by Alan Lee
Gordon Gibbs unloaded himself from the passenger seat. He held a pistol—looked like maybe a SIG Sauer 9, a cooler gun than he had any right to. He gripped it awkwardly, like a sword, the dangerous end pointed at me; he was wary of firing it, unsure what would happen.
“What’s up, asshole,” he said. He wore white Nikes, black track pants, and a long sleeve shirt that said Flag Nor Fail. Blue veins bulged in his neck.
The driver came around the truck. Another beefcake. His head was shaved, but other than that he and Gordon looked eerily similar. Even blue veins in the same spots. Instead of a gun he carried a bat.
Yikes.
Georgina Princess growled.
I said, “Hey look, Gordo. She’s a good judge of character. You can’t teach that. That’s superior breeding, is all.”
“You found money, huh? Nice work, gumshoe. Guess what happens now? You’ll give it to me.”
“I will?”
“Hell yeah you will.”
“Why?” I said.
“First, because I’m stronger than you and I can take it by force. How’s that for why? Second, it belongs to me legally.”
“In fact it does not.”
Gordon’s friend—upon closer inspection he was more tan, an orange color from a bottle I thought—smacked the barrel of his bat against his palm.
Gordon said, “I married Colleen, asshole. By law it’s mine.”
“Honestly, Gordon. Find a new insult. Surely you can’t be both exceptionally ugly and dull? That’s a rough go.”
“The money’s in the house?”
“Not telling.”
His buddy, Mr. Tan, chuckled—supposed to be sinister, maybe, or he thought I was hilarious.
Probably the latter.
Gordon grinned. “Yeah. You are telling.”
“Nuh uh,” I said.
“You’re gonna tell me or I shoot the dog. Then we pulp you with the bat.”
“Shoot the dog? I’d prefer you didn’t. As it happens, I’ve grown fond of her. Can you believe it?”
“I don’t give a shit, August. Take us there.”
“Colleen told you about the money,” I said.
Georgina Princess had placed herself between me and them. She strained against the leash, nose to the ground. She was growling, but I felt it through the leash more than I heard it.
“Don’t matter how I know about the money.”
“Colleen’s the only person other than me who knew,” I said. “So…Colleen told you. Not a lot of options.”
“Don’t matter.”
“It does to me. I’m disappointed in Colleen. I liked her. She touched my arm several times.”
“She what?”
“I liked it, up until this minute. Does she still touch your arm?”
“Screw you, August. The money belongs to her, so shove your disappointment where the sun don’t shine. Now where is it?”
“The disappointment? Or the place where the sun doesn’t shine? Because—”
“Shut up! Jee-zus, what a pain you are,” he shouted.
“Oh. You mean the money?”
“Where is it?”
Mr. Tan said, “Gibbs, I’ll hit him with the bat. Couple times, and we’ll see if he’s still so funny.”
“I will be. It’s instinctual.”
“August. I’m about to kill your dog.”
“You can’t hit her,” I said.
“Think you can stop me?”
“I didn’t mean, I won’t let you. I mean, you can’t. You’ll miss.”
“The hell I will.”
“I’m not convinced you know where the trigger is,” I said.
Mr. Tan took a step closer. He waggled the bat near GPS, a casual and mean motion. “Think I’ll miss with this? I’ll beat the teeth out of your dog. And then you. Get me?”
“You guys work out together? What do you bench?” I said.
“I bench—”
“Just kidding, I don’t care. C’mon, the money’s around back.” Without waiting, I turned and circled the house. GPS took some convincing because she hated Gordon as much as me. I tugged her a few feet before she relented. Around back there was a rotting porch and the start of the forest. The windows still had glass but the rear door was missing. I tied GPS to a tree.
“Okay, Gordon,” I said.
“Okay what?”
“We need to fight it out."
“Fight?”
“Yeah.” I shrugged out of my coat and hung it on a broken branch near GPS. “I got some adrenaline going. Be fun.”
“You serious?”
“I had a glove, I’d slap you with it.”
