by Seth Harwood
The Colombian laughs twice, in loud bursts, “Ha! Ha!” as if he is used to displaying his happiness in public places. “You are not so much the tough guy, then, I suppose. And maybe we both knew that?”
“Maybe,” Jack says, picking up his jacket.
“Perhaps I should set the machine lower.”
Jack steps back out of the other man’s way and lets him move toward the wrestler, the dial above his arm. He lowers it to “Pack Rat” as the wrestler’s arm slowly rises back up to its original position.
Now Jack laughs as, standing back, he watches the fine material of the designer suit fold at the knees and elbows as the Colombian bends down to his task.
“I’m Ralph’s friend,” Jack says.
“Of course,” the Colombian answers, as the machine starts to whir. “And if I am lucky, I will be the Pack Rat.” The machine gets louder and Jack can see him start to strain against its arm. He’s shorter than Jack and so seems to have a better center of gravity for the task; he also shifts his feet around right away, to lean his weight against the arm. Slowly it starts to recede toward its own plastic mat, this one without the foam padding of the one that Jack’s hand just fell against. The Colombian pushes harder, straightening his body as he leans against the arm, using his weight like a lever.
“I’m not sure that tactic is legal,” Jack says.
The Colombian grunts. “Of course,” he manages to say between locked teeth. Now the machine makes more noise; its hand moves back up to its original position, pushing back the Colombian’s whole body—his feet slide a few inches across the floor.
“You had it,” Jack says.
But the machine gets stronger again, as it did with Jack, and the Colombian starts to fall back, his whole arm moving toward the mat. Then, suddenly the whirring sound starts to decrease, and the Colombian makes forward progress. Again he puts his weight into the effort, and this time the hand continues to give. Gradually it slides back farther and farther until it comes all the way down to horizontal, touching its own mat. Lights go off and a bell rings inside the machine. The designation “Pack Rat” lights up above the wrestler’s head. Music plays from deep inside the machine. More bells.
“Congratulations,” Jack says, clapping. “What else can I say now?”
The Colombian stands up and rubs his hands together. His combed-back hair has come out of place around his temples with the effort, and he produces a comb from within his jacket. He runs it back over his scalp a few times, then puts it back in the pocket where it belongs.
“Pack Rat,” he says, smoothing his sleeves, and then, offering his hand to Jack, “This is some distinction. I am Alex Castroneves.”
They shake, and the guy has a good handshake: palm on palm and tight fingers, and Jack almost finds himself liking this guy until he remembers who he is and what they’re here for.
“So here I am. I’m Jack. Sorry about Ralph not coming.”
“That is all right.” He straightens his tie, adjusting the knot closer to his neck. “I am not used to this—arm wrestling with machines.” He opens his arms and gestures at all that surrounds them. “This place is quite strange.” He leads Jack toward the doors that let out onto the pier, away from the shops and restaurants. This is a back or side door to the museum that Jack hadn’t thought of, one that opens onto an empty pier, looking out toward the water. Jack can see the pay binoculars lining the rail and then the water of the Bay, open and foggy, behind it.
“Let me try one more game,” Jack says, heading toward the boxing robots, where a young Korean man and woman duke it out while two of their friends watch. “We can see who wins this time, when we’re evenly matched.”
Alex opens his hands and, as if to study his palms, moves them closer to his face. Seeming satisfied with their quality, he shows them to Jack. “That is all right,” he says. “We have played a game. Now let us talk outside.”
“Okay.” Jack stands where he is. Again, the Colombian turns to head toward the doors. Jack takes a step forward. “We’re ready to proceed and go forward,” he says, not loud. He doesn’t want to spook Castroneves, but he doesn’t want to go outside the protection of the museum either; he doesn’t see any people out on the boardwalk. Something tells him he’s not supposed to be led into anyplace that might be a trap.
But another part of him wants to trust this guy, just follow what happens. The last thing he wants to do is to fuck this thing up.
Castroneves turns to look at Jack, unsure why he won’t come outside. “You are the police?” he says.
