The Ragged End of Nowhere

by Roy Chaney

  “Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. Maybe I’ll talk to her too. But I want to talk to you first.”

  Cleveland set a metal folding chair down on the floor several feet in front of the desk, told Hagen to sit. When Hagen was seated Rat Face moved off to the right, cocked an elbow up on one of the metal shelves and struck a casual pose, the pistol at his side. Cleveland propped a leg up on the edge of the desk and folded his arms. Marty Ray pushed the newspaper aside. Strands of his dyed black hair, so well coiffed into a pompadour yesterday, now hung down over his forehead in a ragged pattern, and his eyes were heavy, either from lack of sleep or too much liquor. Marty Ray lifted his highball glass. “I’d offer you a drink, Sauerkraut, but the bar is closed.”

  “I’ll get by.”

  “I hope you will. Because there’s something I want to know about. Couple of things. If you fill me in like I want, then we can all go home and forget about this. We’ll all be good friends again. But if you don’t want to tell me then we’re going to sit here all night until you change your mind. And you will change your mind. But if you hold out too long, you might not be in good shape to walk out of here. You might have some aches and pains.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You’ll do more than that.”

  Marty Ray pushed his chair back and stood up. He placed both hands squarely on the surface of the desk, leaned forward. “I told you not to fuck with my people, Sauerkraut. And I know you understood me when I told you. You still speak English, I’ve seen you do it. But then you go and take down Jack Gubbs. After I told you to lay off. Now what’s that about? Can you help me come to an understanding about that? Because right now it weighs heavily on my mind.”

  “I didn’t kill Gubbs, Marty.”

  “Please do explain that to me.”

  “What’s to explain? I didn’t kill him, that’s all.”

  “You don’t look real surprised to hear he’s dead.”

  “I know he’s dead. I just got finished talking to McGrath. He had the same idea that you do. He was wrong. So are you.”

  Marty Ray’s eyes narrowed. “What’s McGrath got to say about it?”

  “He heard that I went to Gubbs’s place the other night. He knows I’ve been asking around about Ronnie. He figured it like you do—I decided that Gubbs killed Ronnie and so I killed Gubbs. He asked me some questions. I answered them. He was happy with the answers.”

  “I’m not happy, Sauerkraut.”

  “All right. You’re not happy.”

  “Gubbs had something you want, I know that. And I know it might be worth some large, this thing he had. It might even be something he took from your brother. You think he did. So you go to see Gubbs and you kill him and now you have the thing. And I want it. And you’re going to give it to me.”

  “You’ve been talking to Winnie the Poof.”

  “Doesn’t matter who I talk to. I talk to a lot of people. I talk to fucking God every morning. When I talked to him this morning he told me to kick your ass. So I’m kicking. If you don’t give me what I want, you’ll be talking to God too. Face-to-face. Just you and God, floating up there in the clouds. Like two little birdies.”

  “I talk to people too, Marty. I talked to Gubbs last night. He told me Ronnie was looking for a fence when he got into town. He also told me that he sent Ronnie to Winnie the Poof. So I talked to Wilson. He told me about this thing that Ronnie was trying to sell. He thought I might know where it was. I told him that I might, just to string him along. I think Ronnie was killed because of this thing he was trying to sell and I wanted to keep Wilson on the hook until I knew more. But I don’t have the thing. Never did.”

  Marty Ray straightened up, pushed his hands into the pockets of his white slacks. He looked down his nose at Hagen. “Why would Gubbs tell you all that?”

  “Someone put him up to it. Maybe you. What’s it worth to you, Marty—this wooden hand?”

  “Sauerkraut, my sainted brother Jimmy was murdered. Your brother was in on it, that’s what I think. But I can’t talk to your brother about that now. Your brother took a powder big-time. But he left that thing he had behind and I want it. It won’t bring Jimmy back but it’s better than nothing. It’s like a little insurance policy—your brother dies and he leaves me some money. To compensate me for the loss of poor Jimmy. But I need the goods so I can cash in. You’ve got the goods. Maybe you don’t think you do but I’m going to help you remember.”

