"He's into more than boosting cars. He came here to sell a gun."
"You don't know what he showed him."
"It was a gun," Nicolet said.
They followed the Firebird west on 31st toward Windsor Avenue, Nicolet with the attache case on his lap. He snapped it open, brought out a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter auto and returned the case to the back seat. He said, "I bet yours's in the trunk, with all that shit you haul around."
"It's in there," Tyler said, looking at the glove box.
Nicolet opened it, drew a Beretta nine from a black holster, and handed it to Tyler. "I don't see your flak jacket in there."
Tyler said, "Fuck you," wedging the pistol between his thighs.
They drove north on Windsor, over 36th Street west to Australian Avenue and north again, still in a low-income residential area, light traffic in this direction, trailing a red Firebird on a nice spring morning. No problem.
"You mentioned jackboys before," Nicolet said and then paused and seemed to start over. "Where was Beaumont Livingston found? In a stolen car, a new Olds. The gun in the trunk with him, a five-shot .38 wiped clean. That is, clean on the outside. They found latents on the three bullets still in the cylinder and on the casings of the two that killed him. They check the registration number, the piece belongs to a guy ran a crack house who right now is facing federal prosecution and no doubt some hard time. This guy will tell you anything you want to know, so you have to be selective in what you ask. He says the gun was stolen last month along with all his cash, his dope, a few other guns. . . . Jackboys, he says, came in shooting and cleaned him out. One of them he identifies, a kid named Bug Eye he used to know in Delray. The latents on the gun that did Beaumont, they find out, belong to a convicted felon named Au-relius Miller. And what's Aurelius's street name, as if he needed one? Bug Eye."
"The crack-house guy," Tyler said, "I don't see he gave you all that much. I mean it's not like he stuck his neck out and finked on anybody."
"The point I was making there, he's anxious to please," Nicolet said, "and we're not through yet, are we? Okay, ten days ago Bug Eye was shot dead by a West Palm police officer. It was in the paper. ..."
"I saw it," Tyler said. "There was some question about the guy being shot both in the chest and the back?"
Nicolet, his gaze on the red car a half block ahead of them, said, "That's the one. There was a shoot-out."
"He got hit in the chest and spun around," Tyler said, "while the officer was still firing."
"We know that can happen," Nicolet said, the red car now getting bigger. "He's slowing down."
They had reached an industrial area of warehouses and loading docks, a few small businesses, in Riviera Beach now.
"He's pulling off," Tyler said.
Nicolet looked around, saw no cars behind them.
"Keep going."
Now he stared straight ahead as they drove past the Firebird parked off the road in an open area, a trucking company freight yard.
"What's around here?"
"Nothing," Tyler said. "I think he made us."
Nicolet was looking back now. "Place they make patio furniture, a bump and paint shop . . . That could be it."
"A rental storage place," Tyler said, "down the side street."
"What're we coming to?"
"Blue Heron."
"Turn around and go back. You see him?"
Tyler looked at the mirror. "He's still there."
"He's gonna sell the Firebird for parts," Nicolet said. "Drives in the chop shop and you never see it again. You understand why I thought of Bug Eye?"
Tyler nodded. "I'll go through the light and come back."
Nicolet turned to look over his shoulder at the Firebird, way back there now. "Here's a kid in a stolen car who looks like he could be a jackboy, right? He goes to see a gun dealer named Ordell Robbie to sell him a piece. The same Ordell Robbie who bailed out a guy who was popped by somebody using a piece that was ripped off a crack dealer by a known jackboy named Bug Eye, now deceased."
"So you want to talk to this guy," Tyler said, anxious now, making an abrupt U-turn and starting back.
"See what he has to say," Nicolet said, holding the chunky Sig Sauer auto in his lap. "Citizen cooperation can sure make our work a lot easier, can't it?"
"I'll come around behind him," Tyler said. "You think he has a gun, huh?"
Nicolet raised his pistol enough to rack the slide
"Bet your life on it."
