The Cove (22 page)

“Why you
bustin
’ our balls like this, huh?” Gillette asked, scowling at Tom above the rim of his shades. Tom looked at the double reflection of himself in the lenses and smiled as if for a camera.

“I ain’t
bustin
’ anyone’s balls here. I told your buddy that I’ll only make the deal with you.”

“You got the shit
wit’cha
or not?”

“Yeah. I shoved it up my ass for safe keeping.”

Zimmerman, a few steps behind Gillette, scowled at that and said, “See, Tony? That’s what I call ‘
bustin
’ balls.’”

Tom relaxed. It was obvious Gillette didn’t have a gun either, and they were acting worse than amateurs. Knowing he had the upper hand, Tom drew the keys from the ignition. They stepped back when he opened the car door and stepped out. He walked to the back of the car, inserted the key, and popped the trunk. He looked at the suitcase, lying next to the spare tire, and smiled.

Gillette and Zimmerman came up behind him.

“
Lemme
have a look-see,” Gillette said.

When he spoke, his voice startled Tom, and he jumped. He automatically started to reach for the gun in the small of his back but checked himself. Without a word, he flipped the two latches on the case and raised the lid to display several large, clear plastic bags. All of them were packed with white powder.

Gillette reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pocketknife. He clicked open the blade and then took one of the bags from the bottom of the suitcase. He slit it open and dipped the tip of the blade into the white powder, then withdrew it and raised it to his left nostril. He snorted it in with a single, quick sniff. After a second or two, one side of his mouth curled up into a smile.

“That’s pretty good
shit
,” he said, nodding with satisfaction.

He replaced the bag and clicked the case shut, his hands lingering on the suitcase for a moment, as if he were caressing it. When he started to pick up the suitcase, Tom grabbed his arm with his left hand. At the same time, he pivoted to the right and reached around behind his back to brush the handle of his hidden revolver for reassurance. He wasn’t going to take any crap — of any kind from
anyone
— especially not from a guy like Tony Gillette.

“Money first,” Tom said, fighting the jolt of excitement that tightened his voice.

Gillette scowled at him and then, catching Zimmerman’s eye, nodded. Without a word, Zimmerman walked over to their car and reached in through the open window on the passenger’s side. When he pulled back, he was holding a thick manila envelope. He brought it to Gillette and handed it to him, and Gillette passed it to Tom. Then he shook his arm free of Tom’s grasp and picked up the suitcase.

No one said a word as Gillette and Zimmerman walked back to their car, opened the trunk, placed the suitcase inside, and slammed the trunk lid shut. While all of this was going on, Tom opened the envelope and pulled out the wad of cash. He smiled as he and started flipping through the bills, but when he was about halfway through the stack, he stopped. His satisfied smile melted into a frown. Then he glared at Gillette, who was getting into his car.

“Whoa! Hold on a second,
compadre
,” Tom shouted as he ran over to the driver’s side. He took a slow, calming breath, trying to tamp down the rush of anger inside him. The electric window slid down smoothly like a sheet of ice. Gillette looked up at him, both ends of his
uni
-brow raised.

“’S there a problem?” he said.

Tom gripped the manila envelope so tightly in one hand his veins popped out as he shook it in front of Gillette’s face. The paper made a thick crinkling sound like a crackling fire.

“Looks to me like you’re a little light here,” Tom said.

“A little light?” Gillette turned to Zimmerman and said, “A little light, he says.”

“By about half,” Tom said, slapping the fat envelope against his open palm. It made a wet smacking sound like someone’s face being slapped, and that’s exactly what Tom was imagining doing to Gillette.

“You got a lot of money there,” Gillette said.

“It’s not what we agreed to.”

“Really? And how much do we agree to?”

The disingenuous flatness in Gillette’s voice made Tom’s anger spike. Angling his body to one side, he was ready to pull his gun and waste the bastard and his friend right then and there.

“You said two hundred large.”

As though genuinely surprised by the amount, Gillette threw his head back, bouncing it off the headrest.

“’Two large?’ Get this guy.” He turned, laughing, to Zimmerman, then looked back at Tom. “Are you
fuckin
’
kidding
me?”

“You said two hundred thousand dollars.”

“No, no, no, my friend. That’s what
you
said. That ain’t what
I
said. I never agreed to no two ‘large.’” He turned to Zimmerman again, snickering like they were both in on a private joke. “
Zim
? You were there when we was talking on the phone, right?”

Zimmerman nodded but said nothing.

“You ever hear me say anything about ‘two large?’”

“I did not,” Zimmerman said tonelessly.

“The fuck you think you’re pulling here?” Tom said. He leaned on the side panel of the door, gripping it with both hands as if he was about to roll the car over if Gillette tried to drive away. He kept an eye on Zimmerman, too, making sure the
dickweed
didn’t go for a hidden gun.

“I ain’t
pullin
’ nothin’,” Gillette said. “Honest to fuck, I’m not.
You’re
the one been
twistin
’
my
jimmies.”

“You’ll make three … four times that, once you step on it.” Tom was struggling to control himself. He lowered his voice and spoke softly, trying hard not to sound like he was begging. “I don’t want any trouble. All I want is what we agreed to.”

Gillette gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared straight ahead for a long time. His jaw worked back and forth as though he was chewing a tough piece of steak. The veins on the side of his head were throbbing. They looked like tangled strands of purple yarn under his skin.

“Way I see it? You’re simply
givin
’ me back what’s rightfully mine in the first place.”

“Richie Sullivan’s, you mean.”

“Yeah. Go on and think that if you want.” Gillette was still staring straight ahead. “Sullivan ain’t shit. But the way I see it? You been paid a decent finder’s fee.” He slowly rotated his head and, raising his shades with his right hand, stared at Tom. The distant gray light in his eyes chilled Tom.