  Marty Ray nodded to Cleveland. Cleveland pushed himself off the desk, stepped over to one of the metal storage lockers. He opened the locker and bent down, pulled out a coil of thick rope and set it on the floor. He started looking for something else in the bottom of the cabinet.

  “I always liked you, Sauerkraut,” Marty Ray said. “We go back a ways. But good times don’t count for shit. This is business.”

  Hagen heard Rat Face moving around behind him to his right—hard-soled shoes scratching against a dirty cement floor. Then suddenly there was another sound, from somewhere on the other side of the warehouse. It sounded like an empty cardboard box hitting the floor.

  Cleveland stood up, eyes alert and focused on a point somewhere above the metal shelves to Hagen’s left. Cleveland looked like a hunting dog picking up a scent on the wind. Marty Ray didn’t seem to have noticed the sound. His eyes were fixed on Hagen.

  Cleveland motioned to Rat Face and pointed in the direction the sound had come from. Hagen heard Rat Face moving around behind him.

  Then the lights went out.

  “What the hell?” Marty Ray shouted in the darkness.

  For half a second Hagen thought that Rat Face had turned off the lights. But that didn’t add up.

  There was someone else in here.

  Someone who wanted the warehouse dark.

  Hagen didn’t waste time wondering who it was.

  Hagen dived out of the chair. Hit the floor. Scrambled to his feet.

  A gunshot cut through the darkness. Loud and very close to Hagen. There were sounds of a struggle coming from over by the metal cabinets, where Cleveland had stood when the lights went out. Something hit one of the metal cabinets hard. The cabinet toppled over and landed on the floor with a loud crash.

  Cleveland cried out in pain.

  It sounded like several men were fighting now with Cleveland, Marty Ray and Rat Face. They had come in from the aisleway behind the metal cabinets. One of these men was shouting and cursing at the top of his lungs—in German.

  Hagen rushed forward into the darkness toward the aisle that led out into the center of the warehouse. He ran into a metal shelf, stumbled. He stood still for a second, trying to get his bearings, then pushed on, a blind man trapped in a maze. He kept his right hand out, his fingers touching the shelves. Suddenly the shelves ended and his fingers hung out into empty space. He’d reached a connecting aisle. He turned right. Crouching down he began moving as quickly as he dared down the dark aisle toward the front of the warehouse.

  Another gunshot echoed through the building.

  Behind him a man was shouting in German for the lights to be turned on. “Lichter! Lichter!”

  Then a second man called for the lights. In broken French.

  Hagen had almost reached the front of the building when a shaft of light appeared ahead of him. Hagen saw Peach, framed in a rectangle of light as she rushed through the doorway. The access door closed behind her and darkness returned. Hagen moved forward and then stopped again.

  He heard footsteps. From somewhere off to the left. Approaching the aisle where Hagen now stood.

  One set of footsteps. One man. Walking slowly in the darkness.

  Hagen crouched down low beside a stack of shipping crates as the footsteps came closer.

  The man entered the aisle. Kept walking.

  The man was very close. Only a few feet away and a little to the right of Hagen. Hagen could hear the man breathing. He sounded winded. Hagen straightened up slowly. Silently. Then with all the strength he could mu
ster he rushed forward, holding his forearms level with his chest and elbows out, to give him as wide a point of impact as possible.

  He hit the man squarely. The man fell backward against a stack of shipping crates. Hagen reached out, found an arm and grabbed hold of it. He slugged the man twice in the stomach with his free hand. Hagen heard something solid hit the concrete floor and slide away.

  The man moaned and collapsed onto the floor.

  Then the lights came back on.

  Hagen saw that he stood at the end of an aisle. Off to the left was his car, the garage door still closed behind it. The passenger side door of the car hung open. Directly ahead of him was the access door that Peach had escaped through. Hagen turned. Behind him the man he’d tackled was on his hands and knees on the floor, shaking his head, his breath coming in pained gasps. The man looked up and saw Hagen.

