Forever’s Just Pretend: A Hector Lassiter novel (Hector Lassiter series Book 2)

by Craig McDonald

  Shaking his head, Vogel said, “No, Nash, I won’t do that.” He forced the gun into Nash’s trembling hand. “Your plan, asshole, so you execute it. No pun intended.”

  Nash sprayed Vogel with some spittle. He said, “Con, goddamn it, you know I don’t do this stuff!”

  “You’re sure as hell going to do this one,” Vogel said.

  Vogel looked at Beau. The old hustler’s expression was something between rage and nausea. Beau put his hands flat on the table and pushed himself to his feet. “You ain’t truly gonna shoot me, Barn…are you?”

  His hand was still shaking, but Nash raised the Colt and pointed it at Beau’s head. Nash said, “This where you figure to work that persuasive mouth of yours, Beau? This where you figure to grift a grifter? I don’t have to remind you, I know you coming and going. I don’t have to tell you that I know your act and tactics. You can’t work your tongue on me like that.”

  “You just did remind me and twice at that,” Beau said sourly. “For Christ’s sake, Barn, put down the goddamn gun and bolt. Do it now and I’ll even give you a decent start. I’ll do that much for old and better times’ sake.”

  His chin trembling, his hand shaking, Nash said, “Enough talk. Sorry, Beau, but it ends right here, and right now.”

  Flinching, Nash pulled the trigger, three times in quick succession.

  The hammer clicked each time. Three dry fires. Nash frowned and examined the gun; he saw the empty chambers and cursed.

  His chin trembling harder now, Nash said, “Conrad, what the hell? Is this your idea of funny? Is this revenge for making you handle Mase?” Wild-eyed, Nash looked to Beau. “Con killed Hector, Beau,” Nash said, not sure why he was doing it. “Con poisoned your Mase.”

  Vogel said to Beau, “Still think this was a good idea, Skipper? Still think it was good strategy allowin’ Nash here talk it through? Letting him hang himself with his own words and actions? Letting him take his three shots just so you could really be sure?”

  Beau looked stricken. He said, “Maybe loyalty is over-rated. Thought I had to see if he’d see it through. Had to hear it myself, God help me. Or I thought I needed to. To give me a push, you know? But I surely don’t wanna hear no more. What I’ve listened to has made me soul sick.”

  The back door of the garage opened again.

  Hector had his Peacemaker drawn and aimed at Barnaby Nash’s head. He said, “Let me handle this one, Pap. I owe the backstabbing son of a bitch for that wicked stuff he wanted to put in my drink. He meant to kill me with that poison.”

  White and shaking, Nash sneered at Vogel. “You bastard! You son of a bitch, you sold me out!”

  Vogel shrugged. “Just as fast as I could. If you’d shoot Beau, if you’d poison Mase, well, how long was it going to be before you’d murder me to avoid sharing the cut on this big score tomorrow?” Vogel waved a hand. “Honor among thieves is more than just a cliché for our kind. It’s critical to the game and to the life.”

  Hector said again, “You two go. I’ll take care of Nash.”

  “Like hell you will,” Beau said.

  “That’s why Beau has me,” Vogel said to Hector. “I do that bloody heavy lifting.”

  “Not this time,” Beau said. “I fix my own mistakes. This is surely one of my biggest and letting it walk away isn’t good policy or near enough just. As the poet said, ‘A dead body avenges not its injuries.’”

  Beau straightened his arm and the derringer was suddenly in his hand. “If you know any prayers, Barn, now’s the time for ’em.” Beau took a deep breath. He said, “Funny thing. This morning I had a gun pointed at Mel Hoyt’s head. I hated that son of a bitch Hoyt, that killer hiding behind a badge. Yet I couldn’t pull the trigger on even as low as Hoyt. But here I am, about to shoot a friend, and you know what, Barnaby? My hand isn’t even going to shake.”

  Beau looked over at his grandson. “Is that what you writers call irony?”

  Hector nodded. Raw-voiced, unable to watch, he said, “Expect it’ll do.”

  ***

  “You still with me, Pap? Gonna be okay?” Hector handed his grandfather a deep glass of whiskey.

  “I can’t believe he hated me, resented me, so much as to do that,” the old man said. He looked at Nash’s body. “We need to do something with that. To hide it somewheres.”

