Lone Star

  “Well,” Chloe mumbled, suddenly cold. She shivered even though it was hot in Warsaw, hot and over the top. Anarchy, mad beasts, semi-quavers, a thousand lifetimes, dancing men about to be hanged, and heartbreak, all in one reconstructed colorful plaza. “Math has always been Blake’s weakest subject. Let’s hope he can’t count.” It wasn’t true. The psychology of young restless women was Blake’s weakest subject.

  “Yeah.” Hannah’s shoulders were heavy. “Look, I know how this seems.”

  “Okay.”

  “I can’t excuse it or justify it. I just have to work through it, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Just be my friend, Chloe.”

  “I am, poodle,” Chloe said. “Maybe you can talk to Martyn?”

  “Oh God. Blake might be able to help me with Planned Parenthood in Augusta, drive me four hours in his mother’s car, pay for it maybe, but Martyn? Never. He’ll want me to keep it, and then what am I going to do?”

  Chloe didn’t see another option. “What do you want? To go to Augusta?”

  “I don’t understand. Is that code for something?”

  “Yes, Hannah. It’s code for what do you want to do about your baby?”

  “Shh! And don’t call it a baby. It’s a pregnancy, that’s all. I don’t know what to do. I want to go to school. I want to move away. I certainly don’t want to live with Blake in Fryeburg. Which option will help me achieve that?”

  “Talking to Martyn.”

  “But I can’t! He’ll want to marry me. I can’t! That’s even worse.”

  “Don’t worry,” Chloe said. “He’ll hypnotize you. He’ll make you okay with it.”

  “Stop joking.”

  “Who’s joking? Look”—she pointed—“get hold of yourself, Blake’s coming. We’ll talk about this later, ok—”

  Suddenly Chloe stopped speaking as if her tongue had been sliced out. Across the square in the far corner, near a beer bar, she spotted the dark messy shape of Emil, standing almost invisibly in black clothes, against the wall, watching Johnny with ominous eyes, watching the people throwing money into Johnny’s guitar case.

  Chloe didn’t even say excuse me to Hannah. She bolted.

  “Emil!” she yelled, sprinting as fast as she could across the square.

  Behind her, she heard Blake yelling no no.

  Through the microphone she heard Johnny yelling NO NO.

  She paid them no mind. She chased Emil down one of the side streets. And the bastard ran! A two-hundred pound dude ran from a girl. He didn’t stop to confront her. He ran like the craven thief that he was through the alleys, hoping to find a place to hide.

  Behind her, she heard Johnny yelling, heard Johnny and Blake shouting things. They were running after her, perhaps to protect her. Or stop her. She didn’t know. She wouldn’t stop. Or be protected.

  All she knew was that a bad man did something terrible, and one way or another she was going to force a reckoning.

  Unable to lose Chloe, Emil made a wrong turn and got cornered in a dead end. He stopped running and spun around.

  “Leave me alone, you bloody maniac,” he panted, putting his arms out. “You’re going to get sodding hurt.”

  “I’m already hurt,” she blurted. “Give me my money, and I’ll leave you alone.” She ran up to him, panting herself, unable to catch her breath.

  “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

  Because she was unable to speak, on furious impulse, she grabbed his buttoned shirt. It ripped. They grappled as he tried to pry her off him. “What are you doing?” he yelled in his perfect English. “Get the fuck away from me, you crazy bitch.”

  “No! Give me my money!” She pounded Emil’s chest.

  “It’s not your money, sweetheart,” Emil said, grabbing her arms and shoving her away.

  “Hey! Don’t touch her!” Blake and Johnny were in the alley. Now that they were here, she became only more incensed, as if she now had back-up. Blake shoved Emil in the chest. Emil staggered back, nearly falling. Blake and Johnny got between him and Chloe, like a wall. A standing, panting wall.

  “It is my money!” she shouted.

  “She’s right, dickweed,” Blake said. “One way or another you’re going to give us back what’s ours.”

  “No! It’s my fucking money.” Emil spat and pointed to Johnny, his own face a mask of distorted aggression. Chloe was glad Blake and Johnny were in front of her. “You’re such a fucking bastard. You stole from me again, got me into heavy shit again. You’ll pay for that, I promise you.”

  “You’re fucked up,” Johnny said. “You mean I took back what you stole? I told you I’d pay you. Why didn’t you listen?”