  It was the Englishman Hagen had run into outside of the High Numbers Club the night before. The Englishman who’d been tailing Hagen with his German friend. He looked dirty and unshaven, was still wearing the same shirt he’d worn last night. Hagen noticed one thing he hadn’t seen last night when the Englishman had trained a pistol on him from the other side of the car—a dagger with an ornate hilt and a grinning skull for a handle, tattooed on the inside of the man’s left forearm. A death’s-head dagger.

  A totenkopf dagger . . .

  Then Hagen saw the pistol the man had dropped lying on the floor a few feet away. The man saw it at the same moment and started to scramble toward it on his hands and knees.

  Hagen reached it first and picked it up.

  The man rose to his knees. Hagen pointed the pistol at him. The man slowly raised his hands.

  “You don’t want to shoot me, mate,” the Englishman said, his voice weak. “You’ve got enough trouble as it is.”

  Hagen had questions for this fellow. A lot of questions. Questions that he wanted to put to this man forcefully. But there was no time for questions. If Hagen wanted out of there, he had to go now.

  Hagen turned and ran.

  He reached the warehouse access door. Kicked the crash bar to open it, kept running.

  He half expected to hear a gunshot behind him, following him out the door.

  Outside the sky was full of the last glimmerings of dusk. Two new Chevrolet sedans stood parked along the street in front of the warehouse. Cars that belonged to the Englishman and his friends, no doubt. Hagen kept his eyes on the two cars, kept the pistol ready as he ran across the street. The two cars were empty. The Englishmen and his friends hadn’t left a lookout behind.

  Hagen ran to the street corner. He paused there, looking left and then right. He spotted Peach running down the sidewalk to his right and he took off after her. Finally caught up with her halfway down the block. He took hold of her arm and the two of them ran together. They came upon an alley that would hide them from the headlights of the cars passing on the street and they ducked into it.

  Halfway down the alley Hagen and Peach stopped running. They leaned up against a brick wall, catching their breath. Through an open window a few yards away came the sound of machinery whirring and pounding, squeaking and shuddering. Sounded like a printing press but the sign on the back door said it was a tortilleria. Hagen’s thoughts spun with the pounding of the machinery.

  A German. An Englishman. And the man Hagen heard at the warehouse speaking in broken French. It could only mean one thing, Hagen was sure.

  Ronnie had brought some of his friends from the Legion home with him.

  Or they had followed him home.

  “Peach, are you okay?” Hagen said.

  Peach nodded, laid her arm across Hagen’s shoulders. Leaning on him. Still trying to catch her breath. After a moment she said, “What kind of trouble are you in, Bodo?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” Hagen said. Not wanting to explain. There was no time. “But we’ve got to get you out of here.”

  “You’re not quite sure?” Peach said. Her voice jittery. “I heard gunshots. Does that make it clearer for you? Men were shooting at you, Bodo. I would think you might have a clue as to why.”

  “They were shooting at someone. I don’t think it was you or me. How did you get out of there?”

  “Some men came into the warehouse. They had guns. They grabbed the man who was watching the car and took him over to the office and did something in there. Then some more of them came inside and walked off toward where you went. That’s all I know. Except that the lights went out and I heard gunshots. I got out of the car and found the door and ran. And now you tell me you’re not quite sure what happened. Does this happen to you a lot, Bodo? Just for no reason at all? Because I’m not really enjoying this. In case that’s also not quite clear to you.”

  “I’m sorry, Peach. I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now I’ve got some things to do. And you’re going home.”

  Hagen realized he still carried the Englishman’s automatic in his hand. Probably shouldn’t be running through the streets of Henderson with a loaded pistol in plain sight. It was a small automatic, an old Beretta model. The clip held 9-millimeter short cartridges, with one round chambered. Hagen slapped the magazine back in and slid the Beretta into his shoulder holster. It wasn’t a good fit but it would do.

  Just then Hagen noticed the headlights of a car turning into the alley. He grabbed Peach and stepped back into the shadows of a recessed doorway, pulled the Beretta back out. Hagen peered around the corner of the wall. Over the top of a trash bin he saw the car enter the alley and stop.

  Then it proceeded forward again. Slowly.

  “Stay back,” Hagen said. “Don’t say a thing.”

  “Like you need to tell me that.”

