Shotgun Opera

by Victor Gischler

  Mike drank beer, shrugged. He lived in nowhere, Oklahoma. What could possibly find them here?

  * * *

  Enrique Mars smoked a cigar the size of a canoe and sipped from a flask of Jim Beam between his legs as his lime green 1976 Cadillac convertible roared up Highway 75 into Tulsa.

  Ortega had been clear. Get in. Kill. Get out. He wanted it done quickly. Ortega didn’t say why, and Mars didn’t care. Killing was what he did. Pondering why wasn’t.

  Enrique Mars was not Mexican. INS thought he was Mexican. He’d said he was Mexican to get his green card. It was easier to be Mexican.

  Enrique Mars was Cuban, and had loyally served on one of Castro’s death squads for eight years. One day, without rhyme or reason, Mars decided he wanted to fuck white girls and eat at McDonald’s and drive a giant American car. He wanted to go to the United States. So he’d used his contacts to get phony papers. He jumped the first banana boat out of Havana, bluffed, bullied, and bribed his way to Mexico, and crossed the border at Juarez. It didn’t take Mars long to fall in with Ortega, who recognized Enrique’s blunt but useful talents.

  His skin was a light brown. Thick mustache and beard, a gold hoop in each ear. Bald. When he smiled wide, he showed three gold teeth on the left side. At the moment he wore a purple suit and a black shirt. No tie, but a single, thick gold chain around his neck. Snakeskin cowboy boots. It was his opinion that he looked pretty damn good but also badass. A classy badass.

  There was a twelve-gauge pump shotgun, two revolvers, a bowie knife, an axe handle, and a machete in the Caddy’s trunk. When Enrique Mars killed somebody, the motherfucker stayed dead.

  He glanced at his watch. Approaching dinnertime. Normally, Mars would pull into a nice hotel, have a good meal, sleep, and proceed with his killing bright-eyed the next morning. But Ortega wanted it done fast. He swigged from his flask, puffed the cigar, and drove. The Caddy swallowed the miles. The sun sank dirty orange behind the horizon.

  16

  Thousands of miles away the man with the voice smoked a harsh Turkish cigarette and sipped a glass of Campari. He contemplated the problem of Nikki Enders.

  His station in the cruel, indifferent hierarchy of the universe depended on things happening exactly how he said they would happen and at precisely the time he decreed appropriate. In the man’s opinion, Nikki’s intentional delay in completing her assignment amounted to something like a minor mutiny. He was getting a lot of business out of the Middle East recently, and he could not afford to lose the trust and respect of his associates in that region. Nikki Enders was a valuable commodity. He’d made a small fortune employing her skills. But a broken tool, however valuable, must be discarded and replaced. If he could not control her and rely upon her, then she was no longer of any use.

  How to eliminate the problem? One does not send a jackal to destroy the lioness. That would only ensure the waste of a perfectly good jackal. But a pack of jackals, yes, a savage, deadly pack of them, might be able to bring down a single lioness. He picked up the phone to dial one of his minor operatives in the States. The perfect candidate would be somebody who had a reasonable chance of completing the mission, but no one of any great loss should Nikki Enders prove too formidable.

  The man with the voice knew just who to call.

  * * *

  Ortega immediately recognized the odd accent when he answered the phone. “It’s you. It’s been so long I had not expected to hear from you again.”

  “I have some business for you.” The man with the voice explained what he wanted.

  “I see. Sounds like a gang job.”

  “I’ll leave it to you to decide what’s best,” the Voice said. “Just be warned. This target bites back.”

  Ortega asked a few pertinent questions, scribbled some notes onto a pad. He proposed a fair amount for payment, and the man with the voice agreed. He hung up. Well, it looked as if Ortega was in for a busy week. Perhaps people were right about the economy coming back.

  Ortega considered who to send on the job. A pack of the usual hooligans to be sure. Yes, Ortega was a firm believer in quantity over quality. He’d always found that a violent mob took care of 99.9 percent of all problems. But it might take something more exotic to impress the Voice. Ortega opened a bottom desk drawer and fished out an old Rolodex. The names and addresses he needed most frequently were in an electronic Blackberry, but Ortega was searching for a particular number, a number he hadn’t dialed in a long time. He found the number, picked up the phone, and paused. Hiring these peculiar killers would severely cut into his profits. He might even lose money on the deal. It would be worth it to get on the Voice’s good side. It might mean more business from the Voice in the long run. One occasionally had to throw one’s bread on the waters.

  He dialed. It rang.

  * * *

  He was born Lee Goldberg in Sydney, Australia, but it had been many years since anyone had called him by that name. His stage name was Jack Sprat. He changed it after meeting the Fat Lady during a boardwalk carnival act in Atlantic City. Mavis was big and soft and beautiful, and Goldberg— now Sprat— fell in love.

