The Hemingway Thief (28 page)

“Don't feel too bad,” Milch said. “I'm a professional.”

“Professional dick,” Dutch said.

“That's not helping, Dutch,” I said. “So how do you expect to get out of here?”

“It pays to think ahead,” Milch said, and pulled a small plastic instrument that looked like a cell phone out of his pocket. “GPS.”

“You've killed us,” I said.

“I prefer to think of it as saving myself.”

“You think Thandy's just going to forgive you for stealing the manuscript?”

“Who gives a shit about the manuscript while I have this?” he said, hoisting the jacket-wrapped suitcase under his arm.

“You can't trust him,” I said. “We should just go back to Elmo.”

“Elmo keeps his word,” Dutch said.

“I thought I told you to shut the fuck up, Cheech,” Milch said, and slapped Dutch across the face with the derringer. Dutch's hands went to his face, and he stumbled back until he hit the wall. Milch grimaced at his handiwork and made his way to the door. I took a step toward him, and he raised the tiny pistol again.

“You step out there with that case, and you're a dead man, you know,” I said.

Milch laughed and opened the door. His hand rested on the knob, and he paused.

“You gonna come after me, Coop?”

“Ebbie, I don't have the experience you have, but I do know you can't trust a man like Thandy, even if he gives his word as a southerner.

“Oh, come on,” Milch said. “You think I don't have that old man where I want him? And his killer bitch, too? You think he's scamming me? I'm scamming him, Coop. Don't you get it? Can't you see, I'm a fucking profess—” There was a loud crack, too close for thunder, and Milch's head pitched forward violently. His knees bent and he reached his arms out, still holding onto the case, and hit the floor. There was a second crack, and Dutch screamed as he spun around. His legs hit the overturned stove, and he fell over it and out of sight.

“The door!” Dutch yelled. “Get the door!” I reached out casually and closed the door, still not registering what had just happened. Dutch army-crawled around the stove and kicked the back of my knee. I collapsed to the floor between Dutch and Milch. Milch was lying prostrate, his ass in the air, his face pressed into a mound of ash, and his arms spread out in front of him as if he were worshipping the fallen stove. A chunk of his skull from his eyebrow to his hairline was missing, replaced by a gaping maw from which a steady flow of blood ran down to mix with the ash, forming a paste. No more Milch.

“She's here,” Dutch said.

Chapter Thirty-One

I got Dutch sitting up and leaning against the stove. He was shot in the shoulder. There was a small bloodstain on the front of his shirt and a large one the shape of Ohio just above his shoulder blade. The bullet had gone through, which, Dutch assured me, was a good thing.

“Take a peek out the window,” Dutch said. “Let's see what we're dealing with.” I used my elbows and knees to crawl across the room. There was a small hole at the bottom of the burlap curtain. I screwed up into a crouch and put my eye to it.

“There's a Jeep next to our truck,” I said.

“What kind?”

“I don't know cars,” I said. “One of those SUV things. It's big and black with tinted windows.”

“Gunners?”

“I see two Mexicans in matching black suits and sunglasses. Jesus, one of them is huge.”

“Fat?”

“No, you ever see
Enter the Dragon?
”

“No.”

“The big Chinese guy who fought John Saxon at the end?”

“I never saw it.”

“This guy looks like that guy. Except he's Mexican. It's the Mexican version of that big Chinese guy.” I turned around and leaned back against the wall, with my head just underneath the windowsill.

“Do you see her?” Dutch asked. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it against his wound.

“No,” I said. “Maybe she went after Digby.”

“If she was out there, you'd never see her,” Dutch said.

“Then why'd you ask?” I said. The Mexicans stood on the other side of their Jeep. The smaller one, who was probably my height, rested a long, scoped rifle on the hood. The big one held two astronomically large pistols in each hand. I scanned the edge of the canyon and the cliff that dropped down to the river, looking for a glint of glass in the sun that might betray a sniper. Nothing. Then it occurred to me—where the hell was Grady?

The smaller Mexican set his rifle down and reached below my sightline. He came up with a large, black shotgun with a host of shells secured to its side. He nodded to his partner, and they walked around the car and toward the house. I told Dutch.

