The Hemingway Thief (9 page)

Thandy stood over us as we knelt in the dirt. His thin silhouette, tinged purple in the gloaming dusk-light, gave him a ghoulish character. He examined our graves, and when he was satisfied, he clapped his hands and rubbed them together with the vigor of a man scraping difficult blood stains from his flesh. His grin had gone from gleeful to lascivious.

“Boys,” he said, and I wondered what happened to “gentlemen.” “I have to apologize. My good cheer has nothing to do with your incipient demise. I assure you the look on my face is excitement not joy, and, I'm sure as a writer, Mr. Cooper, you know the difference.”

“This look, though,” Andy said, pointing to his own thick face, “is joy. I'm fucking ecstatic.” He had been quiet during the grave-digging process except for an occasional word with the colonel. He sat in a dilapidated beach chair, and every now and then when I lifted a clump of dry dirt from the earth I caught him looking at me while rubbing his hand over his ridiculous cast.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Daniels,” Thandy said, and fancied him with a look that said he was not at all grateful for the interruption. “You see, boys, whenever I travel I try to learn as much about the local culture as possible and to experience it whenever I can. And I am learning so much on this trip. So, as I'm told, the Mexican government, at least the part where the rubber meets the road, does not hold due process in very high regard. The colonel here has a particular disdain for it. For instance, in this part of Mexico—well not exactly here, it's usually found more in the Sierra Madres, but we're close enough for government work—anyway, there is a time-honored tradition for when a criminal is taken into custody away from civilian witnesses. Basically the very situation we have here. The tradition is called
La Bota, la Lena, y el Plomo
.”

He waited for us to ask him what that was. We kept silent. Grady was most likely being obstinate. I was just too damned exhausted to make my tongue work. Time mixed with profuse perspiration had exorcized the sodium pentothal from my system, but it had left me in the throes of a profoundly weird hangover. When it was clear he wasn't going to get any audience participation, Thandy raised his hands like a pastor about to give a benediction.

“
La Bota
, Mr. Cooper and Mr. Doyle, is ‘the boot.' It means, simply, that you are sent to prison. At first this seems like the logical choice, especially compared with the other two, but one must consider the nature of the prisons in Mexico. I understand that the only uncertainty in regard to dying in a Mexican prison is the method in which it will occur. A dull knife to the abdomen coupled with infection is the most common way, but the colonel tells me there are a number of sexual, microbial, and nutritional methods that are much more terrifying. So that's the first option,
la Bota
.”

He paused again as if imagining the scenarios in his head and admiring each one as they passed before his mind's eye. He looked at me, and while his eyes made me doubt his sanity, they also gave me no illusions about his sincerity.

“
La Lena
is ‘the wood,'” he continued, like a museum docent. “That is, they find a long, solid piece of wood, a two-by-four, or in some instances a lead pipe; these people are not ones to stand on ceremony or get caught up in semantics. They tie you to a stake or a chair, and they beat you until every inch of your body looks like a bunch of ripe grapes. It's not pleasant, and it goes on forever, but at least you'll be alive. Which brings us to the next option.”

“Thunderdome?” I said.

“
El Plomo
, I think, is the most interesting. It means ‘the lead.' It's a kind of contest for your life, like playing chess with the Grim Reaper. They stand you about fifty yards away from the woods or brush or whatever cover is around. You get a ten count. After ten, they open fire. If you make it to the tree line, you live and you go free. Some live and some don't. I suspect it depends less on how fast you are and more on what type of weapon the shooter has, automatic versus revolver and all that.”

“You made that up, right?” I said. There's a sort of courage that comes with knowing, absolutely, that you are going to die.
Courage
may not be the right word, perhaps
foolhardy disregard
would suit it better, but really it's just a realignment of priorities. Up until then I had been preoccupied with living to see tomorrow. When that ceased to be a viable option, I shifted to just wanting one last tumbler of rum. When that also seemed not to be an option, I shifted again. Now, all I wanted was to wipe that fucking smirk off the old bastard's face.

“I did not make it up,” Thandy said with a hint of offense.

