The Hemingway Thief

by Shaun Harris

  “There you see? And who is Ernest Hemingway, boy?”

  “A writer.”

  “There, you see?”

  “What did he write?” the American asked Chavez. Chavez shook his head and slumped his head over his Shirley Temple.

  “Your legend hasn’t made it down here yet,” the American said. “These people don’t have time for you. They do not read. They live and they don’t write it down. No one needs your stories here.”

  The old man looked as though the American had slapped him in the face. He staggered back, his mouth open. The American smiled a black, cruel grin, the sadistic smile of the executioner before he drops the ax.

  “So, Ernie, if you’ve had your drink, and I see that you have, I suggest you fuck off.” The American crossed his arms. The old man opened and closed his mouth a few times, then screwed himself up to his full height. He turned to the crowd and found that their backs were already to him; he had already lost his entertainment value. He turned back to the American and held up one righteous finger. What the finger was meant to convey was lost on Chavez, and the American seemed to take no stock in it either. The old man nodded once as if satisfied, turned with a military air, and stalked out of the saloon.

  “Who was he?” Chavez asked, watching the man through the door as he skulked through the hot sun.

  “A very famous man,” the American said, and turned to clean up the broken glass.

  “You stole something from him?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he asked me to, and he paid me. Not much, but he couldn’t afford much back then.”

  “Why didn’t you give it back?” Chavez asked. The American flinched as a shard of glass sliced open his finger. He wrapped it in a bar towel, and a small rose of blood bloomed over the white terry cloth.

  “Love,” he said. He dropped the pieces of glass back in the sink. He clutched the towel in his hand as he climbed the stairs to his room. Chavez heard the door close, and he did not see the American again until he left two days later. He carried with him the duffle and the cardboard suitcase. Chavez’s father had given him a horse to replace the bike. He didn’t say good-bye.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “That’s my Hemingway story,” Chavez said. He told it well, I thought. Not a lot of embellishments. It was simple and a little sad, but there was no punchline. It was not a story to tell in a bar or on the golf course. It was a story you told late at night, sitting on the back porch with a good friend. I decided to believe him.

  “I was expecting them to get in the ring, you know,” I said, holding up my hands like an old-time boxer. “That would have been cool.”

  “But they didn’t,” Chavez said with regret.

  “It would have been cool.”

  “I thought you would want the truth.”

  “I know. I know,” I said, holding up my hands and offering him an understanding look. “I’m just saying.”

  “Yes,” Chavez said with a commiserating grimace. “That would have been cool. Maybe from now on I will tell it that way.”

  We spent a moment in silence, and I imagined what it would have been like for an aging Hemingway to take on the aging Ebenezer Milch. From the look on Chavez’s face, I could see his mind was moving along the same lines. We sighed together at history’s lost opportunities. It was a few more moments before I remembered one of the more important details.

  “He said he kept it for love,” I said. “Love for whom?”

  “I don’t know,” Chavez said. His cigar had reached the band and he stubbed it out carefully and with reverence in a pewter ashtray. “I had heard of Hemingway, but I didn’t really know who he was. His name was like, I don’t know, don’t you know some names that you don’t know why?”

  “Yes,” I said. “There’s this guy Jasper Johns. I’ve heard of him. I think he’s an artist, maybe a nineteenth-century politician. Anyway, I know what you mean.”

  “Yes, like this Jasper Johns. I knew the name, but not the man. I didn’t really realize the significance of what I’d seen until about half a year later. My father was reading the paper, and he commented to one of the fighters that Hemingway had killed himself. He had to explain to the fighter who Hemingway was. My father was an educated man, you see. It was then that I realized I had poured a drink for one of the most famous Americans in the world.”

  “Did you tell your father your story?” I asked.

  Chavez chuckled and shook his head.

  “No. How could I tell him that the great Hemingway was here and he missed it? No, I never told him. And I never got a chance to talk to the American about it.”

  “The American’s name was Milch?” I said.

