Resurrecting Midnight (51 page)

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Authors: Eric Jerome Dickey

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“Not that. No need to talk about that. Not now. Something else.”

“At this point, what is there?”

“North Carolina.”

“That.”

The Beast nodded. “What do you remember?”

“It’s doesn’t fucking matter what I
remember
. It’s about what you
know
.”

The Beast sipped his scotch. “Here as a friend or as a foe?”

“I’ve never been your foe. And, hopefully, you’ve never been mine.”

The Beast puffed his Cuban cigar. “We’re running on fumes. Battle weary.”

Medianoche said, “And we should close this out now.”

The Beast took his time, puffed his cigar again. “This is about Gideon.”

“This feels bigger than that.”

“First you see a young woman that reminds you of Thelma. That stirs you up in La Boca.” The Beast nodded. “Then this Gideon thing. Said he was your kid.”

“He can say whatever he wants. He’s not mine.”

The Beast shrugged. “I wouldn’t care one way or the other. An enemy is an enemy.”

“No one cares about the son of a whore. Not even a whore.”

“Señorita Raven said he was convinced he was your kid.”

Medianoche said, “From the mouth of a manipulative bitch. She said I raped her.”

The Beast puffed his cigar again. “Liar.”

“Damn good liar. The shrapnel-faced slag almost convinced me, and I know the truth.”

“You fucked her.”

“I fucked her.”

The Beast smiled. “That Indian pussy any good?”

“Not like it was brand-new.”

“You fucked her, then wanted to put her six feet under.”

“Enemies closer. That’s what you told me. I followed orders.”

“You’ve always been a good soldier.”

A moment went by. The wind whistled against the window.

Cold outside. Warm inside The Beast’s apartment.

Almost as warm as the islands.

The Beast sipped his scotch.

Medianoche watched him and nodded. “My father.”

“What about that loser?”

“Smelling your scotch brought back a few memories. He crossed my mind right now. That strict, pious, alcoholic, abusive, crazy sonofabitch, war veteran was a cockhound.”

The Beast nodded. “Like father, like son.”

Medianoche said, “Your mother took me and my old man in after that flood back in sixty-three.”

“My mother loved your old man. No matter how he treated her.”

“Your mother hated me. She beat me every chance she got.”

The Beast said, “Your old man was equally abusive.”

“He was a piece of work.”

“My crazy mother and your alcoholic father.”

“Match made in Hell. Couldn’t wait to get old enough to join the military.”

The Beast said, “You followed me into service.”

“I followed you. Went to serve my country, as every man should.”

That was something that was not in the files.

They weren’t brothers. But had been closer than siblings.

Medianoche tapped the wooden table for emphasis and said, “Montego Bay.”

“Back to that.”

“What do you remember? No. What did I forget, tell me that.”

“Thelma.”

“Thelma and anything else I need to know.”

“We both had Thelma. In Montego Bay, we had her and other women, but we had her the most. We drank and smoked. Sometimes we tag-teamed. Sometimes we had her at the same time. She did it all. Some days you went there, had her to yourself.”

“I take it you did the same.”

The Beast said, “She was good. To be so young, she was good.”

Medianoche nodded. “So we both had her.”

The Beast nodded.

Medianoche looked at his wrapped hands, licked the inside of his mouth and tasted blood, felt the ache in his kidneys and ribs, then glanced at his guns.

The Beast said, “You took me to dozens of whorehouses.”

“As therapy.”

“Wasn’t my thing. But it was yours.”

Medianoche said, “For your problem.”

“But you had the bigger problem. The way you loved the whores.”

“I enjoy women. The military didn’t find anything dishonorable about that.”

The Beast leaned back, made a face that said he’d had a surge of pain.

Either that or Medianoche’s words had hit him deep.

The Beast recovered and said, “You loved whores.”

“Never loved a whore. Never would. I loved the women I married.”

“Your wife in Montserrat almost got you to retire and live the boring island life.”

“Loved her. Most of all. And all for naught.”

“I loved my wife. And in the end, love is a currency that loses its value, like the peso.” The Beast shook his head. “But marriage never stopped a man from exercising his vices.”

“Or his demons.”

“But not like you, Medianoche. You went through women like they were . . . whores.”

“Not with my third wife.”

The Beast said, “Gracelyn.”

“Yeah. Gracelyn. I could be with a thousand whores, and not one could move me like one kiss from Gracelyn. She could kiss all night long. I’d never liked kissing, but I loved kissing Gracelyn. I was going to go back. Was going to say fuck it and go back to Montserrat.”

“What happened?”

“You called. The man who had saved my life called.”

“There was more work for The Four Horsemen.”

“And like a good soldier, I answered the call. Never went back to Montserrat.”

“Might not be too late.”

“It’s too late. Way too late for that.”

Medianoche looked around the pristine apartment.

He said, “Draco.”

“He was loyal and honorable. Will be missed.”

Medianoche nodded, opened and closed his hands. “His body?”

The Beast said, “I’ll handle the disposal of his remains.”

Medianoche licked his swollen lips. “I left three beautiful Latin women in Rodríguez’s apartment.”

“They’re still there?”

“They’re in the soldier’s apartment. I heard them laughing.”

The Beast nodded. “They’re waiting for him to come back.”

“Or the next customer. Looks like you’re going to need some assistance.”

“Back hurts so bad it’s impossible to bend over and wipe my ass.”

“You’ll be incapacitated a few days.”

“With this injury, yeah. Will be difficult to walk around. With Draco gone, until I can find a replacement, I’ll have to clean up and prepare my own meals.”

“The three whores could do all of that for you. Plus other things, if you needed.”

“Send them over. I will need nurses.”

“Like I needed a nurse in North Carolina.”

“Back to that again.”

