The Hemingway Thief

by Shaun Harris

  A crew of four Mexicans sat at a table in the corner. It was not yet seven o’clock and they did not look like early risers. It must have been the end of a long night or series of nights. They were going through the motions of playing cards, but if it was poker then it was a version with which I wasn’t familiar. One of them sat with his head back, staring at the ceiling, and half of the cards in his hand were facing the wrong way. The other three noticed our entrance with casual interest.

  The bartender sat on the bottom step of the staircase, reading a newspaper, when we approached. He was a thin man with a sparse beard and an apron that looked like a work from Pollack’s late period.

  “I’m looking for Virgil Scripes,” Digby said. The bartender looked up at him and gave an indifferent sniff. He shoved his hand in his apron pocket, pulled out a pack of smokes, and tapped it against the wooden step. He pulled out a cigarette with his teeth and searched his pockets for a light. I offered him my silver Zippo, the one with the shamrock on it. He took it without looking at me, lit his cigarette, and tossed it back without thanks.

  “I don’t know him,” the bartender said.

  “Then find someone who does,” Digby said. “Make your calls.” The bartender took a drag on his cigarette and his eyes moved to the men in the corner. He sucked his teeth and stood up, moving behind the bar. He was almost to the door at the other end when Digby called out to him.

  “I’ll need a room, too,” Digby said, and fished out a wad of cash from his pocket. He peeled off two twenties and laid them on the bar. The bartender nodded toward me.

  “He want anything?”

  “Coffee, please,” I said. The bartender tilted his head as if he had trouble hearing me.

  “Put on a pot of coffee for my man here,” Digby said. The bartender breathed loudly through his nose and pushed through the swinging door and out of our sight. The money was presumably safe on the bar.

  “Is this a whorehouse?” I asked Digby. He laughed and shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “It’s a bar. There are some rooms upstairs for people to flop if they need it. Forty bucks buys a shitty mattress and the bartender’s silence should the judiciales show up. The guy we’re waiting for won’t show up for at least half an hour. I’m gonna go take a nap. You stay here and have a cup of coffee.”

  “By myself,” I said.

  “The dog doesn’t come inside,” Digby said with a smirk.

  “I’m not worried about the dog,” I said, although I was. “It’s the three hombres in the corner who haven’t stopped staring at us since we came in that scare me.” Digby looked over his shoulder at the men, who had given up any pretense of playing cards. They were now actively gawking at us. The fourth man was still staring at the ceiling, and I realized he must sleep with his eyes open.

  “Don’t be racist,” Digby said. “Just wait down here and keep an eye out. You’ll know the guy when you see him.”

  “Virgil Scripes?” I asked.

  “No, I’m Scripes,” Digby said, and then added, “Sometimes at least.”

  “But you said you’re looking for him.”

  “That name hasn’t been used around here for a while,” he said. “It’ll attract some attention, get spread through the channels. Levi’ll hear it and come by to see who’s asking for me.”

  “Why not just ask for Levi then?” I asked. Digby shook his head and looked longingly at the stairs leading to a bed and rest. I couldn’t blame him.

  “Because nothing gets said around here that doesn’t hit at least three sets of ears. I don’t want to advertise that I’m back in town. You’ll have to trust me on how these things work,” he said. “Scripes is an alias for an alias. Only Levi would know it, and only Levi would be interested in someone asking about that name. It pays to be careful.” He patted me on the shoulder and offered a smile before starting up the creaking stairs. I called to him in a loud whisper.

  “Digby,” I said. He half turned, offering only his ear. “Who are you?”

  “I’m just a guy does odd jobs at a small hotel in Baja,” Digby said, weariness creeping into his voice.

