by Don Winslow
Which would have defeated the purpose of going for the gun in the first place.
I was pulling, Sami was screaming, Nathan was hollering, the car was spinning around, and then the gun went off.
Now Sami really screamed, because he thought his balls had been shot off. I screamed, too, because I thought the same thing. Then the gun went off again and we all screamed some more because the car plunged off the road. By the time it came to a landing, the gun ended up on the floor by Sami’s feet, Sami was trying to get his pants off, I was clutching the back of the driver’s seat, and Nathan was clutching his chest, gasping and coughing.
I lunged for the gun again but Sami had it in his hand and pointed it at my head. His hands were shaking like crazy but I figured that even he couldn’t miss at this range so I sat back and tried to catch my breath.
Sami got out of the car and looked down at his pants.
“They’re still there,” he said. But he was hopping up and down because he had some truly wicked powder burns.
“What, were you trying to kill me?!” Nathan yelled at me.
“You tried to kill me!” Sami screeched at me.
So it was all my fault, of course. Then I saw two big holes in the floor of the car and realized that I had just shot not Sami but a 1965 Mustang. Then I smelled the gasoline.
“Get out!” I yelled at Nathan.
But he was struggling with the seat belt.
I jumped out the driver’s side, ran around the back of the car and jerked the door open. These seat belts are perfectly simple when you’re getting out at the grocery store or something, but they’re another thing altogether when your hands are shaking, your legs are quivering, an old man is fumbling around with the latch, and the car is about to blow.
And the old man is smoking a cigarette.
I snatched the cigarette out of his mouth and tossed it. Then I got the latch unhooked, got my arms under Nathan’s shoulders and knees and carried him away from the car. Sami realized what was going on and stopped hopping up and down long enough to start running.
Just as the stupid thing blew up.
Sami was hopping up and down again like Rumpelstiltskin, not because of the powder burns on his balls apparently, because now he was screeching, “My car! My car!”
I laid Nathan down, checked him for injuries and then felt around my own back to see if there were any stray pieces of a 1965 Mustang embedded in it. There weren’t any, so it was with some relief that I sat down beside Nathan.
“My car, my car,” Sami whimpered.
“Stop whining,” I said. “You have insurance, don’t you?”
For some reason that made Sami really moan. But by this time I was more pissed off than I was scared so I said, “Your precious car, my ass. You know something, you dumb little jerk? I’m glad I shot your car.”
Sami pointed the gun at me. “I shoot you now!”
“You’re not going to shoot us now,” I said.
I looked around. On the other side of the road there was a smaller dirt road that led up behind a small knoll. It looked as if there were some deserted shacks up there. Maybe it was a deserted old mine. It would at least be some shelter for the night and some shade for the next day. If there was one.
I helped Nathan up and asked him if he was okay to walk. He said he was, so we started up the little road toward the shacks.
“I shoot you now!” Sami said as we headed out.
“No, you’re not,” I said. “Think for a second, Sami. If you shoot us now, you can’t get away from the scene of the crime. If you shoot us now, you’ll be a married man in San Quentin this time next year.”
Sami had a wonderfully blank expression on his face that I would have thought was funny if we hadn’t been marooned in the middle of the Mojave Desert with a not-overly-bright, incompetent criminal who still had the gun.
“Oh,” Sami said.
“Oh,” I answered.
“You’re right,” Sami said.
“This is probably a first for you,” Nathan said, so I figured he was basically intact.
We reached the old shack, which was in fact the remnants of a played-out mine of some sort. It was a one-room cabin with two busted-out windows with no glass, flanking a doorway with no door. Not only was there no glass and no door, there was no water, no food, no blankets, no nothing of anything that we could use.
But there was nowhere else to go and Nathan looked like he was out of gas.
“I’m staying here,” I said.
“Me too,” said Nathan.
Sami didn’t know what to do, so the next step was fairly predictable—he called Heinz.
