Morrison pauses, and his hand plays over the shotgun. Boone tenses up.
“It was house-to-house for the rest of that day,” Morrison continues. “Small bands of rebels had holed up in schools, in hotels, in private homes, and it was our job to flush them out and release any hostages. Usually they’d bugger off after we sent a few rounds their way, but every once in a while they’d put up a fight, and if they did, we were merciless.
“Some criticized us later, saying we killed every nig-nog we saw without trying to sort the good from the bad. They might have been right, but they also weren’t there. You kick open the door of a house you’ve been taking fire from for ten or twenty minutes, and five black bastards rush you, yelling booga this and booga that — well, you’re not a fucking diplomat. You toss a grenade, slam the door, and blammo. One problem solved, on to the next.
“But there was something else that drove us to be so thorough. That first body, the torso, was nothing compared to what we came across later. The streets were filled with the corpses of townspeople who’d been mutilated by the rebels. I’m talking cocks in mouths, intestines unspooled, pink meat peeking through charred flesh.
“The smell was so overwhelming, hard-as-nails twenty-year vets were puking their guts out. You could see it in everyone’s eyes: This will not happen to me. I will not end up with a pry bar shoved up my ass and a niggertown stray eating my balls.
We killed every black thing that moved, killed them twice. And you would have too.”
He rests his cigarette in the abalone shell and picks up the hat and turns it over in his hands. “By the end of the second day it was done,” he says. “Two hundred and fifty rebels killed, two thousand hostages rescued, five legionnaires killed, twenty wounded.
“Those two days were like ten years of university for me, like reading the Bible and Freud and Darwin and bloody fucking Plato all in forty-eight hours. I knew everything I needed to know about the world after that.”
The Brit’s hand trembles as he picks up the glass and gulps down the whiskey in it. Boone runs his finger over the medal, picturing an army of damaged soldiers marching, halt and haunted, across a blighted field. He’s met men like Morrison before, warriors undone by war, made strange by the savagery revealed in themselves and others.
“Oh, God,” Morrison groans suddenly, clutching his stomach. “Excuse me a moment.” He slides out of the booth and hurries to the bathroom. Sickening spattering sounds fill the trailer as soon as the door closes behind him.
Boone reaches for the notebook. A pencil is stored in the wire binding, and he uses it to write Big Unc’s phone number on a gas station receipt he fishes from his pocket.
By the time Morrison returns, everything is arranged as it was when he left. Boone tells him that he has other appointments.
“Come along then,” Morrison says. He picks up the shotgun and sets the képi blanc on his head. “On your way I’ll show you the dog I was telling you about.”
Boone stumbles stepping out of the trailer. The whiskey and the heat and the smell have done a number on him. He follows Morrison to the kennels, where the Brit takes down a leash and enters one of the pens, emerging a few seconds later with a sleek brindle puppy.
“This is Richard the Second,” he says, “my best student these days.”
“You mind if I touch him?” Boone asks.
“Go on. He’s quite friendly.”
Boone crouches next to the dog and hopes he looks like he knows what he’s doing as he runs his hands over the animal’s neck and legs. The dog licks his face, and Boone hates to think of him being torn to pieces in a fight someday.
“Come back in three months, and he’ll be a devil,” Morrison says. “You can match him with the best, make some real money.”
“Sounds good,” Boone says, rising to his feet. “Three months then. You want me to lock up on my way out?”
“I’ll walk you,” Morrison replies. He grabs the shotgun from where he left it leaning against the shed, and he and Boone and the dog set off across the lot toward the Olds.
“Next time just pull up to the gate and honk SOS in Morse,” Morrison says. “They teach you Morse code in the Marines, don’t they?”
“It’s been a while.”
“Dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot. I’ll come out and let you in.”
“Got it,” Boone says as he slips behind the wheel of the Olds and starts it up.
“We’ve got to stick together, us dog men,” Morrison says.
“We sure do.”
