Fifty Grand

by Adrian McKinty

What? Where?

  Colorado.

  My first thought: Good riddance. Not one letter. Not one dollar.

  But then the memories flooding back.

  Crying and Ricky’s voice: I can get permission to go.

  How?

  Strings. Blow jobs.

  Me laughing through tears.

  Hang up the black Bakelite receiver.

  The café owner, a police narc: Bad news?

  Yeah. My father. Dead.

  On a road in the mountains of Colorado.

  That road, out there. Out the window.

  Oh, Papa, there’s nothing I can do for you. This is the Castle of No Escape. And I like it here. Yuma, land of the Yankees. I like it. I asked for the key to my own dungeon, a thousand miles from the dandelions on the salt trail and the bean-fed boys and the red dirt fields and the teardrop skies.

  That road. That road. There through the glass.

  A creak on the deck outside.

  Someone there. This time I’m certain.

  I’m alert, fully awake, flooded with adrenaline. I sit up quickly, look for shadows on the balcony. Nothing, but I know I’m not imagining things—that was no squirrel or stray dog. That was boot on wood.

  I throw back the duvet, jog to the fireplace, and grab a cast-iron poker with a vicious-looking hook at the end.

  I undo the lock on the french doors and walk onto the deck, checking blind spots and the roof.

  Fresh powder under my feet.

  “Hola?” I ask.

  No one answers. But the birds are quiet.

  The gate’s closed, no strange cars, nothing out of the ord—

  Wait a minute. Bootmarks in the gravel. Bootprints coming to the house.

  “Hello,” Sheriff Briggs says behind me.

  I bite down a yell and turn.

  He’s wearing an overcoat but I can tell he’s got the full uniform on underneath. He’s come as a cop.

  “You scared me. I didn’t see you there,” I tell him.

  He flashes the pearly grin, rubs the bottom of his chin.

  “Yeah.”

  He looks at my breasts through Jack’s T-shirt. Fishes into his pocket and pulls out a cigar. Other pocket, Zippo. I shouldn’t be waiting out here. It looks guilty. I should go back inside.

  “Excuse me, señor, but I—”

  He shakes his head. “No, you don’t.”

  “But Señor Tyrone is—”

  “I’m not after Jack. I’m looking for you.”

  Meek. Eyes down. “For me?”

  “Yeah, for you.”

  “What do you mean, señor?” I say in Spanish.

  He grins, blows a smoke ring. “No, no, don’t do that to me. I know your English is just fine. Now be like a good little puppy and take a seat over there.”

  He points at a wooden deck chair. I brush off the thin layer of snow and sit. Water seeps up from the wood, through Jack’s sweatpants and against my skin.

  “You weren’t in the motel,” Briggs says, leaning forward and taking the poker out of my hand.

  “No.”

  “Weren’t in the motel so I asked around and figured you were here.”

  “Have I broken a law?” I ask.

  “Well, if you were whoring here and not cutting Esteban or myself in, I’d say that you were breaking a law, but I don’t think you’re whoring, are you?”

  I shake my head.

  “No, María, I don’t think you’re whoring, because I don’t think you need the money.”

  “I do not understand, señor.”

  “It’s just a hunch, but something tells me you don’t need the money that badly,” he says with another grin.

  The cold is making me tremble. No. It isn’t the cold. I force myself to stop it.

  “If I haven’t done anything wrong, I’d like to go back inside,” I tell him.

  “You’re not going anywhere until you answer me a few questions.”

  “Ok.”

  “‘Ok’ . . . Yeah, that’s the fucking spirit. Ok. How long have you been here? Three days. You should know the score by now. Question number one. Whose fucking town is this?”

  “Your town, señor.”

  “My town. Absolutely goddamn right. My fucking town. I’m the sheriff. I’m the representative of the republic. I’m the fucking Lord High Executioner. That’s right. We got Tom Cruise but it’s my fucking town.”

  His voice has risen. His face is red.

  Something’s happened. He’s found something out.

  Did Paco blab about New Mexico? Have the federales followed our trail here? What has leaked? Calm. Keep calm. It’s ok. Remember the Havana rule: say nothing—twice.