What Cujo showed Bread in his driveway was the big stainless .44 Mag Bread had him get for one of his customers. How it worked was once Bread found out who owned such a weapon and where the man lived, Cujo or one of the others would break in the house and get it, take the weapon and whatever he saw he liked or could sell. In the driveway Bread wanted to know was it the right gun, asking him how long was the barrel. Cujo told him looong, man, they go in the house he could show him. Unh-unh, Bread never let people in this house, having, Cujo believed, a woman in there he didn't want nobody to see. Or it was where he kept the million dollars he must have made by now on guns. Bread said the Mag his customer wanted had a seven and a half-inch full lug barrel on it, whatever the fuck that meant. Was this the one? Cujo asked was he suppose to bring a ruler with him breaking in a house to measure the weapon with? Bread said, "No, man, you don't need a ruler." He said, "You know how long your bone is, don't you? You take it out, lay the piece alongside your bone, and figure the difference." He'd crack you up saying things like that with his serious look he put on. Man could be on TV, fun-ny, but had his rules. Wouldn't put the gun in his trunk, right there, or take it in the house. Said it had to go out to where the guns were kept. No bullshit about that. Then lightened up saying be ready in a few days for the Turkey Shoot. Meaning when they'd go jump the Nazi had all the guns at his place. There was a name he gave for everything they did. Rum Punch was the deal he had going in the Bahamas, Open House was what he called the places he lined up for them to break in. When they jumped the Nazi it would be like a combination Open House, Bread said, and a Turkey Shoot. Jump him early in the morning. . . .
When he stopped here to make sure nobody was on him, Cujo had taken the big hunk of .44 Mag out of his pants and laid it on the floor under him. He'd watched this one car come up behind him when there was no other traffic, the car easing along. It became a white Chev Caprice going past. Two white guys in the white car. Cujo waited some more to make sure, watching cars in the mirror come up on him and through the smoked windshield as they went past, on up to Blue Heron. When he saw the white Chev coming back from there, going past the other way and then U-turning to come back toward him, it became an unmarked police car and not a couple of guys looking for a street they might have missed. See, coming off the road now to ease up behind him. He watched both front doors open in his mirror and thought of taking off soon as they were out of the car.
Except that high-speed shit could kill you. He'd tried it one time and got pulled from the wreck, a big cut in his head.
Be better to look the motherfuckers in the eye. Call the play.
"He's getting out," Tyler said.
Nicolet thought the kid was going to come back to their car with some kind of bullshit story. The kid knew who they were. But what he did was stand by the Firebird showing how cool he was, right arm on the open door, his left arm on the roof of the car. Waiting for them. About thirty feet away.
"Keep your door in front of you," Nicolet said, "till I cover him."
"You sure he has a gun?"
"I'm positive."
"What if he doesn't?"
"Then don't fucking shoot him."
He watched Tyler slide out of the car to stand behind the door and lay his Beretta on the sill of the open window. Nicolet got out and started toward the right side of the Firebird, moving a few steps away from the cars to get a cross-fire angle, his pistol held against his leg.
The kid looked over the low roof at them.
Tyler said, "Keep your hands up where I can
see 'em.
The kid, posed against the door, turned his palms up. Too cool. Maybe high.
Tyler said, "Step away from the car."
The kid said, "You police? What'd I do?"
"I said step away from the car."
Nicolet saw the kid glance this way and then back to Tyler, saying, "You want to look at my driver's license? Lemme get it for you," and ducked his head into the Firebird.
Nicolet was moving. Heard Tyler yelling again to get away from the car. Saw the kid's head and shoulders come up and saw bright metal flash in the sunlight, the kid firing what looked like a Magnum at Tyler, firing again, coming around now to put the gun on the car roof, and Nicolet brought up the Sig and squeezed off three at him fast. Saw the kid duck down maybe hit, maybe not. Nicolet moved. Got to the off side of the Firebird crouched, looking straight at that fucking smoked glass you couldn't see through, and blew it out firing three quick ones and three more, catching a glimpse of the kid through the shattered window and heard him scream. Nicolet went over the hood, rolled over it, and hit the door as the kid was getting to his knees and he screamed again, wedged against the front seat, his shiny .44 Mag on the ground. Nicolet kicked it under the car
and put the barrel of the Sig Sauer against the kid's head, the kid's eyes dazed looking up at him, the kid saying, "Man, I'm shot."
