by Ron Base
“It’s a gun, Mr. C.”
“What are you doing with a gun?”
“Are you kidding? Everyone’s got one.”
“I don’t.”
Tommy pulled the gun from his belt and handed it to Tree. “Now you do.”
Tree looked at the gun in his hand. Tommy patted him on the arm. “Welcome to South Florida, Mr. C.”
36
Tree stood at edge of the dock holding the gun. Then he jammed it into his pocket and went up the gangplank and stepped onto el Trueno’s aft deck. Ryde Bodie sat cross-legged, lighting a cigarette.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Tree said.
Ryde tried on a wry smile through a haze of cigarette smoke. “I didn’t for twenty years—until I met you, Tree.”
“Life was certainly quieter before I met you, Ryde,” Tree said.
“So you’ve got the kids.”
Tree nodded. “They’re waiting in the parking lot.”
Ryde seemed agitated as he blew cigarette smoke into the night air. “You really did bring them with you, huh? You know what I was thinking? I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t and that would be one less problem to deal with. But then I don’t think you’re very smart, are you, Tree?”
“Maybe you’re right, Ryde. Maybe I’m as dumb as they come. But look at the company I’m keeping—a con man trying to rip off a Mexican drug cartel. How many people have died because of your smart moves? Three people at least, including Bonnie Garrison, who I think you actually cared about.”
“You do, do you? You think I cared about Bonnie?” Ryde had progressed from agitated to angry. “Well, maybe I did, although if it wasn’t for her I might not have gotten into this mess in the first place.”
“Bonnie and Wonderful Wally Garrison.”
“Wonderful Wally,” Ryde said caustically, blowing more cigarette smoke. “He was wonderful all right. In his way, he was even stupider than you, Tree. Messing with Paola and her gang. If I live to be a thousand—which given our current circumstances I doubt is going to happen—I will never understand what he was thinking.”
“The Ponzi scheme that couldn’t help but fail,” Tree said.
“Ponzi scheme.” Ryde made a face and flicked ashes on the deck. “Everything’s a Ponzi scheme when it comes down to it. The world runs on Ponzi schemes. How do you think banks operate? Biggest Ponzi scheme of them all. We weren’t doing anything any other financial institution doesn’t do every day.”
“Except when it came time to pay out, Wally couldn’t do it. That’s why you’ve got Paola Ramos on your back threatening to kill us all.”
“Hey,” Ryde said, brightening, “I was smart enough to figure you for what you really are.”
“You don’t know anything about me, Ryde.”
“Sure I do,” Ryde said, nodding through a stream of smoke. “You’re a guy who stays squeaky clean right up to the moment when he has a chance to get dirty, just like the rest of us. Nine million dollars was the opportunity you couldn’t resist.”
“You think so?”
“It’s human nature,” Ryde said. “You didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to stand up in front of an audience at the Big Arts Center. That’s when I knew for sure you had the money. That’s when I knew you couldn’t have resisted the temptation. You had the nine million dollars. All I had to do was get it out of you.”
He tossed what was left of his cigarette overboard. “I presume you brought it with you.”
“What about Paola? Is she here?”
“Waiting inside.” Ryde got to his feet. “Come on, you can see for yourself.” Seemingly as an afterthought, he said, “That gun.”
“What gun?” Tree said.
“The one in your pocket. Maybe it’s not such a good idea to go in there with it.”
“No?”
“Maybe you better give it to me.”
Tree fished out the gun. Ryde took it from his hand. With a disdainful shake of his head, he dropped the gun onto the seat. “That’s better,” he said.
He led Tree through the glass door and down the short flight of rosewood stairs into the beautifully appointed sitting room. Paola sat on an easy chair, her head thrown back and slightly to one side. Not far away Manuel lay on his stomach in the pool of blood seeping around a black iris.
Blood and flowers, Tree thought. Far too much blood soaked in flowers.
Patricio was on a sofa across from Paola looking dapper despite the gun he was holding. The two shaved-headed guys stood in the shadows at the back of the room.
