Gray's Ghosts

by Carey Lewis

All of them piled into the house, giving Cesar the once over as they did. Jeff waddled over to them.

  “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

  “What’s she saying to you?” Huey asked.

  “Wants her own car so now I got to rent one from Avis,” Jeff said, poking at his cell phone.

  “Going to put that on their bill?”

  “I’d like to.” Jeff put the phone up to his ear and took a few steps away, telling the person on the other end of the line he needs a Lincoln MKC. Then asked the person what they did have then.

  “He’s only got the three cars,” Huey said to Cesar. “Can only afford the one SUV. It’s his baby.”

  Cesar nodded, looking back to the barn. “So how long we wait?”

  “They get finished here, they’ll let us go look I’m sure.”

  So Cesar and Huey waited, leaning on the fender, their arms crossed. Jeff came back over, said the car would be ready for one, wanted Huey to go pick it up.

  “And then what?”

  “Then you bring it back here.”

  “How am I supposed to get there Jeff? I’m going to have to take this car and leave it there.”

  Cesar watched the anger cross Jeff’s face, the confusion.

  “Call Reggie,” Huey said. “Tell him to get his mom to drive him over and bring the car. Then he can ride back with you.”

  “It’s his day off.”

  “You think she gives a shit?” Huey said, tilting his head toward the house.

  “I don’t know why I hired you,” Jeff said, dialing another number on his phone.

  “Because you got no one else.”

  Jeff put the phone up to his ear, took a few steps away and asked to speak to Reggie.

  Out of the house came the blond family, the TV hosts right behind them, a camera shooting them from the front and back. Dominic had the guy named Rodney leading him as he walked backwards, making sure the muscle man didn’t trip and fall. The other one, Terry was it? the one with the lumberjack beard, was shooting from the rear.

  Cesar watched them walk along the side of the house, the hosts taking turns asking the family questions, once in awhile getting the kids to say something. They got to the barn and walked back to the house, back inside.

  Jeff came back over, said “Everything’s set up.”

  Huey said he didn’t care.

  They watched the blond family come out of the house again, the TV hosts behind them, asking the same questions, getting a different version of the same answer. They did the same thing back over to the barn, then all of them talked for a minute before going inside.

  They waited as the TV people did their thing, the thrill of watching a TV show being made long gone. This shit was getting boring.

  A Buick Enclave came down the drive, and skinny, shaggy haired Reggie popped out. He and Jeff had some words, then the TV people came out of the barn, the family going back inside as the others talked again. Deacon came over, thanked them for waiting.

  Martina came over to Jeff, Jeff saying “Got everything worked out, sorry for the confusion.”

  “Make you feel good knowing you finally did something right?”

  Jeff handed her the key and she looked at him. “What’s this?”

  “Key for the Buick.”

  “That thing I said about you doing something right? I take it back. Give me the Lincoln.”

  Jeff looked around for help, saw he had none, so he took the key for the Lincoln off his keyring and handed it to her. She gave him a hard look as she walked to the SUV, like she couldn’t believe she had to put up with this shit.

  “What’re you guys up to?” Deacon asked.

  “We was hoping we could see the haunted bunker,” Cesar said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE KNOCK GOT THE DOGS barking and jumping on the screen door, making it slap each time against the wooden door frame. Hector looked over from the couch, saw the guy with his plaid shirt and skinny tie, putting his hand up against the screen to peer inside.

  “Can I help you?” Hector asked, slow to make his way off the couch.

  “You mind calling off the dogs?”

  “They ain’t mine,” Hector said, getting up to look at the man, in his forties, a little pudgy around the middle, hair floppy on his head. He took a step away from the door, expecting Hector to open it. He didn’t.

  “Cesar Riso?” the man asked.

  “No,” Hector said, watching the man size him up, trying to see past him into the house.

  “How long was your stretch?”

  “Supposed to be five, went to seven.”

  “Kirkland?”

  “One and only. Grand Theft Auto.”

  “Get some aggravated assault in there too?”

  “Had some weed on me they trying to pin me with trafficking. I tell them it was my personal shit, my tolerance gone up.”

  Hector watched the man take it in, not looking at him. Had that far off look, like he was searching something in his mind.

  “Been a long drive. Came from Florence, the Marshals office, hoping to get a word with Cesar,” the man said, putting his hands on his hips, pulling the jacket back, showing Hector the Glock 40 on one hip, the tin star on the other.

  “That supposed to do something for me?”

  “Just letting you know who I am, make sure we got no misunderstandings.”

  “Cesar’s not here right now, not sure what else there’s to understand.”

  “Well, maybe something else you’re not understanding,” the man said, leaning back to look at the outside of the house. “Faster I talk to Cesar, faster I get myself back to Florence, get out of everyone’s hair. Let you guys go on with your business.” He looked back to Hector, driving it home.

  They didn’t say anything, just stood there staring each other down.

  “Think now we understand,” he said, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a card. “Cesar gets back, tell him to give me a call, get this over with.” He slid the card between the screen and the piece of wood holding it in place, then walked off.

