by Nick Petrie
“Where is Lewis?” she said.
They stared at her for a moment before they saw Peter, who was standing right beside her.
That got them off the couch.
They were big men in worn T-shirts and faded jeans. Their hair was cropped short, their faces lined from sun and wind. Peter watched them come around the couch, flanking him automatically.
They moved like they knew what they were doing and had been doing it together for a while.
The static flared up higher, tension now in his shoulders and arms. This was useful static, making him ready.
The men glanced at Dinah from time to time—they probably couldn’t help themselves; Peter had the same problem—but mostly they watched Peter. He was a big man, too, in worn work clothes and sand-colored combat boots, with the same air of semi-domestication.
Peter figured they had all been to the same finishing school. The one where the dress code called for camouflage, desert brown.
“Lewis ain’t here,” said the first man. He had plump cheeks and fair skin, like he’d been raised on milk and cheese. His red T-shirt advertised Miller High Life, which suited him, because he was built like a beer keg. But he walked lightly, almost on his toes, as if approaching a tango partner. He had a large eagle tattoo wrapping one arm, and a Green Bay Packers tattoo on the other.
The second man had a long, angular face in a deep, gleaming black. “And who might y’all be?” The slow drawl sounded like Texas, or maybe Oklahoma. His T-shirt was blue and read MAXIE’S SOUTHERN COMFORT. His skin seemed a little too tight on his body, every muscle group clearly defined. He wore no shoes or socks, and Peter could see the hard calluses on his feet that came from kicking a heavy bag very hard over a long period of time.
Dinah didn’t seem to notice any of those things. She put her hands on her hips, back straight and strong. A formidable woman.
“Gentlemen,” she said. “I know he’s here. His truck is parked right outside.”
Behind the salvaged bar, the door opened and a man walked through carrying a can of Remington gun oil. His skin was coffee-brown, his head shaved. His ancestors could have been from anywhere and everywhere.
He stopped moving when he saw Dinah.
It was not a voluntary pause.
It was total stillness, abrupt and automatic. As if his sensory system had overloaded.
He wore crisp black jeans, a starched white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled exactly twice, and a carefully blank expression that did nothing to hide the hollow eyes of a man who was just punched hard in the stomach.
Dinah said, “Hello, Lewis.”
Only two quiet words, but in them Peter could guess their entire history.
—
It lasted for only a moment, the space of a breath. Then Lewis closed his eyes and opened them again, somehow a different person. Older, maybe, and harder.
“Hey, Dee,” he said. “Been a long time, girl.” His voice was like heating oil, slippery and dark. The heat and combustion latent within.
Watching Lewis cross the room, Peter thought of a mountain lion he had once seen in the North Cascades. Lewis had the same elemental precision and economy of motion. A predatory indifference. Peter was sure the two men in T-shirts were strong and capable. But compared to Lewis, they were bunny rabbits.
Lewis didn’t acknowledge Peter in any way, as if he weren’t even there. But Peter knew that if he did anything unexpected, Lewis would be ready. Because Lewis was always ready.
Peter was the same way.
Lewis stopped at the table and looked down at the disassembled shotgun. His hands twitched restlessly at the ends of corded arms. He said, “What you doing here, Dee?”
She tapped her toe twice. It was loud on the hard oak floor. “It’s about James,” she said. “You know he’s dead.”
Lewis didn’t look up. “Yeah,” he said. He contemplated the shotgun’s component parts, laid out neatly on the cloth. “I was real sorry to hear.”
Dinah said, “I need to know what he was doing for you.”
A faint smile tilted the side of Lewis’s mouth. “You always was direct.” He picked up the barrel and peered down the bore. “I used to like that about you.”
“Lewis,” she said. “I need to know. Was he working for you?”
