Bandits

by Elmore Leonard

  She said it again. “Amazing.”

  “I was thinking, that kind of scene is enough to curl your hair, if you don’t want to pay to get a perm.”

  Lucy’s eyes raised. “It looks fairly straight now.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s from working in a funeral home, seeing unexpected sights that get it to stand on end.”

  “What’s your friend Roy doing?”

  “He’s a bartender. Works in the Quarter.”

  She took his glass and poured another vodka before looking up at him again. “Let’s sit down. I want to tell you something.”

  “When my dad put up his new office building in Lafayette, he told me this at dinner, it was going to cost just over three million dollars. But they’d have to remove a live oak that was about a hundred and fifty years old. So my dad had the plans changed. He built his office at right angles, sort of around the tree, and it cost him another half million. . . . What do you think that says about him?”

  It was quiet in the room. Jack could feel the vodka, a good feeling in soft lamplight. He liked the fit of the deep-cushioned wicker chair; he could fall asleep here. Lucy waited, not far away, on the end of the sofa close to his chair, legs crossed. She leaned forward now to reach her sherry. He thought of ways to answer, moved only his arm, slowly, to raise the glass, and gazed at banana trees before taking a sip.

  “He loves nature.”

  “Is that why he’s contaminating the Gulf?”

  “I thought he leased helicopters.”

  “He’s in the oil business. He’s been in the oil business all his life. My mother calls him Texas Crude. Men in her family wore white linen suits and owned sugar plantations in Plaquemines.”

  “I’m not good at environment,” Jack said. He could fall asleep by closing his eyes. “Or, what’s that other word, ecology. I’m weak in those areas.”

  “You see my dad as a nice guy.”

  “I think he works at it some. Wants to give you that impression, one of the boys.”

  She said, “Then you know he’s not just good old Dick Nichols, he’s Dick Nichols Enterprises. He sings Cajun songs, eats squirrel and alligator tail, but he’s also been to the White House for dinner, twice. He loves nature as long as he and his pals can suck oil out of it and he doesn’t give a damn about that tree. He’s using it. He’s the guy at the Petroleum Club with the live oak that cost him a half million dollars. Not a yacht or a plane, they all have those, including my dad. No, this is a tree.”

  Jack said, “Well, it’s nice to be rich.”

  “Buy anything you want,” Lucy said. “My dad came to visit me in Nicaragua, seven years ago. An embassy limousine arrives, a long black Cadillac, and my dad steps out, the last person I ever expected to see. Except that he loves to surprise you and act very nonchalant about it. ‘Hi, Sis, how are you? Nice day, isn’t it?’ He knows he’s obvious, so it’s funny. I showed him around and he seemed interested enough, he was cordial. But he’d pretend not to see the lepers, the ones who were crippled or disfigured.”

  “Wouldn’t shake hands with ’em.”

  “Not even with the staff. He kept his hands behind his back. He said, ‘Sis, this place is awful. What do you need?’ I said, ‘How about giving the patients a ride in your car?’ I told him it would be an experience they’d never forget. He gave me a check for a hundred thousand dollars instead.”

  Jack took a sip of his drink, wondering if her dad had kissed her when he arrived. He could understand her dad not being a toucher. How many people were? He said, “I know what you’re getting at.”

  She said, “No, you don’t.”

  “It’s easier to give to ’em than go near ’em.”

  She said, “Jack,” not reacting, but with her quiet manner, knowing what she was going to say, “last week he wrote another check, this one for sixty-five thousand.”

  “For the hospital?”

  “For the man who destroyed the hospital, the man who burned it to the ground and hacked ten of the patients to death. I was there, Jack. I saw them drive up in a truck. . . . The men got out and began firing, all of them with automatic weapons. They shot our dogs, they shot out the windows of the hospital. . . . I came out of the sisters’ house and heard him yelling at them and thought he was trying to stop the firing. He was, he was yelling at them in Spanish, ‘With machetes! Do it with machetes!’ Some of the patients ran or were able to hide. I brought a few of them into our house. But the ones in the ward, who couldn’t run, were hacked to death in their beds, screaming. . . . You know who I’m talking about, Dagoberto Godoy and his contras. When he came to kill Amelita and didn’t find her.” She paused and said, “I had never laid eyes on him before that day, and now I’ll never forget him.” She paused again and said, “Excuse me,” getting up now. “I’ll say good night to Amelita and fix you something to eat, if you’re hungry.”