  Hagen pushed Peach farther back into the darkness of the doorway. Then he peered around the corner of the wall again. The car moved closer. Hagen tightened his grip on the pistol. Whoever was driving was looking for something. Maybe it was someone with business at the tortilleria but Hagen didn’t think so. He couldn’t afford to. Things were going to look awfully funny if Hagen was wrong but he didn’t care if things looked funny. It would look even funnier if Hagen had come this far only to be shot in an alley behind a tortilla factory.

  The front of the car rolled into Hagen’s line of sight. A big late-model Lincoln. Hagen took a deep breath and waited. The white paint and heavy wax on the hood of the car reflected the light from a bulb burning over a back door a few yards farther down the alley.

  Hagen wasn’t sure what he was going to do until the car was right there beside him and he saw that the driver’s window was rolled down.

  He didn’t stop to think—didn’t have time. He jumped out of the shadows. Holding the Beretta in both hands he leveled the automatic at the driver of the car. The barrel of the pistol was only a few inches from the open window.

  The driver’s head whipped around—two dark eyes opened wide in surprise and fear.

  Hagen shouted, “Stop the car.”

  The car kept rolling and for a second Hagen thought the driver was going to step on the accelerator, gun the engine, shoot forward down the alley. Then the car lurched to a stop as the driver’s foot came down heavy on the brakes. In the half-light of dusk Hagen couldn’t see the man’s face well. Hagen kept the automatic pointed at the man’s head.

  “Get out.”

  Hagen stepped back to give the man room to climb out of the car. The man stared at Hagen, didn’t move.

  “Do what he says,” came a voice from the passenger side of the car. A woman’s voice. Until right then Hagen hadn’t realized that there was a passenger in the car. But he recognized the voice, knew who the passenger was.

  Suzanne Cosette.

  “Listen to your boss,” Hagen said to the man behind the wheel. “Get the hell out of the car.”

  The man cleared his throat. His voice wavered as he spoke. “I’ve got to put the transmission in park.”

  “Do it slow. Then get out. Both of you. Keep your hands where I can see
them. I don’t want to make a mistake and shoot someone.”

  The man behind the wheel kept his eyes on Hagen as he reached over with his right hand for the shift lever on the console. He pushed the lever forward and it clicked into place. The idling of the engine changed in tone.

  The man pushed the door open and got out. He stood beside the car with both hands near his face, palms out and fingers splayed, as though he was more worried about Hagen hitting him in the face than shooting him. On the other side of the car Cosette was moving slowly, climbing out of the car, standing up with both hands raised shoulder-high. She stared at Hagen over the top of the car.

  Hagen recognized the driver. He was the swarthy young man that Hagen had seen at the atrium bar at the Mirage casino two nights ago. The one who’d been watching Hagen when Hagen arrived to talk to Cosette. Which meant that he was probably the man who had searched Hagen’s room. But did any of that matter now? Right then Hagen didn’t care who had searched his room.

  Hagen motioned for the man to step around behind the car. The man did as he was told, his back sliding along the side of the car as he moved, keeping himself turned toward Hagen. His eyes focused on the barrel of the pistol in Hagen’s hand.

  “Suzanne, walk around to the back of the car,” Hagen said.

  “Mister Hagen, let me explain what is—”

  “Move. Keep your hands in the air.”

  Cosette’s high heels made sharp deliberate noises on the concrete surface of the alley as she moved back to join her partner, who stood now in the middle of the alley, several feet behind the car. Hagen took up a position beside the rear of the car. Kept the automatic raised.

  “Throw your pistol on the ground,” Hagen said to the swarthy man.

  “I don’t have one—I swear.” The man’s voice was thin and choked. His accent was heavily French. The glow from the red taillights made his dark face look even darker—a smoky Levantine complexion with narrow eyes that didn’t stop moving. Hagen decided the man wasn’t lying—the yellow silk shirt and tan slacks he wore didn’t leave much room to hide a weapon. And Cosette was wearing only a white blouse and a black skirt. She didn’t have any place to hide a pistol unless she’d hidden it up her skirt. Hagen doubted that she was that resourceful.