The Hemingway Thief

by Shaun Harris

  “Yeah, I said the same thing,” Ox said with a chortle. “The prevailing theory, and mind you I got this from Phil Yancy, is that he went into business for himself. He brokered a bunch of arms deals with groups like FARC, ELN, things like that. Now that would get you yacht money.”

  I’d heard of FARC, but my knowledge of violent groups in South America was limited to plot points from Call of Duty. A shiver ran up my spine.

  “Fuck me. He’s a gunrunner,” I said. “Who’s Phil Yancy?”

  “Guy owns a bookstore over on Halstead. Conspiracy nut. Thinks 9/11 was engineered by the National Parks Department to get more funding for Yellowstone.”

  “I don’t know about that, but he might be on to something as far as Thandy goes.”

  “How do you know Thandy?”

  “You did good, Ox,” I said. I didn’t think he’d find what happened to me out on the road to be amusing, at least not until it was written and sellable. “I’m going to be stuck here for at least a couple more days.” I expected a tirade, but instead there was a soft plaintive sigh.

  “What are you into down there?” Ox asked. He sounded more curious than concerned. I had the tiniest barbed hook in him.

  “A new book,” I said. It was only half a lie. I did think there was a story, and I knew I wanted to write it, but that wasn’t the only reason I wanted to stay.

  “MacMerkin in Mexico?” Ox asked with an excited lilt.

  “No.”

  “You’re not still thinking about ending the franchise, right?” Ox said. If I didn’t give him something, I was going to get dragged into another Ox vortex.

  “I got something going down here,” I said. “Look, this is the type of thing that makes a career.”

  “You have a career.”

  “I have Toulouse’s career, Ox. I’m talking about my own thing. I’m thinking of it as a nonfiction novel, like In Cold Blood.”

  “You’re no Truman Capote, Coop,” Ox said.

  “Why are you always telling me how not great I am?”

  “What about the posthumous works of Toulouse Velour,” he said. “I was starting to come around to that.”

  “It’ll have to go on the back burner.”

  “I want you to come home,” Ox said. “Come home and we’ll sort this out.”

  “Not yet,” I said. “The book’s not finished.”

  “Can’t you just make it all up?”

  “Seems a little dishonest.”

  “You’re a novelist,” Ox said. “Your whole job is dishonesty.”

  “Still,” I said. There was a sucking sound on the other end of the line. Ox was a nail biter.

  “You really think it’s a bestseller?” he said through a mouthful of cuticle. I told him I did. “And you won’t tell me about it?”

  “If I told you now, you’d have to up your Xanax prescription,” I said, and hung up. I looked down at the small puddle of blood that had formed on the bench. Jesus, how the head bleeds.

  Chapter Ten

  Grady was sitting at the bottom of the stairs with a bottle of Patrón. A shot glass, filled to the brim, sat next to him on the uneven wooden step.

  “I thought we were out of Patrón?” I said.

  “Private stash,” Grady said, and took a swig out of the bottle.

  “Is that shot for me?”

  “No. That’s the reserve. So I don’t drink the whole bottle.”

  “Maybe you should keep yourself straight, seeing as though there’s a lot of shit going on right now,” I said.

  “So Thandy was a gunrunner?” he said. He had been listening to the whole conversation. It was my own fault for not securing the booth’s door, letting it hang open an inch or two. Maybe it was an invasion of privacy, but on the bright side I wouldn’t have to repeat the whole conversation for Grady. He stood up and leaned against the wall, tipping his head against the plaster. The tequila was working its agave magic on him. “Come on. Let’s get some answers.”

  “You think Milch’ll tell us the truth?” I said. Grady blinked slowly; so slowly he may have taken a nap.

  “I do,” he said. He turned on the step, using the back of his head as a pivot against the wall.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Couple of things the ACLU probably wouldn’t approve of,” he said. He marched up the stairs with inebriated determination.

  Digby waited for us at the top of the stairs. His gun belt was on and the large revolver hung at his hip.