  “Because I didn’t fucking believe you.”

  “Well, you should believe me now,” said Johnny. “Because you’ll never see another cent from me.”

  “You’re all mouth and no trousers, mate, like always. I never saw any money from you. But you were happy to take my candy, though, weren’t you? Did you have one of your cronies steal the passports off Rolando? He paid me big time for those! When I find out who your local is, he’s dead, you hear me? Is it Chris? That boy is fucked—because of you.”

  “Why don’t you quit with the threats,” Blake said, “and give us back our money and our backpacks, and we’ll be on our way, and you can get back to doing whatever you were doing before we came along. What was it, mugging old ladies? Hop to it, cowboy.”

  “Your bags are at the bottom of fucking Vistula,” Emil said, not budging. “Go jump in after them.”

  “You’re going to give me our money and our fucking backpacks,” Blake repeated.

  Chloe became afraid. She almost wanted to pull Blake back to safety.

  The three men squared off, threateningly close, face to face, glare to glare.

  “Nothing’s yours. It’s all mine now. Your friend here owes me.”

  “But I don’t fucking owe you!” Blake yelled. “She doesn’t fucking owe you!”

  Yeah, Chloe wanted to echo, jumping up and down, trying to squeeze in between them. Yeah!

  “His friends are my enemies. Everything you have is mine.”

  “Emil,” Johnny said. “You took their passports, their cameras, their cash. You took their backpacks that had their personal shit. You took more than I ever owed you. And you didn’t wait a single fucking day. I came back to Warsaw to pay you.”

  “I don’t give a toss why you came back. I don’t believe you. And I couldn’t wait. How about that?” Emil swung. Johnny ducked. Emil swung at Blake. Blake didn’t duck fast enough. Emil’s fist caught him on the cheekbone under the eye. Blake swung at Emil, but Emil danced back as if in a ring. Blake went for him again, and now it was Johnny who got between them.

  “Blake, no,” Johnny said quietly. “Just flank him.”

  Panting, Blake stepped sideways, one of his arms reaching back to keep Chloe away. She knew she was too close. But Blake was too close.

  “Just give us our stuff,” Blake said, wiping the blood off his face with his sleeve, “and we won’t bother you.”

  “I will fucking bother you,” Emil said. “Stay out of it. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “You take our passports and two grand of our money? I’d say it has something to do with me.”

  Everybody’s fists were clenched, except for Johnny’s. His hands were straight like motionless boards. He was barely breathing. Blake’s heaving wide denim shoulders were in front of Chloe. Chloe tried to push him out of the way, to get into Emil’s face again.

  “In one second I’ll call for the cops,” she yelled. “You can explain to them why you robbed nine people.”

  Emil laughed. “Yes, please! Do it. Johnny loves the coppers, don’t you, Johnny-boy?”

  “Shut the fuck up.” That was Johnny. “Give them back their money. I’m not asking, Emil. I’m done asking.”

  “You give her back what you took from her,” Emil said, shoving a threatening but stock-still Johnny in
the chest with both fists. “This is all on you.”

  Johnny’s body faltered, but his feet didn’t move from their spot on the stones. What had he called it in Sestokai? An immovable stance. “I didn’t take her fucking money.” They were verbally hot, their bodies inching closer. And Blake wasn’t stepping away.

  “Yes you did. You’re the one who robbed everybody, me included.” Emil had no means of escape, yet he stared fearlessly into Johnny’s face. “I don’t give a shit how you two threaten me. Tell your friend to stand down unless he wants some serious hurt. You’re never getting the money.” Emil glanced darkly at Blake. “You’ll be lucky to leave here with your life, Yank. You picked the wrong horse to back.”

  “I’m backing nobody,” Blake said. “And don’t tell me to stand down. I just want my fucking money. You know you’re not getting out of here without giving it up, so why are you being such an asswipe?”

  “Emil,” Johnny said, “don’t look at him. Look at me. This has nothing to do with him.”

  “Then why’d you involve him, toe-rag?”

  “Shut the fuck up and give them their money.” Johnny leaned to Blake. “Blake, please.” Not taking his eyes off Emil, he gestured sideways with his head. “Chloe.”

  Blake stepped away from Emil and Johnny and toward Chloe.