  “That’s what Hemingway called him.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?

  “A few years ago, I was visiting Tequilero and I told the story. It was at the end of the night. Only a few people left in the cantina, a casamentero I knew, a couple of whores, and a man I did not know.

  The unknown man told me I was not the only man in the Madres to have met Hemingway. He said he knew another man who would tell stories in their camp, but these stories were from Paris, not Mexico. I asked him about the man and he described him. The man was the American, the one Hemingway called Milch.”

  “Where was this camp?”

  “Not far from here, but you cannot go. It is Elmo Booth’s place and he does not take in strangers. Not anymore. You need to know someone from his band, and they are not as easily persuaded as my man at the door.”

  “Elmo Booth?” the name struck a chord like a church bell in my mind. I had heard it only the day before. Levi had suggested we go to see an Elmo, and Digby had shut the idea down, but Levi wouldn’t have suggested it if we couldn’t go there. Was Digby a member of Elmo’s band? Was this another brushstroke in the mysterious portrait of Digby?

  “I might know a guy,” I said. The door behind Chavez opened, and Milch and Samantha poured in. She stood tall and poised, but Milch hung off her arm like an oversized purse. There must have been more drinks in the private box.

  I felt the urge to take a giant piss, and I realized it had been a while since I’d relieved myself. I asked Chavez about the facilities, and he directed me to a small room by the door. I stepped inside the gold-trimmed latrine and went about my filthy business as I thought about what I had learned.

  The American’s final word to young Chavez bothered me. Love. What did love have to do with a theft? It was as unsatisfying an answer for why he kept the case as any other we had come up with. Perhaps if I knew who it was that the thief loved? Was it Hadley? Perhaps he wanted to punish Hemingway for the way he had set up his poor wife, and for using Ebenezer to do it? Maybe, but then why didn’t he just refuse to steal the case to begin with? Was there another woman? One he and Hemingway had vied for, and he thought that by keeping the case he could ruin Hemingway and win the girl? What the hell did love have to do with it?

  My head lolled back as I unleashed, and I took an interest in the small glass shelf above the toilet. A couple of bottles of what I assumed was expensive cologne—I would have no way of knowing—a vial of mouthwash and three bottles of pink bismuth, Walgreens brand. One of the bottles was half empty.

  I zipped up and backed away until I hit the wall, where I froze, staring at the bottles sitting on the shelf, like three pink shotgun shells. They didn’t necessarily mean Thandy had been there. And if he had been there, it didn’t mean he was still there. Still, I had not seen many Walgreens in my time in Mexico, and three bottles of that particular brand found while on the trail of the suitcase was not likely a coincidence. Levi could not have been the only person to have heard about Chavez’s run-in with Hemingway. It was quite possible that Thandy could have gotten here before us. A wise man, as Digby would say, would assume that he had.

  The knock on the door was heavy and insistent. I gurgled something about washing my hands and turned the water on. I was certain that
if I opened the door I would find Thandy and a half dozen goons on the other side, maybe even the bear on a leash, waiting to eat me. The knock came again along with a muffled and unfamiliar voice. How long did I have until they decided to just kick down the door and drag me out? What were they waiting for?

  I threw cold water on my face and then buried it in the plush towel next to the sink. I was still in this soft facial cocoon when the door opened—I had not thought to lock it—and I heard footsteps come up behind me. I kept my face tight against the terry cloth like a child pulling the covers over his head. The monster in the closet laid a hand on my shoulder, and I sagged under the weight of it.

  “You fall in or something?” Milch said. I turned around to find that he was the only one in the bathroom. Through the open door I could see Samantha and Chavez at the chrome desk, talking closely. I dropped the towel on the floor and grabbed Milch by the shoulders.

  “We have to leave,” I said.

  “No way,” he said, shaking me off. “I think Samantha likes me.”

  “Thandy is here,” I said, covering my mouth with my hand as I spoke. “We have to go.”