Medianoche paused. “Tell me what I don’t remember.”

The Beast took in air. He sipped his scotch.

Medianoche said, “You were outside. When I was shot, you were there.”

The Beast nodded. Then he puffed his Cuban cigar.

A moment passed before Medianoche said, “You lied.”

“I invoked creativity in a situation where creativity was needed.”

Medianoche repeated, “You lied.”

“The hospital. The police. You were in a coma long enough for the heat to die down. There would have been too many questions. I gave you information on a need-to-know basis.”

“Like the government.”

The Beast nodded. “Like the government.”

“The biggest liars of them all.”

“I’ve always looked out for your best interests.”

Medianoche said, “You told me that you were in another country when that happened.”

“I said that I was in another country when you came out of your coma.”

“You lied by omission. So, in other words, when it happened, you were there.”

“Memory returns.”

“Some. Only the edges.”

“I see. What sparked it?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

The Beast said, “She threatened us.”

“Why?”

“Margaret. Do you remember her?”

“I know that name. It’s in my mind. But means nothing.”

“She was Thelma’s friend. A Slav who was working the red-light areas in America.”

“What about her?”

“You found her in a small shit town in Alabama. You left her body in a Dumpster.”

“Why did I go to a small shit town in Alabama and hunt her down?”

“She tried to blackmail you. She knew about a few jobs you had done. You were with her and Thelma. Same time. They worked as a team for a while. You had gotten comfortable. Said too much. You killed Margaret, then you went back to take care of Thelma.”

“Then what happened?”

“Thelma was gone. It took a few years, but you eventually found that she was in Charlotte. You found her and had me go to North Carolina with you.”

“Enough.”

The Beast nodded.

Medianoche said, “Your story has holes in it.”

The Beast sipped his scotch. “I suggest you leave that part of your past alone.”

Medianoche put his hand on his loaded guns.

He asked, “Señorita Raven?”

“In her room.”

“She suspect anything?”

“Nothing at all.”

The Beast went into his bedroom. When the door opened, Medianoche saw Draco’s corpse was on the bed, laid out in a military uniform, an American flag across his body.

The bedroom door closed.

When it opened again, The Beast was dressed in a Colombian-made suit. He held the wall to keep his balance, his jaw tight and brows furrowed with an agony he denied.

Medianoche said, “I can do this on my own.”

The Beast straightened up as best he could. “We eliminate the extras together.”

Medianoche nodded.

The Beast took a breath. “The signal?”

“Still dead. Not coming back to life.”

“Then that means one of the teams that arrived has obtained the real package.”

“Both packages.”

“My guess is they killed whoever was left alive on Scamz’s team.”

“And obtained both goddamn packages.”

“Game over.”

Medianoche thought about Arizona being within arm’s length.

They had played with their perceptions. They had corrupted reality. Like magicians.

Medianoche went to the window, opened it, dropped the sensor, let it fall eighteen floors.

Outside, the dark skies were turning gray. The rain had started again.

Medianoche said, “We still have other jobs we need to wrap up.”

The Beast sipped the last of his scotch, nodded. “Señorita Raven is of no use to us now.”

“She never was.”

“Let’s make this quick. I’m on pain pills and scotch.”

“Then let’s get moving.”

Locked and loaded, they went toward Señorita Raven’s apartment.

The Beast
led the way to the event that would end in the death of another Horseman. His steps were slow and painful. He held his gun in his right hand, slightly behind him. Medianoche stayed a step behind. Stayed to The Beast’s right side.

The Beast’s right-hand man.

The Beast’s lapdog. That was what Señorita Raven had called him.

A fucking lapdog.

They stood in front of Señorita Raven’s door. They listened for a moment.

They wouldn’t kick the door in.

They wouldn’t use stun and flash as they closed in for the kill.

There was a friendly knock.

The Beast called out, “Señorita Raven.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Open up. I’m coming to check on you before we leave for Alemán Hospital.”

“Everything okay, sir?”

“Medianoche insists I should have my injury looked at.”

The door opened and Señorita Raven stood there, weary, face scarred, eyes bloodshot.

Amaravati Panchali Ganeshes.

Face filled with shrapnel. She had eyes that took Medianoche back to another country.

She was a damaged woman. She was damaged art.

From every angle, she looked like Madhuri Shankar Dixit with shrapnel peppering her once-beautiful face. Thick eyebrows that stood over brown eyes like caterpillars.

The arrogant soldier was barefoot and had on skinny jeans that hugged her figure in a way that was obscene. She had a yellow-and-blue sweater, tight over her full breasts, and her Ono Moda watch. Medianoche took in everything she wore in a heartbeat, for a reason.

She didn’t have on any Colombian-made gear. She wasn’t bulletproof.

As rain fell and the temperature dropped toward freezing, she didn’t expect anything.

All edges and angles and an attitude that was as sharp as a razor.

As sharp as the razor she had used to cut her wrists during her attempt to check out.

But Medianoche saw past what that lying slag allowed to show. Battle exhaustion had the best of her. She was shell-shocked and fatigued, avoiding sleep to delay nightmares.

He felt the same way.

The Beast led the way into Señorita Raven’s apartment.

The Punjabi bitch took a few steps back. Not too close, still point-blank.

Medianoche noticed that there were no wisecracks about his missing eye.

No feministic insults or penis-envious macho posturing.

She pulled her lips in, so much anger in her body language as she asked, “No signal?”

No one answered. The question had sounded more rhetorical than desperate.

The Beast looked at the bullet holes in the wall. At the disarray that had gone untouched.

Her expensive tango shoes were on her floor. So was her come-stained dress.

He looked at Señorita Raven, anger and disgust bubbling beneath his tight lips.

She frowned at him, a look of disdain and hate on her marked face.

The Beast said, “It’s been a long, trying day.”