Tree said to him, “Tell me why you leave a black iris every time you kill someone. What does that do for you? Make murder seem somehow more romantic? Does it give the killing a certain poetry it would lack otherwise? Is that it?”
Patricio just smiled. “I watched the end of Fun in Acapulco,” he said.
Tree didn’t say anything.
“It ended as I imagined, with sunshine and songs, and handsome Elvis going off with the beautiful Ursula and a Mexican kid. Now what are they going to do with the boy? I wonder. They would become his father and mother? This beautiful couple is going to want to deal with some Mexican kid for the rest of their lives?” He shrugged. “Somehow I doubt it.
“But I enjoyed it,” he went on. “If only all women were like Ursula. If only real life was like an Elvis Presley movie.”
“Unfortunately, real life is littered with dead bodies,” Tree nodded at the corpses. “At least it is tonight. Dead bodies and black flowers.”
“No small thanks to you, Mr. Callister. You flushed out Paola with the help of our friend Ryde.”
“Ryde is your friend?”
That induced Patricio’s sardonic smile. “Let’s say we have joined forces for our mutual benefit.” Then the smile was gone. “Now, Mr. Callister, I must ask you for the money I assume you brought tonight.”
“It doesn’t look like we’re going to need it now,” Tree said.
Patricio’s face darkened. He did not look quite so frail, and Tree could see the man who would kill two people on a yacht without getting upset about it. “There is still a price for your life, Mr. Callister, and for the life of your friend here. I expect you to pay it.”
“Come on, Tree, let’s not screw around,” Ryde said. His voice sounded strained.
Tree looked at Ryde and then at Patricio. Then he said: “The money’s in a dumpster in back of unit five at the mall.”
Patricio turned to one of the shaved-headed guys and spoke to him in Spanish. Immediately, the shaved-headed guy left the cabin. Ryde noticeably relaxed. He forced a watery smile. “I knew it,” he said to Tree. “I knew you would come through, buddy.”
A heavy silence enveloped the cabin. Patricio appeared to be lost in thought while Ryde grew tense again, his left leg jerking up and down. The second shaved-headed guy did not move. Only his eyes shifted restlessly from Tree to Ryde and then to his boss and then back to Tree again.
The first shaved-headed guy returned shortly, carrying the two duffle bags. He placed them on the floor in front of Patricio who studied them closely for a few seconds and then glanced at Tree. “Open them,” he ordered.
Tree bent over and unzipped one of the bags and turned it upside down. Bundles of cash tumbled to the floor. Tree opened the second bag, exposing its contents.
“What the hell is that?” Ryde Bodie demanded.
Patricio’s face was like the side of a cliff. “What are you up to, Mr. Callister?”
“The nine million, just like I promised,” Tree said.
Ryde scooped up three of the bundles and held them out to Tree. “It’s not nine million in American dollars.”
Tree shook his head. “Tajikistani somoni.”
“What?”
“It’s the currency of Tajikistan,” Tree explained. “The somoni. There’s nine million somoni in those bags. Well, close to nine million. I may have miscounted a few somoni.”
Patricio continued to stare at the money.
Ryde spoke in a strangled voice. “How much is it worth?”
“It’s basically worthless in this country,” Tree said. “However, if you ever visit Tajikistan, you’ll live like a king.”
Ryde dropped the money he was holding to the floor. Patricio raised his eyes until they met Tree’s. Then he laughed, a full-bodied up-from-the-gut roar that shook his frail body. “I should kill you,” he said. “I should kill the two of you. But I suppose in your curious way, Mr. Callister, you have paid for your life and for the life of Ryde Bodie.”
Patricio turned to the shaved-headed guy who had transported the money onboard the yacht and rattled off more Spanish. Immediately, the shaved-headed guy bent over and began gathering up the bundles of cash and replacing them in the duffle bag.
“Help me to my feet, Mr. Callister,” Patricio said.
Tree held out his arm, and Patricio used it to pull himself off the sofa. He wobbled and Tree caught him in his arms. He was all skin and bones. It was like holding a skeleton. “I’ve acquired a DVD of Tickle Me,” Patricio said, slightly out of breath from the exertion of standing. “Have you seen it?”