  The bartender had left his newspaper on the bar, and I spent the next half hour trying to decipher the front page. The man pictured was a fat, wrinkled white man in a panama hat and aloha shirt. There was a second picture involving a large white sheet covering something about the size of a body inside what looked like a medieval prison cell. I translated the words using my mental film library. For instance, Goonies and Corey Feldman taught me that muerte means “dead,” but most of the words like “Americano” were easy to figure out, and, along with a few others such as Ensenada and librero, I eventually got the gist of the story. A Mr. Philip Norwood of San Diego, who may have been a book dealer, was murdered the night before while in the custody of the judiciales. He had been arrested, as far as I could tell, for smuggling, but I couldn’t understand the details of it. The murder had taken place after we had already escaped. That meant Thandy could have ordered the murder before Grady kicked him over the side of a mountain, or the judiciales decided to kill Norwood when they didn’t hear back from him. The third option was that Thandy had made it back to civilization in time to order the hit on Norwood before coming after us. And then there was the fourth option: I got the translation completely wrong.

  “You lookin’ for Virgil Scripes?” a voice said from the doorway. It sounded like pure maple syrup and had a rhythm to it that made the simple phrase sound like a soul song. The voice belonged to a tall black man wearing a faded Jimmy Cliff T-shirt, the last pair of bell-bottom jeans in North America, and leather thongs on his feet. His Afro was shot through with waves of white, but his beard was the color of strong coffee. Though his smile was sleepy, his eyes were alive, sizing me up like a gunslinger before the draw.

  “This the one?” he said to the bartender, who had materialized at his spot on the bottom step.

  “Him and another guy upstairs, Levi,” the bartender said. Without prompting, he reached under the bar and brought up a bottle of Jack Daniels.

  “Let’s go meet your friend,” Levi said, and grabbed the bottle. He took a pair of aviators from his belt loop, slipped them on, and made for the stairs. The bartender leaned over to let him pass. I followed.

  Levi stopped at the top step and leaned over the banister. The bartender was looking at us, and he held up two fingers. Levi nodded and moved to the second door, the one Digby had entered. He stepped to the other side of the door, pointed at me, and mimed knocking. I reached up, but just before my knuckles touched wood, the door opened. It looked like the room was empty until I spotted Digby through the crack between the door and the jamb. He was smiling. Levi put one hand behind his back and cautiously poked his head inside.

  “That you, Virgil?” he said.

  “Thought you were a Bacardi man,” Digby said from behind the door. Levi slowly turned his head to the door.

  “Rum don’t get the job done like it used to,” Levi said, and scanned the rest of the tiny room. He stretched a long leg across the threshold, and the rest of his body slid inside in one fluid movement. All the while he kept his hand behind his back. I followed.

  When I was clear of the door, Digby pushed it closed with his foot, revealing the gun he held on Levi. Digby eased the hammer down with a click, and I heard the same sound echo behind Levi’s back. Digby lowered his revolver, and Levi held up both of his now-empty hands with a wide wave.

  “You expecting trouble?” Levi asked, and nodded at Digby’s .45.

  “Always,” Digby replied. “Was that your Colt I heard behind your back?”

  “You know me,” Levi said. “Always prepared. Could’ve been a Boy Scout if I liked shittin’ in the woods.” Digby chuckled and waved his hand at a small Formica table. Levi took a seat on one of the two chairs and Digby took the other. Seeing as my only option was to sit on the soiled mattress in the corner, I chose to lean against the wall.

  “Bad idea, you coming here, man,” Lev
i said. “La Dónde’s still looking for you.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “You don’t know?” Levi said. “Baddest hitter in North America.”

  “Is that all?” I said, glaring at Digby. “The baddest in North America, not the world?”

  “A guy operates out of Ireland’s pretty good,” Levi said matter-of-factly. “I ain’t into hyperbole.”

  “Thank God for that,” I said. I bit my lower lip trying to remain calm. “And this guy’s looking for you? That’s fucking fantastic. You couldn’t have told us about this?”

  “La Dónde is a woman,” Digby said. “La is feminine. You really should learn the language, Coop. And I didn’t think she’d still be looking for me.”

  “You didn’t?” Levi said with a dubious look.

  “I didn’t think she’d be actively looking for me.”

  “It’s a standing order, Virgil,” Levi said. “Anyone sees you and don’t call her gets a shitload of trouble.” He wasn’t smiling anymore. His expression was quite pained.

