“I know you didn’t, baby.”
They sat in metal chairs on the Della Robbia porch making conversation, waiting for Dawn Navarro.
“Harry says these chairs have to be fifty years old,” Joyce said. “He never sits out here—doesn’t want to look like he’s retired. He said the way it used to be, every hotel along the beach you’d see old people lined up in their chairs like birds sitting on a telephone wire.”
A guy in his twenties, a grown man wearing shorts down to his knees, no shirt, but gloves and knee pads, went sailing past on a skateboard.
“Harry says the weirdos have taken over and he doesn’t like it. You know, maybe he did just take off.”
Raylan watched the guy on the skateboard, wondering if this was the high point of his life, weaving through crowds of people in bathing suits and resort outfits—the guy wanting everybody to look at him—skimming past the tables outside the Cardozo, across a the side street, where Raylan had walked inside to sit at a table with a man he told his time was up and when the man pulled a gun, shot him. He had thought it was going to happen with Bobby Deo, in front of Dawn’s house, but he didn’t force it and Bobby, on the edge of doing it, changed his mind. He wondered if he had wanted Bobby to pull his gun and tried to remember what he felt in those moments. There was too much to watch here to concentrate on something that didn’t happen. He wondered what he’d do if he saw Bobby now, on the street, Bobby going to see his girlfriend, Melinda. Raylan couldn’t picture them together. He liked Melinda for no special reason; he liked her because she seemed natural, full of life. He could stop in while he was down here, ask her . . . what, if she’d seen Bobby? Try to set something up? . . . He didn’t want to use her that way. He was thinking, though, she could help him bring Chip Ganz out in the open, and she might go for it. The Santa Marta, where Melinda was staying, was only a few blocks from here.
Joyce said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“What?”
“Letting her use Harry’s apartment.”
“It’s not her idea.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You said ‘letting her use it,’” Raylan said, “like she asked if she could.”
“How about ‘putting her up in Harry’s apartment’? Will you accept that?”
“Why don’t you think it’s a good idea?”
“Harry has nothing to say about it. Don’t you have places where you make arrangements to keep people like that?”
“Like what?”
“Witnesses—or whatever she is. Don’t you put them up in a hotel room?”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
“I know what it is,” Joyce said, “you don’t have authorization, so you’d have to pay for a room out of your own pocket. That’s why you thought of Harry’s place.”
“He won’t even know about it.”
“No, but that’s why you want to use it—it won’t cost you anything.”
Raylan let it go. She was looking for ways to criticize him or she was being protective of Harry or—whatever her reason, it didn’t matter.
They sat in silence watching vacationers, the fun-seekers, across the street in Lummus Park and out on the beach where you could burn your feet off without shoes getting to the ocean.
Joyce said, “Harry has a lot of nice things in his apartment.”
Raylan pictured Harry’s living room, looking for nice things. Harry had an imitation-leather recliner, so did Dawn.
“You afraid she might steal something?”
“No, but she could mess the place up. We don’t know anything about her,” Joyce said. “Does she cook?”
Raylan couldn’t recall any cooking smells in Dawn’s house. He said, “I don’t know.”
“That could present a problem.”
“You mean if she cooks?”
Joyce, watching people on the street, didn’t answer.
“Harry doesn’t cook, does he?”
She said, “What’s Harry have to do with it?”
“I don’t think she’ll go in there and start cooking anyway,” Raylan said, “so I’m not gonna worry about it.”
“Where is she?”
“She should be along any minute.”
“I’ll bet she doesn’t come,” Joyce said.
Raylan’s beeper went off. He took it out and looked at it, said, “Excuse me,” and went into the hotel.
As soon as he was back, standing by his chair, Joyce said, “She’s not coming.”
“It was the office,” Raylan said. “I have to work a court security detail. Some cartel guy’s getting sentenced.”
“You have to leave? What about Reverend Dawn?”
“You said you wanted to meet her.”
“I did? When?”
That’s right, it was Dawn who said Joyce wanted to meet her. Raylan said, “All you have to do is show her upstairs. You feel like it, you can keep her company, sit around and chat.”