  They were married three months later, and the stage names were a no-brainer. Jack Sprat was five feet five inches tall, all spindly hard muscle and sinew, a bald head and a big nose that gave him the appearance of a vulture. His new bride, Mavis— who indeed could eat no lean— weighed in at 422 pounds.

  They made the carnival circuit, state fairs, and sideshows.

  Jack Sprat had a good act. He was a contortionist, could fit into little places and cracks and boxes, and could climb and jump like a tree frog. He’d used his skill for burglary back in Australia, had been pinched and served eighteen months in the pen. When they released him, he pulled another string of jobs and ended up back in prison seven months later, this time for a three-year stretch. When he got out this time, he decided he needed a chance and headed to America.

  Now he’d been married to Mavis a dozen years, going from show to show, earning a living, sometimes a good one but often not. Sometimes the couple supplemented their income by breaking a few minor laws— robbery, burglary, murder. At first, Jack Sprat had been pleasantly surprised at Mavis’s willingness to go along with these endeavors. What a great gal.

  Four years ago, everything changed.

  Mavis wasn’t satisfied being the Fat Lady. She started lifting weights, transforming herself. It became an obsession, protein shakes and three tough workouts a day. She dropped to 360 pounds. Jack started to worry about the act. A Jack Sprat with a svelte wife just wouldn’t work. But Mavis didn’t get smaller. She got bigger, her legs like muscular tree trunks, arms like cannons, neck as thick as a Marine’s. And the steriods made her particularly aggressive, which is why Jack didn’t worry too much that his lovely bride was currently waist deep in the alligator tank.

  She was going after one of the five-footers. The creatures knew by now to stay clear of her, but she grabbed one by the tail. It thrashed and splashed as she pulled it toward her. She’d been doing five shows a day at Dr. Weird’s Medicine Show, just a mile down the highway from Gatorland in Florida, tourists on their way back from Disney looking to squeeze just a little more out of their vacations. Mavis wrestled alligators. Jack contorted himself and threw knives at moving targets. He used to split apples off the heads of brave volunteers, but the insurance for that sort of thing was outrageous.

  For a while, Mavis had put the apple on her head. She’d trusted Jack with the knives but eventually wanted a more active part in the act. Another reason for the muscles. Now she sometimes held Jack upside down by the ankles while he tossed knives at various objects. They’d tried a number of variations on the act, but nothing was as popular as Mavis wrestling the alligators.

  Jack’s cell phone rang. He checked Mavis before answering. She had the animal in a headlock, the situation well in hand. He turned his back on the scene and answered the phone. “Hello?”

  “Jack. It’s Louis Ortega.”

  “Been a while, mate. I thought maybe you’d for
got about old Jack.”

  “Never. I just haven’t had anything worthy of your talents.”

  “Anything that pays is worthy,” Jack said.

  “And how’s your wonderful wife?”

  “Mean,” Jack said. “Let’s conclude the small talk.”

  “Uh, yes. Can you get free a couple of days?”

  “If the price is right.”

  Ortega explained the situation. And the price was right. Very right. Jack told Ortega he and Mavis would get on it straightaway. He hung up and turned back to his wife in the alligator tank.

  “Who was that?” Mavis now had an alligator under each arm. She swung them around experimentally. She’d been working on some new moves lately.

  “Louis Ortega.”

  She looked up, interested. “A job? Is the pay good?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Enough for us to go to Hollywood?”

  “More than enough.” Although Jack had no intention of going to California. Land of fruits and nuts, his old man used to say.

  Mavis beamed, tossed the alligators aside, and climbed out of the tank with a squeal. She scooped Jack up, cradled him in her arms like a child. “Let’s go back to the room.”

  “Easy, old girl.”

  “I’m going to fuck you silly, little man.”

  Bloody hell!

  17

  Linda made Andrew set the table and fill the water glasses. She seemed to enjoy taking over. Keone had still been there when she’d arrived, and he’d lifted his eyebrows upon catching a whiff of the steaming lasagna. Linda had assured him there was plenty and invited the boy to stay.

  Under other circumstances Mike might have telephoned the boy’s parents to let them know their son was staying for dinner. But the kid seemed to come and go as he pleased. He’d met Keone’s father only once, and the big Indian had frightened him, a hard man who seemed quick to anger and maybe a little suspicious of the white man who’d taken an interest in his son. His mother was a dour, stone-faced woman of few words. From Keone, Mike had gathered that the boy’s family lived two hills over in a shabby single-wide trailer on a few rugged acres. Keone threaded his way through the forest to show up for work. Mike didn’t pay the kid much, but Keone seemed to think it was a fortune.

  Mike told all this to Linda when Andrew and Keone were out of the room. She’d been curious about the boy, had wondered how he’d fallen in with an old crank like Mike.