  Hector said, “Old Nash never struck me as a poet, or as much of a worker, but out back, he dug his own grave, so to speak.”

  “Sorry to keep you in the dark, Mase,” Beau said. “I mean, not filling you in until the last minute almost.”

  “Just kept me convincing, I reckon,” Hector said. He drained his glass, smacked it down on the bar, then wandered over to the body. Hector said to Vogel, “Give me a hand? I’ll get the feet.”

  Beau said, “This has been one goddamn unsatisfactory day.”

  Vogel huffed, getting Nash up off the ground. He said, “I do get Nash’s cut too, right?”

  “Sure, and that’s for starters,” Beau said, watching them haul the body toward the back door. “It’s the last score and I always meant to do right by you and that Judas there. The miserable, greedy son of a bitch. Goddamn him anyway for making me do that to him. Goddamn him to hell and gone.”

  43

  Brinke was sitting on the couch, holding Consuelo’s hand. The younger woman was asleep. Brinke held a finger up to her lips to shush them.

  Beau tossed his hat on a chair. “She okay?” he said softly, “What’s wrong with her? What’s happened?”

  Vogel whispered to Hector, “That’s the boss’ new lady? She’s awful young.”

  “Consuelo is her name,” Hector whispered back. He opened his arms and hugged Brinke close. “What’s up?”

  “Just a long day,” Brinke said to Beau and Hector. “Old ghosts. Less than a nothing.”

  “By the way, I think Sheriff Hoyt is dead.” Brinke averted her gaze, drifting back in her mind’s eye to the beach. “A man came across our swimming spot. If it was Hoyt, he was badly burned. Disfigured.”

  Beau shot Hector a look. Hector thought his grandfather had just about hit the end of his tether hearing this latest revelation. He thought about what Beau had told Barnaby about having Mel in his sights but not having the resolve to shoot him. He figured Beau would beat himself up to the grave after this revelation of Brinke’s; if Hoyt hadn’t been a walking dead man?

  Hector said, “Where’s Hoyt now?”

  “On the beach, I suppose.” Brinke searched Hector’s eyes. “He’s definitely past any help if that’s really your thought.”

  Beau took in a deep breath, said, “Hoyt’s body, it’s still out there you say?”

  “Unless someone has happened upon it,” Brinke said, “but I don’t expect that’s too likely to occur before sunrise.”

  Beau licked his lips. “Hoyt disappearing would arguably be more effective than his body cropping up, particularly mauled as it is because of his botched assassination attempts. Tomorrow the net closes on his cronies. Would be good to have those fat cat locals off-footing and fulminating as the trap springs. Hoyt disappearing, after the reporter has also gone missing, would surely serve that aim. Give ’em something diverting to stew over.”

  Hector said to Vogel, “Let’s you and I see to that. At least we know a place to put Hoyt’s body.”

  “There was half a bag of quick lime left,” Vogel said. That raised Brinke’s eyebrows.

  “I’ll come lend a hand,” Beau said.

  “We’ve got it covered,” Hector said. “Stay and keep Brinke and Consuelo company. Stand guard over them.” He handed his grandfather his Colt, butt first. “Just in case,” Hector said. He cupped Brinke’s chin. Hector kissed her. “I’ll be back fast as I can.”

  Beau locked the doors behind them. He said to Brinke, “What a ghastly day.”

  “Indeed. I need a shower,” Brinke said. “Haven’t had a chance to clean off all the salt from our swim, you know.”

  “Go, bathe,” Beau said, his voi
ce thick. “After, well, we’ll talk. I mean, as the day’s given me something new to brood over.”

  Brinke arched an inquiring eyebrow.

  Beau said, “I speak of killing.”

  Brinke chewed her lip, said, “Frankly, I know something about that myself. Hector too, of course. The wars… the ones declared and otherwise.”

  “Today was my first,” Beau said.

  The old man suddenly didn’t look so well to Brinke. She said, “I’ll postpone that shower. Let’s pour a couple of strong drinks and have that talk now, Beau.”

  ***

  Vogel tamped down the dirt with a rusty shovel blade. “What a terrible day this has turned out to be, eh, Mase?”