Joyce said, “You suppose she’d give me a reading?”
twenty-five
Louis put the Mercedes back in the garage and went through the house to the study. Chip was still there on the sofa, the same as when Louis had left, but with expectation in his eyes now, like waiting to hear bad news.
“She wasn’t home,” Louis said.
“You go by the restaurant?”
“They said she must’ve gone to read somebody, so we fine, no problem. I get any calls?”
“Your buddy in Freeport,” Chip said. “I could barely understand him.”
“He leave a number?”
“Said he’d call back.”
Louis studied Chip on that big sofa, the man’s bones showing he was so thin, with kind of a yellow cast to him underneath his tan, like he might have some slow sickness taking over him, AIDS coming to Louis’s mind. He used to wonder if the man was queer or maybe went both ways. Dawn was the only woman Louis knew of the man had been with and Dawn said Chip was never much in bed, went through the motions and got it done. Louis used to worry the man might come on to him sometime, but it never happened.
“You feeling all right?”
Chip gave him a shrug.
“You look like you winding down,” Louis said. “Where’s Bobby?”
“I haven’t seen him.”
Louis used the remote to switch the picture from the front drive to the room upstairs—man, tired to death of this security shit. He saw Harry lying on his cot again, his shirt off, food from the dinner plate on the floor.
“Bobby still hasn’t shot him,” Louis said. “That’s good, since Harry’s all we got.” He saw Chip watching, but not saying anything. As tired of all this as you are, Louis thought. He switched the scene to the patio and there was Bobby standing at the table, his back to the camera.
Louis went out through the sunroom. He walked toward Bobby, still at the table, Louis saying, “What you doing out in the sun?”
Bobby came around to stand with his hands at his sides, arms loose. Louis recognized the pose. The next thing he saw was Bobby’s left hand lifting the front of his fiesta shirt while his right hand went in and dug his gun out of his waist. Bobby held it straight out for Louis to look at that black hole in the muzzle pointing at him.
“You suppose to hold it in two hands,” Louis said, “like the dicks in the movies do. Like Mel Gibson and them dudes, Bruce Willis . . .”
“Fuck them,” Bobby said. “I got it down, how I’m gonna do it.” He put the gun, his Sig Sauer, back in his waist and smoothed his shirt over it. “Can you see it’s there?”
“Can’t hardly tell. You practicing, huh?”
Bobby said, “Here,” turning to the patio table. He had the two Browning .380’s lying there. “Take one. Let’s see how you do.”
“You want me to play with you?”
“I want to know I can beat you.” Bobby handed Louis one of the pistols, then drew his Sig Sauer, laid it on the table, and stuck the other Browning into his waist. “I want to try
my piece and this one,” Bobby said. “See which one I get out faster.”
Louis said, “Yeah? Then what? You gonna go look for the marshal? He be in the saloon, man. They always in the saloon, you want to find them. Go through the swinging doors and everybody in the place stop talking.”
“I don’t have to look for him. He’s gonna come back, man, he can’t stay away.”
“Gonna shoot him right here.”
“Get it done. He don’t bother us no more.”
“What if he beats you to the draw?”
“Then I’m dead,” Bobby said. “That’s how it works, man. You ready? Stick it in your pants, on the side, where he has his.”
Man was crazy.
“The cowboy’s is in a holster.”
Bobby said, “I don’t give a shit. Stick it in your pants, let’s go.” His gaze moved.
Louis turned to see Chip at the French doors.
“Your friend’s on the phone.”
Chip followed Louis into the study, wanting to listen without being obvious about it. He stood by the desk, glanced at the TV screen, at Bobby with a gun in each hand, and swung around to Louis.
“Jesus, what’s he doing?”
Louis looked up from the sofa. He said to Chip, “Hey, I’m on the phone,” raised his eyes to the screen with no expression, watched Bobby for a moment and then said, into the phone, “Mr. Walker, my man . . . No, this is my pleasure. Man, I was worried about you.”