Mr. Tan chuckled. “He’s serious, Gibbs.”
“It’s the proletarian inside me. Nothing to be done.”
“I’m not fighting you, asshole.” He stood at the porch, gun still thrust my direction. “Tell me where the money is.”
“Don’t be scared, Gordon. You’re the larger of us.”
“Afraid of you? I work out for a living, shrimp.”
“But I’m tougher. I hope.”
“August—”
“Give the gun to Mr. Tan, Gordon. I’m going to come hit you and it’d be better if he had it. That way, it won’t drop into the dirt.”
“‘Ey,” said Mr. Tan. He indicated me with his bat. “You’re carrying too. You two wanna fight it out, lose the gun.”
“Whoops.” I slipped the leather Bianchi holster off my belt and lovingly set the Kimber on a tree root. “Fair’s fair, you’re right.”
“Jeez, August, why you got a gun?”
“I’m a private cop. Do the math. Wait, better not, might take til lunch.”
Mr. Tan said, “Looks like a 1911.”
“In fact it is. A Kimber. I grew attached to it training with the SWAT guys in Los Angeles.”
“Training with SWAT?” asked Gordon. Looked like he might be shrinking.
I indicated my chin. “Put one right here, big guy.”
“August, grow up.”
“Get in your truck and leave, or else hit me, Gordon. Afterward, I’ll tell you about the money.”
“Why you want to get your ass kicked first?”
“Two reasons come to mind. First, see who wins—I’m betting on myself. Second, so you’ll stop thinking you’re tough.”
“I work out—”
“For a living, shut up, your poor wife. I didn’t say you aren’t strong. But you aren’t tough. Big difference,” I said.
Mr. Tan held out his hand. “Gimme the gun, Gibbs. And get on with it.”
“This is dumb,” said Gordon.
“Gotta do it, man.”
“Why?”
“Hell, I don’t know. One of those things. You jumped him, now he wants to fight; you gotta,” said Mr. Tan.
I agreed. “Code of honor.”
He didn’t want to, but Gordon pressed the gun into Mr. Tan’s palm. He held the pistol easier than Gordon.
Gordon met me in the patch of dirt between the trees and the rear porch. He turned to the side and held his fists under his chin and bounced around. Hopping forwards and backwards, his shoulders rolling and exaggerated. He looked a little like a cartoon character. “Come on, bitch, let’s get this done.”
GPS snarled and barked.
He swung and missed, a big lumbering hook. I hit him a left in the kidney, under the ribcage; to his credit, he felt thick and sturdy and he only grunted. He threw the same big hook with the same big hand and missed again; I got him once more in the kidney, identical spot—testing him, see how tough he was. Body shots accumulate. He got close enough that he couldn’t miss and took turns swinging with both fists. I caught them on my arms and shoulders. I came up with a big right, an uppercut, connected under the chin. His teeth crashed and he flailed backwards. I followed, bang bang, jabs into his teeth. He gave ground too easy. Entirely uninterested in continuing. His heel hit the rotting porch and the momentum sat him down. Tried to get up. Tried again—he stood and swa
yed and righted himself. His mouth bled.
He probed the inside of his mouth with his tongue. “Shit. Think I broke a tooth.”
“You’re done,” I said. I dropped my hands. “You already quit. Where’s the resilience? Where’s the grit? Does posing in front of a mirror not help with things like…reality?”
“Gimme the got’damn gun,” he said. His words sounded thick. He held his hand out to Mr. Tan.
“I am morose, Gordo, that it’s over so quick,” I said. “Been looking forward to this for a while. I’m not even breathing hard. Colleen, the poor dissatisfied woman, this is what she must feel like.”
“Gimme the gun,” said Gordon again. His words produced some steam in the cold air.
“Get it? It’s a joke about your ineptitude in the bedroom.”
“Get in there, Gibbs. It ain’t over,” said Mr. Tan. “This a fight. Kick that ass.”
“The gun!”
Gordon didn’t say ‘my’ gun. It wasn’t his. Clearly.
