She caught the querulous tone in his voice. But there was something she needed to say, even though it would go in one ear and out the other like everything else.
‘I hope you’re not going to do anything stupid if you do find him.’
‘Depends on your definition of stupid,’ he said into his beer.
‘Stupid, as in try to beat the hell out of him. Or shoot him, things like that. Generally flying off the handle in that good old Buckley way.’
‘Give him some of his own, you mean?’
She leaned forward, lifted her arm.
‘If. You. Can. Believe. A. Word. She. Says.’
She gave the back of his head a playful smack with each word, the final says warranting a harder one to finish with. Not that it would make any difference. But it was satisfying to do.
‘Okay, I’ll ask him nicely. Happy now?’
She wasn’t. But there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. She’d have been a whole lot more unhappy if she’d known how near the mark she’d been a minute earlier.
Chapter 17
CHICO HEARD THE PING of his phone. He read the message, laughed out loud despite himself:
Met up with a guy called Evan Buckley. I think they’re working together. I lost him. What do you want me to do?
He recognized one of Dixie’s games when he saw it.
He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the chair back. He was sad more than anything else. He was really going to miss the guy. After his initial rage had subsided, he’d thought about all the good times they’d had—or at least he’d thought they were good times—and how things were going to be very different in the future.
He’d miss the humor, although now that he thought about it there’d always been a hard caution in his eyes even when he was laughing. He’d miss the confidence, the loose, wary way he had of carrying himself and the fact that you only had to tell him something once.
And every time he looked at Diego he’d remember all over again. He opened his eyes, looked at his shredded palm. Laughed softly to himself, shaking his head at how much things had turned around in the space of a few days.
He wasn’t getting anywhere sitting around thinking about it. He had to make something happen. It came to him in a flash of genius. He tapped away with one finger, a satisfied smile on his lips, then sent a reply that would give Dixie something to think about:
No problem. Come back here. We’ve got Carly. We’re picking up the money now.
He smiled to himself as he hit send. Two can play at that game. Like all good lies, it was as full of the truth as it was full of shit. It would give Dixie something to worry about.
He picked up the piece of paper Carly had scrawled the details on in a shaky hand. He almost felt sorry for the woman whose name and address were written on the paper. She had a nice name, an old-fashioned biblical name. The sort of name he’d have given his daughter if he’d had one. He was something of an Old Testament man himself, particularly when it came to crime and punishment. There were some good ideas in there that had sadly slipped out of favor.
He thought back to his studies at the seminary. Tried to remember what the name meant in Hebrew. Was it princess? No, that didn’t sound right. He couldn’t remember. It had been almost fifty years ago. It didn’t matter. He smiled to himself. Did any of those old Hebrew names mean stupid or dead meat?
She had no idea what she was getting herself into when she agreed to look after a bag for her friend. Jesus, he was glad he didn’t have friends like that.
He turned to Victor and José, felt another twinge of pity for her. She didn’t deserve these two. José in particular, leaning against the wall, picking at his nails with his knife. There was something evil that lived behind his eyes, something you didn’t want to look at.
He crumpled the slip of paper, threw it at Victor.
‘Go and get my money back.’
‘I thought Carly was getting it.’
Chico shook his head sadly as if Victor was a dog he was fond of but couldn’t teach to beg.
‘Did you really think I’d let her go and hope she’d bring it back like a good girl?’
Victor’s big face creased into a frown.
‘So why’d you let her go?’
‘Because she’s our best chance of finding Dixie, pendejo.’ He slammed his palm on the desk, forgetting the cuts, making it bleed again. ‘She won’t want to give the money back, but she’ll hand him over—or kill him herself if she gets the chance. If they’re in this together she doubles her share at the same time.’
‘What about the friend?’
Victor waved the piece of paper at him, hopeful expectation all over his face. José stopped picking at his nails. Chico stared at them. What they reminded him of now was a pair of Jackals he’d been starving for a week. And he was the man with the piece of meat in his hand.