  He unbuttons his coat, places his boot on the arm of my chair, and continues. “You think something could happen here and I wouldn’t know? You’re very much mistaken, señorita. From Malibu Mesa to Wetback Mountain and all the way to fucking Vail, I know what’s going on. It’s my job to know. Get me?”

  “Yes, señor.”

  “The last time I existed in a state of ignorance was Gulf War One. We thought we were the invasion but we were only the diversion. No one’s played me like that since. No one and certainly not some Mex cunt who’s too fucking proud to whore for us. Why are you so fucking proud? You think you’re going to get Jackie here to marry you? You think he’s going to knock you up? Is that your fucking plan? Or is blackmail more your game? Play both angles at the same fucking time?”

  The other shining leather boot lands on my chair with a clump. He crosses his legs and those eyes bore into me.

  Take it easy, I tell myself. He doesn’t know anything for sure. He’s still fishing. He’s got something but he doesn’t see everything. Yet.

  “No answer?” he says.

  “I don’t know what you mean, señor.”

  “What did you hear? What rumors are they spreading in that Mex motel of yours?”

  Spittle flying from his lips. Real anger in his words. And now I’m afraid. Afraid of those big hands more than the gun. Beat me to death with two blows.

  Again an image of a naked body, yellow and blue, bloated, a skull for a face, maggots for eyes. That’s me there in that soft brown earth, under those big trees, unloved, unfound forever.

  He pauses to get his breath back, squints at me. “Well?” he says.

  I’m supposed to answer.

  “But I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say truthfully.

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about? I think you fucking do. I think someone has been shooting their mouth off and you’ve seen the chance for a few dollars more. A chance for the big score. Is that right? I mean, why concern yourself with blow-job money when you can shoot for millions?”

  Anything I say will only provoke him.

  He waits me out.

  “Perhaps you could tell me what I have done wrong?”

  He nods, smashes his fist into his hand, gets up, and walks behind me. I stare straight ahead. If I don’t look back the monster won’t be there. Right, Dad?

  A car driving past on the road. A helicopter landing at the Cruise house.

  Surely he can’t kill me out here with all these potential witnesses.

  His breath against my cheek.

  “You were at the Pearl Street Garage in town. Asking questions about an incident last May.”

  The grave. The trees.

  I’m fucked. Should have bribed Jackson.

  Hector’s first rule of police work: secure your snitches. But where would I have gotten enough money on a salary of thirty dollars a month? Burned most of my savings on the coyote. And besides, Jackson told me about you, why wouldn’t he tell you about me?

  And now. Fucked.

  Don’t say anything. Don’t deny it, just say nothing.

  Briggs takes a long breath, breathes out. Cream, coffee, tobacco. “So why does Little Miss Nobody want to know about a dead Mex? What are you, María? A blackmailer? An opportunist? An undercover journo? What’s in it for you, Señ
orita X?”

  His gloved hands pinch a fold of skin at the back of my neck. He twists it.

  Pain. Terrible pain as he lifts me off the seat.

  “I could fucking paralyze you with this if I wanted to,” he says or seems to say—I can barely hear him through the fire in my nerve endings.

  I try to hit his arms. My legs kick out.

  “Stop it!”

  “Speak, you little bitch, speak and tell me everything. Why did you go to the garage? Did Esteban put you up to this? What does he want to know?”

  He squeezes so hard that I’m seeing stars, passing out . . .

  One second, two, blackness.

  He lets go the pinch. My head slumps forward.

  He’s facing me.

  “Why were you at the garage?” he whispers.

  Play for time. Big breaths. Got to get out of here. Hit him with something.

  “Why were you at the garage?”

  “Señor, I think you’re mis—”

  He grabs a handful of hair, drags me out of the chair, and throws me to the deck.

  “Who put you up to this? Who? Is Esteban too fucking chicken to do his own legwork? How much did he pay you? What’s his angle? What’s his fucking angle? Answer me, you little bitch.”

  I try to scramble away from him but he grabs my ankle and pulls me back across the deck. He kneels down on my legs and draws his gun.

  “We’re going to get some fucking answers or you are gonna fucking disappear.”

  He slides the hammer back on his .38 and points it between my legs.