The Brit raises his hand to the bill of his hat in a salute and begins singing in French — “Tiens, voilá du boudin, voilá du boudin…” Driving out of the gate, Boone watches him in the rearview mirror and marvels again at all the many ways a man can be fucked.
He checks his messages after he gets on the freeway. There’s one new one, from Amy, responding to a call he made earlier, asking if she’d like to go with him to Carl’s on Friday. “Yeah, sure, that’ll be fun,” she says, and the sound of her voice makes him wish for another, better world.
12
THE CASINO RISES OUT OF THE DESERT LIKE A GLEAMING spaceship set down on Mars. Taggert, driving west on the 10 Freeway, spots it from miles away, the mirrored windows of the twenty-seven-story tower brighter than the afternoon sun.
The place is run by the Morongo Band of Mission Indians. Twenty-five years ago they were nearly extinct, the reservation consisting of a few old-timers living in mobile homes and relying on the take from a small bingo operation to keep from starving. That all changed when a group of businessmen and attorneys concocted a scheme to expand the state gaming laws to allow slot machines and blackjack on Indian land, using sovereignty guarantees and years of poverty and official neglect as levers.
A few contributions to the right politicians, a couple of well-funded ballot initiatives, and now the businessmen and attorneys are raking in a fortune, and each and every tribe member receives a check for twenty grand a month, thanks to the bus-loads of retirees from Palm Springs and L.A. who show up to dump their Social Security money into the nickel slots.
Elaborate scams like this make Taggert feel small-time and stupid. He’s always gone for the short con, the easy score, never thinking big enough. He blames it on the way he was raised. His parents were a couple of by-the-book worker bees, folks so averse to risk that they never even bought a new car on credit, instead paying cash for used heaps with God knows how many miles on them because how would they make payments if Daddy were to lose his job? The only chance they ever took was splurging on a few Christmas raffle tickets from the church once a year.
As a young man, Taggert was disdainful of their caution, saw it as weakness, a contemptible lack of faith in themselves, yet how many times has he bowed out of opportunities that would have netted him millions because he couldn’t bring himself to lay it all on the line? How many jobs has he walked away from because the stakes were a bit too high? The guys who had the guts to tempt fate are living in castles in Mexico now, living on the beach in Hawaii, watching surfers catch big waves, and here he is, still in the shit, still duking it out every day. It’s embarrassing, really, a guy his age. But that all ends now. This time he’s going for broke.
He exits the freeway at Cabazon, where two sagging concrete dinosaurs sit baking in the heat, and drives down a frontage road to reach the casino. Benjy should be waiting for him at the bar. A quick drink to get the juices flowing, and they’ll be off to a suite in the hotel to meet the point man for the Mexicans who produced the C-note that impressed Olivia so much. A little “How you doing?” a little back-and-forth, a handshake, and Taggert will leave here having made the deal of his life.
He’s driving his good truck today, the new F-150, so he decides to valet it. A skinny black kid in a red vest opens the door for him, and Taggert steps out into the porte cochere. It’s hot even in the shade. The kid’s face is shiny with sweat.
“Welcome to Morongo Casino Resort and Spa,” he says,
handing Taggert a ticket.
“Where you gonna put it?” Taggert asks.
“We got a special lot over there.” The kid gestures vaguely toward an expanse of shimmering asphalt where hundreds of vehicles sit unprotected from the relentless sun.
“I want to be in the shade,” Taggert says. “My dash’ll crack out there.”
“But that’s the valet lot, sir.”
Taggert opens his wallet and pinches out a twenty. “Put it right here,” he says, pointing to an empty spot at the curb with one hand and passing the money to the kid with the other. “I’ll only be a half hour or so.”
The kid bobs his head in acknowledgment of the payment as he shoves the bill in his pocket. “I’ll see what I can do, sir,” he says.
Two sets of heavy glass doors keep the heat outside. Taggert pushes through them and enters the air-conditioned bubble of the casino. The electronic whoops and giggles of the slot machines swirl in his head as he makes his way to the bar, and he wonders how the dealers and cocktail waitresses stand the noise all day long. It would drive him nuts.
