Gray's Ghosts

by Carey Lewis

“Are you cool?”

  “I get the guns because it went bad.”

  “Pablo made a deal went sideways. Can you do that?”

  It took a few moments, but Huey nodded. Cesar stood up and took Huey’s hand and pulled him upright. When Huey turned to look at the man he shot in the kitchen, Cesar grabbed his face to look at him again. “It’s going to work out,” Cesar said. Huey was nodding again.

  “Get the guns and come back.”

  “I’m going to stay here to make sure no one comes by. I’ll meet you out on the road and tell you if it’s clear or not.” Cesar needed to think. There were three guns used last time, Huey’s, Deacon’s, and Hector’s. Now Cesar’s Colt. That’s four guns and five bodies.

  “When do we set up the lights?”

  “When we’re done here Huey. I’m going to make some calls while you’re gone, make sure everything goes right now. We’re done here we go set up the lights and get to work.”

  “You going to call the other two?”

  “I’m thinking what to do with them.”

  “Hector likes them,” Huey said, acting like an innocent child. “They laugh at me.”

  “No more Huey. It’s us now, you and me. No one’s going to laugh at you anymore.”

  Huey looked down, his face twisted. “You going to kill them?”

  “Hope I don’t have to.”

  He raised his head, looking into Cesar’s eyes. Cesar saw tears. “I hope you do.”

  Cesar put a thin smile on his face and said, “Go get the guns.”

  Huey was nodding. “Get the guns and come back here because it went bad.”

  “That’s right,” Cesar said. He gently slapped Huey’s cheek to tell him to get going. He was still nodding as he went to the door.

  He was going to have to figure out what to do with Pablo’s men. Depending on how right Huey was about Hector, maybe start thinking about what to do with him too.

  Pablo’s men though. It wasn’t a bad idea to get them in here. Get more shooters, make it look more real. Huey gave him an idea, now he was thinking how to get it to work.

  “Cesar?” Huey asked, stopped at the door.

  He looked over to him, waiting for Huey to speak.

  “How many more you think you’re going to kill?”

  “I WOULD’VE THOUGHT IT MADE me feel better,” Deacon said, sitting in the passenger seat of the Buick.

  “Thinking he’s just a bondsman?”

  “Yeah. Can I see the card?” Brooke watched the road as she reached into her pocket and dug out the card. She handed it to Deacon as she slowed the car down at the traffic light.

  “So you’re thinking he’s not a Marshal?” Deacon asked.

  “We can call him and find out if you want.”

  They were silent watching the red light. It turned green and Brooke went through the intersection. “Any chance you know where Avis is?” she asked.

  “Why’s a bondsman pretending to be a Marshal?”

  Brooke took her phone out of her pocket. She scrolled through the screen while keeping an eye on the road. “People talk to a Marshal before a bondsman. Maybe that’s why.”

  Deacon looked out the window, his chin resting on his fist, watching the trees go by, the houses, the kids. The rural lifestyle.

  “Marty?” Brooke asked into the phone. “You drunk already?” She took the phone away from her ear. Deacon heard Marty screaming through it, something about Brooke being goddamn right she was drunk already. “You mind calling Avis and telling them we got their Buick and want it for another couple days?” She listened while she looked over to Deacon. “You want to look them up? Unless you think we’re going to get lucky driving around like assholes.” Then she spoke back into the phone. “Yeah, we’re taking it off Jeff’s hands.”

  Deacon pulled out his phone, waited for the web browser to open.

  “Because the network is paying for it, it’s under their name,” Brooke said. “The Buick is fine Marty, we just want it for another couple days.” She listened. “I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be here.”

  The web browser opened so Deacon typed in ‘Avis Rounders Bend.’ Now he was waiting for the search results to come in. “My reception is shit,” he said. Brooke titled her head slightly to give him a look he recognized. One that told him his problems weren’t worth mentioning.