  Hector wiped down his hands with a rag. “We’ve all surely had better.”

  “Hope Beau’s gonna come through okay, after handling Nash, I mean.”

  “I know what you meant. And I hope so, too.”

  Vogel tossed the shovel aside. “You okay, Mase? After seein’ it, I mean?”

  “I’ve seen plenty to unsettle me worse, Con.”

  “But not like that, Mase. You’ve not seen Beau doing that.”

  “No, not that. But Beau had grounds, and the son of a bitch meant me dead, too.”

  Vogel gestured at the grave. “Funny, isn’t it? I mean, old Nash spending forever with the law like that.”

  Hector shook his head. “That son of a bitch Hoyt wasn’t any flavor of law I recognize.”

  Vogel grunted. “Then I guess it maybe ain’t so funny after all.”

  ***

  Miguel shook off a chill as he waited for Malú to finish at the altar. The light in the church was low, but it still made his head throb. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples.

  After a time, Miguel felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking at him. “Miguel, are you awake? Are you unwell?”

  “The light,” he said, “it hurts my head.”

  Malú said softly, “Light always hurts, since the accident?”

  “Always. Almost any light. And I think it’s getting worse.”

  Malú sat down next to Miguel and took his hand. “We need to get you to Miami. You need to see real doctors. Ones who work in hospitals and know things. You should go tonight. Leave while it’s dark. You could ride in the dark on the trains and boats.”

  The notion appealed to Miguel, particularly since he’d all but decided to go there in pursuit of Consuelo. But he had no money; he’d already received several warnings from his landlord that he was about to be set out.

  She said, “Is there anything much to prepare?”

  “Hardly anything,” he said.

  “Then you should go home now and pack. Do it while it’s still dark. Get ready tonight. Arrange your passage, then leave tomorrow after sunset. That’s how you should do it.”

  “Maybe, yes,” Miguel said. He flashed on those three bloodied women and shuddered.

  “What was that, Miguel?”

  “Just a chill. No big thing.”

  “Then you’ll do this, Miguel? You’ll get yourself help? Please?”

  “I think I will. But I have to scrape together some money first.”

  “I could lend you a little,” Malú said. She figured when she told Consuelo she had talked Miguel into leaving the island, Consuelo could get some money from her new rich old boyfriend to pay for Miguel’s trip. She said, “Go now, Miguel. Go home in the dark and pack. I’ll try and get some money together and leave it at the hotel for you to pick up tomorrow night.”

  Groggy from the pain in his head, Miguel hauled himself up off the pew. His knees cracked and he saw spots. “I’ll do that,” he said thickly. “I surely will do that. And thank you.” Resting hands on the backs of the pews to steady himself, Miguel walked down the aisle on shaking legs.

  Malú saw the duffel bag under the pew where Miguel had sat. She reached down and grasped the bag by a raggedy strap. As she lifted it, the handle of the bat slid through a tear in the canvas. The grip of the bat appeared to be stained with dried blood. Malú shoved the handle back through the hole. She looked up and saw that Miguel was watching her. She wasn’t certain whether or not he had seen her push the handle back through the hole.

  “I almost forgot,” Miguel said. “Thanks for remembering for me.”

  Malú forced a smile. “What’s in there, Man? It feels awfully skinny.” As cover went, she thought she had done okay.

  Miguel said, “Fishing rig.”

  “You fish at night?” She almost winced. Idiot: The objective was to get away from Miguel now, not to badger or stir him up.

  “Loaning it to a friend,” Miguel said, watching her.

  “I’m going to stay on here for a few minutes,” she said. “Say another prayer for my cousin. Will you be okay to get home with that head of yours?”

  “Be better when I’m outside in the air and dark,” Miguel said. “And, actually, it’s feeling a bit better now. Now that I have a plan. Thank you for talking to me. For convincing me to make the trip.”

  “De nada. I hope it all works out okay.”

  “Adios, Malú.”

  “Adios, Miguel.”

  She turned and walked back to the front of the church. Crossing herself, she knelt. She listened to his uneven steps, retreating down the tiled aisle. Malú sighed when she heard the doors close. She slowly turned around to confirm he had really gone.