  She came back with a pack of Kools, tapping one out. Jack picked up the silver table lighter and held it to her cigarette. He watched her sit back blowing a slow stream of smoke, relaxing in the green cushions of the sofa, and he said, “You mind?” Picking up the pack of cigarettes and getting one for himself. He’d have one, and inhaled for the first time in nearly three years, telling her he still wasn’t hungry, not the least bit. He was keyed up and told her he was a little confused, trying to get all of it straight in his mind. He said it seemed like whenever she told him something else he’d have more questions and not know where to start.

  She said, “What would you like to know?”

  “This guy tries to kill Amelita and she says, well, he was angry, but he really wants her to be with him. She even calls him Bertie.”

  Lucy’s head remained against the cushion. She said, “I know. Amelita’s a little screwed up. Bertie, I love it. He changed her life and she doesn’t want to believe he murders people. But she wasn’t at the hospital when he came. She was with her parents. That’s why I was able to get her out of there.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Of course not.”

  “He killed them because they were lepers?”

  “With machetes—he doesn’t need a reason. He shot Dr. Meza to death. He assassinated a priest while he was saying mass and formally executed six catechists in Estelí. They killed an agrarian reform worker with bayonets, shot his wife in the spine and left her for dead. . . . She watched them strangle their year-old baby. Ask Bertie why he let his men do that. They slashed the throats of nine farmers near Paiwas, raped several of their daughters, raped and decapitated a fourteen-year-old girl in El Guayaba. Murdered five women, six men, and nine children in El Jorgito. . . . Do you want a complete list? I’ll give you one. Do you want to see photos? I’ll show you those, too. Have you ever seen a little girl’s head on a stake?”

  There was a silence in the room that seemed to Jack, for a moment, like a stage set: the backdrop of wallpapered banana trees as she told him about death in a tropical place.

  “He did all that?”

  “I haven’t counted the disappeared,” Lucy said, “or the ones who were only tortured. Or the ones who were killed with more sophisticated means. A priest in Jinotega opened the trunk of his car and was blown to bits. Bertie killed him. He found out it was the priest who drove us to León to buy the car, when we escaped. I have a letter from one of the sisters; I’d like to read it to you sometime.”

  Jack felt awkward, not sure what to say.

  “But what can you do? It’s a war.”

  “Is that what you call it? Killing children, innocent people?”

  “I mean you can’t have him arrested.”

  “No, not even if he were still in Nicaragua. But now he’s here, raising money to buy more guns and pay his men. Three days ago in Lafayette my dad had Bertie to lunch, listened to the guy’s pitch, and gave him a check for sixty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Your dad’s helping him? Why?”

  “There are people, Jack, who believe that if you aren’t for Bertie
you’re for communism. It’s much the same as saying, if you don’t like Dixie beer then you must like vodka.” She said it with that dry tone, the quiet look, her head resting against the cushion. “My dad and his friends are passing Bertie around, inviting him to their homes—he’s a celebrity. He has a letter from the President and that’s good for a check every time he shows it.”

  “The president of what? You mean the president?”

  “Of the United States of America. He calls the contras our brothers. ‘Freedom fighters.’ Quote. ‘The moral equivalent of our Founding Fathers.’ And if you believe that you can join my dad’s club. But here’s the part you’re not going to believe.”

  He watched Lucy lean out of the chair to stub her cigarette in the ashtray, the light touching her dark hair. He was glad she didn’t get the perm.

  “At dinner my dad began telling me about the Nicaraguan former embassy attaché war hero he invited to lunch, a personal friend of several important people in the White House.” As she sat back, Lucy said, “And anyone affiliated with that club is more than welcome at my dad’s, no questions asked. My dad hadn’t told me the hero’s name, but I knew it was Bertie. First, my dad tells me how this guy is a guerrilla commander, leading a dedicated fight against the Communists. And then he puts on his nonchalant act and says, ‘Oh, by the way. The colonel mentioned that you two have met, or you know each other from somewhere.’ I haven’t said a word yet. But now I’m pretty sure that when I do I’m going to let him have it. I could feel it tightening up in me. My dad says, ‘Yeah, he’s looking for some girl up here, a friend of his or used to be his sweetheart, and wonders if you might be able to help him find her.’ “ Lucy paused. “You like it so far?”

