As soon as the fight is over — José Right Hook in a controversial decision — the thugs make a quick exit. Off to the clubs, they announce. Boone offers to do the dishes, but Diana insists that’s Carl’s job. “He’s gotta pay somehow for putting me through this tonight,” she says with a laugh.
A few minutes later Boone finds her packing up the leftovers in the kitchen when he goes in to get another beer. She checks to make sure Amy and Carl are talking in the living room, then leans in close and says, “You know it broke his heart that you didn’t come see him when you got out.”
Boone stares down at the beer in his hand. “I felt so bad about what happened with the business and everything,” he says. “I still do.”
“Come on, Jimmy,” Diana says. “You guys were friends. Partners. I don’t care how bad you felt; you owed him a visit. And if it turned out he wanted to cuss you up and down for what happened, you owed him that too.”
“You’re right, Di.”
“I got to tell you,” she says as she scoops coleslaw from a bright green bowl into a plastic storage container, “I thought you were a better man than that.”
“So did I,” Boone says.
“But you’re here now, so I guess it’s all good.”
“You know, I want to apologize to you too,” Boone says.
Diana waves him off. “Shit,” she says. “Don’t waste your time. I got a good husband, great kids. I got everything I need to be happy forever. Go do your penance elsewhere, Jimmy Boone.”
Carl pokes his head into the kitchen and asks, “What’s going on in here?”
“Jimmy’s telling me dirty jokes,” Diana says. “You better get him out of my face before I wash his mouth out with soap.”
At about ten Carl lets a yawn escape, and Boone decides it’s time to go. He and Amy say good-bye to Diana and the boys, and Carl walks them to the elevator.
“You hear of any jobs for me, you let me know,” Carl says to Boone as they wait for the car to arrive.
“Absolutely, man. No problem.”
“I’m not picky; know what I’m saying?”
The elevator doors open, and Boone reaches out to shake hands with Carl, looks him right in the eye. “I know what you’re saying,” he replies. “Thanks for everything.”
“And be sweet to this girl,” Carl says, hugging Amy.
“I will.”
When the doors close and the elevator starts to move, Amy says, “So? How’d it go?”
“It went,” Boone replies.
“Are you glad you came?”
Boone reaches up to touch the bandage on his head. The cut is throbbing again. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I am.”
IT’S A QUIET ride home. Both Boone and Amy try to start conversations, but they peter out before they get going. Which is silly, Boone thinks, because they definitely have a connection. In fact, he feels it now more than ever. Maybe she does too. Maybe that’s why things are suddenly a little sticky.
Back at the bungalows, they linger in the courtyard in front of Amy’s place. She finishes up a story about something funny that happened at school, something silly one of her students said. He laughs when she gets to the punch line, but then there’s another long silence. Their eyes meet briefly, and Boone looks away first.
“Thanks for coming with me tonight,” he says.
“It was fun,” Amy replies. “They’re nice people. Good friends to have.”
“And sorry if we got a little loud during the fight.”
Amy shrugs. “Bloodlust. What can you do?”
Boone smiles, but he’s shaking inside.
“Up for a nightcap?” he says. “All I have is beer and bourbon, but…”
“Sounds lovely,” Amy says. “But I’ve got to be up early tomorrow for a carnival at my school, a benefit.”
Then, somehow, they’re in each other’s arms; they’re kissing. It’s a good one, a long one, and kind of a relief, like they’ve both been waiting a while for it.
They separate and try to figure out where to look and what to do with their hands.
“Well,” Boone says.
“Well, well,” Amy replies. She moves onto her porch, turns to glance at him over her shoulder.
“Sleep tight,” she says.
“Fat chance,” Boone replies.
Amy smiles and goes inside.
Boone feels good as he walks to his place. It’s like they’ve pulled something off and managed to make a clean getaway.
15
SATURDAY MORNING BENJY IS SITTING AT TAGGERT’S kitchen table, trying to drink his way out of a hangover. He showed up at the ranch half an hour ago looking like he’d fold up on himself if you bumped him, and three beers later there’s still sweat shining on his upper lip. His hand shakes as he lifts a cigarette to his mouth. Taggert smiles and slaps the table hard just to see him jump.