“Probably, a long time ago.”
“Elvis is referred to as a bronc buster in the movie. Do you know what that means? A bronc buster?”
“It means he’s Elvis,” Tree said. “No matter who he plays, he is always Elvis.”
Patricio grinned and said, “It takes place at a rodeo. I can’t wait to see it. How close to a horse do you think he got?”
“About as close as he did to Acapulco in Fun in Acapulco.”
Patricio laughed and one of the shaved-headed guys came forward so that the old man could switch from Tree’s arm to the shaved-headed guy. “You’d better go, Mr. Callister. We’ll finish up here.”
Ryde said, “What about the money?”
Patricio’s eyebrows shot up. “As I said, it is the price of your life, so I will keep it. In my business, you never know, nine million somoni may come in handy one day.”
Patricio held out his hand to Tree. “I believe people under-estimate you, Mr. Callister. That is the mistake they make.”
“There are times when I wonder,” Tree said.
“Take it from an old man who has survived in the jungle for a long time—you are worth more than nine million somoni.”
They shook hands and Tree went with Ryde back to the aft deck and then onto the dock.
Chuckling, Ryde threw his arm around Tree as they walked toward the roadway. “Well, buddy, I’ve got to hand it to you. When it comes to chutzpah, you take the cake. When you dumped all that crap currency on the floor, I thought we were both dead men.”
Tree moved away from Ryde’s enveloping arm. “What I still can’t figure, Ryde, is just how you fit into all this. Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“I’m on my side,” Ryde said. “I’m like that old man back there, a survivor in the jungle.”
“Your kids don’t know who you are,” Tree said. “And after all this, I’m not sure, either.”
“I’m whatever’s necessary, Tree. And right now, I’m the guy who’s walking away from this thanks to Tree Callister and nine million somoni.”
He stopped and looked at his watch. “The trouble is, buddy, I was expecting to walk out of there with nine million real American dollars.”
“Sorry about that, Ryde.”
“You’ve let me down.” Ryde drew out the gun Tree had given him.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have given you the gun,” Tree said.
“No, you shouldn’t have,” Ryde said. He looked at his watch again.
Then a black-haired man was coming towards them.
It was Diego. And he had a gun, too.
37
Diego shouted in Spanish. His gun hand moved in slow motion. Tree had a fleeting moment to think, So this is what it’s like just before you die, watching a man point the gun that would kill you.
He was thinking this when the world exploded.
He turned in time to see el Trueno lift off its berth in a great fireball that lit up the night. As the yacht rose into the air, its upper decks came apart. Debris began to rain down around them. Diego, having been staggered by the shock wave, now was hit by a flaming missile that set his clothing on fire. He screamed and the gun in his hand went off with a pop all but lost in the noise and the light.
Tree felt as though someone had hit his thigh with a two-by-four. He gasped and sank to the ground. A veil of pain descended. Through the veil, he saw Diego, transformed into a fiery dancer. Ryde was watching, too, still holding Tree’s gun. What was left of el Trueno continued to burn fiercely, setting the docks ablaze and shooting fireballs into the night sky. Tree focused on Ryde, not moving in the firestorm.
“Looks like you’ve been shot,” Ryde said.
“Yes.”
“Well then, maybe I’ll just shoot you again.”
He pointed the gun at Tree. Tree shook his head to get a better view of Ryde through the smoke and fire.
“You know something, Ryde,” Tree said.
“What’s that, Tree?”
“From here, it looks as though you really are going to shoot me.”
Ryde let Tree have one of his megawatt grins. “What can I tell you, buddy? Maybe you’re not as dumb as I thought.”
And at that moment, Tree was certain he would take the bullet. Damn, he thought. Life wasn’t fair. People kept trying to kill him.
Tree was thinking this when Ryde suddenly went flying forward. Tree glimpsed Marcello, his arms wrapped around Ryde’s legs, trying to drag him to the ground.
