by Ben Sanders
Marshall kept the gun on him. “This is option three. The peaceful wait, with you injured a little bit.”
“Fuck. You shot me.”
“Mmm. Twice.”
“Jesus. You’re crazy.”
“No. I want to know what happened.”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s why we’re going to wait for Tony.”
“Oh, god. I can’t. Shit, I’m bleeding. Help. Oh shit.”
“You’ll be fine. Just think of Mikhail.”
“He’s probably dead.”
“Oh. Well think of someone else then.”
Marshall looked out the window and sat listening to him panting. The evening turning pretty as the sun fell away. The traffic fading to paired lights on Central Park West and the park itself a lush green he could not see the limits of. He said, “You saw what I did to Vicki B.’s man. Why did you think I couldn’t do the same to you?”
Lloyd didn’t answer.
Marshall said, “I might give Tony another call soon. But I need to think about what I’m going to say.”
Lloyd had his hands to his chest trying to staunch the flow. “If you … There’s … There’s a safe in the bookshelf behind the desk. I know the combination, it’s, it’s CY160. There’s two hundred grand and a gun, clean, never been used. You could just take it and go. Two hundred K.”
Marshall said, “I’ll think about it.”
“It’s a Colt .45, never been used.”
“I’ll think about it.”
The foyer door opened.
He swung the Beretta round to cover the entry, Lloyd going slack with relief, almost falling off his chair, calling for help.
Marshall stood and moved behind Lloyd’s chair for cover and sighted two-handed, lowered the weapon as Chloe rushed into the room. She screamed when she saw the gun, her brother bleeding. Both hands at her mouth and he thought she’d turn and find cover, run for the foyer, but she came toward him, diving, and with the chair between them he couldn’t block her from the Smith .38, and she grabbed it.
Only one thing he could do.
* * *
Walking south just past Columbus Circle, the bag from the safe slung on his shoulder: two hundred grand cash and a silver Colt M1911, just as Lloyd had promised.
He turned east on Fifty-sixth to miss the patrol cars from Midtown North coming up Eighth. He called Ashcroft.
“Where are you?”
Marshall said, “Lee, I think I might have blown the op.”
FORTY-ONE
Rojas
The club was down the western end of Central Ave., pink stucco, CALOR in red lettering on the lintel. He slowed as he drove by in the Mustang. Suit-clad doorman lighting a cigarette, just a few guys drinking at the bar. He watched a moment, anonymous in the new car. Traffic built behind him and someone leaned on the horn. He accelerated and made a right into the parking building next door and followed the ramp up to the top floor. The V8 in a low growl as it came slowly round the loop.
He parked at the edge of the building and sat a few seconds with the engine running. The desert stretching westward and in the distance Mount Taylor just a shallow knoll at the right of the yellowed pan. A blurred white band where the sky came down to meet it.
He shut off the engine and left the key in the ignition and dragged the bag across the console and got out. Then he took the vehicle ramp down to the street and turned left and walked back along to the club. The doorman ignored him as he approached, but as Rojas entered the guy stamped out his cigarette and followed. Low light in here. Contrast with the bright street wasn’t helping. The two guys at the table over to the left were just silhouettes as they stood and buttoned their jackets.
He headed for the door to the back room. A guy seated at the end of the bar swiveled smoothly on his stool and stood up to block his way, drink still in hand. He knocked the dregs back and set the tumbler down, ice tinkling a little.
He smiled as Rojas drew near. Tattoo on his neck just visible above his collar. “Didn’t think we’d see you in here.”
“Why’s that?”
He closed his eyes briefly, shook his head. “Oh. We just didn’t.”
Rojas said, “Is he in?”
The guy touched his cuff links, one and then the other. “Are you carrying?”
Rojas said, “In the bag.”
He looked at it. “What else you got in there?”
“Nothing to worry about.”
The guy stood aside, gestured with one arm. “Come on through. Take a seat.”
