Devils in Exile

by Chuck Hogan

  He opened up the holder’s phone and selected the dealer’s digits from the list. He thumbed him a text message that read, 5-0 coming—ditch phones and split.

  Then he waited.

  The room brightened and footsteps clumped around inside. Maven heard jingling keys, then the front door opened and sneaker soles tapped flagstones. The Jeep next to Maven chirped, the locks disengaging, the dealer rounding the corner with a backpack on his shoulder, wearing two sweatshirts under a coat.

  When he opened the driver’s door, Maven ran at him from behind, shoving him across the driver’s seat into the passenger side, the dealer’s head striking the door.

  Maven ran his hands up inside the guy’s sweatshirts, finding a pistol. The dealer squealed, trapped and unable to see, thinking this was it.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do me like this.”

  Maven grabbed the keys out of his hand and closed the door, saying, “Cut the meek act, sit up.”

  He did. The multiple layers bulked him out, but the dealer had good size to begin with. He was surprisingly clean-cut. He looked at Maven and the pistol and said, “You’re fucking crazy.”

  “You shitbags keep telling me that.” Maven stuck the key in the ignition, starting up the Jeep. Then he unzipped the backpack.

  Phones, another handgun, and cash below.

  Lots of cash.

  Maven stuck the backpack under his legs, on the floor against his calves. “I want to see Royce.”

  The dealer stared, hiding his trembling under a constant nodding. “And?”

  “You telling me you don’t know the name?”

  “I know the president’s name too. Doesn’t mean I met the man.”

  Maven threw the Jeep in reverse and banged out over the curb, riding fast down the street. “What other names you know?”

  RICKY WOKE UP DEHYDRATED, HAVING SWEATED THROUGH HIS clothes. He changed into boxers and stumbled out to the fridge for some Mountain Dew and found Maven sitting at the kitchen table.

  Instead of food in front of him, there were two guns, two ejected clips, a handful of phones, two knives, seven or eight thick bundles of cash, and a folded white take-out bag scribbled all over with a checklist of names and addresses.

  Maven, all dark energy, looked up at Ricky. “I’m gonna be here a couple of days, maybe a week. Maybe longer.”

  KOOL

  LASH SHOWED UP LATE AT THE SHOOT HOUSE IN MATTAPAN. THIS one was full service. You go in through the front door and choose door A or door B. Door B was unlocked and led to a warren of rooms inside, each one worse than the next. That was the shooting gallery, where you shot, snorted, or smoked whatever you bought through the pay hole in door A. That door had been reinforced with a cage soldered into a steel frame, two hinged slots cut into the backing wood, one at eye level, the other at hand level.

  Door A was open and warped now and wouldn’t close. A table inside had been knocked over, a bag of Doritos spilled on the floor, along with Baggies and cellophane and powder. All this amid a drying pool of urine.

  DEA agent Novack was inside waiting for him. “Still here, huh?”

  Lash nodded. “Still got me bouncing.”

  “How long?”

  “Any day now.”

  Novack said, “Hope you like tortillas.”

  Lash nodded. Mexico was the current hotspot. Also Afghanistan. The War on Terror had rejuvenated the Golden Crescent—Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iran—now producing 90 percent of the world’s opium.

  Lash said, “The issue is—do I want to go back overseas, leave my boy? Or maybe it’s time to just walk away?”

  Novack was surprised. “I can’t remember life without the shield.”

  “You and me both, brother.”

  Paramedics were attending to the only guy left inside, bleeding lazily from a gunshot to the thigh. Whiskers jutted out from his parched brown skin, too tired to grow anymore. He smoked a Kool.

  The guy was already under arrest. He was more offended than anything. “You gotta get this freak, barging into my house.”

  “Your house?” Lash said.

  The guy shrugged. Another abandoned property colonized by zombies. A neighbor had buttonholed Lash on his way in. “People going in and out all night and day.”

  Lash told her, “Why you neighbors always wait until the police show up to drop a dime?”

  He looked at the blood being photographed on the floor. “Anyone shoot back at him?”

  “No chance, no time,” said the Kool smoker. “Dude efficient.”

  “You get a good look?”