Nicolet turned his head to look toward the Chevy. He saw two bullet holes in the door and Tyler lying on the ground on his side, holding himself.
Chapter 12
Max had that effortless feeling of a natural high. He couldn't wait to see her. But the moment Jackie opened the door, looked at him and said, "Oh," he felt his high begin to nose over.
All right, she was surprised, no question about it. He said, "You're expecting someone."
She said, "No ..." not sounding too sure. She said, "Well, yes and no, but come on in."
At this point there was still hope. She looked great.
"It's okay?"
"Yeah, really."
But then closing the door she said, "You want your gun, don't you?" and the good feeling sunk all the way to hit bottom as she went to the bedroom in her loose T-shirt and tight jeans saying, "Let me get it."
Like going to get change for the paper boy.
No apology or acting sheepish about it, wanting to explain. No-you want your gun? And goes to get it. He had come here prepared to treat it lightly. "You get a chance to use that gun you stole on anybody?" Like that, with a straight face. Well, no fun and games now. It pissed him off, this act she put on, so fucking casual about it. Ask her how she'd like to go back to the Stockade, since Ordell hadn't paid the bond premium. See how casual she was then.
Jackie came out of the bedroom with his gun in her hand and kind of a sad smile, saying, "Max, I'm sorry," and he felt his mood begin to swing up again, hope stirring in him. "I was afraid if I asked to borrow it you'd say no, and you'd have every right to. Would you like some coffee?"
Just like that, back in the game.
He said, "I wouldn't mind," following Jackie to the kitchen. "You get to use it?"
She gave him the smile again. "I felt a lot safer having it. I hope you don't take milk. It turned sour while I was in jail."
"No, black's fine."
He watched her lay the Airweight on the kitchen table, bare except for an ashtray, and go to the range. She looked even slimmer in the jeans than she did last night. Not slim exactly, just right.
"You want to hang on to it for a while? It wouldn't be legal but, you know, if it makes you feel better to have it . . ."
She said, "Thanks," pouring their coffee, "but I have my own now." She came over to the table with two ceramic cups, plain white. "Do you take sugar?"
Max said, "No, thanks. You went out this morning and bought a gun?" It was possible if she drove up to Martin County; here, there was a three-day wait to buy a handgun, a cooling-off period.
"Let's just say I have one," Jackie said, "okay? I don't want you to be concerned about it."
"Somebody loaned it to you."
"Right," Jackie said, leaving the kitchen.
Max pulled a chair out from the table and sat down, wondering what kind of gun it was and if she knew how to use it. He thought of asking as Jackie came back in with cigarettes and the tan lighter and sat down across from him.
She said, "I couldn't wait last night to get in the shower and wash my hair."
And he forgot about the gun.
"It looks nice."
"I called in sick. As far as the airline knows, I'm still available."
"Are you?"
"I don't know yet. I'm going to see Tyler, and I suppose Nicolet, later on today and ask them." She paused to light a cigarette. "Do what you suggested. Offer to help and see what happens."
"What I meant," Max said, "was have a lawyer do the negotiating for you. If you can't afford one there's a good friend of mine, semiretired, I think would do it as a favor. He doesn't need the fee as much as you need a lawyer."
She was staring at him over her coffee mug and it reminded him of last night.
She said, "Maybe not. Let me talk to them first, about Ordell's money."
"That'll interest them, but only up to a point."
"All of it in Freeport. I mean a lot. Like a half million in safe-deposit boxes and more coming in."
"How'd you find that out?"
"He told me last night."
"Ordell called you?"
"He was here when I got home."