He’s passing the penny slots when a fat old gal slides off her stool and lands flat on her back on the carpet in front of him. He looks down at her bulging eyes and flushed face and knows right then and there that it’s all over. Nonetheless, he crouches beside her and says, “Hey, can you hear me? Are you okay?”
No response, not a flicker.
“Carol?” another old broad calls, hobbling toward them down the narrow aisle separating the rows of machines, a long cigarette scissored between her fingers. “Carol, honey?”
Carol is tethered to the slot by a pink plastic spiral cord, one end of which is clipped to a belt loop on her pants, the other to her casino rewards card, which is still inserted in the machine she was playing when she collapsed. Taggert reaches up, slides the card out, and sets it on the floor beside her. His mind flashes to Daddy and Paw Paw and his brother, James, to Uncle Ralph, how they all dropped in their tracks just like this, and the thought hollows him out so that everything echoes longer and louder than it should.
Someone is calling for security. Foam bubbles between Carol’s lips, which have turned blue. Her friend kneels and takes her hand. “Hold on, honey,” she says.
A security guard, a big Indian in a dark suit, sidesteps through the gathering crowd and squats next to Taggert.
“What happened?” he asks.
“No idea,” Taggert replies. “I was coming in and saw her fall.”
“She has heart trouble,” the friend says.
The guard pulls the mic of his headset closer to his mouth. “I need medical at the penny corral.”
“Come on, sweetie,” the friend says, lifting Carol’s lifeless hand to her cheek. “Come on, now.”
Taggert stands as the guard sticks his fingers into Carol’s mouth to clear it in preparation for CPR. The Indian begins chest compressions, then places his mouth over Carol’s and fills her lungs. The air rushes back out between her slack lips with a sound like a Bronx cheer.
Taggert turns away and comes face to face with the onlookers. Their eyes are bright as they watch the guard attempt to pump life back into the woman, their expressions full of hope. A pack of rubes waiting for a miracle — angel fire and heavenly harps. One guy even has his head bowed and is mumbling a prayer. He must be seventy years old. You’d think someone who’d lived that long would have learned something. Taggert pushes past him and bumps his way out of the crowd. Anybody says a prayer for him when he drops, he’ll come roaring back just to punch them in the mouth.
The bar where he’s meeting Benjy is located in the middle of the casino. He passes two EMTs humping plastic cases and rolling a gurney on his way there. Benjy is standing at the railing that separates the bar from the casino floor, watching the commotion. Taggert sidles up to him and says, “You fucking turkey vulture.”
“What happened?” Benjy asks.
“Some old lady died,” Taggert replies. “Let’s have a drink.”
They move to the bar, snag a couple of stools. Benjy calls for a beer; Taggert goes for bourbon. He’s tense about the meeting. Things can go to hell in an instant, and here he is, no gun, no knife, Benjy’s contact having insisted they show up unarmed. That should have been out of the question.
Taggert sips his Maker’s, then sets the glass on the bar and rotates it slowly, his fingertips barely touching the rim. “You speak to your man?” he asks Benjy, who is intently pushing buttons on his phone.
“He’s got a couple bitches with him right now,” Benjy says without taking his eyes off the screen. “Said he’ll call when he’s ready.”
“Glad to see he’s taking this so seriously.”
Benjy shrugs. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing,” Taggert says. “Just keep right on diddling that thing.”
Benjy looks up, irritated. “I’m texting my mom, okay?” he says, then goes back to the keypad. Taggert has known Benjy since the guy was a little vato hustling eight balls of stepped-on coke to college kids. Now he’s losing his hair and has wrinkles around his eyes.
The bartender, a cute young blonde, drops a glass, and some asshole sitting across the bar from Taggert applauds. The girl ducks her head and massages her temples, then crouches to pick up the pieces. Taggert thinks about walking over and popping the loudmouth but instead adjusts his stool and has another sip of bourbon.