Lewis didn’t look at her. “I don’t run the day-to-day,” he said. He put some gun oil on a bore swab and ran it through the barrel. “I went in one night and there was Jimmy, washing glasses.” He sprayed a hand swab and wiped down the action, the stock, and the barrel. The simple movements carried the grace of long practice. His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Man did his job. I let him be.”
Dinah said, “I don’t know what else you’re doing, but I know you. What was James involved with? Was he handling money for you?”
Lewis looked at her now. The force of his full attention was tangible, like a hot desert wind. Dinah didn’t waver.
He said, “First place, girl, you don’t know me. Could be you never really did.” He began to reassemble the shotgun without looking at his hands. There was no trick to it, just practice. Sometimes, to calm himself when the static was particularly bad, Peter would close his eyes and field-strip his 1911.
“Second place,” said Lewis, “all the man did was tend bar. The only money he moved went in the till. I wouldn’t have asked him to do anything else. And he wouldn’t have done it.” He locked the barrel assembly into the stock, then thumbed massive shells into the magazine. “You knew anything about either of us, you’d have known that.”
Dinah stared him full in the face, deciding for herself.
“All right,” she said finally. “If James wasn’t carrying or keeping anything for you, then I have a problem. Someone left some money under my porch.”
The slight smile tilted Lewis’s mouth again. He spun the shotgun in one hand like a majorette’s baton. It was a show-off move. His hand wasn’t in full contact with the weapon. Of course, Peter was six long steps away, and Lewis could finish the spin and shoot Peter in the chest twice in the time it took him to close the distance. If it was loaded with buckshot, it would literally cut Peter in half.
Lewis turned to the man in the Miller High Life shirt. “Nino. Can you think of anything?”
“It ain’t from Shorty’s. That place is squared up and nailed down. I know everything comes in and goes out.” He assessed Dinah from under raised eyebrows. The beer keg might be smarter than he looked. “How much we talking about?”
Time to step in. The static was rising, although he wasn’t sweating yet. Peter said, “Dinah, it’s not their money. We should go.”
Lewis moved just slightly.
Just enough to change the geometry between himself and Peter. Like that mountain lion getting its hind feet set right in the dirt before leaping on the deer.
He didn’t look like a show-off anymore.
Peter was grateful for the .45 shoved into the back of his pants.
He put his hands on his hips to get them closer to the butt. Not that it would be helpful to take out a gun right then. Nor was there any guarantee that he would be fast enough to be useful. Lewis’s trick with the shotgun had allowed him to see how very quick Lewis was with his hands. Maybe that was the point.
Lewis tilted his chin at Peter while looking at Dinah. “Who’s this?”
“This is Lieutenant Ash,” she said. “A friend of James’s from the Marines. He’s part of a government program, doing some repairs on the house.”
Appearing to notice Peter for the first time, Lewis looked him up and down, taking in the sawdust on his pants, the scuffed boots, the brown work jacket.
“Jarhead,” he said.
It was a term of pride for some Marines. From anyone else it was an insult. Especially the way Lewis said it.
Peter smiled pleasantly and leaned toward Dinah. �
�Some guys get jealous,” he explained. “Not everybody makes the grade.”
Nino said, “It sounds like he might want the money for himself.”
Dinah said, “Lieutenant Ash found the money. I wasn’t home. He could have kept it. Instead he brought it to me.”
Nino raised one hand, as if asking permission to speak. “The money,” he said. “How much was it again?”
Now Peter knew why Dinah wanted to leave the money in the truck. He shifted his hands under the waistband of his work jacket. He was left-handed. He mentally rehearsed the movement he would have to make to clear the .45. But he kept his eyes on Lewis.
“I didn’t say,” said Dinah, cool as a cucumber. “Nor will I. Perhaps it’s time for us to leave.”
“Perhaps y’all should give the money to us,” said the lean barefoot man from Texas, or maybe Oklahoma. He flexed his feet on the floorboards. “We could invest it for you. For your retirement. Is it in your pocket or in your car?”