  “Maybe I’ll just blow your cunt off. Won’t be able to whore then, will ya? Won’t be able to fuck movie stars on the side. What’s Esteban’s cut on that little racket? Eh? Still not talking?”

  He pushes down on me with all his weight, crushing my thighs. He points the gun at my head.

  “Nah, forget that, I don’t want to wound ya. One in the temple, a group of three beside it to triple check. That’s the ticket. Vanish you off the face of the Earth. Message to that Mex bastard: Mind your business, Esteban.”

  “Señor, I don’t know what you’re t-talking about,” I stammer.

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about?” he says, leaning forward to slap me across the face. My lip catches a ring on his hand and starts to bleed.

  “Think I’m stupid? Is that what you think? Think because you fucking speak English you can beat me in a battle of fucking wits? I’ve been through the fucking war, señorita. I’ve been farther than you’ll ever fucking go. Farther than Esteban, farther than all of ya.”

  “Señor, I—”

  “No. No. Forget it. Don’t talk. I’ll get it from him. You’re history, little girl. Nobody knows you from Adam. You’re life ain’t worth shit. One less dumb whore for us to worry about. Close your eyes, sugar.”

  He climbs off me and stands back so the blood splatter won’t get on his coat. He points the gun, squeezes the trigger.

  I start to scream from somewhere deep. From New Mexico. From Havana. And deeper still. Louder than the helicopter at my uncle’s house in Santiago, louder than the prisoners in the Cominado del Este.

  Scream and scream.

  “Jack! Help me! Help me! Jack!”

  “There’s no help coming, little sister, this is my t—”

  A blur. A smash.

  Jack barreling into him. Knocking him down. The gun going off and simultaneously flying out of Briggs’s hand. No bluff. He would have killed me. Jack punching Briggs twice on the head. Briggs thumping Jack on the back of the neck. Jack crumpling. Briggs getting to his feet, kicking Jack in the stomach. Briggs looking for the pistol, looking on the deck, under the chairs, behind him, and finally at my right hand.

  “Ok, now, steady on. Hold on a minute. Let me explain something, let me explain just a little.”

  I put my finger to my lips. “Ssshhhh.”

  He shushes, puts his hands up.

  Jack dry heaves and manages to get into a sitting position.

  “What’s going on, María?” Jack says, choking out the words.

  What to say? “I don’t know, Jack. I think Sheriff Briggs has gotten me mixed up with one of the other girls. Since coming here I have broken no laws and I have kept to my own business. I only want to work hard and stay out of trouble.”

  Briggs looking at the gun. Eyes wide. Still can’t believe it. Are you scared? Are you having a premonition?

  “What in the name of all that’s fucking holy is going on, Sheriff?” Jack asks, furiously. Boxer shorts, T-shirt, no shoes. His face white with anger. Jack gets to his feet and I offer him my hand. Show solidarity. Jack takes the hand.

  Briggs’s brain up to Mach 5. Thinking escape routes, consequences. The movie star. The movie star’s lawyers. The wetback with the gun. He clears his throat.

  “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake here, Mr. Tyrone. I got a tip that someone from the Mex motel was asking questions about the, uh, car trouble, that, uh, Mr. Youkilis, that we dealt with in May. I thought it might be a blackmail attempt or an attempt to get a scurrilous story into the tabloids. I showed pictures and María here was ID’ed.”

  Jack looks at me, doubt flashing between his eyes. In one sentence the fucker’s changed the game back again.

  “But I was with Jack,” I say, though of course Briggs didn’t say when it was.

  “She was with you?” he asks Jack.

  Jack nods. “Sheriff, María was with me. She wasn’t asking anybody questions. She wasn’t doing anything. She was with me,” Jack insists.

  Briggs frowns.

  And now is the moment to turn that pond of doubt into an ocean, to show him that I’m completely innocent, that he or someone else has gotten this thing entirely wrong, that the tip was garbled, the ID screwed. Something.

  I smile meekly, take two steps across the deck, and offer him his gun.

  The barrel glistening. Bullets in the chamber. The death end pointed toward my heart.

  He looks at the weapon, looks at me, nods.

  He takes the revolver and puts it back in its holster.