Bobby was seated now at the patio table, fooling with his gun. Chip looked down at the desk, at Louis’s partly eaten plate of dinner, okra and butter beans, Chip not sure if he’d ever tasted butter beans. He heard Louis say “uh-huh” a few times, listening to the guy he called Mr. Walker, then heard him say, “You did the right thing, man, separate yourself from that nigga. Could’ve taken you down with him.” Chip picked up the pork chop he believed hadn’t been touched, hearing Louis saying “uh-huh” again, several times. The pork chop looked good, the fatty part burnt to a crisp, and Chip was about to take a bite, taste it, but stopped. That tenderloin part of the chop was gone; Louis must’ve eaten it. Louis saying, “You not busy, I got something for you.” Saying, “Hey, even if you think you busy . . .” Chip put the pork chop down. Louis was laughing now. Chip looked over, knowing that laugh as the one Louis put on to show appreciation and what a nice guy he was. Louis saying then, “No, man, no product. This is a clean run I’m talking about. No contraband, no kind of shit of any kind like that . . . Yeah, right.” Chip looked at Bobby on the screen, still at the table, then back to Louis as he heard Louis say, “Three,” without saying three what. Now he said, “Yeah, I’m sure.” Listened for a while and said, “Let me ask you something first. You know any the ladies work at the Swiss bank? . . . Yeah? That’s how you pronounce it, huh, de Suisse?” Louis was grinning now as he listened. “Yeah, I thought you might have. Well, depending on how well you know the lady . . .” Chip watched Louis grinning as though he might actually be enjoying himself. “That’s right. You know before I even tell you.” Louis looked at Chip now as he said, “Listen to me, my man, we talking about fifty grand for a ride in your boat.” Louis grinning again, saying, “Yeah, dollars,” as Chip thought, What fifty grand? They hadn’t even discussed what they’d pay the guy and Louis was offering him fifty thousand dollars. Louis saying, “What you do . . . Listen to me now. You listening? . . . You know the Boynton Inlet? . . . No, man, that’s Lake Worth, port of Palm Beach, you too far north. Look at your map. You see the Boynton Inlet and right above it you come to Manalapan. Cut through the inlet, go on up—it’s like two miles, you see private docks along on the right side.” Louis paused to listen and said, “Man, will you look at your map, please?” Chip waited along with Louis. Now Louis said, “There you go, through the narrow part, yeah . . . I’m thinking tomorrow, Saturday.” Chip watched him nodding, saying now, “That’s fine with me. Mr. Walker, it’s my pleasure. I’ll call you there any changes. . . . Yeah, okay then. I’ll see you, man.”
Louis hung up the phone still smiling a little and looked at Chip.
“Mr. Cedric Walker was in the gun business. Got out right before the man he was dealing with went down.”
“You offered him fifty thousand,” Chip said.
“Yeah, and that’s cheap.”
“We don’t have fifty thousand.”
“We get paid, he gets paid.”
“That wasn’t what you told him.”
“Yeah, well, I will when he gets here.”
“What if he won’t take us?”
“Man, you got to stop worrying so much.”
Chip looked at the screen and then at Louis again, Louis lounged on the sofa.
“You said . . . at one point you said ‘three.’”
“I did? Three what?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking you.”
“I don’t recall saying it.”
“And right after, you said yeah, you were sure.”
Louis shook his head. “I don’t know, I must’ve been commenting on something Mr. Walker said. He’s gonna have a lady he knows at the bank look up Harry’s account, see how much he has in it. That must’ve been it, yeah. Mr. Walker asked we talking about a few million? I said yeah, about three. That was it.”
“You didn’t say ‘about three,’” Chip said. “You said ‘three.’”
Louis was pushing up from the sofa. “Maybe you didn’t hear it right. Maybe you’re stoned or you got wax in your ears.” He walked past Chip, glancing at the TV screen, Bobby still there waiting. Louis said, “You worry too much for no reason.”
Bobby got up from the patio table saying, “Okay, you ready now?”
“What you want me to do?”
“Here, put it in your pants.”