‘What do you think?’
Victor’s face split into an ugly grin. José snickered obscenely behind him, the sound of the knife snapping shut loud in the room.
‘Just don’t let him’—he gestured towards José with his chin—‘get carried away. She hasn’t done anything to deserve that.’
Chapter 18
‘LAST THING I SAW in the mirror,’ Dixie said, ‘was Diego and his guys hightailing it down the street as some old rube was about to flick his cigarette into this sea of gasoline.’
Jackson shook his head in amazement. Took a long swallow of his beer.
‘I can’t believe you went for it. Not after what happened last time.’
‘Like taking candy from a baby.’
They’d been sitting at the bar in Dexter’s for a couple hours, catching up on two lost years. Dixie had lost count of the number of beers Jackson had poured down his neck.
What with all the talking and watching Jackson, his mouth was dry as hell. He took a mouthful of his warm coke. Over his brother’s shoulder a guy standing a few feet away caught his eye. He was mid-sixties, lean and wiry, wearing a ragged M-65 field jacket. Under the jacket, his shirt was buttoned wrong so his collar stuck up on the left side. The jacket itself was covered with patches, not all of them sewn on straight. The sort of things he’d seen Vietnam veterans wearing before: I’m sure to go to heaven because I’ve spent my time in hell circling a map of Vietnam was one you saw all the time. But there were other, more inflammatory ones: If you haven’t been there, shut your mouth and Viet Cong Hunting Club.
The guy was staring right back at him, his head cocked to the side. He had a slight frown on his face, as if he was trying to place him. Dixie gave the guy a small nod, the sort you give to strangers when you sit down at a bar next to them. The guy turned away and picked up his drink.
Jackson twisted around but the guy had turned his back to them by now.
‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s nothing,’ Dixie said and lowered his voice. ‘I’d rented a self-storage unit. She was meant to take the money there until we met up. I went there this morning.’
‘The money’s gone?’
Dixie said nothing, unwilling to trust his voice. He nodded deliberately instead.
Jackson had the sense to keep the told you so to himself. He finished his beer, called the bartender over for another one.
Dixie glanced in the mirror behind the bar. Saw the guy in the M-65 field jacket staring back at him again. The curiosity had morphed into a belligerent stare. He opened his mouth and gave a slow beery-nacho-popcorn burp, his eyes never leaving Dixie’s.
Jackson prodded Dixie in the ribs.
‘Hey.’
Dixie broke eye contact with the guy.
‘God, I could do with one of those. I feel like I’ve got three million reasons to start drinking again.’
Jackson gave a low whistle.
‘Three million? And you’ve no idea where she might have gone with it?’
Dixie shook his head, feeling as if the lid was about to come off the anger that had been building strength inside him all
day. His eyes flicked to the mirror. The guy was still staring at him.
‘Uh-uh. I wouldn’t be sitting here watching you try to drink the bar dry if I did.’ He raised his voice. ‘Not to mention getting eyeballed by some asshole who’s looking to get his ticket punched.’ The emphasis was very firmly on the asshole.
The guy was momentarily shocked. Something wasn’t right here. Jackson spun around on his stool to see what was eating Dixie. The guy mumbled something.
‘Did this asshole just call me a Gook?’ Dixie said incredulously.
Jackson tried to suppress a grin.
‘I didn’t catch it.’
There was a shout from the far end of the bar as the bartender came around and trotted up.
‘Hey! That’s enough, Earl.’ He put a hand on his arm, steered him away. ‘Time to go.’
Earl screwed his eyes up at Dixie. Like he wanted to make sure he remembered his face. Then he made a gun with his finger and thumb. He pointed it at Dixie, kicked it upwards as if it had recoiled. The bartender slapped it down. Earl walked off, mumbling under his breath.
‘Sorry about that,’ the bartender said, keeping his eyes on Earl as he shouldered his way towards the door. ‘He’s not all there.’ He made a twirling motion at his temple with his finger.