  “Doc’s gone into town to visit his girlfriend. I don’t think he’ll be back tonight,” he said. Doc had never mentioned a girlfriend before, and the “town” he spoke of was really just a collection of trailers huddled around a church. I didn’t blame him. If I had stopped and thought about it, which is something I had seldom done on this adventure, I would have been looking for an exit as well.

  “OK,” Grady said, and started for the door. Digby stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “And Milch tried to leave,” Digby said.

  “When was this?” Grady asked. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at the cut that ran under his jawline.

  “Just after you left,” Digby said. “Thought it was odd, seeing as though he was supposed to be too banged up to travel. I mean that was the whole reason you went instead, right?”

  “Yeah,” Grady said. He used the bloody handkerchief to wipe the sweat off of his face. “What stopped him?”

  “Apparently his distributor cap went missing,” Digby said.

  “What the hell is a distributor cap?” I asked. Digby brought his hand from behind his back. In a red-and-white striped handkerchief, he was holding a black metal cylinder with five small metal tubes jutting out on one side.

  “This is a distributor cap,” he said with a wink, and stepped inside Milch’s room.

  “Doesn’t that concern you?” I whispered to Grady, pointing out the leviathan-like pistol that clanked behind Digby like tin cans off the back of a newlywed’s car.

  “What? The gun?” Grady asked.

  “Yeah, the gun.”

  “The Digby mystery deepens, doesn’t it,” Grady said. He saw the look on my face and feigned sympathy. “Hey, at least he’s on our side.” He drifted into the room and I followed.

  Digby was already stretched out on the bed like a lounging cat. His legs hung over the footboard, his toes clicking together merrily. He was reading my book again and didn’t bother to look up when Grady and I came inside. Milch sat in the desk chair. Doc must have changed his bandage. It looked crisp and clean against his grimy skin.

  “Surprised to see us?” I said.

  “Not really,” Milch said. “What’s this shit about no showers ’til tomorrow?”

  “We met a friend of yours,” Grady said. He took another swig of tequila and rested the square bottle in the crook of his arm. “Newton Thandy.”

  “Him?” Milch said, scratching at the bruise on his neck. “Does that mean you didn’t get the money?” Grady crossed the room in three long strides, grabbed the section of the seat between Milch’s legs, and heaved the chair backward. Milch’s head struck the wall, but Grady put his boot heel on the seat, keeping the chair tilted on the back legs. Milch waved his arms, trying to keep his balance.

  “You set us up,” Grady said.

  “Easy,” I said, and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I am easy, Coop,” he said, but didn’t look at me. I gave up, pushed Digby’s legs out of the way, and sat down on the bed. I hoped Grady was only trying to scare the kid. If not, there wasn’t much I could do to stop him.

  “Set up?” Milch sputtered. “What?”

  “Ebbie, things have gone a bit sideways,” I said. I supposed I was falling into the role of good cop to Grady’s bad cop. That was fine with me. I was too exhausted to play anything else. “Thandy told us you stole the manuscript from him, and, to be honest, we’re leaning toward believing him.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Milch said. “It happe
ned just like I told you.”

  “I don’t believe you, dipshit,” Grady said, and shook Milch’s chair with his foot.

  “The problem, Ebbie, is that Thandy wasn’t in a position where he had to lie to us,” I said. “Also, it seems you were trying to split on us even though you were supposed to be so hurt you couldn’t move.”

  “Wait, I—” Milch said. Digby looked up briefly from his book and marked his place with his thumb. He picked up the distributor cap, which had been next to him, and tossed it to Milch. It landed in his lap, smearing grease on his T-shirt. A murderous look came over Milch as he realized what it was. The look was there for a flash, and it may have only been a trick of the light. Just as quickly, the worried boyishness came back to his face.

  “So you see, we’ve already caught you in one lie,” I said.

  “What happened with Thandy?” Milch’s voiced cracked. His eyes whipped back and forth from me to Grady.

  “He tried to kill us, you little shit,” Grady said.

  “Kill you,” Milch said, almost in tears now. “Oh God, I’m sorry, I never thought . . .”

  “Got out by the hair on our asses,” Grady growled.

  “Where’s the manuscript?” Milch whimpered.

