Start Shooting (45 page)

Carel Roos nods not to worry about the Alfa, then steps back to his spot on the stairway wall. His shoulders flatten against the cut granite, as does the sole of one shoe. He turns to the Seven Spanish Angels’ arched front door and a black girl exiting toward me. Stephanie smiles at him, then hands me an envelope. “From America.” She points inside at the bartender opening up. “Étienne thinks it might be for you.”

The envelope’s addressed to Blanche DuBois, c/o the Seven Spanish Angels Bar, Hout Bay, South Africa; then the postmark—Michoacán, Villamar, Mexico. The Ruiz-Peñas know the Seven Spanish Angels and the name Blanche DuBois should there ever be a reason … I check Carel, then Chapman’s Peak Drive, heart adding beats, fear of contact, the price on my head. I draw the SIG Sauer. Carel stiffens, eyes on me, the patio, the road. He draws his pistol, sends his man back inside the bar, then up into the apartment.

Nothing. No Korean kidnap team.

Exhale. Swallow. Bobby Vargas is dead: that’s what is inside this envelope.

I belt my pistol and open the envelope, all the emotion I thought was dead rushing at me. Inside is a newspaper clipping from the
Chicago Herald
dated six weeks ago and nothing else. The clipping recounts the successful business dealings of Furukawa Industries and its CEO, Dr. Hitoshi Ota. The last paragraph mentions a Chicago ex-policeman, Roberto “Bobby” Vargas. Concern has been expressed by a spokesman for Furukawa because the terrorism charges against Bobby Vargas have been dropped, and pending a trial for the murder of Danny Vacco, Bobby Vargas has been released but did not appear at his pretrial hearing.

Wind flutters the clipping; I grab it back before I lose it to the South Atlantic. On the back is an outline … a heart, like the chalk ones we drew on my stoop. Inside the heart, tiny letters read: Forrest & Jenny.

Stephanie says, “Hand delivered,” and points across the road.

Publishing is a tough business, not densely populated by individuals on whom it pays to rely, especially if you intend to say what you mean and cash a second check. Simon Lipskar has stood with me through one fire after another and never done anything other than exactly what he said. This novel is at Doubleday, the top of the mountain, for one reason: Simon Lipskar. The reason it stayed there is Jason Kaufman.

Jason Kaufman knows the commercial market the way you and I know the way home. Yet he bought a novel of “devastating violence” and didn’t suggest I add a warm puppy or a vampire, or match a national retailer’s color scheme. Instead, Jason focused his editorial participation on rebalancing character and plot, a difficult, artful undertaking that requires a deep understanding of the form, the message, and the author’s limitations. Win or lose, I buy his drinks forever.

To the angel of Andre Libre—although you weren’t—we promised to tell your story one day. Should you be at peace with it, these two fellows are who you thank.