  Hector followed him with his eyes, watched him get into the Honda Accord and reverse out of the gravel drive. He unhooked the door and the dogs ran out, barking at the Marshal that left. He took the card that said US Marshal Carter Grant.

  BROOKE WAS GETTING A BAD vibe off Cesar, the only way she could explain it. She and Deacon showed them the bunker, showing them where they thought Dwight died. Huey was the one that appeared interested in it, asking questions, looking in every nook and cranny. Cesar seemed more interested in other things, asking what the square footage was, looking for outlets, seeing how tight the door closed up top. Asked if there was a way for fumes to escape. Taking a real interest in the generators.

  It was like he was picturing himself moving in.

  They split for lunch, Martina taking the Lincoln SUV with the crew, Brooke and Deacon tagging along with Huey and Cesar. The Millers grabbed their luggage, climbed in their truck to spend a few days with family, getting out of the film crew’s way while they filmed and investigated the farm. Jeff took the skinny kid, Reggie with him, both looking like they didn’t get picked for a team in gym class.

  Huey took them to a place called Patty’s Roadhouse, guaranteed best steak in the state. He told them it was modeled after the movie Roadhouse with Patrick Swayze, Patty even put up ads telling tourists her place was where the movie was shot. Police made her stop saying that, said it was false advertising. Deacon was fawning over the movie, the one where Swayze had the power move of ripping a guy’s throat out. Must be a guy thing. Place looked like a typical country shit-kicker bar to Brooke.

  They talked about the show some more, asking Deacon about the craziest things they saw. Deacon put on an act, always charming when he had attention, relaying some things that were put on TV, not what really happened. Started talking about ghost movies, The Conjuring coming up, Cesar drawing the parallel to the married couple in the movie to her and Deac
on.

  They were brought back to the house and dropped off, Cesar taking one last look at the barn before they left.

  “Something about him,” Brooke said to Deacon.

  “You know how folks are. Meeting people on TV.”

  “It’s why you hang out with them isn’t it? Get that reaction.”

  “Just trying to be nice.”

  “To a fault.”

  “One of many you tell me.”

  “Like you’re famous.”

  They stood looking up at the house. Brooke said, “Think I might stay a couple days when we’re done. Head down to the beach, play tourist.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “Get away from the show for a bit.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Looks in rough shape. The town’s got value though. Historical like it is,” Brooke said.

  “That’s what we’d have to sell, the town. Historical living here in Rounder’s Bend.”

  They were quiet for a moment.

  “Seems to be a working farm, think that might be worth something?” Deacon asked.

  “Think there’s a market for people wanting to work a farm?”

  “Got to be some. You want me to go with you?”

  “To the beach? Said I wanted to get away from the show.”

  “I wouldn’t bring cameras with me.”

  “But you’re the show.”

  “So it’s me you want to get away from.”

  “I want to get away from the show.”

  “You just said the show is me.”

  “You hear the pipes rattle when she turned on the water? Came out brown at first?”

  “Pipes would have to be replaced. Floorboards felt weak too. Bet you it’s patchy under those throw rugs. Go down in the basement, see how bad the pipes are leaking.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised there’s mold in there somewhere. That’ll cost money.”

  “No wonder they think the place is haunted. Bunker’s in the best shape,” Deacon said, lighting a cigarette. “So it’s me you want to get away from. Using the show as an excuse.”

  She looked at him, said “I don’t think the place is haunted. Not sure how much we can get for it.”

  “Cost too much to fix. Shame, I’m sure the Millers think it’s haunted.”

  “Maybe we’ll tell them some of the things wrong with the house, what’s giving them that impression. Also telling them where the house needs fixing.”

  The black SUV pulled into the drive, started making it’s way toward the farmhouse.

  “You know you’re on the show too,” Deacon said.

  “Can’t get away from myself can I?”

  “It’d be another show if you could,” he said, smiled at her. That wounded smile that came when he couldn’t stop it, when it was just the two of them.

  “How many divorced couples you know sign the papers then spend sixteen hours a day together?”

  “Just the lucky ones,” he said as the SUV parked beside them. Rodney was the first out, excited to tell them about the gags he was thinking of doing.

  “Not too many, the house isn’t haunted,” Brooke said, turning and walking away.

  “Well that’s just bullshit,” Rodney said.

  “YOU NEVER GOING TO GUESS who came by,” Hector said.

  Cesar just walked in, now sitting on the carpet playing with the dogs right there in the doorway. Huey stood there, holding the door like an asshole, waiting for Cesar before he could enter.

  “Maybe this will get your attention,” Hector said. “US Marshal Carter Grant.”

  That got Cesar to look up, eyebrows raised, looking at Hector sitting on the couch. “Yeah? Say what he wanted?”

  “Said who he was, guess he thought it was enough. Wants you to call him.”

  “Probably about Randy. Dick cop told me they’d be calling the Marshals.”

  “Just funny he shows up when we watch that movie yesterday.”

  “Where I got the idea.”

  “Why they here for Randy?” Huey asked. “What happened?”

  “Randy ran off.”

  “You just said it didn’t work out, didn’t say nothing about Randy splitting.”

  “I got to tell you everything Wonder-Bread?”