“Jeez, Gibbs. Here. Use the bat, you need to.”
Gordon took it and pointed the barrel at me. “How about now, tough guy.”
“Is this because you realized within a few seconds that you can’t win?” I said. “It’d make me feel better if you verbalized it. Something about people I don’t like is when they give up at the first sign of trouble.”
GPS howled and pulled at her leash.
“August,” said Gordon. “Last chance before I use the bat.”
I said, “You’re right, this way’s more fair.”
Manny Martinez emerged from inside the abandoned farmhouse. Dressed in casual clothes, not his marshal outfit. He took two long steps, spread his arms, and clunked the beefcakes’ heads together. Skull against skull. The collision hurt and jarred them both enough that they fell. He smoothly drew his gun, lowered and pressed his knee hard into the spine of Mr. Tan, forcing him into the dirt, and Manny then inserted his gun into Mr. Tan’s flared nostril.
“Aw Manny,” I said. “Even with the bat, I think I woulda won.”
“Don’t care, amigo, I was getting bored.”
“Whothafugisthis,” said Mr. Tan, face squished, nose plugged. Manny rightly recognized him as the greater threat. “Gedoffame, gedthegunouamyface.”
Manny hit him with the butt of his big silver .357 Magnum and then aimed the barrel at Gordon. “Stay down, tubbo.”
“It’s Gordo,” I said.
“Ay caramba, whatever,” said Manny. Gordon tried to rise and Manny hit Mr. Tan in the head again with the butt of his gun. Opened a cut along his shaved hairline. “See what happens? You get up, I hit your friend. Try and find out.”
Gordon hesitated.
Manny pressed his knee harder into Mr. Tan’s back.
“Gibbsyoubigasholegeddown,” groaned Mr. Tan.
“Stay down or I punish your friend, Gordie.”
“Gordo,” I said.
“Who are—” said Gordon.
Manny aimed at Gordon and fired. A humongous noise. The blast filled our clearing to the point of pain and rebounded, startling GPS into silence. The bullet traveled not more than four inches above Gordon’s head and the man cried obscenities.
“Stay down, pendejo. I might not miss again.”
Gordon lowered and Manny returned the pistol to Mr. Tan’s nose, and he grinned.
Two giant weightlifters cowed into stillness by a guy half their weight. But few men were as crazy as Manny—something in his voice was fearless and nasty and it connected with a nerve deep inside. The nerve told the brain, Wait…I think this guy’s almost out of control. And he was.
I went for my gun. Clipped it onto my belt, and slipped into my jacket. I scratched GPS to reassure her. “See, Gordon. Muscle doesn’t equal strength. And strength doesn’t equal tough.”
Manny said, “Don’t think he can follow that math.”
“You ruined the fun. He was going to beat me with a bat. I was going to hit him back. Real blue collar work, it would’ve been great.”
“I’m calling the cops,” said Gordon. His mouth bled onto the dirt. “Think I won’t?”
Manny reached around to his belt and came back with handcuffs. He dropped them between Mr. Tan and Gordon and said, “You’re in luck, señor. Cops is already here.”
Gordon cursed more.
“So you—you’re just gonna keep all the money, huh?” said Gordon. “Legally it belongs to Colleen.”
He sat in the dead leaves at the base of a dormant maple, his back against the trunk. Mr. Tan on the other side. Their arms were pulled backwards and hands cuffed together, circling the trunk. And there they would remain until someone freed them, their plight hopeless.
“The spouse is entitled to half of all marital assets at the time of separation,” I said.
“Exactly. She should get half of the money,” said Gordon.
“What money?”
He nodded at the farmhouse. “The money you’re about to take. I knew that dog was worth a fortune.”
“Hypothetically, if the dog led to a fortune and you found it, would you give Ulysses half?”
He sniffed and looked away. Called me a horrible, horrible name.
I said, “There’s no money in that house, Gordon.”
“The hell there isn’t. You told Colleen—”
“I tested her. Wanted to discover if she’d send you to steal it. ’Twas a mere ruse, Gordo. While she and I talked on the phone, I found this random house on a map. There’s nothing inside.”
