this much money."

  "Maybe not, but it's a start. A fresh start."

  She closed the lid of the briefcase, as if concealing the money would end the discussion.

  They both jumped as something crashed in the kitchen, followed by the shrill, tinkling music of falling glass.

  Romeo moved toward the hall and the pistol he deeply regretted leaving in the living room, braced for whatever he might find and wishing he'd put on his shoes.

  Chapter 74

  Joe Dog reached through the shattered panes of the back door and unlatched the deadbolt. He pushed his way inside, walking carefully on the broken glass, which crunched under his boots. He stepped around the wrought-iron patio chair he'd thrown through the window, and checked the kitchen and living room, gun in hand. Nobody there.

  He quickly crossed to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

  He got there just as Romeo stepped into the narrow hall. Joe Dog pointed the big pistol at him and said, "Stop right there."

  The woman came into the corridor behind him, and Joe Dog adjusted his aim, pointing the Browning Hi Power at her face where she peeked over Romeo's meaty shoulder.

  "Show me your hands!"

  They both raised their hands. They were so close together, the woman right up against Romeo's back, it looked as if all four arms belonged to the same creature.

  "Back up. Away from that door."

  They did it, taking baby steps, the barefoot man favoring his gimpy leg. They were obeying his commands, but neither looked particularly scared. Didn't they think he meant it? Didn't they know they were about to die?

  "Is the money still in there?" he said. "In that box?"

  The woman glanced at the bedroom through the open door. "You were watching through the window."

  "That's right. I saw it. You've got Mr. Sheridan's money."

  "It's not his anymore."

  "Wrong. It was stolen from him, but it's still his. He was the victim, not Nancy Ames. She stole that money from Mr. Sheridan, and I'm taking it back to him."

  He gestured with the pistol, backing them up another step. He closed the gap until he was the one standing at the bedroom door. The door was directly opposite the window where he'd been peeping, so the room seemed flip-flopped now, but there very definitely was not a box of money on the bed.

  "Where is it?" he demanded, jabbing the pistol toward them.

  Romeo took a step to the left, trying to move his thick body between the gun and the woman. How gallant, Joe Dog thought, how fucking stupid.

  He pointed the heavy pistol right at the man's eyes and said, "Where did you put it?"

  Romeo's dark eyes crossed slightly as he stared down the barrel. "It's on the bed."

  "No, it's not."

  "I moved it," the woman said.

  "Where?"

  She hesitated. He pointed the pistol at her face, then back at her boyfriend's face.

  "How about I shoot him in the head? Would that make you tell me?"

  She rolled her eyes. "It's under the bed."

  "Go in there and get it."

  Joe Dog backed away from the doorway, making room, his pistol pointed toward the ceiling for a moment.

  Romeo charged him, roaring like a wounded bear.

  Chapter 75

  Jackie stiffened as Romeo charged Joe Dog. He looked like a bull, his broad shoulders bowed, his head tucked low. He crashed into Joe Dog before the startled Indian could pull the trigger. He wrapped his thick arms around him in a bear hug, pinning Joe Dog's arms against his body.

  Romeo whirled him around and whammed him against the hallway wall. The back of Joe Dog's head cracked against the wall, and his mirrored sunglasses went flying
. Romeo braced with his good leg, holding Joe Dog against the wall while trying to disarm him.

  Jackie clawed at the back of her jeans, trying to pull the snub-nose revolver from her waistband. The hammer snagged on her blouse, but she pulled it loose and brought the revolver up just as Joe Dog's gun went off.

  They froze in place for a second. Then Romeo cried out in pain, and Joe Dog shoved him away. Romeo fell to the floor, unable to catch himself as he grabbed with both hands at his thigh, which geysered blood, soaking his jeans, spreading to the hardwood floor.

  "Ha!" Joe Dog crowed.

  He turned toward Jackie, swinging his big pistol around. "Your turn."

  His black eyes widened as he saw he was a second too late. Jackie's gun was already pointed at him.

  She pulled the trigger and the snub-nose revolver bucked in her hand, spitting flame at Joe Dog's chest.

  He stumbled backward and his mouth gaped in pain and surprise. He looked down at the wound, at the blood blossoming on his shirt, as if he couldn't quite believe it was there.

  Jackie shot him again.

  The second bullet hit him squarely in the sternum and pitched him backward. He fell onto the carpet in a limp jumble of arms and legs and cowboy boots.

  She pointed the gun at him for a moment more, making sure he didn't move, though she was pretty sure her revolver was empty. Then she tossed the gun aside and squatted beside Romeo.

  The gunshot wound was a few inches above his knee – his good knee – and it looked as if the bullet had hit an artery. Blood spurted from the hole with every beat of his heart.

  "Give me your belt," she said, but he was already unbuckling it. She helped him strip it from the belt loops of his jeans, then she wrapped it around his thigh above the wound and pulled it tight.

  Only then did she look at Romeo's face. His white teeth were gnashed together, and his face was covered in a fine sweat.

  "I think it hit the bone," he said.

  "We've just got to get the blood stopped for now."