“Take a shot at them,” Dutch said.

“Grady's got all the guns,” I said. “Unless you count the derringer.” I tried to figure out how Grady could have escaped. The only way out was through the canyon. I couldn't believe La Dónde's men would have missed him even if he were on foot. He could have scrambled up over the hill behind the house, or maybe he pulled a Butch Cassidy and jumped into the river. Whatever happened, I was beginning to fear Thandy had been right about Grady from the beginning. When it came down to it, I had trusted the wrong man.

“Here,” Dutch said, grunting as he reached behind his back and came up with a revolver. It was the size of fat squirrel, with a walnut stock and a long barrel. He slid it along the floor through the blood and ash, and it came to rest between my feet.

“That thing looks like it's from World War I,” I said.

“It is.” Dutch motioned with his hand for me to pick it up. “It was my grandfather's, a Webley. Don't worry. It works.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Shoot at them.”

“I can't shoot worth shit, Dutch,” I said, and picked up the Webley. It felt too heavy to hold, let alone aim.

“You don't have to,” Dutch groaned. “Just shoot out the window. Let 'em know we have it. They won't be so quick to come inside if they think we can shoot back.”

I held the gun up and examined it in the little light coming through the window. I thumbed back the hammer and shoved the barrel through the windowpane, shielding my eyes with my sleeve as glass tinkled down. The rain was falling harder and louder now. The Mexicans paused at the sound of the window breaking, but only for a moment. The large one tapped his partner with the back of his hand and they started toward the house again. I sat on my haunches, holding onto the windowsill for balance. I didn't bother aiming and fired just as they reached the wall. I felt the shot in my balls, and the goddamned ringing started up in my ears again.

The bullet hit one of the beer-bottle pikes on top of the wall, and it exploded like an auburn grenade. The Mexicans raised their arms as the glass tore into them. They backed away, firing wildly at the house and wiping away the tiny streams of blood running down their faces. Their shots knocked out the remaining windowpanes, blew a good-sized hole in the door, and dug huge chunks out of the adobe.

“How'd it go?” Dutch asked, after the firing stopped.

“Better than expected,” I said. The large one took off his Ray-Bans and bent his head back to let the rain wash his face, shaking his head and whipping his long hair like a shaggy dog after a swim. He leaned against the Jeep's fender and pounded two hard knocks on the rear door with his pistol. The tinted rear window dropped down a few inches, revealing a tobacco-colored fedora bobbing sharply as its owner spoke.

“Thandy's here,” I said.

“Can you shoot him?”

“I can shoot
at
him,” I said. “The rest would be up to God.” The large Mexican holstered one of his pistols and opened Thandy's door. The old bookseller was obscured by the door and the Mexican's body. The Mexican pointed back at the house with the revolver, and I could hear him speaking over the rain. His voice was loud and angry. Thandy may not have been completely in charge.

After a moment, the Mexican stomped his foot and swung the door wide. Thandy stepped out, holding his hand out in a calming gesture. He reached back into the Jeep and pulled out a green golf umbrella. He opened it and I could see the outline of a map of the United States, with a flag pin springing out of what would have been Georgia—the official logo for the Masters. He conversed with the large Mexican, who continued to gesture at the house with his pistol. Thandy patted the man on the shoulder and took a few steps toward the house.

“Mr. Cooper,” he shouted. The moment he spoke, there was a quick blast of light and sound from under Dutch's truck, shotgun fire. The smaller Mexican had been standing next to the truck. His feet kicked out from under him, and he landed on his ass. Another blast tore apart his abdomen and ripped his shirt into gory shreds. He didn't fall over but sat with his legs spread out and his head forward in a gruesome parody of the stereotypical Mexican siesta.

The other gunman reacted quickly, aiming his dual pistols and firing shot after shot in the direction of the shotgun blasts. A shadow under the truck rolled away as the Mexican approached and bent down next to his compatriot. He tucked his pistol under his arm and reached out like a man trying to coax a cat out from under a car. Grady materialized on the other side of the truck, racked his shotgun, and fired, decapitating the Mexican. The headless body fell next to its partner.