“No. No.” Jack straightens his arms, thinking he’s fucking it up but not wanting to fuck it up. “I’m just a friend of Ralph’s. We used to work together in L.A. I was an actor.” Jack’s not sure what else to say, so he goes with what he’s feeling, just gives in to the moment, as his yoga instructor at the gym would say. “Now I’m here. A few people around town still know me from my movie and I can show our guys, your buyers, a good time.”
A family of nice-looking midwestern tourists walks past the vibrating chair and straight to the “3-D Pictures of the Great Quake” machine. The father wears a sweatshirt that reads simply “Wisconsin.”
Too honest, Jack thinks. He wonders what he’s doing telling this guy all about himself, doesn’t want to be doing this wrong, losing his character, the deal, the Czechs’ coke, their money. It occurs to him that he might mess up and be left with just a dead friend and the people who killed him.
“You made a movie?” Castroneves says.
Jack nods. “Shake ’Em Down. Late nineties.”
Castroneves frowns and shakes his head. Then his face lights up and he looks right at Jack as if he’s scrutinizing his face closely. “Yes. Shake Them Down. I have seen that one. It is not bad, really.” He frowns, ducks his head toward one shoulder and then the other. “It was nothing arty, but that is okay. I think I liked it, if I remember right. Who are you?”
“I’m Jack Palms. I played the ex-cop who’s taking down the drug cartel to get back his daughter.” Jack laughs, awkwardly. “No resemblance to the truth here.”
Now the other man laughs. “Yes, the drug cartel movie. Now I recognize you.” He tilts his head. “That was not an accurate portrayal of a cartel, you know?”
Jack shrugs. What can he say?
“You’ve put on some weight since then, no?” Castroneves hits Jack in the arm with his open hand, reaching his fingers around Jack’s bicep. “It looks good. But you’re still no Tough Guy.” He turns toward the outside pier again, but this time offers Jack the door with an open hand. “I would like to smoke in the open air, is all. Nothing is to be afraid of, I can assure to you.”
Jack steps through the open door and out into the windy sun of the Bay. Sometimes in life you have to trust people. In L.A., Jack made the mistake of trusting Victoria, which turned out to be a bad move. Now that he’s pulled himself back, he doesn’t want to choose wrong again, but he’s got to take his shots sometimes.
Outside, it’s cold and seagulls dance around in the air above the pier. To their left, a big WWII submarine is moored against the pier, a museum now for tourists to explore. The pier has a few places to tie off a boat, and beyond that it just drops off to the water. It’s windy, even a little cold, though it’s the middle of the afternoon. This is San Francisco.
Jack puts on his jacket. The Colombian steps to the edge of the pier and touches his neck. Is it a signal? Jack checks himself, tries to stop worrying so much.
“It is better here. Without people to listen.” Castroneves opens his arms to the water. Jack looks out and doesn’t see a sniper-mounted cigarette boat or a fancy South American yacht anchored and waiting anywhere. Fifteen feet from them, a young mother boosts her son up to one of the pay binoculars and struggles to support him with one arm and her hip as she feeds in a quarter. Castroneves removes a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and offers one to Jack. He thinks, hesitates, and then the addict that remains in him wins out and he takes it. Ca
stroneves puts another between his lips and lights Jack’s with a fancy metal lighter. “Let us talk business,” he says, lighting his own, and puffing smoke out the side of his mouth.
“Okay. My guys want size.” Jack takes a long inhale, feels guilty for smoking a third time today. But hell: It’s been quite a day, so far. He hopes it’ll calm his nerves, lubricate the situation. He sees the Colombian watching him and exhales faster than he would like, says, “I don’t know the numbers, what you probably want to know, but they’ll be there when we set up the meet. We’ll get it done.”
The Colombian takes his time exhaling smoke and touches his tongue to remove a small piece of paper. “That is no matter. Ralph has said that these friends of yours want ten. The cost is sixteen even. That is the best that I can do. Player’s price, you understand. Best for this size. Tell that to your friends. Tell them we can go up to twenty keys, and not more.”
“Okay,” Jack says, thinking that ten keys at that price means the deal’s worth one hundred and sixty grand. He inhales a drag off his cigarette as he watches Castroneves look out over the water: His face is serene, almost wistful.