  “We’re taking care of it now, it’s why we need the Buick.” Waited again. “Look it up Marty that’s why I’m calling you. Call them and say the show needs the Buick for another couple days.” She let out a sigh as she listened. “Marty, the goddamn Buick is a fine piece of automotive engineering. It looks fine and we look fine in it. We don’t need anything else, we want the fucking Buick.”

  The browser opened and Deacon looked at the tiny map on the screen. Then he looked around at the streets they were passing. Once he figured out where they were and where Avis was, he looked at Brooke, afraid to tell her they were going the wrong way.

  “Marty? Marty listen to me.”

  Deacon looked back to the map on his phone when the screen quickly shrunk into a tiny box in the middle and disappeared. It was replaced by another box that grew to the size of the screen telling him Cesar was calling. He declined the call and looked over at Brooke. She was stressed out, listening to the phone, Marty probably giving her a list of why other vehicles were superior.

  The phone buzzed in his hand. Deacon looked down to see Cesar calling him again. He hit the green button.

  “Hang up again see what happens,” Cesar said.

  “Got fat thumbs.”

  “Going to be the least of your problems. We’re going to need those finishing funds we was talking about.”

  “I want to see the movie first.”

  He listened to Cesar laugh. “Yeah, TV star, things changed slightly.”

  “Is that so?”

  “That’s so. I’ve taken creative control over the flick. Fired the last producer.”

  “You want me to pay for the movie I got to see it first, don’t matter who’s in charge.”

  “You’re not getting it. Get that pretty wife of yours to drive you on over to the house when I call.”

  “You going to show me the movie there?”

  “Get that movie shit out of your mind, this is real life.”

  The line went dead.

  Deacon looked over to Brooke. He didn’t even notice she finished the conversation with Marty and was staring at him now.

  “We passed the Avis,” he said.

  IT COULD BE SOMETHING COULD get done, Cesar thought.

  Get those two Cuban spics over here, shoot them. Put a couple guns in their hands, give his Colt to Motley. He didn’t want to part with the Colt, but he had to adapt.

  He entertained the idea of going to the farmhouse, plug them there. Then he’d have to bring the bodies back. Put them in a trunk. That left blood and blood left DNA. Get those forensic people going through all the fibers and shit, they’d find something, no matter how hard he scrubbed and vacuumed. It was best to get them here. Do it here where the evidence would stay.

  Pacing in small circles in the living room, the phone in his hand pumping away. He couldn’t help but smile every time he looked down at Motley, seeing what was left of the tattoos on his head. Dumb son of a bitch thought he could keep him down, underestimating him because of his heritage. Didn’t realize Cesar was about as American as they came, making himself into an enterprise. Motley thinking he could keep an enterprise down, who’s the dumb son of a bitch now?

  The blood. Blood gets on shoes and it was going everywhere, leaking out of holes in skinheads. He looked down, let out a breath when he realized he hadn’t walked through it. He was lucky, told himself he still had to concentrate. What did he touch? He didn’t remember touching anything, but that didn’t mean he didn’t.

  He went out of the living room, making sure of every step and went into the kitchen. Saw the skinhead with the black eyes staring out the window over the sink,
his body limp against the counter. He saw the pool of blood that leaked out of his chest, thinking Huey got him good. No footprints in the blood. No one went in the kitchen. They left again out the front door when they went and got the plants. Better to be safe.

  Cesar grabbed a rag that was hanging off the handle of the fridge, one of those old models looked like it was bubbling out. He started wiping everything down, every door, every handle, the door jambs, the walkways, the floor where Huey decided to take a squat.

  The TV star was set up, ready to go. He still had to decide what to do with him after. Get the money then see what his mind was like, what the star’s disposition was. See if he could dodge suspicion if the star didn’t make it back to Philly.

  Shit, like he had time to think. Someone was going to come to Motley’s. Sooner or later someone would show up so he better get his ass in gear. He was in the living room again, the rag in his hand, looking for other things he may have touched. The shovels at the back of the house. They used Motley’s shovels to dig out the plants and replaced them at the back of the house. He’d have to go wipe those down. He’d make a call, get the Cubans over here and wipe down the gardening equipment while they were on their way.