  “Getting on her bad side could cause a lot of problems for a man in your line of work,” Digby said, and set his revolver down on the table next to the bottle of Jack. He sounded almost sad.

  “A lot of problems,” Levi conceded. The feeling in the room had changed. Something was going down that was beyond my understanding.

  “How long until her people show up?” Digby asked.

  “About ten minutes,” Levi said, and held up his hands apologetically. We’d been sold out. I could figure out that much. The only question was what Digby was going to do about it.

  “Ten minutes, huh,” Digby said, rubbing the bristles on his chin. Levi nodded slowly. Digby reached for the bottle of whiskey. “Just enough time for a drink.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Levi Monroe had been just a boy when his father, Lincoln, was swept up in an early sixties’ version of the Back-to-Africa movement. Lincoln changed his name, renounced his American citizenship, and took his whole family to Liberia. Their stay lasted exactly three months. Three months of malaria, sweltering heat, and no employment. Lincoln changed his name back, but in the wake of the Kennedy assassination, the Cambridge Five, and the Profumo affair, the authorities were leery of someone who had voluntarily given up their right to be an American. They told him, sorry, but no take-backs. Lincoln had a choice between Canada and Mexico. He chose Mexico because, in his words, he didn’t go back to Africa only to end up in the whitest place on Earth.

  Lincoln traveled to the Monte because he’d heard it was a place where a man could be free. Of course, this had meant men without families, and Lincoln soon discovered that traveling through the Wild was infinitely more difficult with a wife and child. They settled in Tequilero, where Lincoln opened a tavern.

  The drug-running business was picking up steam, and the Madres, with its lack of law enforcement and vast amounts of land, was at the heart of it. The people who frequented Lincoln’s tavern were smugglers, thieves, pot farmers, and occasionally sheep ranchers. Lincoln’s place gained a reputation as a joint where people could conduct business without fear of the judiciales. Lincoln studied his clientele, and he knew who was doing what, where, why, and with whom. That kind of information made him a powerful resource to the dangerous men who spent most of their time out in the Wild incommunicado. Lincoln became a casamentero, a broker, a man who could point you in the right direction for whatever you may have needed, legal or illegal. All he asked was a reasonable fee. When he died, he passed the job onto his son, Levi.

  “So you’re going by Scripes again, huh?” Levi said. He took the bottle, spun the cap off with his thumb, and took a pull.

  “Figured it was a name only you knew,” Digby said with a smile. He leaned back in his chair and slid his hands in his pockets. “I was trying to fly under the radar.”

  “Is that how you know him?” Levi said to me. “As Virgil Scripes?” I looked to Digby for help, but Levi laughed and held up a hand. “Fuck it. I don’t even want to know. Virgil’s got so many names I bet he don’t remember what you call him. The real question is, what’s he call you?”

  “Shouldn’t we be leaving?” I said, feeling a nervous heat creep up the back of my neck.

  “This is Coop.” Digby answered Levi’s question, ignoring mine. “He’s a writer from Chicago.”

  “What’s he write?” Levi said. It was clear I wouldn’t be speaking for myself in this conversation. It dawned on me that this was probably Digby’s reason for bringing me rather than Milch. I doubted our con-man friend would have liked holding his tongue.

  “Right now he’s doing a book on Ernest Hemingway,” Digby said. In my head I let out a sigh of relief. I didn’t want to have to explain Toulouse and his vampire detective to this man. I’d only known Levi for a few minutes, but his opinion, for some reason, had come to mean a lot to me. “There’s a guy down here he wants to interview.”

  “Why bring him to me?” Levi said. He slunk down in his chair, knees spread, and his hands on his thighs. He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it while Digby told him about a thief named Ebenezer Milch who’d come through Tequilero in the late fifties. It was all so relaxed, as if armed killers were not on their way. As if we had all the time in the world to chitchat. I couldn’t even remember how much time had passed since Levi had told us we only had ten minutes. It seemed like hours.