“What the fuck, Bill?” Benjy whines.
“There was a fly. Sorry,” Taggert replies.
Benjy buries his face in his hands and presses his temples with his fingertips. “You got any aspirin?” he asks.
Taggert is frustrated. Here Benjy’s supposed to be giving him the word on whether Mando’s bosses okayed the deal, and the guy can barely sit upright. Normally, Taggert would lay into him for being such a pussy and tell him to come out with it already, but this is still the big one, and a wrong move could send it spinning out of reach, so he’s willing to be patient, even if it comes down to hand-holding a grown man who whines like a bitch after a night of drinking.
“How about some Tylenol three?” Taggert says, standing up from his chair. “The codeine should put you right.”
As he’s retrieving the pills from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, he glances out the window and sees Olivia and Virgil walking up the hill from the bunkhouse. They’re passing a joint back and forth and giggling at something stupid. The kid is supposed to be helping Miguel set up for tonight’s dogfights over at the barn. Thirty or forty guys will be arriving at six, and things need to be squared away. Taggert raises his hand to open the window and yell at the punk to get his ass in gear but then stops himself. He can never tell what’s going to piss Olivia off these days.
Benjy is sitting with his mouth open and eyes closed when Taggert returns to the kitchen. Taggert sets three pills on the table in front of him. Benjy swallows them with gulps of beer.
“You want some food?” Taggert says. “I’ll scramble you some eggs.”
Benjy belches long and loud and shakes his head. “I’m good,” he says. “Them beers are finally working.”
Enough of this shit. Taggert leans forward in his chair and scratches his neck. “So back to Mando,” he says.
“Our man Mando.”
“What’s the deal?”
“Well, they want to work with you.”
“That’s good.”
“The problem is, they want you to take a million instead of five hundred thousand, meaning you’ve got to come up with a hundred fifty grand instead of seventy-five.”
Taggert winces. “The fuck’s that about?”
“Truthfully?” Benjy replies. He flicks the tab on his beer can with his thumb. “Mando told them they should make you prove you got what it takes. They don’t want to play with low rollers.”
If Mando was here, Taggert swears he’d cut his heart out. It’s clear that the guy has a hard-on for him. Goading him into balling those chicks, telling ghost stories in the middle of a negotiation, and now this. Taggert keeps his face blank, though, says nothing. This Mando could be Benjy’s cousin or his uncle. Benjy could be feeding him all kinds of information. Never trust a middleman. He’s got no loyalty to anybody but himself.
One hundred fifty thousand dollars means that every bit of Taggert’s ready cash will be tied up in this one deal. If something goes wrong, he’ll be wiped out. Flat busted at fifty-five years old. That’s the kind of hole you don’t climb out of. On the other hand, if he doesn’t go for it, no matter what excuses he mak
es, what it really comes down to is that Kentucky won out in the end. That at heart he’s as chickenshit as any of them back there who kept digging coal even though they knew it was killing them, because they didn’t have the balls to take a chance on anything else.
He looks past Benjy at the cracked walls and sagging, stained ceiling of the kitchen, at the ancient stove, the faucet dripping rusty water. It’s going to take money to finish the new place, and big scores like this one don’t come together every day. If he really wants what he thinks he wants, he’ll have to swallow his pride, put up the money, and show everybody that he’s ready to sit at the grown-ups’ table.
Olivia’s voice grows louder as she approaches the kitchen door. No time to think. “Make the call,” Taggert says right before she steps inside. “Tell them I’m in.”
Olivia enters and walks over to the table. “Benjy,” she says. “When’d you get here?”
“I don’t know. An hour ago?”
She’s wearing her cowboy hat and a pair of short shorts. Taggert grabs her arm and pulls her onto his lap. He’s feeling better already, full of the relief that comes after a hard decision has been made.
“Where you been?” he asks her.
She struggles playfully to get away from him. “Down at the bunkhouse,” she says. “Watching TV with Virgil.”