  Jack didn’t say a word, waiting.

  “I said, ‘Did the colonel tell you where we met?’ My dad shook his head. ‘No, he didn’t.’ I asked if the colonel had told him why he wants to find the girl. My dad said, ‘No, I don’t believe he did.’ I said, ‘Do you want me to tell you why?’ He said sure. I said, ‘Because he wants to fucking kill her, that’s why.’ ”

  There was a silence. Jack didn’t move. She kept looking at him and he said to her, “So you let him have it.”

  “I gave him every murder and atrocity I could remember. My dad said, ‘You don’t believe that stuff, do you?’ I said, ‘Dad, I was there. I saw it happen.’ He didn’t like that. He said, ‘Yeah, but it’s a war, Sis. Awful things happen in a war.’ I said, ‘How would you know? You don’t fight wars, you finance them.’ “ She raised her sherry and took a sip. “So much for dinner with dad. . . . I had softshell crabs.”

  Jack said, “Lucy Nichols, you’ve come a long way from the nunnery.”

  She said, “But not from Nicaragua. He’s brought it here.”

  Jack said, “Bertie knew it was your dad, huh?”

  “He’s given a list, rich guys in the oil business. He looks at the names, he knows Amelita and I flew to New Orleans, he finds out I live here. I don’t think it’s a coincidence, I think the idea of using my dad has enormous appeal. He could be in Houston raising funds, but he’s not, he’s here. New Orleans is a contra shipping point; they have arms and supplies stored here waiting to go out.”

  Jack felt an urge to get up, move. He reached for a cigarette instead. One more. If he ever started smoking again it wouldn’t be Kools. He sat back looking at her legs stretched out on the coffee table now, ankles crossed. One sandal was loose and he could see the curve of her instep. He wondered what she was like, when she was a girl, before she became a nun.

  She said, “Sometime, within the next few days, I have to get Amelita on a flight to Los Angeles.”

  “That doesn’t sound too hard.”

  He wondered if she’d ever suddenly with somebody gone swimming in her underwear at night, in the Gulf of Mexico off Pass Christian.

  She said, “I suppose not. If I’m careful.”

  He watched her draw on her cigarette, turn her head slightly to exhale a slow stream.

  “And somehow, before Bertie gets ready to leave with his funds, I have to think of a way to stop him.”

  Jack waited a moment. He said, “And”—feeling himself alive but not wanting to move now, not wanting to ruin the mood—“you’re wondering if a person with my experience, not to mention the kind of people I know, might not be able to help you.”

  Lucy’s eyes moved, her quiet gaze coming back to him. She said, “It crossed my mind.”

  He wondered if she had ever made love on a beach. Or in bed. Or anywhere.

  “What you’re saying,” Jack said, “you don’t care if Bertie leaves . . .”

  “As long as the money stays here.”

  Jack drew on his cigarette, taking his time. Shit, he could play this. This was his game.

  “What does he do with the checks?”

  “They’re made payable to, I think it’s the Committee to Free Nicaragua. Something like that.”

  “He puts them in the bank?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Then what? Where would he buy the guns?”

  “I suppose either here or in Honduras—that’s where their arms depots and training centers are. But I’m sure he’d take American dollars and exchange them for cordobas to pay his men.”

  “How? By private plane?”

  “Or in a boat.”

  “From where?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Ask your dad.”

  “We’re not speaking.”

  “Both of you aren’t, or just you?”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Ask him where Bertie’s staying.”

  “He’s at a hotel in New Orleans.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “But I don’t know which one.”

  “You’re gonna have to kiss and make up with your dad before we can start to move.”

  Now Lucy was hesitant. “You’re saying you’re going to help me?”

  “I’ll tell you the truth, I’ve never heard of one like this before. You’re breaking the law, a big one. But you can also look at it another way, that you’d be doing something for mankind.” Jack paused, realizing he had never used the word mankind before in his life. “I mean if you want to rationalize. You know, tell yourself it’s okay.”