  Malú crossed herself again as she looked back at the empty church. She loitered a while, giving Miguel time to get back across the island. To pass time, she leafed through a hymnal, humming the tunes and fingering the silver crucifix hanging around her neck.

  When she figured twenty or more minutes had passed, she gathered up her things. She walked down the aisle as quietly as she could and cracked the door of the church and peered out. There was no sign of movement, just a soft breeze and the trill of crickets.

  She slipped out through the door and trotted down the steps, crossing swiftly to the other side of the street. She had hoped for other pedestrians, but the street was empty; the lights off in most of the houses.

  Malú half-ran, half-walked to Duval Street where she knew there would be some bustle. She checked the clock in the window of the jewelry store. She had fifteen more minutes before she was to begin the night shift at the hotel.

  The hotel lobby was quiet. Malú nodded at Kevin, the desk clerk. He said, “Everything okay, doll? You look flustered.”

  “Seems okay,” she said. “Just need to change, then I’ll relieve you.”

  The employee’s changing room was located between the men’s and women’s restrooms. The lights were off inside the changing room. Malú frowned and groped her way into the room, feeling her way along the wall, moving her hand around looking for the light switch.

  Malú felt a slight gust of air and then there was an explosion of light as she felt the bones in her face break.

  Miguel said softly, “I’m so sorry, chiquita, but I saw what you saw. And I need money. First yours, then all the money your pass key to those rooms upstairs can get me.” He raised the bat. “I always have liked you Malú. Please, believe, I wish there was another way.” He swung the bat straight down, using both hands. He blinked back the spray of blood.

  ***

  “I don’t ever want to touch a shovel for that nefarious purpose again,” Vogel said.

  They were walking along Duval Street, passing a flask full of rum.

  Hector said, “You planning on retiring like Beau?”

  “Sounds like I could make enough tomorrow to maybe do just that. I live cheaply…not like Beau.”

  “So sit on your stacks of money and don’t kill anyone else,” Hector said.

  “I’ll give it an honest shot,” Vogel said. He reached over and took the flask from Hector. “Retirement? Beau always insisted he never would go that route.”

  “There is retired and there is retired,” Hector said. “Beau says he’ll never run a Big Store con again. But the small opportunities? I hav
e a hard time seeing him passing those by.”

  Vogel pointed at an open-air bar. “Keep hearing this place touted. Let’s have a drink here.”

  “Not now,” Hector said. “Sorry. After the day Brinke and Beau have endured, I need to get back there with them. Need to go home and pick up the pieces.”

  Someone slammed into Hector. Perturbed, Hector said, “Hey pal, it’s a wide sidewalk. Watch your fuckin’ step.” As he said it, Hector felt for his wallet, checking to make sure it wasn’t some hustle. Everything was where he had left it.

  Miguel held up his hands, smiling. “Easy, hombre—my fault, entirely. I was distracted.” A strange grin. “I’m happy!”

  Hector looked Miguel over: a fairly well built young Cuban, probably about twenty-four or maybe twenty-five. The young stranger’s eyes were crazed, Hector thought. Not drugs, and not liquor, he figured, but genuine dementia. The man was toting something inside a long canvas duffel. Hector said, “What do you have to be so happy about, amigo?”

  “Going to Miami, to find my girl,” Miguel said.

  “Ain’t she the lucky gal,” Hector said.

  Miguel’s smile ebbed. “You being smart-mouthed? Looking for trouble?”

  Hector waved a hand, dismissing Miguel. “I’m all troubled out for the day, really. Push on, pal. Have yourself a time up in Miami.”

  Hector watched the man go, then looked at Vogel. The old grifter had a hand under his coat, apparently prepared to draw if things had soured to violence. Hector said, “That necklace that fella was wearing, the crucifix, it looked like a woman’s. And was that blood on the cross?”

  Vogel let go of the butt of his gun and drained the flask. “Blood and crosses? Feh. They go together like winos and paper pokes.”

  Hector said, “Goddamn, Con, good looks and you’re a philosopher, too?”

  44

  Hector had one foot braced on the porch rail, pushing the swing slowly back and forth. Brinke’s legs were tucked up under her and her head rested on his shoulder. The swing’s chains creaked and the tall old palms cracked and popped in the harder, warm wind. He said, “You’ve spent some time with him. Is Beau okay?”