“A finder’s fee,” Tom said, rolling the words off his tongue as if trying to get used to them.

“Yeah. To show how much I appreciate you returning my property to me.”

Tom was speechless. He couldn’t stop imagining pulling out his revolver and shooting both of them right here on the spot. Do to them what he had feared they might try to do to him. He was sure Gillette didn’t have a gun. Both of his hands were wrapped around the steering wheel, so even if he had one, he’d be dead before he got it. There was no telling what Zimmerman had. His right hand was down by his side, out of sight between the car seat and the door. He might already have a gun in hand.

“’Sides, Tommy,” Gillette said in a mild, placating voice. “Who you gonna complain to, the cops?”

He laughed, but Zimmerman didn’t laugh. His hand was still down below
seat
level and he was leaning forward slightly, scowling as he looked over at Tom.

“My advice to you, my friend,” Gillette said, “is be happy with what you got. The way the world is today? There’s a lot of scumbags out there who’ll fuck you over first chance they get. Another guy did this deal? You’d already have a bullet in your head. Wouldn’t he,
Zim
?”

“It’s likely.”

Tom narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

“Who’s to say I don’t waste
you
right here and now and take the shit and keep the money?” Gillette said.

Zimmerman, meanwhile, shifted in his seat. Thinking he was going for a gun, Tom jumped back and dropped into a crouch. His right hand went to the small of his back for the gun, but his thumb caught the hem of his shirt. When he finally managed to get the gun, his hand was so slippery with sweat, it slipped out of his grasp and clattered onto the dirt.

Gillette watched all this with thinly veiled amusement as he turned the key in the ignition and shifted into gear. Zimmerman raised his hand. He wasn’t holding a gun, but he had his thumb cocked back and his forefinger extended. He aimed it at Tom and mouthed the word
BANG
as Gillette pulled onto the road.

Gillette tromped down hard on the accelerator. The tires skidded in the dirt, kicking up a spray of gravel that pelted Tom. As he drove away, the car fishtailing slightly from side to side, he stuck his left hand out the driver’s window and flipped Tom the bird. The tires squealed when they hit the road and gained purchase on the asphalt. As the car sped away, Tom was left choking on dust, exhaust fumes, and his own helpless rage.

I
t was late.

The night was hushed, the house dark. A swatch of moonlight the color of old ivory angled across the floor of Ben’s bedroom, which had been Louise’s when they were growing up. The windows were open, and the curtains made faint scratching sounds as they drifted back and forth on a light breeze.

Ben was asleep. Because the night was warm, he slept bare-chested, wearing only boxer shorts, but his sleep was thin and another dream came.

He was sitting in a small skiff with low sides in rough waters off Rocky Point. Waves sloshed over the sides, and briny water swirled like black ink around his ankles, making his feet disappear. Using his Kevlar helmet, he started bailing out the boat, but the water he scooped out turned into hot sand that hissed like a nest of snakes when it hit the ocean.

As he scanned the horizon where the dark sky and darker sea blended into an almost indistinguishable line, a sudden bright red flash lit up the night. He bent down to pick up the oars to start rowing back to shore, but when he looked up to settle the oars into the oar locks, he sensed a presence behind him. Turning, he stared at an Iraqi child sitting in the bow of the boat.

A girl — maybe thirteen years old — wearing a beautiful silk
hijab
that covered her head. It might have been red or blue, but it looked black, framing her pale face. She stared at him without blinking, smiling shyly. Her wide teeth glistened like pearls in the darkness.

“Hey, kid,” Ben said. “Want some candy?”

He reached into the pocket of his fatigue jacket where he always kept packs of Skittles for the kids he met when he was out on patrol. “All part of winning the hearts and minds,” his C.O., Brian
Hadlock
, had said.

Without answering, the girl stood up and moved forward, gliding toward him through the water in the bottom of the boat without taking any steps, until she was standing directly behind him. Her hands were so cold the chill penetrated his body when she placed them on his shoulders.

Without warning, a mortar exploded not fifty yards away, the impact rocking the boat wildly from side to side. Hot shrapnel sizzled when it hit the water. Ben twisted around and grabbed the girl, throwing her down to the floor of the skiff and covering her with his body. The girl began to scream a high-pitched wail that rose in the night like a siren. The salt water in the boat turned to sand.

“You’re all right … You’re all right,” he kept saying, trying to sound both reassuring and in control at the same time, and she stopped screaming for a moment.

When he shifted back and looked at her, another mortar explosion flickered on the horizon, illuminating the distant land like an angry wound. The boom came seconds later, hitting him like a punch in the small of the back.

Terrified, the girl looked at him, her eyelids rolling back like the hinged eyes of a doll. When she opened her mouth to scream again, a torrent of beetles and scorpions and spiders poured from between her teeth and fell onto her thin chest before scurrying up and over the sides of the boat. They made a rapid
plunk-plunking
sound as they fell into the water. The girl’s body burst apart under him, and rivulets of blood flowed like dark streams onto the sand in the bottom of the skiff. Her hands thrummed madly on his shoulders.

He flailed crazily at the hordes of insects, swatting at them as they continued to pour forth. He wanted to push himself off the girl, but there was no place to go. He wanted to scream, but his breath was trapped in his chest. Another mortar exploded, right in front of the boat, lighting everything up with its white phosphorus light. Humming pieces of metal whizzed by his head
but
— amazingly — missed him.

He let out a wild, piercing wail that matched the little girl’s.

The transition from dreaming to reality was too quick.

Kicking the bedcovers aside, Ben rolled onto the floor, hitting hard enough to send spikes of pain up his legs to his hips. He was still yelling incoherently, not even realizing he was the one making these sounds as he scrambled about on the floor, slapping the hardwood with both hands as he felt around for his rifle.