  “I don’t think we need to look for moral permission,” Lucy said. “I can justify this in my mind without giving it a second thought. But if the idea of saving lives doesn’t move you enough, think of what you might do with your share. I’d like to use half the money to rebuild the hospital. To me, that would seem all the justification we need. But the other half would be yours, if that’s agreeable.”

  Jack took his time, wanting to be sure of this. “You’re telling me we’re gonna keep it?”

  “We can’t very well give it back.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “He told my dad he’d like to raise five million.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Jack said.

  Lucy’s eyes smiled. “Our savior.”

  7

  * * *

  JACK PULLED UPto the front entrance of the Carrollton Health Care Center. He was out of the hearse when the young light-skinned black guy dressed in white came running through the automatic doors waving his arms, telling him, “Get that thing out of there. Man, those old people look out the window, they have a fit and die if they don’t fall down and break their hip.”

  Jack looked at the name tag on the guy’s white shirt. “Cedric, I’m picking up . . .” He had to get the note out of his suit coat pocket then and look at it. “I’m picking up a Mr. Louis Morrisseau.”

  “He’s ready, but you have to do it ’round back.”

  “How about the death certificate?”

  “Yeah, Miz Hollenbeck has it.”

  “Where’s Miz Hollenbeck?”

  “She in the front office there.”

  “Why don’t I go in and get the death certificate and then drive around bac
k? How would that be?”

  “But was Miz Hollenbeck say for me to tell you,” Cedric said, holding his shoulders hunched, the building behind him, then moving his head, giving it a slight nod to the side. “You see anybody in the window look like an alligator? That’s Miz Hollenbeck.”

  Jack looked over at a row of front windows.

  “You want people to die?” Cedric said. “You want that woman to climb on my ass?”

  Jack said, “Hey, Cedric, turn around.”

  “She watching?”

  “Look, will you—the second window, there’s a guy in a maroon bathrobe. You know his name?”

  “Where?” Cedric said, coming around casually. “In the bathrobe, yeah, that’s Mr. Cullen.”

  Jack said, “I knew it,” grinning, and yelled out, “Hey, Cully, you old son of a bitch!”

  “Oh, man,” Cedric said to him, “would you leave. Please?”

  Jack took care of Mr. Louis Morrisseau, got him on a mortuary cot tucked away inside the hearse, now parked at the service entrance. He locked the door, hurried back inside, and there was Cullen waiting for him.

  The bank robber. Angola celebrity.

  “You’re out,” Jack said. “I don’t believe it.”

  They hugged each other.

  * * *

  “My boy wanted me to stay with them, I mean live there,” Cullen said. “It was Mary Jo was the problem. She’d been thinking about having a nervous breakdown ever since Joellen run off to Muscle Shoals to become a recording artist. . . . See, Mary Jo, all she knows how to do is keep house. She don’t watch TV, she either waxes furniture or makes cookies or sews on buttons. I never saw a woman spend so much time sewing on buttons. I said to Tommy Junior, ‘What’s she do, tear ’em off so she can sew ’em back on?’ I got a picture in my mind of that woman biting thread. First day I’m there, I look around, I don’t see any ashtrays. There’s one, but it’s got buttons in it. I go to use it, Mary Jo says, ‘That is not an ashtray. We don’t have ashtrays in this house.’ I ask her, well, how about a coffee can lid I could use? She says if I’m gonna smoke I have to do it in the backyard. Not in the front. She was afraid the neighbors might see me and then she’d have to introduce me. ‘Oh, this is Tommy’s dad. He’s been in the can the last twenty-seven years.’ See, it’s bad enough Joellen takes off with this guy says he’s gonna make her a record star. Mary Jo sees me sleeping in her little girl’s bedroom with the stuffed animals and Barbie and Ken and she can’t handle it, even sewing on buttons all day. She keeps sticking her finger with the fucking needle and it’s my fault. So I have to leave. Tommy Junior says, ‘Dad, Mary Jo loves you, but.’ Everything he says ends in ‘but.’ ‘You know we want you to be happy, but Mary Jo feels you’d be much better off in a place of your own, with people your own age.’ How do you like it? This’s the place of my own.”