If they thought it might be in her pocket, they really didn’t know how much money it was. The four hundred K took up a good part of that grocery bag, even neatly banded.
Lewis didn’t weigh in. Maybe he was waiting to see what happened. Peter began to slide his left hand toward his back. He’d flip the safety as he raised the pistol.
Nino’s weight was on his toes, but he was a few steps away. The barefoot man was no closer, but if he led with his feet he’d have a longer reach and get there first. Regardless of how it happened, there would be no confusion between Nino and the barefoot man. They’d done this before.
Peter said, “Hey. Your accent is driving me nuts. I can’t pin it down. Where the hell are you from? Texas or Oklahoma?”
The lean man looked at Peter like he’d grown a third eye. “I’m from Norman, originally. But I grew up near Midland.”
Nino said, “Jarhead, shut the fuck up. Ray, stay focused. Honey, give us the money. Or else we take it.”
“I beg your goddamn pardon,” said Dinah, “but you may not.”
Nino laughed. Barefoot Ray from Oklahoma smiled slightly and began to bend his knees. Peter put his hand on the .45.
“No,” said Lewis.
He spoke clearly, but not loudly.
Nino and Ray turned their heads to look at him.
“This is not who we are,” said Lewis. His voice cut through the room like a Randall knife. “We do a lot. But not this. Not taking money from the widow of a U.S. Marine.”
Nino made a face like he smelled sour milk, but he took a step back. Ray from Oklahoma unbent his knees.
Dinah looked at Lewis standing across the room. If something passed between them, Peter couldn’t see it. She said, “Thank you, Lewis.” Then put her hand on Peter’s arm. “It’s time to leave.”
Peter didn’t move. He wanted to get outside. After only a few minutes, he was sweating under his coat as the rising sparks heated him up. But he wasn’t done.
“Actually,” he said. “There’s one other thing.”
—
Lewis watched Peter without speaking. Even in stillness he had that lethal grace.
Nino snorted. “Oh, I can’t wait for this,” he said.
“It’s not your money,” said Peter, talking only to Lewis. “We know that now. But it’s somebody’s money. Odds are he wants it back.”
Lewis produced an elaborate shrug. “Not my problem.”
Peter smiled pleasantly. “Do you know a guy with a kind of starburst of scars on his right cheek?” He drew the marks with his fingers on his own cheek. “Right earlobe missing? Big black guy, late thirties to early forties, a lot of self-confidence? Carries a chrome .32? Watching Dinah’s house?”
Peter kept his eyes on their faces. Not a flicker from Lewis or Nino or barefoot Ray from Oklahoma.
Dinah just stared at him.
“Nobody I know,” said Lewis. “Still not my problem. Call the cops.”
“This guy stopped at Dinah’s house this morning,” said Peter. “In a big black Ford SUV. He wanted to know how she was paying for the porch.” He looked at Lewis. “He followed us here.”
Lewis frowned. “You brought him to my place of business?”
“I didn’t bring him anywhere,” said Peter. “He followed me. What does it matter? It’s not your money, right?”
Lewis shook his head. “You brought him, jarhead. Now get rid of him.”
It was Peter’s turn to shrug. He made it elaborate, too. “Not my problem,” he said. “Besides, what if he’s a cop?”
“Get rid of him,” said Lewis again. Each word crisp and clear.
“I tried,” said Peter. “But he showed me his gun and I got scared.”
Lewis gave him a look. Peter raised his hands in a show of helplessness.
“Hey, I’m only one guy. And I’m just a carpenter now. This guy knows my truck. You have this crack team of trained killers. Maybe Nino and Ray could discourage the guy a little.”
Lewis didn’t like that. But he couldn’t see an acceptable way out of it, so he said, “Fine. They’ll keep an eye out. Right, guys?”
Nino made the sour face again. “Sure.”
Ray from Oklahoma actually seemed to cheer up at the prospect. Maybe he’d get to kick somebody after all.