Rojas passed through the door and the four others filed through behind him. Like some funeral procession in their dark attire. He went and sat at the red leather booth curved against the left corner and set the bag on the table by the stripper pole. The cigarette man went back to his post and the guy he’d spoken with turned away to make a call on a cell. The two others standing near the door, hands clasped.
He heard the guy on the cell say his name. Something else in a low tone Rojas couldn’t catch, and then a long spell of nodding. One foot on its heel, watching the toe as he listened.
The guy said, “Yeah, okay. Good.”
He clicked off and came over, passing the phone hand-to-hand as he walked. He said, “Five minutes. I gotta pat you down first.”
Rojas stood and let himself be frisked. The two others just watching.
“I got a .44 in the bag.”
The guy with the phone didn’t answer, just unzipped the duffel and looked in. Colt’s finest, sitting on 3.1 million cold. He said, “Don’t lunge for it. You want a beer?”
* * *
They brought him a Corona. He sipped as he sat waiting. He wasn’t sure of the time. Midafternoon, maybe. The beer half gone by the time Jackie Grace arrived. Tidy as always in a gray suit and tie, white shirt, collar so crisp it looked like you could break a piece off. He was wearing black boots with gold spurs, black cowboy hat tilted forward a little, covering one eye.
He tipped the hat back as he reached the table, gave Rojas some eye contact as they shook hands. Then he spun a chair round from another table so they could sit facing each other. A nice little move, all in the wrist. He took off his hat and placed it on the table, ran a hand through his hair as he sat down.
“Hot out there. Shit.” He glanced around. “Hector, get me a napkin or something, would you. Fucking sopping.”
The guy with the phone slipped out and returned a moment later with a napkin and laid it in Jackie Grace’s outstretched hand. Jackie mopped his brow, folded the napkin, blotted again a little more carefully.
“You want me to take that, Mr. Grace?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll hang on to it. Troy, you met Hector?”
Rojas said, “Yeah, I seen you a few times.”
Jackie hiked a thumb. “Tyrone and Carlos over there by the door.”
Rojas nodded at them. He didn’t get anything back.
Jackie Grace clapped his hands once. “Hooray, everyone’s met. That’s terrific.”
He stretched his legs and crossed the boots at the ankle, ignoring the bag but no doubt looking forward to the story. Rojas had met him a few times. Jackie Grace was the club owner, one of Leon’s middlemen: he’d married into some good cartel contacts, helped facilitate deals when Rojas and Leon were bringing meth up from Durango. The marriage had come apart a few years back now, but he was still tight with the cartel guys, if not the wife.
He pointed at Rojas’s beer as he took a pull, looked back over his shoulder. “Get me one of them as well. Corona. And tell him not to cut the lime too fat.”
They waited a minute, not talking, both of them gazing idly at different walls, trying to seem patient. Eventually Hector set a beer on the table, a thin wedge of lime floating in the neck. Jackie took a long pull, throat pulsing. “Oh, that’s good.” He held the bottle at arm’s length, eyed the label like it was a new brand. Then he set the bottle down and pulled the bag toward him. The zip was still open.
�
��All right. What’ve we got.”
He tilted his head back to see in. “Ha. Shit, that’s heavy stuff. Anaconda, haven’t seen one of them in a while. What’re you packing, Colt .45?”
Three million bucks looking back at him and it was the gun that got him going. Rojas said, “.44 Mag.”
“Man. Yeah, I had a Smith 29, used to take .44s. Had to just about hang a weight off the end, stop it flying over your head when you pulled the trigger. Jeez it could kick.”
Rojas said, “I’ve got some trouble with Leon.”
Jackie Grace laughed. “Let me guess. This is your severance pay?”
Rojas said, “Yeah. Not quite.”
Jackie shook the bag. “What is this, two million?”
“Three point one.”
Jackie didn’t answer. He looked around. Hector was in the other booth, arms stretched along the top of the chair, shoulder holster showing beneath his jacket. The phone on its flat in one hand, flicking his wrist gently to make it spin. Tyrone and Carlos leaning by the door. Jackie said, “Carlos, pull that door, would you?”