Ryde fought to maintain his balance with Marcello attached to him as a series of smaller explosions shook the air. Ryde’s face twisted into an expression of rage, a moment before Special Agent Shawn Lazenby took over from the struggling Marcello, forcing the gun from Ryde’s hand and then wrestling him to the ground.
The next thing Marcello was holding Tree, his face solemn. “Dude,” he said. “Can you hear me?”
Dude?
“I can hear you,” Tree groaned. “Tell me I haven’t been shot.”
There were tears in Marcello’s eyes. “You’ve been shot.”
“Freddie’s going to kill me,” Tree said. “She hates it when I get shot.”
Marcello said something Tree couldn’t understand, and then he saw Madison, saucer-eyed, and Joshua, equally saucer-eyed. Tommy was with them and he was saying something, too, but darned if Tree could make out what it was.
Then FBI Special Agent Lazenby hovered above him. He thought of Freddie, and then he thought of Elvis in Tickle Me.
What the hell was a bronc buster, anyway?
38
Tree lay on white satin in an open coffin, his hands folded neatly, holding a black iris. Tree stared at the flower. This was not a good sign, he thought.
Presently, a young man dressed in a cowboy outfit, his black hair perfectly framing a round face thick with what looked like bronze makeup, peered at him over the coffin edge. He said, “We all loved you, sir. Truly.”
“Where am I?” Tree asked.
“Son, you’re in the living room at Graceland, the home you named after your beloved momma.”
“No, no,” Tree protested. “You’re supposed to be in here, not me.”
“Hey, I only shot out a few television screens. You’re the one who keeps stopping bullets. You do that often enough, and this is how you end up.”
“Why are you dressed like that, anyway?”
“This is the way Lonnie Beale dresses, man. I’m a singing rodeo rider who works at a dude ranch. Except there are no dudes, just a lot of gorgeous chicks anxious to jump on my bones.”
“That’s the plot for your movie, Tickle Me,” Tree said.
“Man, the crowds outside the gates, they’re unbelievable. Who knew your death would touch so many people.”
“I keep having this nightmare, all sorts of smoke and fire around me, and Ryde Bodie about to shoot me.”
&nbs
p; “That wasn’t a nightmare, sir. He was gonna shoot you.”
“Why would he shoot me?” Tree said.
“You’re the detective, sir, you figure it out. The fact is, someone beat him to it. So what Ryde Bodie was going to do or not going to do, doesn’t make much difference. Fact is, you’re the one in the coffin.”
“I can’t be dead,” Tree said. “I don’t want to die.”
“Then you shouldn’t keep getting shot. Death is the logical outcome of getting shot. That’s why they shoot you in the first place.”
No,” Tree cried. “I don’t want to be at Graceland. I don’t want to die!”
“There you are,” Nurse Lindsay said, coming into focus.
“Am I at Graceland?” Tree Callister asked.
“Where’s Graceland?”
“It’s in Memphis, Tennessee.”
She gave him a quizzical look. “You’re in a private room at Lee Memorial. Don’t you remember me?”
“Lindsay,” Tree said.
She flashed a beatific smile and said, “That’s right. And here you are, with us one more time.”
“I missed you,” Tree said.
“Well, you didn’t have to get yourself shot in order to see me again. Neither did Mr. Bodie.”
“Is he here?” Tree said.
“Just for observation. He wasn’t shot or anything.”
“There’s something about me that makes people want to shoot me.”
“In the scheme of things, that’s a pretty minor gunshot wound you’ve got there,” Nurse Lindsay said. “The bullet just grazed your thigh. It didn’t shatter any bone and it missed the femoral artery. So in the long run, your walking won’t be affected. You should see some of the people who come in here. You’re small potatoes, if you don’t mind my saying so. Although—” She allowed her voice to trail off.
“Although what?” Tree said.
“We took a little poll last night and decided you’re about the oldest gunshot victim we’ve had. Mostly it’s kids shooting one another. Very seldom do we get an older gentleman with a gunshot wound.”
“This should be an indication that I’m not an older gentleman,” Tree said. “No one shoots old guys.”
