The Ragged End of Nowhere

by Roy Chaney

  “Sit down, Harry.”

  Harry Needles sat back down in his chair. He gave Hagen a wary look. Hagen picked up the Beretta. Hagen saw a bead of sweat rolling down the side of Harry’s face as Hagen holstered the automatic.

  “I’m going to leave you here,” Hagen said.

  Harry Needles nodded slowly.

  “You’re going to sit here and be quiet. Don’t pick up the phone. Don’t call anyone. If you interfere with what I have to do tonight, I’m going to come back here looking for you.”

  Harry Needles raised his hands. A show of surrender. “Bodo, I made a mistake. I know that. I took something that didn’t belong to me. But it’s yours now. Take the hand and do what you want, but let’s just forget where you got it. Is that a deal, Bodo?”

  Hagen smiled. “Jack Gubbs told me much the same thing last night. This morning he woke up with a bullet in his head.” Hagen picked up Harry’s car keys and dropped them into his pocket. “And Harry, if I find out that you had something to do with Ronnie’s death, or even that you know who killed him, I’ll kill you. You believe that, don’t you? You believe that I’d kill you?”

  Harry Needles stared at Hagen, nodded his head again. He believed it.

  Hagen picked up the suitcase and the leather valise and left the house. As he walked past the large picture window at the front of the house he looked inside, saw Harry Needles walking out of the kitchen and into the living room, one hand holding the ice to his face, the other hand flat on his forehead, as though checking for signs of a fever. It crossed Hagen’s mind that Harry Needles might grab a gun and run outside to stop Hagen and take back the wooden hand, but Hagen didn’t believe that Harry had the courage to do it, even if he wanted to. Still, Hagen walked a little faster, waiting to hear the first creak of the front door as it opened behind him. It would be the last thing that Harry Needles ever did.

  But Hagen heard nothing except the soft insect sounds of the desert and the sound of his own footsteps on the concrete walk. Several small palm trees stood along the edge of the driveway, long fronds hanging motionless in the still night air. When he reached the driveway he looked toward the street. Nothing stirred. No cars parked out there. Only the lights of distant houses.

  The car was parked in front of the garage. A floodlight lit the face of the white garage door and small garden lights illuminated the cacti and palm trees on either side of the driveway. Hagen opened the driver’s side door, pulled the front seat forward and tossed the suitcase and the valise in the back. He was pushing the seat back again when he heard a noise behind him.

  Hagen turned, his hand sliding under his sport coat for the Beretta.

  “Don’t move.” The voice was quiet and firm.

  Hagen pulled his empty hand out slowly. Raised both hands, shoulder-high.

  A man stepped around the back of the car. A tall young man. Shaved head, broad shoulders. His blue jeans and black T-shirt looked ordinary but the pistol in his hand was far from commonplace. In the light from the garden lights Hagen could see it well enough—a Glock automatic. Looked like one of the full-sized models that carried a 10-millimeter or .357 cartridge. A nasty piece of weaponry. And it was pointed directly at Hagen’s chest. Good thing he wasn’t quicker, Hagen thought. Good thing he hadn’t gotten his pistol out. He’d most certainly be dead now.

  Hagen was sure the man was another Legionnaire.

  “Reach inside your coat slow-like and remove the pistol with your thumb and index finger. Drop it on the ground.” The Legionnaire spoke in English, with a slight British accent. He might have been an Englishman but Hagen didn’t think so. British Canadian perhaps?

  Hagen did as he was told.

  “Kick it toward me.”

  The pistol skittered across the few feet of concrete between Hagen and the Legionnaire. Keeping his eyes on Hagen and with the barrel of the Glock still pointed at Hagen’s chest the Legionnaire bent down, picked up the pistol. He tucked it into the waist of his pants, the butt of the automatic resting against the black case of a cellular telephone that hung from the Legionnaire’s belt.

  “Where’s the hand?” the Legionnaire said.

  Hagen nodded toward the car. “In the valise.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  Hagen felt the sweat on the palms of his hands as he reached in, grabbed the handle of the valise, pulled it out of the car. His luck had run out. The Legion had found him before he could find the Legion. The wooden hand, the only bargaining chip he had, was gone. Had they followed Hagen and Harry Needles here from Las Vegas? Or had they been here already, watching and waiting?