  “Really, Milch?” I said, nodding at Grady. “Is that your biggest concern right now?”

  “Where is it?”

  “I have it,” I said. I had left it downstairs in the phone booth.

  “And Thandy?”

  “On the side of the road tied to a colonel,” Grady said, and he let the chair come down on its front legs with a loud bang. He pulled the orange crate from under the pile of clothes and took a seat.

  Milch scratched at the bandage on his head and took a deep breath. A wide smile came over his face. The whimpering was gone, along with the tears I could have sworn had been rimming in his eyes.

  “Then what’s the fucking problem, guys?” he said, shaking his head with a laugh. Grady and I looked at each other with confusion.

  “Are you seriously . . . ?” Grady started, but he was cut off by more of Milch’s laughter.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I get it and, yeah, I kind of set you up, but you have to believe me; I wasn’t a hundred percent sure Thandy would have anybody other than the first guys out here looking for me. And, I really mean this, I really didn’t think the son-of-a-bitch would try to kill you.”

  “Was that an apology?” I said to Grady. He looked back at me, bewildered.

  “Guys, focus here,” Milch said, and stood up. He opened his hands out to us, and it reminded me of a magician showing how he had nothing up his sleeves. “We got the manuscript and Thandy is out of the picture, right? We’re in the pink as far as I’m concerned.”

  “‘We’?” I said.

  “Of course,” Milch said. He patted me hard on the shoulder and tossed the distributor cap back to Digby. Digby let it fall from the bed to the floor without looking. He kept his eyes on my novel and turned the page.

  Milch was unfazed. Indeed, if I had not been there, I would be hard-pressed to believe that we had been interrogating the man just half a minute before. He appeared to us now not only uninjured, but vigorous and high-spirited. He filled the room with his voice and stood over us like the archangel Gabriel delivering the Good News, or maybe just a carnival barker offering to guess my weight.

  “We’re in this together,” he said, snapping his fingers to count the beat of his words. I have to admit I was mesmerized by it. “We’re bound by this thing and there’s no way around it. Me, I’m bound by history. You, you’re bound by providence. Yes, sir, we’re in this together.”

  “Together in what?” I said before I realized I was even talking.

  “Hold on there, Coop,” Grady said. “I’m still not over the part where he set us up.”

  “Well, you best get over it, Grady,” Milch said. He grabbed Grady by the shoulders and gave them a vigorous rub. Grady returned the gesture with a glare that almost made me piss my pants. Milch didn’t even flinch. “If you don’t, you’re going to miss out on the big prize.”

  “We’ve already got the manuscript pages,” I said. Milch’s expansive smile curved into a grin like a knife slashed across his mouth.

  “The manuscript?” he said. “Guys, this is about so much more than the manuscript.”

  Then he told us another story.

  Chapter Eleven

  Grifter was the proper term. In the parlance of the uninitiated he would be called a “con man,” but grifter was the nomenclature Ebbie Milch preferred. It was a family business started by his great-grandfather, Oliver, who traveled around the Southwest in a buckboard, selling a concoction of river water, cod-liver oil, and camphor dubbed “Doc Saturn’s Cure-all Liniment Oil.” The tradition continued with his sons, Joseph, who peddled bogus land deals around Southern California, and Ebenezer, who branched out into the more labor-intensive field of pickpocketing and second-story work. When the Great War erupted, Ebenezer went off to fight the Hun in France, and Joseph went off to do a nickel in Folsom. Oliver died before either of his boys returned home.

  When Joseph got out, he tried to go straight, and this lasted until the fifties, when the real-estate boom was too damn tasty for a clever man to resist the possibility of illicit profits. He had time to get married and have a son before he went down for a second fall and died on the inside.

  Joseph’s son, Ebenezer Oliver Milch II, named after his uncle, followed in his father’s footsteps and kited bad checks around his father and grandfather’s old territory. He enjoyed a certain amount of notoriety in the seventies when he briefly became the most wanted paper hanger in the state of California. He took a fall and, like his father, did a nickel in Folsom. He got out went back in, rinse, wash, and repeat. In the nineties, the aging bunko artist fathered a son, Ebenezer Milch III. When young Ebbie was old enough he was taught the family business, getting his start as a roper. The grifts ranged from long to short, from the Spanish Prisoner to the Pigeon Drop, from skillful and brilliant to clumsy and stupid. It was during one of these last swindles that the mark turned out to be an undercover cop. Milch the elder was shot fleeing from the police, and the son, only nineteen at the time, continued the time-honored Milch family tradition of time well spent in Folsom State Prison. He did the usual nickel.

