by Shaun Harris
“Who gives a shit?” Milch said. “Let’s go. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” I said. I traced my finger over the edge of the suitcase, feeling each little tear on the paper lining. “It’s the whole fucking point. There’s a reason why your grandfather never went looking for it. There’s a reason your uncle never showed it to anybody, and it has nothing to do with the value of the stories. It was loyalty—your grandfather’s loyalty to your uncle and your uncle’s loyalty to Hemingway. Call it love if you want. There was love there between them, and that’s something like trust. Then the trust was broken, you see? It was broken, but Ebenezer kept the suitcase safe. He kept it safe and made the theft real. He wanted it to be real.”
“I think you’re losing it, Coop,” Milch said. He wrapped his fingers around the suitcase handle and drew it closer to him. “Why would he care if people read these stories?”
“I started and stopped three novels before I finished my first one,” I said. “And the one I finished was pure shit. Everyone writes shit when they start. That’s how it works. You write shit and then one day you get a little better, and then a little better than that, until you get good. If you’re lucky, you get good. That’s how it works.”
“OK, I vote we get going,” Grady said.
“Don’t you get it? The theft wasn’t just a stunt to get published. It was a purge,” I said. “That’s why he had Hadley pack everything up and bring it to the train station. He knew he wasn’t strong enough to do it himself. He couldn’t murder his darlings.”
“Coop,” Grady said. He walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Fuck Hemingway.”
“It should be burned,” I said, looking up at him.
“You should see someone, man,” Milch said. “You’ve got issues.”
“No shit,” I said, and shook my head trying to clear it. “It’s still raining. We shouldn’t carry the suitcase out there without protection.”
“Didn’t you say you wanted to burn it?” Milch asked.
“It was just a thought,” I said. It was more than that, though. It was the truth. I finally understood what Elmo wanted with the case. I had already agreed to bring it to him, but now I knew why.
“I got a plastic tarp under the front seat,” Dutch said.
“I’ll get it,” Grady said, and he was out the door before we could answer. I picked at a splinter on the wire-spool table. Milch drummed his fingertips against the suitcase. Dutch became interested in a stain on his denim jacket.
“You made a deal with Elmo, didn’t you?” Milch said, after the silence had become too acute to abide.
“What?” I said, snapping my head up to look him in the eye. He had a sad, weary smile on his face. I looked to Dutch for help, but he was still consumed by the contents of his jacket.
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” Milch said. “Last night Elmo didn’t want to do shit for us. Then this morning he loads us up with transportation, guns, and a guide. Come on. Tell me. What’d you two work out?”
“He wants the suitcase,” I said with a dry mouth. I kept at the splinter, worrying it with my fingernail.
“Why?”
“I believe he means to burn it,” I said.
“Why?”
“I don’t think you’d get it.”
“No,” Milch said, scratching his chin. “I don’t think I would. What do we get?”
“He’ll get us out of Mexico.”
“You think a border is going to stop someone like La Dónde?”
“I think we have a better shot up there, yes,” I said.
“What else?”
“Twenty-five grand each.”
“That’s not much.”
“Sounded like a lot to me.”
“I meant comparatively,” Milch said.
“Compared to what?”
“If it makes you feel any better, I do feel guilty,” he said. I felt the air in the room cool a few degrees, and I shuddered from the chill. He stood and held the suitcase at his side like a man waiting for a train.
“Guilty? About what? Ebbie, what are you talking about?” I got a good hold on the splinter, pulled, and it came up in a long strip.
“Take your jacket off,” Milch said.
“Huh?” I said. Milch reached behind his back, under his jacket, and pulled out a gun. It was my derringer, the one Digby had given me.
“Where did you get that?” I asked. I was calm, more than I should have been. Perhaps I was getting used to being on the wrong end of a gun.
“I’m a thief, remember?” he said. “Picking pockets kind of goes with the territory. Now take off your jacket. I need something to wrap the case in.”