  Hagen set the leather valise down on the ground. Unzipped it. Removed the blue bundle.

  “Unwrap it.”

  Hagen untied the twine and let it fall to the ground. He pulled the wooden hand from the sweatshirt and held it up. The Legionnaire studied it for a moment.

  “All right, wrap it back up and put it in the bag.”

  Hagen rolled the hand up in the sweatshirt. When the bundle was once again in the valise the Legionnaire told Hagen to pick up the bag. The Legionnaire had a phone call to make. Some of his friends would arrive soon. They’d decide what to do with Hagen then. In the meantime, they’d wait inside the house.

  “Who else is here?” the Legionnaire said.

  “A friend of mine.”

  “Just one?”

  “Just one that I know of.”

  The Legionnaire glanced toward the house. The front of the house was half hidden behind the palm trees along the driveway. The Legionnaire waved the barrel of the Glock at the bag. Hagen picked it up and they started back to the house, the Legionnaire two steps behind him.

  “When you open the door, push it all the way open,” the Legionnaire said, his voice a rough whisper. “Tell your friend you’ve changed your mind. You’re going to stay here. Make sure the door is wide open.”

  As they walked along the front of the house Hagen glanced to the right, looked through the front window into the living room. Harry Needles wasn’t there.

  When they reached the front door Hagen opened it, gave it a push.

  The door swung open wide.

  Hagen stepped inside.

  Hagen called out, “Harry, I’m going to have to stay here for a while.”

  There was no response. No sound at all. The living room was empty.

  Hagen stepped farther into the house, still carrying the bag. Behind him the Legionnaire stood in the doorway. Hagen started across the living room toward the kitchen. Hagen could see one end of the kitchen table but the rest of the kitchen was hidden from view by a dividing wall. Off to his left was the hallway that led back into the house. Several doors stood open. The rooms beyond were dark.

  “Harry?” Hagen called out again.

  Where the hell was Harry?

  The Legionnaire came up behind Hagen. Grabbed the back of Hagen’s sport coat, pulled him to the left. Pushed him forward into the hallway, letting go of his coat now. Careful to keep Hagen between himself and the hallway.

  Down the hallway a shadow that fell across the surface of an open door moved.

  A small and fleeting movement. A matter of an inch or two.

  Then Harry appeared.

  And Hagen dived for the floor.

  The first pistol shot tore through the house. Almost immediately there was a larger sound that seemed to rip through the house like a thunderclap—once, twice, and then a third time.

  The gunfire lasted only a second. Hagen lay facedown on the carpet. He waited for the sound of further shots but there were none. His ears were ringing. The smell of burned gunpowder hung heavy in the air. He heard the Legionnaire behind him—a sharp cry of pain followed by the hiss of air sucked through clenched teeth.

  The Legionnaire kicked the sole of Hagen’s shoe.

  “Get up.” The words almost a gasp.

  Hagen got to his feet. The Legionnaire stood hunched over against the wall, holding his hand to his right side, just below his ri
b cage. Blood poured out from between his fingers. In the hallway Harry Needles lay on his side, his back to the wall, legs crumpled up underneath him. One limp arm was thrown up over his face at an odd angle—the arm of a rag doll. A small revolver lay nearby. Dark red stains on Harry Needles’s shirt bloomed like exotic flowers while the thick carpet soaked up the blood underneath him.

  Harry Needles was dead, Hagen was sure.

  The Legionnaire straightened up, waved the Glock around. For a moment the look on his face was one of disbelief as the blood poured from his side. Hagen waited for the Legionnaire’s legs to buckle and the rest of him to follow his legs down to the floor. Waited for the Glock to fall from his hand. But the Legionnaire pulled himself together. After a moment he pushed himself away from the wall and stood there, unsteady at first but then steadier. His breathing was rough but his voice was clear when he spoke.

  “Let’s go.”

  Hagen carried the valise when they left Harry Needles’s place. The Legionnaire trailed behind him, stumbling once or twice. He held a bath towel taken from the house to his side, kept the Glock pointed at Hagen’s back.