Gordon set his jaw and glowered. Didn’t know whether to insist there was money in the house or admit he had been tricked. Foolish either way; a sad state of affairs.
“And now I’m despondent about Colleen,” I said. “I wanted her to be better.”
“She just wants what she deserves, August.”
“But she already got you, Gordo.”
Manny dropped the key to their handcuffs into the dirt, beyond their reach.
I said, “I’ll phone Colleen later. Alert her to your predicament and she’ll come unlock you. Meantime, avoid the bears.”
Manny picked up Gordon’s SIG and pocketed it. He nudged the bat with his toe. “Wanna hit them a few times? Be like a piñata.”
“I don’t get it, August. If there’s no money, why the hell did you hit me?” said Gordon Gibbs.
“Indulgence.”
“Huh?”
“You tried to intimidate me since the moment we met. I bet you do that with everyone. I bet you did it with Alex Steinbeck, a girl of whom I’m fond. You’re not special, Gordon. You have more mass than most, is all. I’m not special either. Well…debatable. But guys like you shouldn’t lean on others with your bulk. You got a lot of fear inside and that’s why you didn’t want to fight me and why you demanded the gun. Afraid and mean, the sign of a bully. That’s why. To show you you can’t flex and run over everyone. And Gordon, I find out you’re still trying to push your way through the Steinbeck family, I’m going to kick your ass again. But this time Manny won’t save you. You can have the bat but I’ll give you an enema with it. Understand?”
Mr. Tan made a chuckling noise. I kinda liked him. He understood honor, to a small degree, and he knew when his friend was being obtuse.
I untied Georgina Princess.
“Hey c’mon,” said Gordon. He appeared close to tears. “Be serious. That dog. Is it worth a lot of money or not?”
“Her,” I said. “And she’s valuable just because she is.”
32
The sun climbed higher and burned off some of the chill, and Manny and I went up Bent Mountain. At the top he parked at the old Mount Union Church and got into my rented truck. Georgina Princess jumped into the back but leaned forward enough for her head to be between ours, a situation she thought glorious.
Manny looked ashamed. “About Gordon, Mack. I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
“I really wanted to clunk their heads together. I never get to do that.”
<
br /> “Was it great?”
“Migo, it was so great I cannot find the words.”
“I shouldn’t have started the fight. That was immature of me,” I said.
“I enjoyed it.”
“So did I. But.”
“It bugged you,” said Manny. “That he thought he was tougher.”
“Yes.”
“You know you could beat him. But you wanted him to know too.”
“All of these reasons. And most of them are childish.”
“No one ever claimed you’re a grownup,” said Manny.
“But maybe one day.”
We drove halfway to Floyd and turned onto back roads, curling between undulating horizons dotted with cows. Larry Alexander owned the land. Using Google Earth, we located the ATV trail. The same trail Ulysses took with his Jeep three years ago. Same trail Alex tried to get her Audi up that fateful night.
We roared and bounced up the mountain for half an hour. A lot easier than walking through.
The burnt shed came into view and I stopped in a squeal of brakes. Manny let GPS out and she ran in circles and did jumps and rejoiced. I reached into the truck bed for a metal detector.
Manny said, “What are we doing? I forget exactly.”
“Geocaching.”
“Geo what?”
“Following a hunch,” I said.
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled for one of those.”
Manny went through the Jeep for anything I missed. I used the metal detector and scraped out the wooden structure until satisfied nothing else was there, and then I walked enlarging concentric circles outward. Same as last time, the air here felt colder. Or thinner or wetter or all of it. Small animals took flight when GPS bounded near and she gave fruitless chase.
Manny spoke. His voice sounded large out here in the wild. “Think we should take up hunting?”
“Shooting deer?”
“Simon,” he said, the Spanish equivalent for ‘Yup.’
“You like venison?”
“Don’t know.”
“You drive a supercharged Camaro. I don’t think you’re allowed,” I said. “The real hunters would be mean to you.”