“Mr. Silverstein,” I whispered while Sami was dialing, “would you mind telling me why these people want to kill you?”
Nathan shrugged, “Maybe they saw the beach movies.”
For some reason I thought he was being disingenuous.
Then again, I had seen the beach movies.
“Hello, Heinz?”
Nathan nudged me. “So this fella Hannigan had a schlong that a horse shouldn’t have. That an elephant shouldn’t have. They called him the One-Eyed Giant, and not because he was tall, either.…”
“Sorry, Heinz, I forget, okay? I’m very upset.… I can’t do that, Heinz.… Because then I couldn’t get away from the scene of the crime.…”
“One night we’re in a restaurant,” Nathan continued. “I’m having a nice piece of fish. Hannigan leans over the table to get the salt and his eye falls out. I go to cut my fish, think I’m looking at the fish-eye, but what I am looking at is Hannigan’s eye.…”
“Can you come get me, Heinz? I’m sorry. I forget. Where am I? Hold on.” Sami looked around. “In the desert.”
“I start to cut into the fish,” Nathan continued, “and Hannigan looks at me with his one eye and says, ‘When did you ever see a fish with blue eyes?’ Well, he starts to laugh, I start to laugh, Paulette starts to laugh. ‘When did you ever see a fish with blue eyes?’
“Some old mine, or something.…” Sami started to give him directions. “Then you go … Hello? Hello?”
“The battery’s dead,” I said.
“Shit.”
“You can recharge it in the car.”
Sami gave me the best dirty look he could with his one good eye.
“I shoot you,” he said.
“Not until Heinz gets here, you won’t.”
So I guess I told him.
“So Hannigan picks up his eye and goes into the washroom. I go with him. He starts to wash the eye under the tap when he loses his grip and the eye goes down the drain. We call the owner, Jack Donahue …”
“Heinz is coming,” Sami said.
“Yippee.”
“… who was married to the former Dorothy DeLillo, whose sister was Marjorie DeLillo. Together they used to be the former DeLillo Sisters.…”
So Heinz was coming. At least we’d get to meet the whole brain trust. Heinz was coming, and I didn’t expect Sami to try anything horrible until the boss got here. In the meantime there was a lot to do. It wouldn’t hurt to get a fire going, because desert nights can get very cold, especially for an old man.
So I gathered up some slats from the old shack, borrowed Nathan’s lighter, and got the fire going. Then I sat back on an old log, watched the fire, and the bright stars, which in the desert night looked like they were about ten feet away, and thought about old men and babies.
And lost chances.
Chapter 16
Maybe it was hormones.
But it just bugs me that whenever a woman gets truly emotional about something, men ascribe it to hormones. Like they’re something we made up.
Hormones are real.
So is wanting a baby and wanting it now. I mean, I was no Suzy Creamcheese sorority chick when I met Neal. My biological clock was already ticking and if Neal wanted to wait two more years I just didn’t think I could stand it. My biological clock was becoming a time bomb.
So if it was
hormones, so what?
These hips were made for babies.
And the dumbshit would make a great father if he’d just get over his own screwed-up childhood, and he knows it. But I guess I was a little rough on him. Anyway, after I talked to him on the phone I went upstairs and checked the calendar, did the temperature thing, and discovered that the old ovaries were in overdrive.
We’re talking prime time.
And I thought, hell, if I can get my butt down to Palm Desert maybe I could surprise Neal and we could do it before he had a chance to start whining about how screwed-up he is.
So I phoned up Peggy Milkovsky and she phoned up one of the crop-spraying outfits and sure enough there was a pilot heading down to Indio, which isn’t too far from Palm Desert, and he said he’d be happy for the company.
I put a few things in a bag, met the pilot at the airstrip and got to Indio just as the sun was going down. I found Nathan Silverstein’s address in the Greater Coachella Valley phone book, got myself a cab over there and rang the bell.
To tell the truth, I felt kind of pathetic standing there on the front step, with my bag, my bubbling ovaries, and my round heels. Talk about easy.