  They crossed the rock garden at the edge of Harry Needles’s property, then cut across a patch of bare desert before coming out alongside a nearby house. They skirted the edge of a large lawn, keeping in the shadows, then walked quickly down the street to where an Oldsmobile sedan was parked. Hagen wondered if the police were already on their way to Harry Needles’s place. Someone in the neighborhood must’ve heard the gunfire. Someone must’ve called the police.

  Hagen drove. On the way out of town he searched the road ahead and the rearview mirror for a police patrol car while the Legionnaire watched him closely. No patrol car appeared. The only flashing blue lights came from the facades of the casinos along Casino Drive.

  Just another festive night in Laughlin—except Harry Needles was dead. Why? Harry must’ve been watching from the front window, seen the Legionnaire and Hagen out in the driveway. He couldn’t have seen them very well through the palm trees, but he’d seen enough. So he got a gun. And when he saw Hagen and the Legionnaire approaching the house, he stepped into the dark room off the hallway and waited. Was that how it played out? Or was the gun intended for Hagen? Had Harry been on his way outside to stop Hagen when Hagen returned to the house with the Legionnaire behind him? Only Harry knew. And Harry was dead. Hagen wanted to think that Harry had tried to help him, but it made just as much sense the other way.

  The police would make their own sense out of it. When they found Harry they’d also find the suitcase with Ronnie’s belongings in it, and Hagen’s fingerprints all over the house and Harry Needles’s car. When they looked into it further, they’d find that Hagen had shown up at the Venus Lounge earlier looking for Harry, and that Harry had disappeared from the club at just about that time. Circumstantial evidence, to be sure—but people have been hung on circumstantial evidence. And when the story of the wooden hand came out, as it certainly would, it would look like a tidy motive for murder.

  Hagen knew he was behind the eight ball now.

  As soon as they were out of Laughlin, driving west toward Highway 95, the Legionnaire pulled out his cellular phone. He rested the phone on his thigh and punched in a number, keeping Hagen covered with the pistol in his other hand. The Beretta the Legionnaire took from Hagen lay on the floor of the car at the Legionnaire’s feet.

  When the call went through the Legionnaire spoke into the phone in French. “Fournier? Tate here. . . . I’m heading back to Vegas. . . . I’ve got the hand but I took some fire. . . . I saw a chance and I took it. . . . I’ll live. . . . Too late now. . . . He’s there? . . . Give me the number. . . . All right. . . . Where are you right now? . . . I don’t know. I’ll callyou back. . . .”

  The Legionnaire pressed the buttons for a second number.

  “This is Tate. Let me speak to Colonel Zahn. . . .”

  Pause.

  “Hello, sir. . . . Yes. . . . In Laughlin. . . . I’ve got the hand but we had a dust up. I took a hit. . . . Needles. He’s dead. . . . Didn’t have much choice, sir. . . . Yes, sir. . . . Nothing serious. . . . Hagen’s here with me. . . . No, sir. . . . Fournier and Sutherland are north of here. I’ll meet them. They can help out. . . . About an hour, sir. . . . Yes, sir. . . .”

  The Legionnaire disconnected, then called the first number again. The Legionnaire—Tate—wanted to meet up with the others. The Legionnaire on the other end apparently wanted to keep driving south until they came upon each other along the highway, but Legionnaire Tate didn’t like that idea. They might miss each other in the darkness. Better for the others to stop somewhere on the northbound side of the highway and wait. The Legionnaire on the other end of the phone made another suggestion, and Tate agreed. The others could wait for Tate and Hagen there.

  Legionnaire Tate closed the cell phone, tucked it back into the pouch on his belt. The pouch was spotted with blood. He repositioned the towel against his side, grimacing. He moved the Glock to his other hand.

  It was settled, Legionnaire Tate told Hagen. “There’s a turnout on the northbound road, about ten miles north of Searchlight. We’ll meet some friends there. How far are we from Searchlight right now?”

  They were still driving west. They hadn’t even reached Highway 95 yet. “Thirty miles. Maybe more.”

  “Drive faster.”

  Hagen sped up. They were cruising at eighty miles an hour. The winding highway was deserted. Not a single pair of headlights in front of them or behind them. So quiet. So empty. They might have been driving across the surface of the moon. Alone with a killer, on the dark side of the moon.

  “Who’s Colonel Zahn?”

  “He’s in charge.”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  “That’s up to Colonel Zahn.”