  Mike said, “Keone’s never told me directly, but I infer his father runs a meth lab tucked back into one of these little valleys somewhere. A lot of that in this part of the country.”

  Linda sighed, shook her head, and went into the kitchen.

  Mike knew what she was thinking. Linda was the kind of woman who’d want to call social services, get Keone into a home or something. Well, it was Mike’s call, and right now he decided to leave well enough alone. The kid seemed healthy, didn’t show any signs of abuse.

  Linda tossed salad in the kitchen, called to Mike over her shoulder. “You promised wine.”

  “Right.” Mike lifted up the carpet in the living room, threw open the square trapdoor in the wood floor.

  “What’s that?” Andrew looked into the hole.

  “Wine cellar.” Mike climbed down the ladder, pulled the string for a low-watt bulb hanging on a wire.

  Andrew climbed down after him, seemed impressed by the rough stone and clay walls braced by thick beams. “Cool. How long did it take you to dig this out?”

  “Too damn long.” Mike scanned the racks for a good bottle. Most of this stuff was ready, but some of the bottles had probably gone to vinegar. His corking skills were still improving, and if air got into any of the bottles, it would ruin them.

  Andrew spotted a wooden chest against the wall. “What’s this?” He started to lift the lid.

  Mike crossed the small cellar in two steps and slammed the lid back down. “Do you mind? That’s hidden away down here for a reason.”

  “I didn’t mean to— I just—” The look on Andrew’s face went from startled to angry. “Jesus, you don’t have to be so hostile. I was just curious.”

  Mike exhaled, shook his head. Maybe the kid was right. Mike resented the kid for interrupting his life. It wasn’t Andrew’s fault. He was just doing what his father told him. “Sorry. Here, take a look.”

  He opened the chest, dust puffing, hinges creaking. He took a cloth bundle, unwrapped it, and showed the old Thompson gun to Andrew. It had been wrapped tight in oilcloth and still glistened new, no rust.

  “Whoa.” Andrew held out his hands. “Can I hold it?”

  The barrel magazine wasn’t in it, but Mike checked the breach. Empty. He handed the gun to his nephew.

  “Heavy,” Andrew said.

  “There are a few pistols in there too, stuff from the old days,” Mike said. “Anyway, you can see why I didn’t want anyone messing around in here. Guns ain’t toys.”

  “Sure. No problem.” He ran his hand along the barrel, hesitated, then asked, “Did Dad use one of these?”

  “Your father ” Mike bit his lip, didn’t meet Andrew’s eyes. He took the Thompson back, wrapped it up again in the cloth. “He was a good man, Andrew. He believed in family. When you do what we did, you’ve got to have family. You can’t depend on anyone else. We got that from your grandfather. He taught us right. Dan talked about having a son when I used to know him. I’m sure he loved you. Was proud of you. Don’t think about the kind of man he was before you knew him. He was your father. That’s all that’s important.” He put the Thompson in the chest and shut the lid.

  “If family’s so important,” Andrew said, “then why did you stay away?”

  “That wasn’t about your father,” Mike said quickly. “That was about me, my problems. We never stopped being brothers. No amount of miles or years can change that. That’s why he sent you to me.”

  “What happened?”

  Mike felt the pang in his chest. How to explain something he didn’t fully understand himself? “Someday I’ll tell you about it. I promise.”

  Andrew looked thoughtful, nodded. “Okay.”

  Mike gave him a bottle of wine. “Give that to Linda. I’ll be up in a second.”

  Andrew took the bottle up the ladder.

  Mike paused over the chest, considered the weapons within. Maybe it was time to take out the guns again. If Andrew really was in trouble, maybe he should be ready just in case. But no, not the Thompson. That was overkill. He could take out one of the pistols, keep it in the drawer by his nightstand. But he didn’t want Andrew or Keone to find it. Kids were curious. He was always hearing on the news about some kid that got ahold of his dad’s gun and blew his own head off.

  He put the gun back in the chest, closed the lid. He’d think about it, but right now he’d feel better with the guns out of harm’s way. More important, out of sight. He told himself he was concerned about safety, but really he just didn’t want to see or think about the guns.

  He pulled the string and the bulb went out. He climbed back up the ladder, to the world of light and kitchen noise, shut the trapdoor on bad wine and history.

  * * *

  Linda had been right. Another person at the dinner table facilitated the flow of polite conversation. She asked about college. Andrew was glad to talk about it. A degree in music? What were his future plans? To teach? He wanted to form a band, of course. Play some kind of music nobody had heard before. Mike feigned interest by making vague noises and nodding a lot while he stuffed himself with lasagna and garlic bread.

  Dinner segued into satisfied moans. Mike sat back in his chair, sipped coffee. Linda had pronounced the Scorpion Hill Special Reserve a success and drank the last of it. Keone ate a chocolate chip cookie.