‘What’s wrong with him?’
The bartender shrugged.
‘Vietnam. He got captured by the Viet Cong. Wasn’t released until years after it was all over.’ He watched Earl push through the doors, then turned back to them. ‘He comes in most mornings to do a bit of cleaning.’
Dixie and Jackson both nodded sympathetically.
‘He can’t talk properly,’ the bartender continued. ‘They cut part of his tongue out. The owner said serve him a couple of beers on the house when he comes in, then send him on his way. He doesn’t normally cause trouble.’
‘What was he calling me a Gook for?’ Dixie said as the bartender turned to go. ‘Does he do that to everybody?’
‘No. As far as I know, you’re the first one. Seems you really pissed him off,’ he said as he walked away.
‘Asshole,’ Jackson said under his breath. He turned back towards Dixie. ‘And what’s the matter with you?’
Dixie wasn’t sure if the asshole was directed at him, the bartender or Earl. He gave a dismissive shake of his head. The two of them sat in silence for a while thinking about Vietnam, having half your tongue cut out and what you could do with three million dollars.
Jackson broke the silence first.
‘Why’d you do it? Rip off Chico I mean, not pick on poor ole Earl.’
Dixie cleared his throat. He studied the bar top intently, swirling his glass around in the water that had pooled underneath it.
‘For you. Us.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘I’ve had enough of this life too.’
Jackson spun around on his chair so that he was directly facing his brother. He leaned closer as if he hoped to be let in on a secret.
‘What do you mean for me?’
Dixie swirled his glass some more. Stared at the pattern he was making, a big, looping figure-of-eight.
‘I wanted to do something to make amends. After what happened last time.’
Jackson’s bark of a laugh made him jump.
‘That wasn’t your fault.’
‘I know that. But if I’d made one call, you’d never have gone to prison.’ He gave an aggravated sigh. Felt like picking up the glass, throwing it into all the bottles stacked behind the bar. His leg throbbed just thinking about it.
Jackson sat back in his chair, shook his head in exasperation.
‘We went through all this at the time.’
‘I know. Doesn’t mean I haven’t questioned the decision every day for two years.’
‘Jesus Christ. If you’d done anything, they’d have known it was you. They’re not completely stupid. They might have asked themselves what sort of a person can click his fingers and get his brother out of the shit just like that?’
He pretended to think, then jerked his head like he’d had an aha moment.
‘A cop, that’s who, they’d say to themselves. Where would that have left you?’ His eyes drilled into the side of Dixie’s head. ‘Not just with a bullet in your leg. In some dirty alley somewhere with your Johnson cut off and stuffed down your throat, that’s where.’
Dixie didn’t want to hear it, could’ve given Evan a run for his money on stubborn.
‘Anyway, when Carly came to me with her proposition it felt right. The timing was perfect with you coming out.’
‘But—’
Dixie put a hand on Jackson’s forearm. ‘That’s not all. Chico’s getting suspicious. I’m getting out while I still can.’
‘What’s he doing about the missing three million?’
Dixie smiled, eyeing Jackson’s beer longingly. He wanted to snatch it, pour it down his neck before Jackson could stop him.
‘He sent me after her and the money.’
Jackson stared at him for a second shaking his head slowly.
‘That is just beautiful. And it means he doesn’t suspect you.’
Dixie shrugged, not convinced.
‘Doesn’t matter. I’m out. I’ve burned my bridges now.’
They were quiet once again, enjoying the easy companionship they’d always known despite the years of separation. Then Jackson turned to Dixie.
‘Did you ever find out who set us up last time?’