“You know,” he says, “the water does not look this color in my country.” He shakes his head. “It is more blue.”
“Atlantic or Pacific?”
“Ahh. Do you know where my country is? That is impressive if you do.”
From something he’s read, Jack thinks it’s at the top of South America, with borders on both the Pacific and the Atlantic. But he could be wrong. He shrugs.
“Pacific, yes. Where I grew up is on the Pacific there.” Castroneves nods. “Blue as the night sky.”
Jack looks at the water. “Here I guess it’s kind of green.”
“Yes. And where is Ralph? When will I see him?”
Jack exhales. “Ralph is coming back later.”
“Bullshit.” The Colombian turns to face Jack, his lower lip covering part of his upper, as if he’d buttoned them closed. Jack feels his hands start to tingle; whether it’s from the cigarettes or his own nervousness, he doesn’t know. He takes another drag. Then Castroneves shakes his head. “Because Ralph is dead.” He points at Jack with his cigarette hand. “If you do not know this, then you are worth less than nothing, Mr. Movie.”
Jack steps back, then rethinks it and steps forward. “How do you know that?” He points at Castroneves for effect, thinking it’s a good character move, but ultimately he’s reaching; it feels like he’s lost the moment, any momentum he had going. Maybe he should never have accepted the cigarette.
“I have people,” Castroneves says. Then he laughs, looking at Jack’s hand. “Put that down,” he says. “I have people who watch TV. Your Ralph’s death was on the TV news today. The fucking news. In truth, I was very surprised to get your call.”
“Right,” Jack says. He looks down at the concrete, his sneakers. “Okay. It’s okay.” The Colombian drags off his cigarette, watching Jack through thin eyes. “I mean it’s fucked up. Ralph got popped, and I want to find out who did this to him, but I’m also working with your buyers now, and we want to go ahead with this. I can make it run.”
Castroneves holds the smoke inside for a few seconds and then exhales out one side of his smile. He laughs, then steps closer to Jack, pointing at Jack’s face. “Do you even know who did that? Or if they wanted this deal to be stopped?”
Jack shakes his head, flicks his half-smoked cigarette into the Bay. “No, but—”
“You had better think, Mr. Palms. Because if someone does not want this to happen, then we had better know who they are. Do you understand?”
Jack nods. “I’m working on that already. Right after I leave here I’m going to talk to another contact about what they know. I will get to the bottom of it.”
“I hope so. Because if you do not, then you are wasting my time.” Castroneves’ eyes narrow as he talks, but then he steps back, brings his hand down.
“And you don’t like to have your time wasted,” Jack says, finishing it for him, stepping forward to close the space that Castroneves has just left as he tries to take control. “Right. I’d imagine that. And I don’t like meeting on docks and talking about drug deals that aren’t going to happen, or the fact that my friend now has a bullet making a breezeway through his skull.”
Jack watches as the Colombian steps back and flicks his cigarette into the Bay. He nods. “Okay,” he says. “Tomorrow, then, Mr. Movie Friend. I will call you to set up the time and the place.”
“And one more thing,” Jack says, playing his part, taking another small step forward. “I choose the location.”
The Colombian tilts his head to the side, as if he’s sizing Jack up, waiting to see if Jack will laugh, apologize, or hold his ground. Jack waits him out. “We will see,” Castroneves says, and then turns and walks away.
Back inside the museum and all the way to the car, Jack takes deep breaths. He can feel his pulse racing and knows that yes, he’s found his way back to acting. Even as different as this is from being on the screen—the stakes are higher here, for one—he’s back at it, doing the thing he loves.
When he’s in the car, Jack sits watching people go in and out of the museum. He’s not rattled, but he doesn’t want to drive yet either. He’s thinking about his next move: whether to go back to the Czechs’ hotel or straight to The Coast to talk with Maxine. Then he sees a tough-looking guy in a white suit—slicked-back hair and a pretty good tan—walk out of the museum. The guy’s talking on a cell phone. Then he closes his phone and heads toward Waterfront Park, left to right across the sidewalk in front of Jack’s windshield, moving quickly through the heavy crowds, going the same direction as Castroneves had.