  “White-ass mutherfucka. Came in, did a buy first. Feeling it out. People don’t respect nothing no more, not a locked door, nothing.”

  “I need more than skin color.”

  “Wore an eye patch. Silly-ass pirate disguise. And an army-type cap. Camouflage on it. Dude was circumcised.”

  Lash said, “Come again?”

  “Whipped out his dick and pissed on my stash. You gotta get this freak.”

  “He took money, but not product?”

  The Kool guy pointed to the mess on the floor.

  Lash said, “You said an army cap?”

  LADDER

  MAVEN CROUCHED BEHIND A BURLAP-WRAPPED SHRUB, WAITING for a buyer to pull up. He closed his eye when he could, resting it, easing the strain. He was still getting used to the eye patch he had purchased at CVS.

  A blue Camaro arrived, and Maven grabbed the guy on the front steps, hair-walking him up to the door, ringing the bell. The homeowner tried to slam it shut when he saw Maven behind the buyer, so Maven used the buyer’s head as a battering ram.

  Inside, he held a Glock 19 to the head of the homeowner as the guy worked the combination on a closet safe. He dumped the cash and two guns into Maven’s backpack and pulled out two cellophane-wrapped half-kilo bricks of cocaine.

  Maven asked him where the rest was.

  The homeowner said there was no more. Maven hit him in the face.

  The homeowner showed him a brownie pan in the kitchen refrigerator containing a full kilo wrapped in wax paper.

  Maven sat both men at the table where he could see them. He found a roll of aluminum foil and wrapped it around the cocaine, then placed the shiny bundle into the range-top microwave and punched in five minutes on HIGH.

  A bout of dizziness made him reach for the counter. He sensed them growing bold, and turned fast, the room listing a bit in his vision. “Where is Royce?”

  The homeowner shook his head, staring at his microwave. “I don’t know.”

  Maven pressed START. The foil started to crackle and spark.

  “Where’s Royce?”

  “I don’t know!”

  The rotating package glowed, then burst into bright silver flame. White smoke leaked out of the edges of the door.

  “Royce!” said Maven.

  “I don’t—nobody knows!”

  The microwave popped as though bursting, the smoke turning an ominous gray. The homeowner started to get to his feet, but Maven gun-pointed him back into his chair. He couldn’t get anything out of him about Royce and had to settle for information on the homeowner’s supplier—the next highest rung on this interminable ladder.

  The smoke detector went shrieking as the microwave door melted and the oven burst into flames, the fire going into the wall. Maven found a kitchen telephone and dialed 911. He said, to the dispatcher who answered, “I am a drug dealer and my house is on fire.” Then he tossed the telephone into the owner’s lap and walked out.

  SOME NIGHTS, PARKED ACROSS THE STREET IN THE PARISIENNE, HE watched the hopefuls milling around the roped-off entrance to Club Precipice. But Royce never showed.

  One morning he drove out to Gridley and knocked on Dan ielle’s parents’ door, but she had moved out again. They didn’t know where.

  MAVEN SAT AT THE USUAL ROUND CORNER TABLE INSIDE THE BERKEley Grill, Ricky his only companion. They had a new waiter Maven didn’t recognize. He did the Royce thing, ordering th
eir Budweisers and steaks and a few appetizers, then asked if the headwaiter could come to the table when he had a chance.

  Maven looked at Ricky, who had probably never had a good steak in his life. He didn’t know why he had brought him, except that he didn’t want to be sitting at this big table all alone. Ricky picked at the appetizers with his good hand, chewing an asparagus spear, the first vegetable he’d eaten all year.

  Sebastian, the headwaiter, with the server in tow, slowed when he recognized Maven. Sebastian covered his surprise with a quick smile and approached the table.

  “Mr. Maven,” he said, tanned and tailored as always. “I’m sorry, I didn’t … no one told me you were here.”

  Maven nodded, chewing. “This is my friend Ricky.”

  Ricky didn’t wear his hat inside the restaurant, his head dent visible for all to see. Ricky waved his Bud bottle. “Hey.”