  This was going to work out perfectly. He was with them at Rio, people would put them together if the cops came asking. Cesar would tell them Pablo said he had a meeting with Motley, was meeting with Cesar first trying to get him involved. He’d say ‘No officer, I grow shit for my own use, got that glaucoma. I didn’t want to get involved in that sort of way.’ Put himself in a tiny jackpot so the cops wouldn’t suspect him in the bigger one. That happened, the cops would put it together on their own it was a drug deal gone sideways. People want to believe shit they put together on their own rather than you telling them.

  Get them in here and have it all set up. Say something cool before he blew them away like in the movies. Like he said to Pablo. ‘Adios muchachos.’ He didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded cool. No, that’s where they fuck up in the movies. They talk too much. Just get them in here and do the job and get it done.

  Cesar hit a button on his phone and put it to his ear. “What’re you guys up to?”

  “Shit, we’re waiting here for you,” Hector said. “Got everything out. Just having some beers on the sofa. We set up the barn like a living room. It’s not bad other than the cows shitting.”

  “Where’d you get the beer?”

  “The fridge in the house had a few. I think it’s Norwegian but these guys keep telling me it’s German.”

  “Pablo wants them over at Motley’s.”

  “You know how stupid that is, you being there?”

  “You want to talk to him, tell him that?”

  “What’s he want us there for?” Saying ‘us’ like he was one of them. Hector treating Cesar like an errand boy too.

  “Says he needs help cleaning up.”

  “That’s stupider than you being there.”

  “Again, you want to tell him?”

  “Jesus. Fine.”

  “Hector?”

  The line was silent, Hector waiting for Cesar to say something. Cesar knew he was annoyed. That was something that was going to change.

  “Ask them what muchachos means,” Cesar said. “Like if I say adios muchachos, ask them what it means.”

  “Means ‘bye boys,’ shit Cesar, even I can tell you that.”

  HECTOR HUNG UP THE PHONE and put it in his pocket before taking another swig of beer.

  “What he want?” Javier said.

  “Pablo wants us to go somewhere and meet him.”

  He was thinking, looking at the can of beer in his hand, resting on his leg. Watched the little droplets of condensation flow down and absorb into his jeans.

  “Where we going?” Luis asked.

  “Skinhead house,” Hector said. He lifted the can from his leg to look at the ring on his jeans. The skinheads they went and killed. “Clean up a mess there,” he added.

  The two of them were laughing. “Can’t do anything right eh?”

  Hector smiled, remembering what he told Cesar - they didn’t need Pablo now with the skinheads gone. “You want to get going?” he asked them.

  “Yes. We will see the mess you have made,” Javier said, the two of them acting like they were babysitting the kids that didn’t know what they were doing. Shit, maybe they were right. Cesar didn’t even know what adios muchachos meant.

  Hector got off the sofa and walked out of the barn, going to the Acura, hearing the two Cubans behind him. He wondered why Cesar would have a need to say that line. Maybe Cesar thought he was in a movie, was thinking of something cool to say before he ripped the carpet out from under Pablo.

  He climbed into the drivers seat, the keys still in the ignition, and turned it on. He watched the Cubans climb in the car with their beers, wearing their strip club T-shirts. Hector chugged the last of the can and threw it out the window, then drove the car out of the drive and turned on the street.

  Javier was in the front seat, turning the radio dial, cursing the lack of salsa available. They were talking amongst themselves in Spanish, knowing Hector wouldn’t understand. Probably making fun of him for being Mexican and not knowing anything about it. He felt ashamed, like he let someone down.

  Cesar wants his crowd, probably thinking Hector would back him up. Get them all there, saying ‘Look what I did,’ then telling Pablo he was in charge and didn’t have a use for him anymore. Cesar would want the crowd, the attention. He’d think Hector was on his side. Hector always being by his side while he dreamed, not thinking what was going to get in his way. It felt like a job half the time, making sure Cesar didn’t do something stupid.