Chapter 19
A THOUSAND THOUGHTS WENT through Dixie’s mind. Jackson face down on the ground behind him, the muzzle of an automatic rifle at the back of his head. The angry shouts of the DEA agents as they materialized out of the shadows. English and Spanish words. Men running all over the place. Sprinting so hard his lungs burned and the muscles in his legs screamed. The sound of gunfire everywhere at once. Small arms and the ear-ringing blasts of a pump-action shotgun. Screams that still woke him in the middle of the night. Two fast shots, somehow different from all the rest. Then a hotter more insistent pain in his left leg. A bullet ripping into the meaty part of his thigh. Blood pumping. Motor skills suspended. Crashing to the ground. Scrambled to his feet, one leg useless, dragging behind him. Arm up, diving shoulder first through a window. The sound of glass shattering. Razor shards in his flesh. Eyes screwed tightly shut. His top lip cleft in two, an ugly scar he hid behind the mustache everybody made fun of. And the permanent limp, a constant reminder of the day somebody well and truly screwed them over. Chico’s voice, screaming. You imbeciles. Over and over. And Jackson, sent to prison for two years. Trying to pretend it hadn’t changed him, broken him. All of it his fault. He should have known, not ignored what a life living on his wits was telling him, however much Jackson ridiculed him . . .
He realized Jackson had said something.
‘What was that?’
‘I said I went to see Chico. I had to start somewhere. It seemed as good a place as any. He said talk to a guy called Miguel who works for Ortega. You know him?’
‘No. But he was there the other day,’ Dixie said, his face creasing.
‘What?’
Dixie shrugged, shook his head.
‘It just confirms my decision to get out. He was really staring at my hand. At the tattoo.’
He held out his hand and spread his fingers, displaying the tattoo fully. Jackson looked briefly at his own matching tattoo.
‘So? Maybe he wants one like it.’
‘It was like he’d had an aha moment. As if it triggered some memory.’
‘I still don’t see what it matters.’
‘It matters if he knows somebody from before. Somebody who knew about two brothers with an identical tattoo—’
‘It’s a lifetime ago on the other side of the country,’ Jackson said. He leaned back and crossed his arms, stuck his thumbs under his armpits. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘I’m not worried about me. I’m thinking about what might happen if you go to see Miguel, the guy with the rece
ntly awakened memories.’
Jackson clapped him on the shoulder.
‘As ever, I’m touched by your concern. But you worry too much.’
‘And you don’t worry enough. I think maybe it tipped the balance with Chico. Miguel said something to Ortega who passed it on. I know you’ll talk to Miguel anyway whatever I say. Just bear it in mind, okay.’
Jackson nodded solemnly. Dixie knew it had gone in one ear and straight out the other.
Then somebody put Hey Jude on the jukebox. If they’d seen who it was they’d have hit him. They stared into each other’s eyes. Jackson swallowed.
‘Christ, I hate this song.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘I still see him sometimes,’ Dixie said, his voice thickening.
Jackson nodded. Broke eye contact.
‘Me too. It happened a couple of times in prison. One time when I was sitting at the table eating dinner. I felt somebody sit down next to me, pushing my leg like I was taking up too much room . . .’ He stared off into space a moment. ‘But there was nobody there, of course.’
Jackson didn’t want to think about how much worse things must be for Dixie. Jude hadn’t tried to call him on the day he died. He didn’t know how that made him feel. No wonder Dixie lost it. It would’ve made him double down on his drinking, not give it up.
Dixie punched him on the arm to break the tension. Ordered him another beer as if he was a mind reader. He cleared his throat.
‘I don’t suppose . . .’
‘What?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Jackson gave him a long-suffering look, one that said we might as well get it all out in the open while we’re at it. He waited.
‘I was going to ask if you’ve heard from Rachel.’
Jackson shook his head.
‘No. Things were going downhill even before all this happened. I knew I wouldn’t hear anything from her in prison. It’s not really her style, is it? Visiting her man in prison with all the other trailer trash wives and girlfriends.’
‘I suppose not.’
Dixie rubbed his nose with the heel of his hand. He took a sip of warm coke to ease the dryness in the back of his throat. Wondered why the hell he’d brought it up.
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