“You might want to think about this, brother,” Dutch said.
“Fuck off, hippie,” Milch said. I took off my corduroy jacket and tossed it to him. He wrapped the suitcase in it and clutched it to his chest.
“What about Grady?” I asked. Milch gestured with the gun.
“Let me worry about Grady,” he said. “Don’t look at me that way. Seriously, Coop, you didn’t see this coming?”
“I have to admit, I didn’t,” I said, feeling foolish. “I mean, what’s your play here? You still got La Dónde after you.”
“You’re not the only one who can make deals,” he said. His tongue flicked over his lips like a reptile, and he laughed a hoarse, choppy snicker that was without joy.
“Chavez’s place,” I said, closing my eyes and cursing myself.
“Yup,” Milch said. “Thandy was there, up in the private box Samantha took me to. He was up there sitting like a king, you know. See, he’d gotten there first, already heard Chavez’s story, and he knew Elmo was the only one who knew where to find Ebenezer. So he waited to see what we would do. Then you go and tell Chavez you know a guy who can get you in.”
“You were watching us,” I said. Milch smiled and gave me a salute, touching the barrel of his gun to his temple.
“Cameras. Hell of a setup that Chavez has.”
“What did he offer you?” I asked.
“One hundred grand.”
“He’ll never pay you.”
Milch shrugged.
“Gave me his word as a southerner,” he said. “Also, he wants you and Grady dead a lot more than me.”
“You stole the manuscript.”
“You tied him up with his own pants and kicked him down a mountain.”
“Goddamn it, that was Grady,” I said.
“I don’t think Thandy is the kind of man who splits hairs on shit like that, you know?” Milch said.
“So the plan was for you to wait until we have the suitcase, and then you double-cross us?”
“You’re one smart cookie, Mr. Velour,” Milch said. “Yeah, that’s about the size of it. Then that bitch Samantha decides she doesn’t want to play the waiting game. That was a close one. And the whole time I thought you were going to figure it out anyway.”
“Well, yeah, now it seems fairly obvious,” I said. “I have to admit I feel pretty stupid.”
“Don’t feel too bad,” Milch said. “I’m a professional.”
“Professional dick,” Dutch said.
“That’s not helping, Dutch,” I said. “So how do you expect to get out of here?”
“It pays to think ahead,” Milch said, and pulled a small plastic instrument that looked like a cell phone out of his pocket. “GPS.”
“You’ve killed us,” I said.
“I prefer to think of it as saving myself.”
“You think Thandy’s just going to forgive you for stealing the manuscript?”
“Who gives a shit about the manuscript while I have this?” he said, hoisting the jacket-wrapped suitcase under his arm.
“You can’t trust him,” I said. “We should just go back to Elmo.”
“Elmo keeps his word,” Dutch said.
“I thought I told you to shut the fuck up, Cheech,” Milch said, and slapped Dutch across the face with the derringer. Dutch�
��s hands went to his face, and he stumbled back until he hit the wall. Milch grimaced at his handiwork and made his way to the door. I took a step toward him, and he raised the tiny pistol again.
“You step out there with that case, and you’re a dead man, you know,” I said.
Milch laughed and opened the door. His hand rested on the knob, and he paused.
“You gonna come after me, Coop?”
“Ebbie, I don’t have the experience you have, but I do know you can’t trust a man like Thandy, even if he gives his word as a southerner.
“Oh, come on,” Milch said. “You think I don’t have that old man where I want him? And his killer bitch, too? You think he’s scamming me? I’m scamming him, Coop. Don’t you get it? Can’t you see, I’m a fucking profess—” There was a loud crack, too close for thunder, and Milch’s head pitched forward violently. His knees bent and he reached his arms out, still holding onto the case, and hit the floor. There was a second crack, and Dutch screamed as he spun around. His legs hit the overturned stove, and he fell over it and out of sight.