  He felt his blood starting to boil. Made to do that stupid thing with Motley and now the big boys had to come clean it up. All of them laughing at Hector because of something Cesar decided to do. Bringing Hector down with him.

  Fuck Cesar.

  It came down to it, Hector knew where he would go, where he’d be appreciated. Cesar thought he was something he wasn’t. If Hector had the choice, he’d choose the Cubans. Be a bad ass motherfucker that pulls a nine and a wad of cash in a strip club, tell the man to choose.

  As he took the Acura down the dirt road leading up to the house, he was surprised he didn’t see the Town Car.

  “There is no one here,” Javier said. “Just a shit kicker truck.”

  “There’s bodies in there. Probably sent Huey out to get plastic.” Hector pulled the car over onto the grass and turned it off.

  “I will not be happy if I get blood on my shirt,” Javier said, then stepped out of the car.

  Hector would say ‘adios muchachos’ to Cesar when he had the chance. Use his movies against him. Cesar would be standing there doing his big speech, letting Pablo stew. He’d look to Hector and Hector would say ‘Adios muchacho,’ maybe add motherfucker on top of it.

  He followed Javier and Luis along the dirt path leading to the front door. They opened it and Hector went in, saw Cesar there in the hallway with his arms out to the side. Pablo was already ripping him a new one from the looks of it.

  Cesar motioned to the living room, said, “Maybe you can talk to him.”

  The Cubans smiled and shook their heads and walked into the living room. Hector watched Cesar’s face change. It was no longer helpless but now of vindication. Cesar raised the gun.

  The Cubans turned around. Hector saw them looking confused then he dropped his gaze to see Pablo laying on his back close to the stereo.

  He heard one of them say, “What the,” and then the first shot rang out, then the second, almost on top of each other. Javier’s face exploded and then half of Luis’ neck went too. Hector turned to see Cesar had the gun pointed at him now.

  “You got ‘till Huey gets back to decide what team you want to be on.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BROOKE WAS DRIVING THE SUV down the 501 toward Myrtle Beach when Deacon told her the closer Avis was in Florence, sav
e them anywhere from ten to twenty minutes of driving.

  “I think he killed Pablo. Said he’s taken creative control of the movie,” Deacon said once they were going the right way.

  “Or maybe he just made a deal with him.”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s the case, he shouldn’t need your money anymore.”

  “Maybe it’s spite driving him,” Deacon said. Brooke merged the Buick onto the 76 West, both of them quiet, thinking. There was nothing to see, just the stretch of pavement and trees on the sides as they went over the Great Pee Dee River. Florence not too far away, Deacon said, “So what’re our options? We can’t pay him.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.”

  “You’ve been trying to figure out what he’s up to. We can’t pay him so maybe there’s something else.”

  “Like a payment plan?”

  He looked to the sky and saw the little airplanes. Some single engine planes with the student in the front, the instructor yelling in the back, Cesna’s he thought they were called. Looked like they were floating up there, just hanging out. There was a real plane coming in the distance. The little planes floated ever so slowly out of it’s path.

  The trees were gone, replaced by business lots and fields. Some wooden structures for sale on the side of the road Deacon couldn’t figure out. A car lot that was fenced in to his right, signs advertising businesses promising the best food, the best prices, the best value. To the left was an empty field, probably the airfield. He looked up and saw the plane coming in, not a big one, just powered by two propellers on the wings.

  The whole area looked flat. A lot, then maybe a house, then another business on the side of the road. His phone told him Avis should be coming up soon, then there was a place selling portable homes, then the sign for the airport on the left.

  “Turn left here,” he told Brooke. She turned the Buick onto the road, going around the bend, seeing the control tower in the distance, the tallest thing around for miles it seemed. Went down the road and there it was on the right, a little building you’d miss if you blinked.