Carlos pulled the door. It felt like business now. Jackie had some beer. He said, “So what’s the story, Troy?”
“How much do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. I figure you rehearsed something in your head, so why don’t we start there.”
Rojas said, “Leon’s gone funny on me.”
Jackie smiled, looked up and down the length of the pole, like checking it was plumb. He said, “I reckon if someone took three point one mil off me I’d be pretty funny, too.”
Rojas said, “The funny came first.”
“The funny came first. All right.”
Rojas didn’t answer.
Jackie said, “So what do you want from me? I guess that’s why we’re sitting here.” He looked under the table as he swapped his crossed ankles round. “You’re after something.”
Rojas said, “There’s three point one in the bag. I’ll split it with you if you get rid of Leon for me. Call it one point six.”
Jackie took his time with that. Rojas’s head pounding in the quiet. After a moment Jackie said, “Well, that suddenly got pretty serious, didn’t it?”
Rojas didn’t answer. He felt his voice drying out. He took a sip to get him over the line: “One point six million to whack him.”
Jackie Grace said, “Leon’s not easily whacked.” He ran a hand through his hair, wet spikes raked back all quill-like. He said, “I heard about what happened to the Frazers.”
Shit, he thought at that price even Leon would be an easy sell. Rojas said, “What, you mean Emile?”
“Yeah, and the kid, whatshisname.” Jackie gestured vaguely. “Cops found Senior out west by Tohajiilee, real mess, like dead in his car, backup guy shot in the head, and then just this morning they found the kid at this restaurant over by the rental place, just stabbed right in the throat. Actually in his car too, so I don’t know. Guess there’s a nice … You know. Like-father-like-son angle to it. But anyway.”
Rojas said, “I don’t think that was Leon.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. Senior was pretty neat and tidy, had Leon written all over it. Used Emile’s gun was the thing. Popped Chino and then did Emile. Not the easiest thing in the world.”
“So what’s the issue?”
Jackie spread his arms and leaned toward him, and when he spoke his voice was softer. He said, “Issue is, you don’t want him after you, shit, I completely understand, because I wouldn’t want him after me, either. But, you know, frankly, one point six mil isn’t enough to offset the risk of blowing a hit and having him coming for me, too.”
Rojas finished his beer. “Look. No offense, can we talk by ourselves?”
Jackie shook his head. “No offense. I don’t do business unless I got guys with me. Just how I do it, sorry. Especially since this Frazer thing.”
Jackie took another long pull. Rojas waited. He said, “Name your price.”
Jackie laughed. “What if I said four, what would you do then?”
“I’d say three point one is a pretty good down payment.”
Jackie shook his head. He knitted his fingers in his hair, tugged his forehead taut. He said, “You see that? Up along my hairline.”
Rojas saw a scar running just below his widow’s peak, bone-white, suture marks right across.
Jackie said, “That’s about fifteen years old now. Dealing with some guys, a bit of product they’d sent up went missing, and they were under the misconception I had something to do with it vanishing. So they said: Tell us where it is, or we’ll cut your face off. And yeah, luckily by the time they got the call to say it’d been found, they hadn’t got too far.” He lowered his hands. “Coulda been like that movie with Travolta. You know the one? With the faces?”
“Yeah.”
Jackie put his hat back on, the brim covering one eye like when he’d walked in. Maybe conscious of the scar now he’d brought it up. He said, “Some people in life I really do not want to cross, and Leon is one of them. And I’d be stupid really: I set up a lot of business for you guys, I take a good cut, I want him as an ongoing client.”
He held a hand edgewise on the table, slid it away from him. “It’s like a long-term investment thing. I don’t want to snip a decent revenue stream. I’ve got a good setup. And look, you want my advice, you come into that sort of money, you don’t fuck about. You say sayonara and take off for, I dunno. Swaziland.”
Rojas shook his head. “He’d kill my boy. Or my mother.”
Jackie sucked a tooth. “Yeah, well. I guess you gotta look after number one though, don’t you?”