  Cesar got off the floor and walked over to the couch, taking the card from Hector. Huey came in, closing the screen door behind him.

  “Thing he wanted to make a point of,” Hector said as Cesar sat on the couch beside him, Roxie jumping into his lap, “is sooner you call him, sooner he gets out of here. Don’t seem to want to get too deep.”

  “I’ll call him tomorrow, get him gone.”

  Huey left the room, going into the kitchen off to the side with the plastic tiles that were coming up, separated by the island with wood paneling. He ducked into the fridge and grabbed a couple beers.

  “Want me to tell you about the bunker?”

  “Only if it’s got forty grand in it.”

  “It’s perfect. Guy even hooked up generators, those quiet kind. We fired them on, can barely hear them, just a hum.”

  Huey came back, handed a beer to Cesar, then took a swig of the other. He looked down, saw Hector staring up at him. Huey handed over the beer and went back to the kitchen.

  “Don’t see how that helps us now,” Hector said.

  “The place as big underground as the barn, maybe just as big as the house. We stream some lights up in there, get a hose or something and we’re in business. No one has a clue.”

  Huey came back into the room, took a seat on the carpet by the TV, fired on the Xbox. “People living there might. The Millers? That what he said their name was.”

  “Got a point,” Hector said.

  “You see them come out, see how scared they were? They not going to be wanting to live in a haunted house,” Cesar said.

  “Do you?”

  “That shit ain’t haunted, no such thing as ghosts.”

  “And you call yourself Mexican. We got a whole day dedicated to that shit,” Hector said.

  “We’re second generation, we got Halloween. Anyways, we don’t take the house. They don’t want to move, fine, we just rent the barn from them.”

  “They’re using the barn,” Huey said. “You didn’t see the shit they got in there? It’s all used.”

  “Didn’t notice.”

  “They had fucking cows in there man,” Huey laughed.

  “So we tell them we just want to rent the bunker out, we take care of everything else. Cows up there help man.”

  “Cesar, you really think about this?” Hector asked. “Let’s say the Millers go for your idea, you renting out a place on their land to grow weed. Can’t believe I even have to say this to you.”

  Cesar was silent, waiting.

  “No family’s going to rent you a place to grow weed. They do, what you going to pay them with? Then what you going to plant there? You got two rows of bud growing in a planter on your windowsill.”

  “It’s good bud though,” Huey said.

  “Is it going to multiply? Man, shut the fuck up when grown-ups talk,” Hector said, then turned back to Cesar. “Want me to go on?”

  “You got the ball, run with it.”

  “Then you got the Cubans going to want their forty back. What’s the juice you gave on that, ten points?”

  “Got them for five.”

  “Five with the promise of how many points on the operation?”

  “Ten.”

  “Jesus Cesar. Next month comes the Cubans looking for their money, they expecting you to hand over the forty plus two on top, plus ten points on what you making from weed you don’t have. You get the forty together you still got nothing but angry Cubans waiting with their hands out.”

  Cesar was quiet, thinking. He asked if he ever had any of Motley’s weed.

  “It’s not as good as yours,” Huey said.

  “Good enough to buy though?”

  “Yeah, but given the choice.”

  Ce
sar turned to Hector, said “Motley grows his own. Enough to get us started.”

  “You going to rob a bunch of crazy Wonder-Breads with tattoos on their faces. Heard one of them even got his eye balls tattooed, you want to take their weed?”

  “Get us started where we want to be. Gets us something to pay the Cubans down the line.”

  “What about the forty they expecting already before you’re paying off the points?”

  “Maybe take their money too.”

  “You think they got forty-two lying around?”

  “Even the TV guy said your weed was good. He liked it.”

  Cesar looked at Huey, then back to Hector, a smile growing on his face.

  “He might have it, the TV guy.”

  “Why’s he going to give you forty grand?” Hector asked.

  “Because he’s going to help us take Motley’s weed.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I TOLD YOU THAT MARSHAL bullshit wouldn’t work.”

  “Still might.”

  “You think he’ll call?”

  “Some of them do,” Carter said.

  They were sitting in Whitmore’s office, the window behind him showing a nice view of the parking lot, a couple old cars out there with red and blue lights on the roof. Whitmore’s feet were up on his desk, showing his cowboy boots, his hands clasped around his belly.

  “Which ones call?” Whitmore asked.

  “The ones aren’t too smart.”

  “How much you out?”

  “I don’t find him? Bail ran for ten. He’s a good kid, tied to his grandma at the hip. Didn’t think he’d run.”

  “Think you’ll find him?”

  “Meaning I think Cesar popped him?”

  Whitmore nodded.

  “I don’t know but I’ll tell you his friend’s dirty.”

  Whitmore took his feet off the desk and leaned forward in his chair, fanning through the mess until he got a file. Opened it, asked, “This look like the guy?” and handed the file to Carter.

  “That’d be him,” Carter said, looking at the mug shot of Hector paper clipped to arrest reports.

  “Met Cesar in Kirkland. Your guy, Hector Gonzalez? He was in there for boosting a Monte Carlo.”

  “No shit? Didn’t think they made those anymore.”