“The door!” Dutch yelled. “Get the door!” I reached out casually and closed the door, still not registering what had just happened. Dutch army-crawled around the stove and kicked the back of my knee. I collapsed to the floor between Dutch and Milch. Milch was lying prostrate, his ass in the air, his face pressed into a mound of ash, and his arms spread out in front of him as if he were worshipping the fallen stove. A chunk of his skull from his eyebrow to his hairline was missing, replaced by a gaping maw from which a steady flow of blood ran down to mix with the ash, forming a paste. No more Milch.
“She’s here,” Dutch said.
Chapter Thirty-One
I got Dutch sitting up and leaning against the stove. He was shot in the shoulder. There was a small bloodstain on the front of his shirt and a large one the shape of Ohio just above his shoulder blade. The bullet had gone through, which, Dutch assured me, was a good thing.
“Take a peek out the window,” Dutch said. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” I used my elbows and knees to crawl across the room. There was a small hole at the bottom of the burlap curtain. I screwed up into a crouch and put my eye to it.
“There’s a Jeep next to our truck,” I said.
“What kind?”
“I don’t know cars,” I said. “One of those SUV things. It’s big and black with tinted windows.”
“Gunners?”
“I see two Mexicans in matching black suits and sunglasses. Jesus, one of them is huge.”
“Fat?”
“No, you ever see Enter the Dragon?”
“No.”
“The big Chinese guy who fought John Saxon at the end?”
“I never saw it.”
“This guy looks like that guy. Except he’s Mexican. It’s the Mexican version of that big Chinese guy.” I turned around and leaned back against the wall, with my head just underneath the windowsill.
“Do you see her?” Dutch asked. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it against his wound.
“No,” I said. “Maybe she went after Digby.”
“If she was out there, you’d never see her,” Dutch said.
“Then why’d you ask?” I said. The Mexicans stood on the other side of their Jeep. The smaller one, who was probably my height, rested a long, scoped rifle on the hood. The big one held two astronomically large pistols in each hand. I scanned the edge of the canyon and the cliff that dropped down to the river, looking for a glint of glass in the sun that might betray a sniper. Nothing. Then it occurred to me—where the hell was Grady?
The smaller Mexican set his rifle down and reached below my sightline. He came up with a large, black shotgun with a host of shells secured to its side. He nodded to his partner, and they walked around the car and toward the house. I told Dutch.
“Take a shot at them,” Dutch said.
“Grady’s got all the guns,” I said. “Unless you count the derringer.” I tried to figure out how Grady could have escaped. The only way out was through the canyon. I couldn’t believe La Dónde’s men would have missed him even if he were on foot. He could have scrambled up over the hill behind the house, or maybe he pulled a Butch Cassidy and jumped into the river. Whatever happened, I was beginning to fear Thandy had been right about Grady from the beginning. When it came down to it, I had trusted the wrong man.
“Here,” Dutch said, grunting as he reached behind his back and came up with a revolver. It was the size of fat squirrel, with a walnut stock and a long barrel. He slid it along the floor through the blood and ash, and it came to rest between my feet.
“That thing looks like it’s from World War I,” I said.
“It is.” Dutch motioned with his hand for me to pick it up. “It was my grandfather’s, a Webley. Don’t worry. It works.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Shoot at them.”
“I can’t shoot worth shit, Dutch,” I said, and picked up the Webley. It felt too heavy to hold, let alone aim.
“You don’t have to,” Dutch groaned. “Just shoot out the window. Let ’em know we have it. They won’t be so quick to come inside if they think we can shoot back.”
I held the gun up and examined it in the little light coming through the window. I thumbed back the hammer and shoved the barrel through the windowpane, shielding my eyes with my sleeve as glass tinkled down. The rain was falling harder and louder now. The Mexicans paused at the sound of the window breaking, but only for a moment. The large one tapped his partner with the back of his hand and they started toward the house again. I sat on my haunches, holding onto the windowsill for balance. I didn’t bother aiming and fired just as they reached the wall. I felt the shot in my balls, and the goddamned ringing started up in my ears again.