Chalk it up to temporary insanity, please.
A woman answered the door. I think she was expecting somebody else because she was wearing a white see-through full-length negligee, high heels, and red lipstick.
“You must be Hope White,” I said.
“That’s right, honey,” she said. She gave me a woman’s once-over and added, “And Nathan must be doing better than I thought.”
“Is Neal Carey here, by any chance?”
“No, he’s not.”
Then I did the weirdest thing.
I started to cry. I don’t mean sniffle, either. I started to bawl.
I’m no wussy. I’m a rootin’, tootin’ cowgirl mountain woman. I’ve birthed calves, gelded horses, and stitched up drunken cowboys. I’ve comforted abused kids, stuck shotgun barrels into the crotches of their no-good daddies, even listened to Neal Carey try to sing and never cried. I don’t cry easily.
But there I was, standing in front of a nearly naked woman bawling my eyes out and I don’t know why.
It’s just that at that moment I really needed to see him and he wasn’t there.
So I was weeping and Hope White pulled me inside and sat me on on the couch and actually said, “There, there, dear…”
I was just blubbering.
“You’re looking for Neal?” she said gently.
I blubbered and nodded.
“You really need to find him, don’t you?”
Blubber and nod.
“Honey,” Hope said as she put her arm around me, “are you crying because this Neal got you into trouble?”
“No,” I blurted, “I’m crying because he didn’t!”
Next thing I knew my head was resting in her ample bosom and she was stroking my hair and saying, “There, there.… There, there.… You just cry and tell Hope all about it.”
And I did.
Chapter 17
Dear Diary,
What a night!
After the German fellow left I took a long bubble bath, made myself some dinner out of Natty’s refrigerator, then got all dressed up the way Natty likes. (Blush, blush.)
Sure enough, about an hour later the doorbell rang and I thought it was Natty and he had forgot his key. So I went to the door, flung it open, flung my arms open to show him (blush, blush) the goods, and Surprise! It was a young woman!
At first I was a little upset, Diary, because I thought Natty had himself some young honey and let me tell you, this one is a looker! Thick black hair, gorgeous eyes, and the hips …
Well, it turns out that she’s not looking for Natty after all (A good thing for her. A good thing for Natty!), but for this Neal Carey I met in Vegas. The one who was supposed to be bringing Natty home.
I told the poor dear—Karen is her name—that Neal wasn’t there and the sweet thing starts to cry like her heart is going to break. What else could I do? I brought her in and sat her down and listened to her story.
Diary, the trouble is that this Neal will marry her but not give her a baby. Just the reverse of the usual story. Go figure.
I told her, “Sweetie, you’re going about this all the wrong way!”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
I told her, “Just get him in the sack but don’t tell him that you ‘forgot’ your birth control.”
“I couldn’t do that,” she said. “It wouldn’t be honest. It wouldn’t be healthy for the relationship.”
Honesty, relationship … Young people these days. In our day we didn’t worry so much about honesty and relationships. Girls got pregnant, guys married them, we had families, we made out all right.
Anyway she had a good cry and told me all about her and Neal. Imagine that boy not wanting to have a baby with a beautiful girl like this!
But then we got to wondering, Where were Natty and Neal, anyway? When Karen told me about Natty taking Neal’s car and Neal setting off to find him, I started to get real worried. Then I told Karen about Mr. Schaeffer and Miss Done, and the German fellow, and she started to get concerned.
Then Karen called Mr. Graham, and I got on the extension, and the three of started to get worried together.
What could Natty have seen? we all wondered.
“Unless it had something to do with the fire,” I said.
“What fire?” Mr. Graham asked.
“The one next door,” I said.
“Do you happen to know the address?” Mr. Graham asked.
“I can go look,” I said, and I did. The street numbers are painted on the sidewalks. It was 1385 Hopalong Way, and I told Mr. Graham so.