“Short-term only,” warned Lewis. “A few days. We got business coming up.”
“I’ll take what I can get,” said Peter. “You want to trade cell numbers?” Peter didn’t even have a phone.
“Get the fuck out of here.” Lewis turned away. Over his shoulder, he said, “Nino, next time make sure you lock the fucking door.”
—
Outside, Dinah hissed, “Peter, are you crazy?”
Peter smiled. “Only a little.”
It was the first time she’d called him Peter, not Lieutenant Ash. He liked it. He was starting to think she’d let him help her.
They walked across the sidewalk and the cold autumn wind filled his lungs and blew through his coat, washing away the tension and cooling the sparks back to a pale hum.
Across the street, a black Ford SUV pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the traffic.
Dinah said, “We need to talk.”
“Yes,” said Peter. “We do.”
8
It’s not your friend Lewis,” said Peter. “Whatever he is, I don’t think he knew about the money.” He drove a roundabout path toward her house, the big pickup rumbling through the streets.
“I know that now,” said Dinah. “And he’s not my friend. Who is this man with the scars on his face?”
“Showed up this morning, when I was putting your porch back together. He asked if you were rich.”
Her eyebrows climbed skyward. “He asked if I was rich?”
Peter nodded. “He started by asking where the dog came from. I wondered if the dog knew him. It sure didn’t like him. It wouldn’t stop growling.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it again. He watched her hand close on the door handle, looking for something solid, anything, to hang on to. Of course, the truck was still moving, so even that solidity was an illusion.
“You’re done now,” she said. “The porch is finished, you’re going to your next project.”
He waited for her to ask, knowing already that she wouldn’t. Dinah was so much like the women he had known growing up. His mother, his mother’s friends. She would ask a relative for help. She’d ask her husband, her brother, or her father. That’s what family was for. But Dinah’s husband was dead. Her sons were far too young. And she would never ask a stranger.
He didn’t make her wait long. He swung the truck to the curb in front of her house. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll stick around. The house could use a few more repairs. The Marines aren’t expecting me for a few weeks.”
Not ever, actually. B
ut he didn’t say that.
He waited for her to say something. The dog shifted in the back and the truck rocked on its springs. He hadn’t been this close to such a vivid, lovely woman for a long time. He suddenly wanted to touch her. But he wouldn’t, of course. She was Jimmy’s wife. Even if Jimmy was dead.
He kept his hands on the steering wheel, feeling the faint vibration from the big V-8, a slow, gentle thrum as it idled, perfectly tuned. You’d never know the power in that engine until you stepped on the gas.
Peter felt his own heart beat, slow and patient.
He said, “Dinah, this is serious. Four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of serious. Let me help. Jimmy would do the same, if it was me who died over there. You know he would.”
She looked at him then, her eyes suddenly direct. He was aware of the grace in her long neck, the strength of her capable hands. The curves of the lines bracketing her mouth. She nodded once. “All right,” she said. “Thank you, Peter.”
“It’s my pleasure,” he said. The truck rocked again as the dog moved restlessly. “I need to let the dog out.”
—
The beast was waiting for him at the door, gently nosing his face, then bonking his head with the piece of wood still tied into its mouth. It whined softly and pushed against his shoulder. The wood was chewed down even farther now. He let the leash go and stepped away to see what would happen.
The dog jumped down and made a leisurely tour of the neighboring yards, peeing on the stunted trees and a chain-link fence, trailing the rope behind. Peter took a cured sausage from the cooler, then sat on Dinah’s new porch steps with a knife and cut pieces into a small paper bag. He made sure they were small enough for the dog to swallow without having to chew.
Dinah sat beside him, their shoulders almost touching. Peter could feel her proximity like something tangible.
She said, “Are you trying to rehabilitate that ugly dog?”
Peter shrugged. “He’s not that bad.”
She said, “Maybe some things are too bad to save.”