  Which is how Ebenezer Oliver Milch III came to be sitting in the kitchen of the family homestead, wondering what the hell he was going to do with his life. He had been paroled three weeks earlier. His mother had died while he was on the inside. The house had been left to him, which would have been great news if he’d had the money to turn on the electricity and the gas. He had a line on a few grifts friends were setting up, but it was looking more and more like he might have to do something drastic, like look for a straight job.

  That was when Newton Thandy knocked on his back door. Newton presented himself as an old academic—shawl-collar cardigan, wooden cane, the whole business. Milch wasn’t fooled. First lesson his father ever taught him was how to spot a fellow grifter. Thandy reeked of the con, maybe not a pro, but he was running some kind of scam. The only thing genuine about him was the leather on the portfolio he carried under his arm—the one with the brass nameplate with the initials HB. The old man offered Milch a hundred dollars for an hour of his time, cash up front. Milch stepped aside and let him into his kitchen. He was curious as to the game this guy was playing, and a hundred dollars was a hundred dollars.

  The old man sat down at the cracked Formica table and pulled from the portfolio a sheaf of aged and battered typewritten pages held together by a piece of string tied in an elegant bow. He patted the top sheet with one wrinkled, blue-veined hand.

  “What’s that?” Milch had asked, pouring himself a glass of Johnnie Walker without offering any to his guest.

  “This, Mr. Ebenezer Milch III, is a portfolio that I bought at auction,” the old man had said. “It was a blind auction. Nothing more than a trunk belonging not to a famous man, bu
t to the acquaintance of a famous man.”

  “There a lot of money in that?” Milch had said. He wasn’t really interested, just being polite, letting the man work his con. So far it seemed like a variation on the fiddle game. A classic, and one of Milch’s father’s favorites.

  “Normally no,” Thandy had said. “And in this case it’s actually worth less than a hundred grand.”

  “Chicken feed,” Milch had said. He liked the rope. The way the man said a hundred grand like most people would say fifty bucks. Thandy knew to make Milch ask the questions. Information offered is not as trusted as information solicited. Milch was bored, so he kept it going. It was better than searching the want ads. “So what is it?”

  “It’s a manuscript. Well, part of one. It’s not very old, but it is rare. I’ve had it looked at. Authenticated by my people. People who know to keep it a secret. It’s real.”

  “I don’t deal in books,” Milch had said. His drink was done and he dropped the plastic cup in the sink. He dug the man’s patter, the stuff about secrets and authenticity, but he wanted to cut to the chase. “What’s your pitch?”

  “I am prepared to offer you five thousand dollars for your help,” Thandy had said.

  “Help with what?”

  “This manuscript is a window into an incomplete history, Mr. Milch,” the old man had said, and tossed an envelope full of hundreds onto the table. “I want you to help me complete it.”

  “I ain’t no historian,” Milch had said, picking up the envelope. If the bills were bogus, someone had done very good work on them.

  “But you are,” Thandy had said. The old man leaned across the stained, cracked kitchen table and said in a clear, deep melody, “Tell me about your Uncle Ebenezer. Tell me about Paris, 1922.”

  That was when Milch knew this was no fiddle game.

  Chapter Twelve

  “So you did steal the manuscript,” Grady said.

  The conversation had moved from Milch’s room down to the cantina. Grady was stretched out on top of the bar with a cigarette extending up from his mouth like a smoldering antennae and his hands crossed over his chest like a corpse. Milch had changed clothes, opting for a pair of jeans and a brown chambray shirt unbuttoned to the navel. He had replaced his bandage with a blue-and-green paisley bandana, which gave him the look of someone who shops the Keith Richards collection at Urban Outfitters.