  “Go where?” Samantha said. She was behind Milch. She had walked the length of the room in milliseconds and without a sound. Her hands were folded in front of her and she had a coquettish and inviting look on her face. I did not blame Milch for indulging in the fantasy that she might have the remotest interest in him.

  “Our ride will be waiting for us,” I said. I pushed past Milch and out of the bathroom. As I pushed by Samantha, I expected to be overcome by some exotic, expensive perfume I couldn’t pronounce, but there was nothing. I made for the door, apologizing to Chavez but not looking at him, and hoping to God Milch would just follow.

  I was back in the hallway and the cocks were agitated, flapping their wings and making an awful noise. The bear was up with its snout pushed through the bars of its cage. It reminded me, despite the circumstances, of that one Cormac McCarthy book I managed to read. The bear had appeared on one page and I knew it would be dead by the next. It was a sad thing and this was a sad bear.

  The gym had emptied, either because it was between fights or the fights had ended for the evening all together. An old man in coveralls wiped furiously at the blood on the canvas. I kept moving as the sound of heavy footfalls came up behind me.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Milch said, coming up on my right. I hazarded a glance over my shoulder. Samantha followed us. Chavez, it seemed, had elected to stay behind, perhaps to issue orders to his men, or to tell Thandy it was time to strike.

  “We got what we needed,” I said to Milch. Even if I had time to explain the significance of the pink bismuth bottles, Milch would think I was just being paranoid. I hoped that I was. As I reached the elevator door and pounded on it like a Hun at the gates of Rome, I prayed I was being paranoid.

  “It’s this button here, Mr. Cooper. I’ll take you up,” Samantha said as she reached across me to press a faded-red plastic button set into the wall. There was a hiss and the door unlocked. I pushed through it and found the elevator platform waiting for me. I resisted the urge to sprint to it. Samantha followed us into the lift and the platform lurched, starting the slow, maddening ascent to the world above. I was beginning to feel safe. I even took a moment to take in Samantha’s ethereal beauty as the lights lit her in a soft amber glow, and I wondered again what kind of woman goes to the trouble of looking like that without putting on at least a dash of some scent?

  There was a jolt when we reached the top, and then another one—albeit only in my heart—when Luis pulled open the door. He waved us outside with a flourish and gifted Samantha a wide, puppy-dog smile. We stepped out into the night air, and I surveyed the scene. No Thandy. No goons. Nothing. Not even our ride.

  “I thought you said someone would be waiting for you,” Samantha said as she tapped Luis on the shoulder. He bowed like a courtesan and shambled back into his shack. The door closed behind us. The only sounds in the air were insects of which I did not know the names. It was an alien landscape among the burnt-out buildings under the moonless sky.

  “They’re a little late,” I said. So many things could have gone wrong. What if they couldn’t find a new vehicle? What if the RV had broken down on the way to the next town? What if the new car had broken down on the way back? What if they had run into Thandy or La Dónde? And what could I do about it? Nothing. I waited with my arms crossed, like I had been stood up by a date.

  “Who is this man you are waiting for?” Samantha said. She stood close and in the dark of the night it felt like we were the only two people in the world. “Is it the man who knows Elmo?”

  “Who?”

  “Elmo Booth. I overheard you tell Chavez that you know someone who can get you in to see Elmo. Is that the man who will be picking you up?”

  “How did you overhear us?” I asked.

  Samantha laughed.

  “I meant he told me while you were in the bathroom,” she said. I shook my head and looked at Milch. He gave me nothing but a blank expression.

  “Why do you care?” I said with more venom than I had intended. Samantha sighed, and her supplicant look faded into something that looked like irritated boredom.

  “Just tell me, Cooper,” she said. She reached behind her back and pulled a gun, a Glock, the same type I’d used to blow a hole in a man’s foot a few days before.

  “Ah, fuck,” Milch managed.

  “Ah, fuck,” I repeated. “Are you La Dónde?”