Rojas said, “I’ll give you the bag. Three point one to make it happen.”
Jackie shook his head, palms raised. “No, you’re not getting me. I’m not going to do it. I mean, shit, if we’re taking sides, I’m with him. In fact, jeez. Who’d you think it was sent those cartel guys out this morning? Up in Bernalillo.”
Rojas didn’t answer, but Jackie must have seen him pale. He waved a hand like it’d been too easy. “Troy, come on, Leon wants cartel guys to do a hit, who you think he’s going to call? I mean, god. Who else does he know with my kind of connections?”
Rojas didn’t answer.
Jackie read his mind: he reached across and took the .44 out of the bag, laid it on the table with his hand on the grips. He smiled. “Can’t be too cautious.”
“Fuck you. You’re going to rat me out?”
“Well, I kind of already have. I’d say he’ll be here soon.” He killed his drink, paired the two empties side by side. He said, “You want another beer?”
FORTY-TWO
Lucas Cohen
On the drive back to Santa Fe his phone wouldn’t stop ringing. He kept his eyes on the road, almost worse than answering, made him speculate about the nature of the call. Bad news and that sort of thing. Deputy, we’re somewhat puzzled at your actions. Deputy, we’re not wholly convinced that shooting was kosher. However it was that they put these things. When he pulled up at the courthouse on South Federal Place he stayed in the car and checked his messages.
A sheriff’s CID detective he’d already talked to, wanting more of a statement.
State police, requesting some clarification.
Marshal’s office, same again.
He called the sheriff’s guy, figuring he’d be the friendliest of the three, on account of being least in the dark.
Cohen opened his door for some air and said, “Detective. Lucas Cohen speaking.”
Traffic noise and wind crackle at the other end. Cohen pictured him out on 550, trying to comprehend it all.
“Deputy. Just wondering about your whereabouts.”
Cohen said, “Santa Fe. I was hoping to stay put if that’s all right.”
“Right. Well, our officer-involved shooting people would like a word.”
Cohen said, “I ain’t an officer, I’m a federal marshal.”
“Yeah, I conveyed that. Hang on.” No
tebook pages turning, letting Cohen know this was someone else’s view on the matter. He said, “Something to do with how you were pursuing a state fugitive and therefore you were executing the duties of a sheriff’s employee, so they’d like to talk to you. Just for completeness’ sake, I’d say.”
Cohen said, “I handed in both my firearms with about twelve bullets missin’, so I would’ve reckoned it’s all pretty self-explanatory.”
“Nonetheless.”
Cohen said, “You get anything out of those cars?”
“Not so far. Guy from the Chrysler had a phone on him and some fake ATF ID. So that was something. Haven’t got into the phone yet but I’ll let you know soon as we do. Sometimes these fancy ones take some cracking, but they’ll do it. They’ve got this whiz girl at the state lab, she’s quite something. I’ve seen her do one of those Rubik’s cubes in about ten seconds flat, maybe she can do the same with a phone. Not that I’ve asked.”
Cohen said, “Kids these days.”
“Yeah. Kids these days. Anyway, well. I’ll call you, but are you gonna come back down?”
Cohen said, “I’ll give them a call.”
He clicked off and tossed the phone on the seat beside him, sat there a moment with his door open and his head tipped back on the rest, just watching the comings and goings. Everyday courthouse stuff he could have seen from his office, but he liked how one tough morning could give an old scene fresh splendor. He could have sat there all day. That was the payoff, though: you make it through, you get the warm contentedness of knowing you’re still a part of the world, and goodness it’s a fine place. He wondered how long it’d last. Might be reveling in the sunrise for weeks to come.
He picked up the phone again and called Loretta at home.
When she answered he said, “Thought you might still be at work.”
“So whyn’t you try the office?” A smile in her voice.
“Thought I might get lucky.”
She laughed. “How’s the day been?”
“Oh. Not too great. I had some trouble this morning.” He thought about how to say it, and then he realized there was only the one way. He said, “Had to shoot a man.”