  Sebastian nodded back, the barest minimum of courtesy. “I trust everything is prepared …”

  “Perfect as always, Sebastian. I notice you changed the broccoli marinade.”

  “In fact we did.”

  Maven nodded, eating as he talked. “Business good?”

  “Well, the recession, you know. People still appreciate a good meal.”

  Maven nodded again, making Sebastian wait. “Tell me, does Mr. Royce still come in?”

  “Only occasionally. Not as often as he once did.”

  “If you see him before I do, would you give him a message?”

  “Certainly.”

  Maven worked with his notched tongue at some bit of meat stuck in his teeth. “Tell him I am going to kill him.”

  Sebastian went apron white. He stood very still, as though awaiting further instructions. “Very good, then …,” he said finally, begging off, making his way back to the kitchen.

  HECTOR, WHO WENT BY THE STREET NAME HEX, WAS EXAMINED BY A guy with an audio scanner. Royce entered the foyer wearing dress pants and a sweater of warm yellow cashmere.

  The audio guy pulled down his headphones. “He’s okay.”

  Hex said, “You think I’d come here wired?”

  Royce said, “Maybe without your knowledge.”

  Hex followed Royce into a solarium overlooking a backyard sloping to trees. Another of Royce’s guys was out there, walking under a black umbrella in the rain. Termino muted the television.

  Royce said, “So you saw him.”

  Hex said, “I saw him.”

  “How’d you get away without saying anything?”

  “I was there to pick up a payment. He thought I was just another buyer. My guy didn’t dime me out because he knows what’s good for him. But, Christ, he put him through the wringer. Set his fucking house on fire.”

  “He took money that was yours. And therefore partly mine. And you let him.”

  Hex smiled away the attempted insult. “He had the drop on me. I know when I’m beat. This guy’s on a mission.”

  “Who’s he working with?”

  “I didn’t see anyone. All by his lonesome.”

  “Not for Lockerty, then.”

  “I think that last gambit at the Flower Exchange chewed up the rest of Lockerty’s beaten ass.”

  “No. He’s out there waiting. Watching. Hoping Maven can succeed where he failed.”

  “Who the fuck is this Maven, anyway?”

  Royce looked out at the rain. “Trouble.”

  “Well, he’s got armor now. He was wearing a Kevlar vest.”

  Royce sighed.

  “He scotched the product and took the money and guns, but what he really wanted was you.”

  “And you’re sure you didn’t tell him anything?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I did. He would.”

  Royce accepted that.

  Hex said, “What the hell did you do to this guy?”

  “I stole his money, killed his girlfriend, and tried to kill him. Twice.”

  Termino said, “I’m sick of sitting here talking about this. I say we flush him out. Get him to stick out his neck a bit, so we can cut his throat and end this fucking thing once and for all.”

  ROYCE HAD HIS HAUNTS AND HABITS, AND MAVEN KNEW THAT IF HE worked hard enough, their paths would once again cross.

  Maven was watching Sonsie—the site of his and Royce’s first sit-down—from a shoe store on Newbury Street when a black SUV pulled up at the valet station. The vehicle obstructed Maven’s view of the first two people entering the restaurant, but two other occupants emerged, large guys in bulky North Face parkas, remaining out on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant’s front windows.

  One of them was Termino. Maven started right out of the store, stopping once he reached the sidewalk. Too many civilians. By the time he fought his way inside past Termino and friend, Royce would be gone.

  Two beat cops came along the sidewalk on foot patrol. Maven took a chance, sliding the Beretta from the back of his waist into a curbside trash container, then approaching the cops.

  “Hey, excuse me. Yeah, it’s none of my business, but those two guys over there, who just got out of that SUV? I saw them zip up, and they’re both carrying guns.”

  The cops thanked Maven and started across the street. They approached Termino and the other guy, starting an inquiry. Maven walked around them toward the entrance to Sonsie. Termino saw him coming and lunged—the cops grabbing Termino and shoving him hard up against the glass.

  Maven walked inside, right past the hostess, straight at Royce’s corner table. Royce saw him and stiffened, looking to the front windows.

  Termino was being frisked by the cops in plain sight of everyone inside the restaurant.