“Watching what?”
She breaks free and backs out of his reach. “Nothing,” she says. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Nothing,” Taggert replies, imitating her voice.
“Yeah, right,” she snaps. Before he can say anything else, she storms out of the kitchen. Goddamn, Taggert thinks. The bitch gets an idea in her head and will not let it go. She won’t be satisfied until she’s his right hand on this thing.
He waits until he hears the bedroom door slam, then says to Benjy, “What about the transfer? How’s that go down?”
VIRGIL WALKS TO the barn after dropping Olivia off at the house. Taggert wanted him there an hour ago to help Miguel, but fuck that noise. For the past week the guy’s been ordering him around like he signs his check. This is Virgil’s last day at the ranch though — tomorrow morning he’s riding back to L.A. with T.K. and Spiller — so the old man can kiss his ass.
He passes the goat pen and chicken coop and enters the barn. Miguel has cleared a space around the pit to accommodate spectators, and now he’s dragging the blood-stained square of green carpet out of the enclosure. Virgil gives him a hand tossing it. Miguel points out a new piece of rug, beige this time, and they position it in the pit. Virgil tacks it down with a few nails. It feels good to swing a hammer. Maybe he’ll do construction when he gets back to Tampa. Decent money in that.
One of the dogs begins to bark until Miguel yells something in Spanish that shuts it up. Miguel is setting up a bar on the workbench. Vodka, tequila, bourbon, plastic cups. A big tin washtub holds beer.
Virgil sweeps the floor around the pit and arranges a few folding chairs. The dust in the air tickles his nose and makes him sneeze. He goes to the tub and pulls out a beer. There’s no ice yet, so it’s warm, but he pops it open and takes a swig anyway.
Moving to the cages, he walks up and down in front of them. He’s been helping Miguel feed and water the dogs for the past few days, and it feels like they’re getting to know him. They don’t bark at him as much as they used to and sometimes even seem happy to see him.
He stops in front of Butcher Boy’s pen. The dog is hunched in the shadows, his single yellow eye a baleful beacon. Virgil kisses at him but gets no reaction. He crouches and calls, “Come here, boy,” and still the dog doesn’t stir. It makes no sense. Just yesterday he let him pet him and everything.
Virgil pokes his fingers through the mesh and wiggles them. Suddenly, silently, the big red dog launches himself. All Virgil sees are teeth flying toward him out of the darkness. He yanks his fingers free and tumbles backward as Butcher Boy slams into the gate with a snarl.
Virgil scrambles to his feet and examines his hand, ignoring Miguel’s laughter. A single puncture wound, where the dog nipped the tip of his middle finger, oozes blood. Virgil pops the finger into his mouth and sucks on it.
“You see that shit?” he asks Miguel. “Motherfucker charged me.”
“He’s fighting tonight,” Miguel says. “He’s nervous.”
The kid’s nutty, thinks dogs are almost human. He told Virgil the other day that they talk to each other like people do.
Virgil returns to the tub to replace the beer he dropped when he fell.
“They ever bite you?” he asks Miguel.
“I don’t make them mad,” Miguel replies. He picks up the beer can Virgil left in front of the cage and, after turning it over to make sure it’s empty, drops it into the trash bag he’s carrying.
“One bited the boss once though,” he says.
“Who, Bill?” Virgil says. “That must have been great.”
Miguel glances at the open door of the barn to make sure nobody is in earshot, then leans in close to Virgil and says, “No, man, no. It was very bad.”
He motions Virgil to the workbench. “I was only helping then,” he continues. “This other guy, Oscar, was taking care of the animals. The dog, Henry, he bited the boss’s hand. The boss says it was because he came from a black man.
“He make me and Oscar and Spiller hold the dog, then” — he picks up a pair of pliers off the bench and waves them around — “he pull all that dog’s teeth.”
“That’s fucking sick,” Virgil says.
“It was, man. So bloody, and the dog escreaming so loud.”
“My sister didn’t see it, did she?” Virgil asks. He can’t imagine Olivia standing by and letting that happen.