Max said, "Jesus Christ," and lowered his coffee mug to the table. "He broke in?"
"He picked the lock."
"You call the police?"
"We talked," Jackie said. "He had some doubts at first. But he's always trusted me and wants more than anything to believe he still can. You know why? Because he needs me. Because without me all that money is going to sit in Freeport. There may be other ways to get it out, but I'm the only one he's ever used, and all the other people he deals with are crooks. Put yourself in his place."
Max stared at her. "How do you get it out?"
"The same way I've been doing it. But first they have to let me go back to work."
"You're offering to set him up."
"If they let me off. Otherwise no deal."
"You understand the risk involved?"
"I'm not going to prison or do that probation thing again."
He watched her studying her cigarette, carefully turning the tip of it in the ashtray. "Well, you said you might have more options than you thought."
Jackie was concentrating on the cigarette, bringing the ash to a point. She said, "You know how many miles I've flown?" and looked up at him.
Max shook his head. "How many?"
"About seven million, jetway to jetway. I've been waiting on people for almost twenty years. You know what I make now, starting over? Sixteen thousand, with retirement benefits you can stick in your ear. How do you feel about getting old?"
"You're not old-you look great."
"I'm asking how you feel. Does it bother you?"
"It's not something I think about. I look in the mirror, I'm the same person I was thirty years ago. I see a photograph of myself-that's different. But who's taking my picture?"
She said, "It's different with guys. Women get older at an earlier age."
He said, "I guess they worry about it more. Some women, all they have is their looks. They lose that . . . But you've got way more than looks."
"I have? What?"
"You want to argue about getting old? What's the point?"
"I feel like I'm always starting over," Jackie said, "and before I know it I won't have any options left. I'll be stuck with whatever I can get." She said, "I told you last night I've been married twice? Actually I've had three husbands, but two of them I think of as the same guy, at age twenty, and then a much older version. Their names were even the same. So I say I've been married twice. I was nineteen with the first one, going to school in Miami, U of M. He rac
ed dirt bikes, did the hill climb?"
"That's pretty young to get married."
"I wouldn't live with him otherwise. That's how smart I was then."
"Times change," Max said, "but that's generally the custom."
"We were married five months ... he was killed racing a drawbridge going up, trying to jump his bike across the opening. Like in the movies. Only he was drunk and didn't make it."
Max kept his mouth shut.
"My second husband was hooked on drugs, started dealing to pay for his habit and went to prison. Before he got the airline job he was a fighter pilot in Vietnam. Are you getting the picture? The last one was fifteen years older than I am, about your age. I thought, Ah, here's one with some maturity. Not knowing he was the dirt biker come back to life."
Max said, "I'm only twelve years older than you are."
She seemed to smile-for whatever reason, he wasn't sure-and then was serious again.
"It bothered him being older, or getting old. So he'd run I don't know how many miles every day. He'd swim out into the ocean alone, until you couldn't see him. He drove too fast, got drunk every night. . . . He was funny, he was very bright, but, boy, did he drink. One evening we were sitting out on the balcony, he hopped up on the cement railing and started walking it, his arms out, one foot in front of the other. ... We were on the sixth floor. I said, 'You don't have to prove anything to me.' I remember I said, I'm not watching, so you might as well get down.' I turned my head, I couldn't watch." Jackie stopped for a moment. "When I looked up again he was gone. I don't know if he fell or stepped off. He didn't make a sound."
It was quiet in the kitchen.
She said, "That's my history. I've logged seven million miles married to two drunks and a junkie."
Max cleared his throat. "You know, you didn't refer to any of them by name."
"Mike, Davey, and Michael," Jackie said. "What difference does it make?" But then she said, "They were nice guys, really, most of the time, and yet I wasn't surprised. . . . You know what I mean? My big mistake, I let myself get into situations I know can be trouble, my eyes wide open, and then have to figure a way out." She paused, stubbing her cigarette in the ashtray. "But you know what I'm more tired of than anything?"
Jackie Brown Page 10