He said he’d call back. In the meantime Karen tried to call Mr. Schaeffer, but he wasn’t in. She found his home phone number but he wasn’t there, either. I’ll just bet he’s out with Miss Done. There’s a spark there, I think.
Mr. Graham called back half an hour later.
“The condo belongs to a Heinz Muller,” he said.
Diary, that’s the German fellow who said he was Natty’s friend! I should have known that Natty wouldn’t be friends with a German. He won’t even ride in a German-made car! What was I thinking about?!
Suddenly, Diary, I knew what had happened! Natty had seen something in connection with the fire! After all, Natty had spent years playing the Catskill hotels—he’d know arson when he saw it.
I think—Oh, excuse me, Diary! There’s the door! It must be Natty! Thank God! I’ll be right back!
Chapter 18
From the tape of an illegal microphone planted at the Silverstein residence by Craig Schaeffer. The voices have since been identified as those of Heinz Muller (HM), Hope White (HW) and Karen Hawley (KH).
HW: Just what do you mean, coming in like that?
How did you get in?
HM: What did the old Jew tell you?
HW: I beg your pardon? “Old Jew”? You get out right
now before I telephone the police.
HM: What did he tell you?!
HW: Let go of me!
HM: What did he tell you?!
HW: Nothing.
(Sound of a slap.)
(Sound of footsteps.)
KH: Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?! Let her go! Then get your sorry butt out of here before I kick it out.
HM: You terrify me.
KH: Mister, I’ll put this boot so far up your ass you’ll need a pair of vise-grips and a bottle of good whiskey to get it out. HM (Laughing): I would like to see you try.
(Unidentified sound: a dull thump.)
(Various bellowing sounds.)
KH: Hope, call 911.
HW: Honey, I haven’t seen a kick like that since the line at Harrah’s.
KH: Hope, call 911.
HM: Don’t do that.
(Sound of telephone ringing.)
HW: Silverstein residence. Oh, hello, Mr
. Graham. Listen, I think we’ve located Mr. Muller. He’s here right now and—Oh, dear, I’m afraid I have to hang up right now. He has a—
Chapter 19
Gun.
I should have known.
I mean, I kicked that son of a bitch between the legs so hard I half expected to see his balls come flying out his mouth. The big muscle-bound Kraut hollered like a bull that’s becoming a steer. Neal would probably call this an “apt analogy” because—Well, never mind. You get the picture.
And Neal is always telling me that if I’m going to put a guy down make sure he stays down. You know, finish him off. “Turn out the lights, the party’s over” kind of thing.
As if Neal would know. The last time I saw him fight was a barroom brawl with some white-supremacist trash a couple of years back. Neal blocked a couple of punches with his jaw and then kind of dragged his guy to the floor and passed out on top of him. He wasn’t exactly John Wayne. But he was game.
I think fighting’s stupid, anyway.
It was just that this Muller jerk was so damn arrogant. You know, first he breaks in, then he pushes Hope around, and I’ve just seen enough of that trashy behavior to last a lifetime.
And I gave him a chance. I explicitly told him what would happen if he didn’t leave and he said he’d like to see me try it, and I was happy to oblige him in that particular request.
He was one big, strong, hulking side of beef, too. But every man has his Achilles’ heel, you know, and generally it isn’t anywhere near his foot. I mean if you’ve ever seen a cowboy chasing a little calf, and that calf kicks a hoof back around crotch-high, and you’ve seen that cowboy kneeling in the dirt sucking for air, you have a pretty good idea of what Heinz-baby looked like at that particular moment.
So, anyway, there he was on his knees with his big baby-blues bulging out his stupid face, and that’s where I ought to have finished him off, according to famed pugilist Neal Carey. But I didn’t and the son of a bitch had a gun.
A big pistol. A magnum.
I have a theory about men who own magnums. My theory is that they have to buy one because they don’t have one, you know? And the way this Muller galumph held that handpiece, you just got the feeling that however large and passed out on top of him. He wasn’t exactly John Wayne. But he was game.