  “I’m sorry to have caused all this trouble, señor,” I say in my best Mex, my best invisible.

  Sheriff Briggs grimaces and it shows me that I’ve convinced him. For now. Somebody fucked up. He’ll find out who.

  Briggs shakes his head. “It’s me that should apologize, ma’am, you’re a, uhm, a guest in our country and I thought I was acting in the best interests of the town and I see that I’ve gotten incorrect information. I’ve made an error and I’m sorry.”

  Jack grins. “Well, I’m glad that’s sorted out,” he says cheerfully. “Glad and a little disappointed. That’s the most heroic thing I’ve ever done and all for some stupid mistake. That’s not going to make a good story.”

  “If you do not mind, Señor Jack, I will go and put some coffee on,” I say.

  “Wonderful. By all means, excellent idea. Thank you very much, María,” Jack replies.

  I look at Sheriff Briggs. “Would you like some coffee, sir?” I ask him.

  His face is red with embarrassment. I repeat the offer of coffee and he shakes his head. This little encounter has given me breathing room. It’ll take him a few hours to pin down the real story—maybe all day. That’s all I need. One more day.

  “No, ma’am, no, thank you,” he says stiffly.

  I go inside the house and once I’m out of view I run to the kitchen, press the button on the coffeemaker, and wind open the window so that I can hear their conversation.

  The two men are standing close, intimately so, like brothers or lovers or confederates.

  “Is Youkilis in some kind of trouble?” Jack asks.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. Probably nothing. You know that girl Marilyn from Ohio that works for Jackson?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Not bad-looking.”

  “She used to work for me at the sherif
f’s station. Got rid of her. She thought it was Bond and fucking Moneypenny. We’re still close, though. Good head on her shoulders.”

  “What about her?”

  “Calls me up last night and lets me know that someone’s been asking questions about the accident. The day the Mex got killed.”

  “Shit. Is it something we should be concerned about?”

  Briggs shakes his head. “I don’t know. Something might have gotten garbled down there. I’ll check it out. I’ll ask Esteban. No, to hell with ask, I’ll brace the fucker. I’ll find out what’s going on. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  “Should I tell Paul?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’ll look into this, really look into it. Let you know Monday.”

  “Ok.”

  Briggs shakes his head, ruefully gestures at the overturned chair. “And, and I’m sorry about all this, Jack.”

  Jack, not Mr. Tyrone.

  “It’s a bit much for a Sunday morning. You scared the shit out of María.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Maybe made a mistake about her. Anyway, I’ll let you know what’s going on by tomorrow.”

  Jack murmurs something that I can’t hear.

  I press my face right against the bug screen but I still can’t catch it.

  Jack and the sheriff shake hands. Briggs picks up the poker and hands it to Jack.

  Jack laughs.

  The sheriff laughs.

  Very cordial. Very anglo. Is this how they do things here? In Cuba you don’t let a man rough up your woman. You put him in the fucking hospital. You kill him.

  This . . . this seems too easy.

  Briggs points back at the house. I shrink from the window. He puts his hands on his hips, spits.

  “Thing is, Jackie boy, even if she’s clean, I mean, really, the maid?”

  “She’s great.”

  “You don’t see me running around with easy pickings and I’ve got plenty of opportunity. You gotta get your act together,” the sheriff says.

  “Hey, I wanna—”

  “Wait a minute, hear me out. I mean, what do you want? What do you really want out of life?”

  “I want a career. A good career,” Jack says.

  “You want to do good work, you want to be remembered. Right?”

  “Yes. That and friends and a family.”

  “You don’t think I want that? You don’t think I want to get married again, have kids? I’m not getting any younger. But I’m trying to build something up here. A town. A community. Something that will last. Even if the Scientologists don’t come, I’ll have made something that’ll be here a hundred, a thousand years from now. This was barely a village before we got started; in a few years we’ll be in full competition with Aspen and Vail. You gotta get with the program, Jack, you have to take life more seriously. Your friend María, Esteban, people like that, they’re not thinking about the future—I doubt they’re thinking at all—don’t let them drag you down to their level. Set your goals high, Jack, make some sacrifices. It’s not about instant gratification, it’s about the long term, it’s about posterity.”