  “Chloe, move back,” he hissed, blocking her with his body. “I won’t be able to do this if I’m worrying about you.”

  Chloe pressed her small self against the wall, but didn’t move far.

  Emil and Johnny circled each other like wolves. Emil’s fists were clenched. Not Johnny’s.

  “You stole thousands of dollars,” Johnny said. “You sold their passports for another two thousand dollars. You’ll get ten years for that alone. And I don’t owe you two grand total.”

  “You’re so right about that, mate. Spot on. You owe me forty-seven hundred dollars. So I’m still fucking short. And Rolando wants either his passports back or his money. So there’s that.”

  “Since they’re not his passports, he’s fucked because he’s getting neither.”

  “Oh, he is.”

  “So pay him. Stop thieving. Pay somebody.”

  “You pay somebody!”

  “I don’t owe you forty-seven hundred fucking dollars!” Now Johnny was yelling.

  “Did you forget penalties and interest?”

  “What are you, a fucking bank?”

  “Worse than that, old chap. I’m the connected guy you owe money to.”

  “You’re a thief!” Chloe yelled. “You’re going to jail for this!”

  “Chloe, shh!” Blake stood in front of her.

  “Ask your boy here about jail. He knows all about—”

  Johnny’s fist flew out. Emil tried to weave out of the way, but Johnny was quick. There was a dull thump, and Emil was on his back on the ground, holding his face. Blood streamed from his nose through his fingers. Blake tried to shield Chloe so she wouldn’t see. But she saw. Clutching Blake’s arm, she gaped at Emil’s broken face in fascinated revulsion.

  Emil wasn’t safe. But he didn’t know it. Or maybe he knew it and didn’t care. Grunting, guttural, livid, he struggled up, his nose gushing blood, and took a boxing stance against Johnny, who was taller but thinner. They weren’t in the same weight class. In Emil’s hands flicked a long thin switchblade.

  Johnny opened his steady hands to show Emil what was in his. He also wielded a knife, this one much more intimidating, with a long double-edged black blade.

  “A World War II military fighting knife,” Johnny said. “The sharpest, strongest, the best. You think you can throw your little pocket job?” He moved into a throwing stance. “Go ahead. But if you miss, mine is going straight into your throat.”

  Chloe choked back a scream.

  Emil hesitated for only a second. Then he threw his knife. Johnny jerked his head back, and the knife flew past his face, landing on the stones.

  “Now what are you going to do, you dumb fuck?” said Johnny. But he didn’t throw his knife. He took two long strides to Emil, turned his body sideways and kicked out his leg. Emil was ready. He tried to grab it, but the alligator-boot caught Emil in his throat between his clenched fists. This time Emil went down and stayed down.

  Chloe was gasping for breath. She and Blake stood stunned, staring at the limp man on the ground. Johnny studied Emil for a few moments and then flipped him over onto his stomach, faceplanted him into the stone, and yanked off his backpack. He rummaged around until he found what he was looking for: a wad of cash, a wallet, a lighter, cigarettes. Johnny took everything. He even took Emil’s ring of keys and dropped it into a sewer grate. He also took some small ziplock bags filled with things Chloe couldn’t quite see. He pulled both sets of shoelaces out of Emil’s Adidas sneakers, made a quick but elaborate handcuff knot, slipped Emil’s wrists into the loops, yanked them tight and then tied the ends together in a gunner’s knot over a pipe in the wall. Emil stayed unconscious. Chloe couldn’t tell if he was breathing. Blake remained by her side; they were both silent as they watched Johnny. Chloe had never witnessed such violence. It alternately terrified and thrilled her. It was electrifying to be in the presence of someone who could make his body into a weapon that knocked a two-hundred-pound man flat to the concrete.

  “Blake, you okay?” she whispered, reaching out to touch the cut in his cheek.

  “I’m better than he is,” Blake said, gesturing to Emil. “I’m fine. It’s a scratch.”

  Finally Johnny slid the knife under his jeans and back into his boot, and jumped up. Facing them, he appraised Blake’s face. He wasn’t panting or even heavily breathing. His face wasn’t red like Chloe’s felt. He was somber and utterly calm.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “You did good, Blake. But he’s not dead. If I’d thrown my knife, he’d be dead, and we’d be safe for a second, but then there’d be a manhunt. Too many people saw us chase him. As it is, we have very little time.”