  “Shit, that was before my daddy’s time,” Levi said, and rubbed his chin dramatically.

  I started to do a little nervous dance like I had to take a major piss, and I realized I did.

  “He was here for a while. People would have known him. Your daddy might have when he first started.”

  “Come on, Digby,” I said, and my voice almost cracked. “People are coming to kill us.”

  “Relax. They’re not coming for you,” Levi said. “They comin’ for him.” Then a cocky smile spread over his face. “La Dónde gonna wanna kill Digby, here, her ownself.”

  “What about me?” I said.

  “Yeah, they probably gonna kill you too, if I’m being honest,” Levi said, scratching his ear.

  I sank to the floor and put my head between my knees.

  “This man Ebenezer may have been going by a pseudonym,” Digby said.

  When Levi didn’t answer right away, I thought I’d clarify. “An alias.” I said, lifting my head up and whacking it against the wall. I hardly noticed the dull throb at the back of my skull.

  “I know what a pseudonym is, motherfucker,” Levi said, shooting me a hard look. “You racist or something?”

  “He didn’t mean anything, Levi,” Digby said, and shot me a warning look.

  “I’m just fucking with him,” Levi said, chuckling and scratching his chest. “Shit, I just ain’t never heard of this guy. I feel bad, ya know. I wanna help you out, man.”

  “See, he doesn’t know the guy. Let’s just go,” I said. I had been concentrating on the closed door, imagining a troop of desperadoes breaking it down in a fury of broken wood and bullets.

  “You know, you should lay it on Elmo,” Levi said. “He knows every cat since way back.”

  “I wouldn’t go there unless I absolutely had to,” Digby said, and raised his glass. “Thanks anyway.”

  “It’s cool,” Levi said. “If this writer wants to interview someone about Hemingway he should go up to Chavez’s place anyway, you know, up in Los Ojos,” Levi said.

  “Why’s that?” I said.

  “He met Hemingway.” Levi said. “Back in like ’58. Used to tell me about it all the time. Says he came to watch the fights. It’s a good story for a book, man.”

  “Los Ojos?” Digby said, picking at his front tooth with his thumbnail. “I don’t know anybody up there.”

  “Never met Chavez?”

  “Not formally.”

  “He alright. Gotta flatter the motherfucker. Make him feel important. I’d make a call, but if it ever got back to her I helped you . . .”


  “I get it,” Digby said.

  “Los Ojos,” I said. “Great, let’s go.” I started for the door. I had a loosely structured plan to run as fast as I could to the RV. After that I would improvise. My hand was raised, poised to pull open the door and make a break for it, but the dog out front began barking with spastic intensity and I froze. Levi cocked his ear to the door as if the thunderous bark were hard to hear.

  “Oh, Virgil,” Levi said with a mischievous grin. “I do believe the rest of your party has arrived.” Digby scratched his chin and rubbed his eyes.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess we’ll take our leave.” He took his gun from the table. Someone downstairs pounded against the ceiling, three quick dull thumps, then nothing.

  “Miguel says there are three of them,” Levi said, looking down at the spot from which the sound had emanated. “Inside at least.”

  “Just three?” Digby said, took the last swig of his whiskey, and cocked his revolver. “Good. For a second there I thought we were in trouble.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Digby moved across the room in two long strides, took a fistful of my collar, and redirected me toward the window. I went without protest. The window opened onto a narrow alley. The building across the way was a dilapidated, rotting mess. It was close enough for a jump onto the ledge, but I doubted the deteriorating plaster and wood could hold our weight, and the alley floor below was a thick jungle of discarded appliances and car parts so rusted and muddled that it was difficult to tell where one sharp tetanus-inducing piece of scrap ended and another began. Though the drop would not have been far, I imagined dying slowly and painfully with several nasty objects impaled in some of my favorite body parts.

  Digby put a hand on the back of my head and shoved it through the open window. There was a ledge just wide enough to accommodate my boots. Digby stuck his head out next to mine, pointed to the ledge, and waved down toward the corner of the building; indicating that I should get out there and then make room for him.