  “Why would you think that?” Samantha snapped.

  “Well, you know,” I stammered. “Woman with a gun . . .”

  “Why can’t there be more than one woman in this business?” she said. She looked hurt and, despite the gun, I felt an overwhelming urge to apologize, or at least let her know that I was no chauvinist.

  “Of course there can be multiple women killers,” I said, holding my hands up even higher. “I just thought, you know, the odds, you know, in Mexico and all.”

  “I know what you thought,” she spat. “There are more than one of us here in Mexico, asshole.”

  “More than two?” I said.

  “No, it’s just me and La Dónde,” Samantha sighed, looking down with a sad grimace. She shook it away and composed herself. “But Thandy hired both of us and I’m not going to lose to her even if she is the best.”

  “Second-best,” Milch said. “There’s a guy in Ireland.”

  “Wait, you work for Thandy?”

  “Yeah, and it’s up to two hundred grand to anyone who gets that suitcase. So you’re going to take me to it. I don’t care what kind of deal the old man has with La Dónde,” she said, and shoved the gun into my stomach. I could feel the cold steel through my thin T-shirt. “So you’re going to take me to Elmo Booth, and we’re going to find that suitcase. And if, if,” the gun dug deeper into my guts, “you do as I say and you’re a good boy, I promise when I bury you out in the desert it will be deep enough so that the coyotes don’t drag you from your grave to feast on your bones.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Was that supposed to be a sort of enticement? Because I have to say it’s not really sweetening the pot.”

  Somewhere in the darkness, an engine roared to life. Twin halogen eyes blared out at us, illuminating a large grille like a beastly mouth full of chrome teeth. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at, but in that same time Samantha lifted her pistol and fired four shots. I heard glass break, and one of the halogen eyes blinked out. The remaining eye was heading toward us by then, growing larger with each turn of the beast’s wheels. Samantha took a professional shooter’s stance, feet apart, both hands on the weapon, and aimed for the spot where a driver’s head would be.

  It was at this point that I regained control of myself and I dove to the ground. Milch had done the same, and we both lay in the dirt on opposite sides of the beautiful woman with the Glock as she stood her ground against some hell-bent machine. It was a one-sided game
of chicken, but I couldn’t figure out which side had the advantage.

  Samantha fired. The door to the shack opened, and Luis appeared in his absurd tuxedo. He reached out, took hold of her collar, and yanked her into the shack, closing the door once she was inside. A second later, the beast rammed the shack with the sound of wood popping, metal tearing, and other sounds one only hears in his nightmares.

  Our savior was a large black van with a red stripe running down the side. It appeared that we had been saved by the A-Team. I was prepared to accept that a group of mercenaries from an eighties prime-time action series had manifested in the Mexican desert in order to save us. It seemed like the next logical step in the escalating series of bizarre phenomena we had encountered in the Monte. When the van’s side door opened, I fully expected Dirk Benedict to hop out with a wry smile and an M16. I was more than a little disappointed when it turned out to be just Grady.

  “Let’s go,” he said. The shack had been destroyed, leaving a gaping cavity under the front wheels of the van. The driver threw the transmission into reverse and pulled out. I took Grady’s hand and he pulled me to my feet. I staggered to the door and fell onto the van floor. Grady shoved my feet inside and climbed in after me. Through the front seat I could see that Digby was driving. The passenger side door opened and Milch appeared, wrinkling his nose.

  “It smells like cheese in here,” he said.

  “It’ll smell like blood if we don’t get moving,” Grady said. He slid the door closed, and once Milch was inside, Digby threw the van in gear and peeled out. We were on the road again, leaving Chavez’s place behind in slightly worse condition than we had found it.

  Part 3

  A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A day passed in the van as we headed north and further into the mountains. The van had been bought for cash and, yes, the owner had been a big Mr. T fan. We all shared the driving, but it was Digby who took the lion’s share, weaving us through the Madres like Hannibal atop his elephant.