Louis took the Browning auto from him, looking at it, racking the slide then, saying, “It loaded?” He snapped the slide back again and a cartridge ejected. “You not suppose to play with a loaded gun, man.”
“I want the right feel, the weight,” Bobby said. “First I’m gonna try this one, then my own gun. You ready?”
Louis was wearing a loose white cotton shirt and loose gray cotton pants with a tan cloth belt. He slipped the Browning into his waist against his belly, and dropped his arms to his sides.
“Like this?”
“Move it around more to the side.”
Louis slid the gun around to his right hip.
“You need a coat,” Bobby said. “The guy always wears a coat.”
“Come on, man, we just playing.”
“I want to see what it looks like,” Bobby said. “I’ll get you one.” He went past Louis into the house.
Louis walked out to the swimming pool that looked like a pond with green scum covering it, the water a murky brown underneath, the sides of the pool turning black, Louis thinking there could be snakes in there, giant beetles and different kinds of ugly shit growing down in the bottom. He felt a breeze and raised his face to it, looking out at the ocean. He believed he could sit all day and look at the ocean, but had never tried it. He believed he’d like to have a boat and cruise around the Caribbean islands in it. Wear white pants, barefoot, no shirt, a red bandanna covering his head. No, kind of a lavender one.
Bobby came back with a black silk blazer hooked on his finger. He held it out. Louis had to come over to where Bobby stood by the table to take it and put it on. The coat fit him and felt good except for the sleeves, an inch or so too short on him.
He watched Bobby backing away now, almost to the edge of the patio. Louis turned to face him, seeing maybe fifty feet between them now. He moved toward Bobby saying, “Man, you too far away.”
Bobby backed up some more saying, “Stay there,” and Louis stopped.
He said, “Man, this far you have to be a dead shot,” brushed the sport coat open with his hand and put it on the grip of the Browning. When he brought his hand away, the coat’s skirt fell back in place. “What’re you gonna do, count to three?”
“You don’t count,” Bobby said, “you feel when the guy is gonna draw his gun and you go for your gun.”
“Watch each other’s eyes,” Louis said, “I think is what you do.” He stood in a slouch, hip-cocked, arms hanging loose at his sides. He watched Bobby getting ready. “Hey, I spoke to my man in Freeport. He’s coming Saturday.”
“I don’t want to talk now,” Bobby said. “Okay, you ready?”
“Ready for Freddy,” Louis said, watching Bobby shift around to get comfortable in his pose. “He ask me how many was he picking up,” Louis said.
“Man, quit talking, all right? You ready?”
“I’m ready,” Louis said.
He saw Bobby’s left hand pull up the front of his fiesta shirt, right hand digging for his gun. Louis whipped the skirt of the blazer aside, took hold of the Browning and pulled it free as he saw Bobby’s gun rising toward him, Bobby with his legs apart in kind of a crouch, the Puerto Rican gunfighter, putting that black muzzle-hole on him.
“You’re dead!” Bobby yelled.
Louis raised the Browning, cupped his left hand beneath the grip the way they did in the movies and fired. Shot Bobby square in the middle. Fired again and put another one in him, Bobby stumbling back now, arms in the air, tripping on the edge of the tiled patio and falling to land flat on his back.
Louis walked over to him. Saw blood covering the man’s good fiesta shirt. Saw his chest rising, working hard to suck in air. Saw his eyes open. Louis said, “Mr. Walker ask me how many people was he picking up. I told him three. You understand what I’m saying, Bobby? You ain’t going, nigga.”
It was like watching a movie. Not a feature film or even a made-for-TV movie. More like a low-budget flick shot on video—way too bright, the sun high above the two guys pointing guns at each other. But very familiar, a scene out of every cowboy flick ever made. Chip smoked his weed thinking, Shit, I’ve seen this one:
Louis with his back to the camera, a three-quarters rear view—Chip could see the gun Louis was holding—and Bobby facing the camera, his back to the swimming pool. Chip thinking, They’re like kids. Nothing else to do, nobody to shoot . . . He used to do this with his buddies. Want to play guns? They’d get out their cap pistols and shoot each other and stumble around taking forever to fall.