  Maven stopped before the table. Royce sported a tan wool blazer over an open-collared shirt, Maven wearing a work shirt of lined flannel, carpenter pants, black Timberland boots.

  The silence between them was like a battle of wills, until Royce’s server appeared. “Another for lunch?” she asked.

  Maven pulled out a chair and sat down. His eyes never left Royce. “Mr. Royce will start with the iced market oysters.”

  The server departed. Royce again checked on the shakedown at the front windows. He knew he was on his own here. He looked back at Maven and said, “You must feel very clever.”

  Maven said nothing.

  Royce relaxed a bit when he saw that Maven wasn’t going to come right at him over the table. “Iced market oysters. We first sat here, you couldn’t even read a fucking menu.”

  “You taught me a lot.”

  “Congratulations on being such a nuisance. Using my own game against me. I didn’t think you believed in karma.”

  “I do when it carries a gun.”

  Royce checked Maven’s hands, both of them resting on the table. Royce’s were just out of sight, in his lap.

  Maven said, “I’m not interested in any big explanation of your master plan. You can save that tale for the suckers working for you now. I just want to know—why?”

  “Why?”

  “Me and Milkshake and Suarez. Why lead us along so much? Why fuck around with us and make us believe, if you were going to off us in the end anyway? Why make it so fucking personal?”

  Royce grinned as though it were the simplest question in the world. “To keep you loyal.”

  “It was all bullshit, then. All those hours spent together. All the jobs, all the talk. All the steaks and the late nights.”

  “Not all of it. Part of it was me feeling you out. The other two—they were good soldiers, period. You were the only one with any real ability. But no cold-bloodedness. The military had infected you with this thing known as ‘honor.’”

  “So you’re just a sociopath.”

  “When did that become such a bad word? People use that term like it’s a disease. Think about it. It brings me no harm. Only power. That’s not a disease, that’s a gift.”

  The shock of seeing Maven had worn off, Royce getting some of his bravado back.

  “You think this is it for me? Kingpin of
this shitty town—you think this is the top? This is just the beginning, Maven. I have ambition like you can’t even fathom. Kings in exile—remember? You’ll always be a peasant. A dangerous peasant, but a peasant nonetheless.”

  Royce’s voice fell away as Maven picked up the knife at his table setting. Maven turned it point-down against the table, the end of the handle against his open palm, slowly rotating his flat hand, cutting a tiny hole in the table linen.

  Maven said, “I figured I’d end up getting screwed by the army. The government—I expected that. But never by a fellow vet.”

  Royce glanced again at the front window. “You try anything here, you’ll be dead before you reach the door.

  “Not as dead as you’ll be.”

  As Maven pressed down harder on the knife handle, linen threads snapped, widening the cut. It was going to happen—right here, right now. Nothing could stop it. Maven realized, for the first time, that nothing existed beyond this moment. His life had no meaning beyond this final act of vengeance. He was looking at a big door marked EXIT with nothing—nothing—beyond.

  A woman appeared at the table near Royce. Maven thought it was the server and did not look up at first, his eyes staying hard on Royce. When nothing was said, and no food was set down on the table, Maven glanced up at the interloper.

  Danielle stood there in a loose top and jeans, carrying a clutch, back from a long trip to the bathroom. Maven did not need to look into her eyes to know that she was high—but look into her eyes he did.

  Danielle appeared run-down, shrunken. The spark had gone out of her attractiveness. She could have been anyone now.

  Her stare back at him was one of horror.

  “This must come as a surprise to you,” said Royce. He stood, aping gentlemanly manners, pulling Danielle down into her chair. “When she called me to dime you out, I guess I realized how much I missed her. How valuable she is to me.”

  Seated, she continued to stare at Maven, his eye patch, his one good eye.

  Maven thought he had died all of his deaths already. He was wrong.

  Royce continued, “This is a reunion I never thought I’d see. Anyone feel like champagne?”

  The oysters arrived on a platter with an artful assortment of condiments. The knife was still under Maven’s hand, and he gripped the handle, slipping the blade point inside the oyster shell, twisting until he heard the pop. He slid the oyster into his mouth and swallowed, tasting nothing.