  “What did my brother do?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I know a little.”

  “Legionnaire Hagen took something that didn’t belong to him. That’s all there is to know.”

  “Did you know my brother?”

  “I knew him.”

  “When?”

  “In Mayotte. Then later, in Aubagne—I saw him once or twice there. But I kept away from him in Aubagne.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Your brother was a fuckup. He couldn’t do anything right. He couldn’t even desert when he tried to. In the Legion there’s only one crime worse than deserting and that’s failure.”

  “Tell me about him. Tell me what happened.”

  Legionnaire Tate tried to shift his position in the seat. He grimaced as the pain shot through him. He glanced down at the blood-soaked towel. “Do you think the rental agency will charge extra to clean up all this blood?” Tate tried to laugh but his laughter subsided into a hoarse choking sound. But when the Legionnaire found his voice again he told Hagen what he knew about Hagen’s brother the Legionnaire.

  15.

  MAYOTTE—THE LAST FRENCH outpost in the Comoro Islands. Four hundred square miles of dense tropical vegetation, broken now and then by small native villages of wattle and daub or coconut-frond huts. Situated in the Indian Ocean, halfway between the island of Madagascar and Mozambique on the southeastern coast of Africa.

  Ronnie was fresh out of initial training at the Legion’s training center in Castelnaudary when he was assigned to the Détachment de Légion Étrangère de Mayotte. The unit was based in Dzaoudzi on Petite Terre, the small island to the east of the main island—Grand Terre. Tate had been there a few months when Ronnie arrived.

  “Mayotte was tough,” Tate said. “We spent most of our time clearing jungle to make roads. I don’t know why, there was no place to drive to. But the sergeant major said clear the jungle for a road, so we went out into the jungle and swung machetes until our hands bled to build his fucking road. And when that was done, another road. And another. All of them going nowhere.”

  At first Ronnie was an exemplary Legionnaire. “He was good. His sh
it was together. All the officers and noncoms liked him. They held him up as an example of what a Legionnaire should be. The rest of us resented that. When your brother told us the stories about his father who had served at Dien Bien Phu with the Legion, that’s when we saw what was what. He was getting soft treatment because his old man was at fucking Dien Bien Phu. We decided he needed to be taken down a notch or two.

  “There were fights. Sometimes your brother won, sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes out in the jungle when the sergeant major wasn’t there and the corporals were in charge, they’d gripe about his work and then make him keep working while the rest of us sat in the shade, drinking beer and watching. He put up with it though. He didn’t have much choice, but he put up with it all right. They couldn’t break him. It seemed to mean a lot to him, being a Legionnaire. Even if all he did was swing a machete in the jungle. After a while we left him alone. He became one of the crew.

  “There was nothing to do on Mayotte when we were off-duty except sleep, sweat, drink in the barracks, or drink at the Legion’s whorehouse in Dzaoudzi. You could always spend your pay on the whores but that was dicey. They were native girls, and the corporal-chef who ran the whorehouse liked them ugly. We called them the cannibals. Your brother used to come out drinking with us. He fit right in for a while. We decided we’d been wrong about him. He was an all right sort of fellow.

  “But then he started disappearing. We’d be off-duty for a couple of days and we wouldn’t see your brother anywhere. Turns out he was going over to the big island—he’d met a girl over there. We laughed when we heard. He’d gone native. It happened once in a while—a Legionnaire would get bored and start taking up with the natives. Your brother was touchy about it. We’d kid him about taking up with the cannibals and he’d start swinging. I guess he really liked the girl.

  “The sergeant major told him to cease and desist, but he didn’t listen. He kept going over there when he could. Then he didn’t show up for appel one morning and the sergeant major sent ten of us over to the big island to find him. It took us two days but we tracked him and his girl down. She lived in a village on the west side of the big island, a place called Chiconi. Nothing much to it—a bunch of huts pushed together at the edge of the jungle. Filthy. Smelled of shit and coconut milk. Everyplace in Mayotte smelled of shit and coconut milk. We found him in a hut, sitting on the dirt floor. He said he’d gotten drunk and overslept, and when he realized he couldn’t get back to the barracks in time for appel he got scared, didn’t know what to do, so he stayed there. We said, ‘Right. Let’s go.’