The bullet hit one of the beer-bottle pikes on top of the wall, and it exploded like an auburn grenade. The Mexicans raised their arms as the glass tore into them. They backed away, firing wildly at the house and wiping away the tiny streams of blood running down their faces. Their shots knocked out the remaining windowpanes, blew a good-sized hole in the door, and dug huge chunks out of the adobe.
“How’d it go?” Dutch asked, after the firing stopped.
“Better than expected,” I said. The large one took off his Ray-Bans and bent his head back to let the rain wash his face, shaking his head and whipping his long hair like a shaggy dog after a swim. He leaned against the Jeep’s fender and pounded two hard knocks on the rear door with his pistol. The tinted rear window dropped down a few inches, revealing a tobacco-colored fedora bobbing sharply as its owner spoke.
“Thandy’s here,” I said.
“Can you shoot him?”
“I can shoot at him,” I said. “The rest would be up to God.” The large Mexican holstered one of his pistols and opened Thandy’s door. The old bookseller was obscured by the door and the Mexican’s body. The Mexican pointed back at the house with the revolver, and I could hear him speaking over the rain. His voice was loud and angry. Thandy may not have been completely in charge.
After a moment, the Mexican stomped his foot and swung the door wide. Thandy stepped out, holding his hand out in a calming gesture. He reached back into the Jeep and pulled out a green golf umbrella. He opened it and I could see the outline of a map of the United States, with a flag pin springing out of what would have been Georgia—the official logo for the Masters. He conversed with the large Mexican, who continued to gesture at the house with his pistol. Thandy patted the man on the shoulder and took a few steps toward the house.
“Mr. Cooper,” he shouted. The moment he spoke, there was a quick blast of light and sound from under Dutch’s truck, shotgun fire. The smaller Mexican had been standing next to the truck. His feet kicked out from under him, and he landed on his ass. Another blast tore apart his abdomen and ripped his shirt into gory shreds. He didn’t fall over but sat with his legs spread out and his head forward in a gruesome parody o
f the stereotypical Mexican siesta.
The other gunman reacted quickly, aiming his dual pistols and firing shot after shot in the direction of the shotgun blasts. A shadow under the truck rolled away as the Mexican approached and bent down next to his compatriot. He tucked his pistol under his arm and reached out like a man trying to coax a cat out from under a car. Grady materialized on the other side of the truck, racked his shotgun, and fired, decapitating the Mexican. The headless body fell next to its partner.
Thandy watched the whole thing while holding his umbrella. He didn’t move except for his feet, which shuffled up and down like he was trying to warm himself in the cold rain. The rain let up as Grady bounded around the truck. He racked the shotgun again and leveled the barrel at the old man’s chest. He took a step forward, and the bookseller smiled. Grady cocked his head and lowered the shotgun an inch. Something at the edge of the canyon had caught his attention.
A small fountain of crimson flared out from the back of Grady’s shoulder as he was knocked off his feet. His gun fell from his hand and skittered away under the Jeep. He rolled onto his stomach and pushed up with his good arm. He got his legs under him, and he lurched toward the dead Mexicans and their weapons. He took two steps before his left calf and then his right blew open as unseen and unheard bullets ripped through them. He let out an agonized scream and clutched his bloody legs, trying to stem the flowing claret.
“What happened?” Dutch said.
I told him.
“I told you she was here.”
He was right. La Dónde, Pieta to some, emerged from behind a rock at the edge of the canyon, holding a rifle. There was a canister at the end of the barrel, which I assumed was a silencer. She wore a military shirt tucked into black jeans. The body the clothes covered deserved better. Her dark hair was pulled back from a cherubic face, the color of ice melting in bourbon. I took comfort in the idea that she was probably going to be the last thing I would see on this earth before I died. It was not a small comfort.