He decided to wear a suit today as a sign of respect — no tie, but a nice jacket and slacks — and here’s Benjy in jeans and a T-shirt. Now Taggert wonders if he’s overdressed. Used to be he could give a shit, went everywhere in motorcycle boots and greasy Levi’s. These days, though, he’s trying to be more professional, trying to elevate his game. Looks like he’s the only one.
Benjy’s phone blares a tinny tune. He jabs a button, puts it to his ear. “Sí,” he says, then, “Bueno.” He snaps the phone shut and says, “Time to go.”
They finish their drinks and leave the bar. The EMTs are loading Carol onto the gurney. She’s still dead. Taggert follows Benjy across the casino to the hotel lobby. They find the elevators and step into an empty car. As the doors are closing, a woman carrying two suitcases rushes over.
“Hold that, please,” she says.
“Sorry, full up,” Benjy replies. He and Taggert exchange smirks as the doors slide shut in the woman’s face.
Taggert straightens his jacket when they step out onto the Mexican’s floor. He follows Benjy down the hall to the suite and waits with his hands clasped behind his back while Benjy knocks. A bodybuilder with a woman’s eyes opens the door.
“We’re here to see Mando,” Benjy says.
The bodybuilder looks both ways, checking the hall, then quickly pats Benjy down and motions him inside. Taggert is next. The muscle takes his time with him, makes him open his jacket, and runs his hand up and down his torso, his legs. The guy smells like a woman too. Must be the crap he uses in his hair. He squeezes Taggert’s nuts as a final flourish, then steps aside to let him pass.
Mando, standing behind a table, is silhouetted against a big window that frames a view of rocky desert and, beyond that, the snow-covered crest of Mount San Gorgonio. Benjy strides across the room to shake his hand, and Taggert follows. The way the light is, Taggert can’t see Mando’s face until he’s right up on him. Curly black hair, a nose that looks like it’s been busted a few times, a gold tooth. His hand is hard and rough, like a seashell. A working man.
“Sit, sit,” he says, sinking into a chair.
Taggert and Benjy take seats across from him. On the table are the remains of a room-service platter of chicken wings, a mound of tiny bones surrounded by half-eaten celery sticks and small plastic cups of dressing. Mando slides the platter out of the way and motions for the bodybuilder to do something with it.
“You speak Spanish?” he asks Taggert.
“Dos tacos, por favor. That’s about it,” Taggert replies. He rests his forearms on the table and turns his han
ds into fists.
“So we speak English then,” Mando says with a smile.
“I’ve shown him your paper,” Benjy says.
“Good stuff,” Taggert interjects. “Best I’ve seen in a long time.”
“And you seen a lot, huh?” Mando asks. He leans back in his chair and fades into shadow against the window again, playing hide-and-seek.
“Can we close the drapes?” Taggert says. “I like to look in a man’s eyes when I’m doing business.”
Mando says something in Spanish to the bodybuilder, who moves to the window and yanks the cord that draws the curtains shut. They sit silently in the dark until the muscle turns on an overhead light.
“Okay now?” Mando says. “You are comfortable?”
Taggert nods. He can tell the guy is irritated with him, so he tries to keep things moving. “How many of the hundreds can you get?” he asks.
“How many you want?”
“What about half a mil to start with?”
Mando purses his lips and rocks his head from side to side, thinking. “This will cost you seventy-five thousand,” he says.
“I can handle it.”
“You sure?”
“And if everything works out, I’ll take more next time.”
Mando smiles and says, “You got a lot to prove before then, hombre.” He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans and tilts his chair onto its rear legs.
Everything he says and does seems like a challenge to Taggert, an invitation to fight. Even his shirt — blood red with a scorpion embroidered on it, two rhinestones for eyes, another sparkling at the tip of its tail — pisses Taggert off. There’s a chance, though, that the guy is just testing him to see if he’s some kind of hothead whose anger could blow everything, so Taggert swallows the insults boiling up into his throat and asks, “How will it work, the exchange?”
Mando puts one snakeskin boot on the table and leans way back. “Is it true you burned a man a little by a little because he stole from you?” he says.
Richard Lange Page 17