“Come on, there's no way that's a real thing.”

“It is too a real thing, Mr. Cooper,” Thandy said. I glanced at Grady. He had gotten to his feet and was standing tall as a courthouse statue, fists clenched, staring down Andy and the colonel, who stood behind the old man. Silent grit was an admirable way to go down, I suppose. I, on the other hand, did not possess that level of self-control.

“You made it up.”

“I certainly did not.” The first crack in Thandy's gentleman facade began to show. It wasn't much, only a slightly higher note in his voice, but it was there, and it was satisfying.

“I'm just saying it reeks of bullshit,” I said.

“They do it all the time,” Thandy said, losing more of his dandified comportment. He looked up at the penumbral twilight climbing down the mountain, and when he looked back at me he was calm again. “I appreciate your spunk, Mr. Cooper.”

“What the fuck is spunk?” I asked Grady with a stage whisper out of the side of my mouth.

“It's a polite word for ‘balls,'” he whispered back.

“Just say ‘balls,' then, man,” I said to Thandy. “We're all adults here.”

“Just fucking pick something,” Grady said, sounding more annoyed than frightened.

“There are a lot variables, you know?” I said, turning to face Grady, showing the rest of them my back. “I mean, how big is the wood? How far do I have to run? Are they good shots? Will they be using automatics? Semiautomatics? Machine guns, for shit's sake? And will there be more than one shooter? And who will be swinging the wood? Will it be wood? He said something about a pipe. There's just too many questions to make an informed decision.”

“Do you ever just shut the fuck up?” Grady said. The sudden change in his voice and the disgusted look on his face hit me harder than anything Andy had dished out thus far. “They're going to kill us. There's nothing else to it. Be a man and die.” He turned to Andy. “Hey, do me a favor and kill us separately. I don't want to have to die with this pussy piece of shit.”

“I don't take requests, asshole,” Andy said, drawing his gun. He stuck it in my back hard enough for me to feel it pressing against my navel. I looked at him over my shoulder.

“You know bullets come out of that thing, right?” I said. “You don't have to stab me with it.”

“Newton, I'm just gonna pistol whip the little shit-bird to death, okay?”

“No, I want him to choose,” Thandy said, stepping up close to hiss in Andy's face.

“I don't care what you do,” Grady said, sneering at me. “Just as long as you don't do it with me. Shoot me if you want, but take this gutless fuck and kill him out back by the trash cans like the bitch he is. I don't want to die with him.”

“Hey, Grady” I said, more than a little nonplussed, “You know they're going to kill us right? This isn't something you can take back later.”

“Fuck you,” Grady said, and hocked a wet hunk on phlegm the size of a man o' war jellyfish onto my chest. I looked down more surprised than angry. The day had taken many twists and turns, but somehow digging my own grave had been less mystifying than the fact that my friend's loogie was soaking into my shirt.

“Jesus, Grady,” I said.

“You see this shit,” Grady said, looking past me at Andy. “Man spits on him and he just takes it. That, friends, is what you call a pussy.”

“That's enough out of you,” Thandy said. He grabbed Andy's shoulder and shook him with all the force his rangy frame could manage. “I've had enough of this nonsense, Mr. Daniels.”

“You've had enough?” Grady bellowed. “I've been putting up with this fucking romance author for the last month. You ever meet a man writes romance novels? I never have. He's the first. You know who would have been cool to die with? You know who would have gone out like a man?”

“Don't say it,” I growled. Grady narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips like the barrel of a gun.

“John. Fucking. Grisham.”

“Fuck you,” I screamed and launched myself at him. I hit him in the gut with my shoulder and we spun around, my legs twirling in the air. We landed hard in one of the graves, I think it was mine, and the air was pressed out of my lungs with an audible “Oof.” I swung with wild abandon, my eyes closed. Occasionally, my fist would connect with Grady, but with what part of him and to what effect I did not know. Two boots landed next to my head with a heavy thud. There was shouting and I felt another pair of hands grabbing at me. A boot connected with my face, and bright white lights flashed inside my head.