Something about him makes Jack uneasy. Maybe it’s his look and the fact that he doesn’t fit in with the tourist crowd, or maybe it’s just that he’s still thinking about what Castroneves said about someone wanting to stop this deal. Jack stands and closes the door of his car. He locks it and runs his hand over the hood, gives it a pat for good luck. Then he starts after the guy, just to watch, moving quickly so he doesn’t lose him in the crowd.
The guy swings his arms as he walks, sees a woman holding a small child, and goes right up to the kid to pinch his cheek. A family stops and walks around him. The mother laughs and the guy’s all smiles as he keeps walking, almost bumping into a couple of kids, but then walking around them.
Jack jogs to the back of the sign about how to pay for the parking. What if he led the killer to Castroneves, right to the other side of his deal? But he could’ve led him to the Czechs too. He shakes his head; better to watch, not to worry. The guy walks with a calm self-assuredness, and Jack crosses the street to start after him, weaving through the people coming the other way. He watches the guy look up, checking around him to see if anyone might be watching. Who is this guy?
Jack follows him for most of a block, ducking through the crowds and trying not to walk at his full height so he can’t be seen. That part’s hard: trying to keep his knees bent and not looking too weird to the people around him. The guy carves out a wide path through the tourists. Then he turns sharply and goes to an ice cream stand, one of the many. Jack sits down on the closest bench. From what he can see, the guy just waits his turn in line, buys a cone, and then, instead of heading the way he had been headed, he comes right back the same way, straight toward Jack. Jack loses him in a pack of people for a few tense moments, but then the line of sight opens up again and the guy’s right there, ten feet away, looking at Jack and coming right over.
Jack tries to act like he’s doing something else, waiting for someone—where is a newspaper when you need it?—and then he thinks about running, looking to duck into a shop or something, but there’s nothing he can do now. He steels himself for the unknown, tightening his core and sitting up straight.
Jack crosses one leg and rests his ankle on the other knee. The guy walks around a last family and comes right up, holding the ice cream out as if to offer it to Jack. �
�You like vanilla?” he says. “Because I got this for you.”
“No thanks.”
The guy brings his eyebrows together. “It’s a gift from us.”
He leans down and puts the cone right into Jack’s hand, so that Jack has no choice but to take it. Then the guy stays there, leaning down over Jack, his face too close. “That’s good,” he says. “This is the last gift we give to you. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Jack nods. In his movie, he’d kick this guy in the balls, then mop him all over the pavement as onlookers cheered. But here, they’re surrounded by friendly tourists who’d be horrified to witness a street fight in San Francisco, on their sightseeing trip to a big city. Also, Jack’s not sure about this guy, whether he’s a real fighter or not. He’s not sure about himself for that matter; it’s been a long time. As if he anticipates Jack’s thought, the guy taps Jack’s sneaker and pushes it off the knee so that both of Jack’s feet are on the ground.
“I’m just saying this to you,” the guy says.
“Okay. I hear you.”
“That’s good. Because you’re lucky to get this word and not something else.”
“Who are you?”
The guy shakes his head. “No,” he says, simply. “No. This is the wrong question.”
Jack doesn’t know what to do next, what would be a good character move. “Do you know who killed Ralph?”
The guy squints his eyes and moves still closer, to where his face is right in front of Jack’s. What pisses Jack off the most is when he says, “Go back to your Hollywood, you stupid pretty American.”
And Jack head-butts him in the face, right across the bridge of his nose—a move that surprises them both about equally. The guy groans, stumbles back with both of his hands on his face. He juts his nose out over the ground, as far from his legs and his white suit as he can, and Jack can see blood dripping through his fingers.
“Wow,” Jack says, more or less shocked at what he’s done. As a kid, he did things like this sometimes, even in L.A. a couple of times, but his actions haven’t taken control of him in a long time. He gets up and drops the ice cream into a garbage can next to the bench. In the movie, this is the part where he kicks the guy in the stomach, gives him a pretty good beating, but here he can already see that this guy’s not used to fights. Everyone he runs into probably gives him what he wants, without many conflicts.