Thandy watched the whole thing while holding his umbrella. He didn't move except for his feet, which shuffled up and down like he was trying to warm himself in the cold rain. The rain let up as Grady bounded around the truck. He racked the shotgun again and leveled the barrel at the old man's chest. He took a step forward, and the bookseller smiled. Grady cocked his head and lowered the shotgun an inch. Something at the edge of the canyon had caught his attention.

A small fountain of crimson flared out from the back of Grady's shoulder as he was knocked off his feet. His gun fell from his hand and skittered away under the Jeep. He rolled onto his stomach and pushed up with his good arm. He got his legs under him, and he lurched toward the dead Mexicans and their weapons. He took two steps before his left calf and then his right blew open as unseen and unheard bullets ripped through them. He let out an agonized scream and clutched his bloody legs, trying to stem the flowing claret.

“What happened?” Dutch said.

I told him.

“I told you she was here.”

He was right. La Dónde, Pieta to some, emerged from behind a rock at the edge of the canyon, holding a rifle. There was a canister at the end of the barrel, which I assumed was a silencer. She wore a military shirt tucked into black jeans. The body the clothes covered deserved better. Her dark hair was pulled back from a cherubic face, the color of ice melting in bourbon. I took comfort in the idea that she was probably going to be the last thing I would see on this earth before I died. It was not a small comfort.

Thandy took a few careful steps toward Grady. He stood over him, still holding the umbrella like he was reading a putt on Amen Corner. La Dónde set her rifle down on the truck's hood and pulled a pistol from the holster at her hip. She reached down, grabbed Grady's collar, and pulled him up into a sitting position. At least he wasn't dead. I related this to Dutch.

“Mr. Cooper,” Thandy called in a sing-song voice. “Can you see us, Mr. Cooper?”

“I see you, asshole,” I called back. Dutch was looking drowsy.

“Do I have to explain the situation?” Thandy asked.

“Maybe,” I said.

“Give me the suitcase.”

“You think we have it?”

“You'd better, for your friend's sake,” he said. “I'm willing to trade him for the suitcase. I'm aware he isn't in mint condition, so I'm going to throw in your life as well.”

“Don't trust him,” Dutch said.

“No shit,” I replied. I crawled over to Milch's body and reached for the suitcase. The corpse was not willing to part with it, and I had to pull the case with my hands and push with my feet against his shoulders to wrest it away. I kept the jacket wrapped around it for protection. I also hoped La Dónde wouldn't shoot me until they were certain I actually had the suitcase.

I pulled the door open a crack and then pushed it wide with my toe. I considered taking the Webley but decided against it. Bringing it would mean using it, and I didn't want to pick a fight. I tucked the suitcase under my arm like a football.

“Be careful,” Dutch said.

“I'm not sure that's an option,” I said, “but at least it stopped raining.” A car horn started blaring, and I could hear the rumble of radial tires over loose rock. Dutch tilted his head back and laughed.

“We're not so fucked,” he said. I returned to the window. A black GMC van with a red stripe on the side launched out of the canyon road and landed, going about forty toward the cliff. The driver hit the brake and swerved left, dragging the back wheels through the mud until the truck had completed a 180. The rear wheels dug through the wet sand until they found purchase, and the van lurched forward until the driver hit the brakes again, stopping thirty feet from La Dónde and her hostage.

“It's the A-Team,” I said. Thandy backed up against the Jeep and spread his arms against it for balance. La Dónde circled behind Grady, putting my friend between her and the newcomer.

“Sully,” Dutch said.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” I said. The van's door opened and closed. Digby emerged with his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up, and his gun tucked into a holster hanging at his hip. He came around the front of the van and tipped his hat back on his head. He looked around, assessing the situation, his thumbs hooked into his gun belt.

La Dónde let go of Grady's collar, and he tumbled onto his side like a scarecrow. She slid her pistol back into its holster and let her hand hang loosely next to it. Digby took a step closer, and she did the same. Their lips parted to take a breath, their eyes blinked, and their forefingers ticked against saddle leather in perfect unison, a mirrored connection between anima and animus. The post-rain ozone was thick in the air, and it added a syrupy mise-en-scène to the two former lovers standing less than a bullet's flight apart.