  “To do what?”

  “To leave Warsaw. Once he comes to, he’ll try to scream. He won’t be able to with his throat injury, but guaranteed some nosy passersby will get the cops, and the rest will all be shit. First place they’ll look for us is the train station. So come on. Chloe, you okay? You ran so fast before. Why dawdle now?”

  Chloe didn’t think she was dawdling. She thought she was hurrying. “Leave Warsaw? But it’s night.”

  “We’ll take the midnight train to Krakow.”

  “We have no money.”

  “You have two Eurail tickets. And I’ll give you money.” He ran ahead. For Chloe there was no choice. She raced after him, Blake on her heels.

  “Every single thing you get us into turns to shit,” Blake said into Johnny’s back when they had almost caught up. Johnny had slowed to a fast walk as they entered the more crowded streets. “Even this. We’re fugitives now, is that it?”

  “I’d love to chat with you about all the things you think are wrong with me,” Johnny replied, “but I can’t. Unless you want to leave them, you still have to get your suitcases from the hotel. Emil is going to wake up. You do understand that you and I beat him and robbed him, right?”

  Chloe gave Blake an angry shove. “What’s wrong with you?” she whispered. “He got our money back. Be happy.”

  “Happy? He’s the reason it was stolen to begin with!” Blake didn’t care if Johnny heard.

  “Tonight we acquitted ourselves well,” Johnny said, striding fast. “I still have to pay my man Chris. He totally saved my ass. Whatever I’m short, I’ll make up to you in Krakow.”

  “You’re always coming up a little fucking short, aren’t you?”

  Johnny didn’t glance back. “I’m trying to make good on a lot of shit, Blake,” he said. “Cut me some fucking slack.”

  Slack was something Blake had none of. Chloe saw that. The pace with which Johnny was walking told Chloe that they needed to get out of Warsaw stat, and that he would leave them all behind if he had to. He would lea
ve Chloe behind. He would go his own way, leave nothing but smoke on the water. Whatever happened, Chloe would not be left behind. The gallows awaited. She sped up.

  29

  The Dragon and the Honey

  THE NIGHT TRAIN TO KRAKOW WAS ABOMINABLE. IT WAS loud, lurching, and smelled of fermented alcohol and fermented people. It was a crossroads on the River Styx. Every which way was hell.

  To make matters worse, their sliding door wouldn’t stay latched. It kept popping open. They would hear chaos from down the corridor, wailing dogs and children, fighting adults, unrestrained laughter, maniacal sermons, all in a foreign tongue, which made it all the more frightening because it left Chloe to imagine the reasons for the purgatory fires.

  Inside the compartment was not a walk in the park either.

  “So what did Emil mean,” Blake asked Johnny after they settled in, “about you knowing jail?”

  “I dunno.” Johnny leaned back, pulling his beret down over his eyes. “I don’t remember him saying it.”

  “Really? It was the last thing the douchebag said before you gave him an injury that might permanently stop him from talking. It’s rather surprising that you can’t remember why you wanted to knife him in the throat.”

  “It wasn’t because of his words, that’s for fucking sure,” Johnny said.

  “So was there jail or wasn’t there? Is that why you didn’t want the police involved?” Blake held a cold can of Coke to his swelling face.

  “I didn’t know this was an interrogation cell,” Johnny said, less mildly. “I thought I was on a train, trying to sleep. I was awake all night last night, you know, getting your shit back.”

  “Didn’t get my shit back,” interjected Mason.

  “Mase, what did you have in there?” asked Chloe.

  “Nothing. Just things. My journal.” Mason sighed and stopped speaking.

  “Or mine,” Blake said. “And I’m just asking a question, Johnny, trying to have a conversation.”

  Johnny refused to explain his connection to Emil, refused to illuminate on their history, or why he owed Emil money, or where he had vanished for twelve months, leaving Chloe to imagine the rest, the worst. She wanted to ask Johnny if he was sure he left Emil alive, if he was sure? She was afraid he would lie and say yes. What was more frightening: to be lied to or to not know? Chloe decided to be lied to was worse, so she didn’t ask. She wished someone would start talking about something light, but no one did, not even Johnny. She wished the unreliable lights would go out for just a minute, so Johnny could lean across and kiss her lips like before. But they didn’t. And he didn’t.