I rolled over onto my stomach and realized I was no longer actually in a fight.

The sun had gone completely behind the mountains during our scuffle, and when I opened my eyes they had to adjust to the darkness. It became clear that a face was very close to mine in the dirt. The eyes were open and unblinking; a small rivulet of blood trickled from a tear duct and over the bridge of the nose. It was Andy.

“You don't look so good,” I groaned.

“He's dead, Coop,” Grady said. He was out of the grave, silhouetted by the moonlight. He had a gun—it looked like Andy's—and held it on the colonel and the old man. The colonel was unstrapping his gun belt. Thandy was pulling the leather portfolio containing the manuscript out of a satchel. They tossed both down onto the ground at Grady's feet. “Get those, would you, Coop?”

“Did we win?” I said. There was a dull ache growing on the side of my head where the unknown boot had kicked me. I wondered if maybe I had been knocked unconscious for a moment or two. Everything, it seemed, had changed.

“If we can get out of here before dinner's over, yeah,” Grady said, grinning at me. He turned to Thandy. “That's why you hire pros, schmucko. First thing you learn when transporting prisoners is to secure your gun when you break up a fight.”

I almost tripped over Andy's corpse as I moved to gather the gun belt and portfolio in my arms. He was lying on his stomach, the head twisted around to face the sky. Broke his damn neck. It took a lot of strength, a lot of anger, and a lot of mean to kill a man that way. I clutched the items to my chest and climbed out of the grave.

“Now, gentlemen,” Grady said, putting emphasis on the formal address. “If you would be so kind as to accompany us to our Hummer.”

The keys were in the ignition. I drove. Grady sat beside me with his gun trained on our prisoners in the backseat. As I pulled onto the road, I caught Grady's smile in the moonlight reflecting off the rearview mirror.

“Ok, boys. One last thing,” he said as he cocked the gun. “Take your pants off.”

Chapter Nine

We dumped them over the side of a gravel incline a dozen or so miles from the roadblock.

I had never tied anyone up before, either for professional or recreational purposes. I was learning all sorts of new skills out there in the field. I followed Grady's instructions as best I could, but I'm sure I left both Thandy's and the colonel's wrists and ankles cramped and raw. We were without rope so I used their belts and pant legs. We had left them there, gagged with their own socks, staring at us with bitter, hateful contempt. I was back behind the wheel when Grady kicked them over the side. When he returned to the car, he dropped Andy's gun on the dashboard and grunted.

“You got a problem?”

“We're just leaving them out here?”

“What should we do, then?”

“I don't know,” I said, and put the Hummer in gear.

It was past midnight when we got back to the hotel. The parking lot was empty, save for Grady's ancient pickup and the rusted compact Milch had arrived in. The wind kicked dust up over the Hummer's windshield, and the only sounds were the waves crashing against the shore and the birds wailing. The parking lot used to be a courtyard, and in the middle of it stood a three-tiered fountain, long since gone dry. Digby sat on the second tier's ledge, with his feet crossed at the ankle.

It was a different Digby than I was used to seeing. He wore a brown twill sports jacket worn at the elbows over a dingy oxford shirt with a torn collar. A straw fedora lay next to him on the stone ledge. A beat-to-hell leather gun belt holding a Colt automatic sat next to the hat. He was reading a book by an electric lantern, and he held the pages close to his nose in the small light. The cover was familiar.

“Keeping watch?” I asked, hobbling up to him. The last day and half had left my body functioning, but in protest. Digby looked up from the book.

“Seemed prudent,” he said. Grady slammed the car door. He nodded at Digby and started walking. Digby hopped off the fountain and followed. When they were out of earshot Digby nodded as Grady spoke, but he gave no emotional hint as to their conversation. When Grady was done, he stalked off to the lobby. Digby fiddled with his watch as he came back to the fountain.

“Where did you find that?” I asked, pointing to the copy of
MacMerkin's Folly
under his arm
.

“It was next to your fingernail clippers,” he said.

“Like it?”

“I remember when vampires used to kill people,” he said, and slid the paperback into his jacket's frayed pocket.