“No, she was in the house,” Miguel says. “Then the boss, he give Oscar a gun and tol him to take Henry away and kill him. But Oscar can’t do it because he love that dog, you know?”
“Miguel!” Taggert calls from outside. Miguel freezes like he’s been caught stealing, then rushes to the door. Virgil follows.
T.K. and Spiller have arrived in T.K.’s Explorer. Taggert and his guy, Benjy, are standing with them next to the truck.
“Yes, boss?” Miguel says.
“Unload this before it melts, throw it on those beers.”
T.K. opens the rear door of the Explorer. The cargo area is filled with bags of ice. Miguel trots down the road to the truck without another word, his feet kicking up little dust blooms.
Virgil ducks inside the barn before Taggert calls on him to help. He feels like hiding somewhere until tomorrow morning, when he plans to be out by the Explorer as soon as the sun rises, all packed up and ready to go.
OLIVIA LEANS BACK in the car seat on the patio of the house, exhales loudly, and tries again to thread her needle. She snagged the sleeve of her favorite blouse on a barbed-wire fence the other day and has decided to mend it so she can wear it tonight.
The problem is, she can’t sew. Mama Juju tried to teach her, but Olivia didn’t want to learn anything from that bitch. She knows how you start though — slide the thread through the tiny hole at the top of the needle — and the rest of it can’t be that difficult if every old lady in the world can do it.
Slowly, slowly. She doesn’t understand why her hands are shaking so much. It’s been hours since her morning coffee. Maybe she should smoke another joint. A drop of sweat rolls down her nose and hangs off the tip. The thread approaches the hole, bumps the edge once, twice, then slips through. She ties the ends of the length of thread together — she remembers that much — and picks up the blouse to examine the tear more closely.
The screen door opens, and Taggert steps out onto the patio. Ever since Benjy left a few hours ago, he’s been busy getting ready for tonight’s dogfight, ordering Virgil and Miguel around, sprinkling the parking area with water to keep the dust down, and changing the propane tank on the grill. He pops open a Dr Pepper and sits down beside Olivia on the car seat.
“I’m thinking I ought to
yank another case of burgers out of the freezer,” he says. “Don’t want to run out like last time.”
Olivia shrugs, not looking up from her sewing. She can tell he’s excited about having his friends come to the ranch, and he loves fighting those dogs, but she’ll be damned if she’s going to buy into it. Not when he hasn’t said word one about the counterfeit bills since that night in the bedroom, even though he promised to fill her in on what happened at the meeting with the Mexicans. And what were he and Benjy talking about earlier, in the kitchen? The fucker probably thinks that if he puts her off long enough, she’ll say, “Oh, well,” and give up her demand for a cut, but he’s dead wrong.
“You gonna chop the onions and lettuce and stuff?” he asks.
“Soon as I finish this,” she snaps, letting him know she’s irritated with him. She jabs the needle through the blouse, draws her first stitch tight. It looks like crap, the fabric all puckered, and the second is even worse. She has to stop herself from ripping the blouse to pieces.
The sun drops below the patio’s awning, and a wave of warm red light washes over her and Taggert. Pretty soon the surrounding hills will take on that color as the day slowly dies. Taggert leans back in his chair and fiddles with his glasses, which are hanging around his neck.
The goats are crying down at the barn. T.K. and Spiller toss a football in front of the bunkhouse, and their occasional exclamations drift lazily up the hill a second or so after they leave their mouths, a disconcerting trick of distance.
“Okay, so listen,” Taggert finally says. “Tell me what you think of this.” He leans forward and motions for her to do the same, then uses his index finger to draw two parallel lines about a foot apart, one above the other, in the dust that covers the patio. “That’s Interstate 15,” he says, pointing at the top line, “and that’s the 40.”
He scratches another line, this one joining the midpoint of the top line to the midpoint of the bottom line. “This here’s a little dirt road that runs between the two freeways through a patch of desert called the Mojave Preserve,” he says. “Nothing on it but an old ghost town.” He makes a dot on the new line, right in the middle. “Ghost town. Got it?”
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