by James Ellroy
Coyle said, "Vegas coulda checked."
I said, "We ain't Vegas."
Coyle stood up. He thought he wanted to hit me, but he really wanted to hide. Instead, he moved the shotgun so's it was pointing at my gut.
He said, "I don't want you to train me no more."
I said, "Next time you want to fuck somebody, fuck your mama in her casket. She can't fuck you back."
That stood him straight up, and I knew it was time to git. As the door closed behind me, I could hear Coyle and the tittie-club blonde start to laugh.
I said to myself, "Keep laughin', punk cocksucker—point a gun at me and don't shoot."
I drove my pickup over to Billy's office next day, told him the whole thing. It wasn't far from my place but it was the longest ride I ever took. I was expecting to be told to get my redneck ass out of Texas. He just listened, then lit up a Montecristo contraband Havana robusto with a gold Dunhill. He took his time, poured us both some Hennessy XO.
He could see I felt lowdown and thought I'd killed his friendship.
I said, "I'm sorry, Billy, you know I'd never wrong you on purpose."
Billy said, "You couldn't see the future, Red. Only women can, and that's cause they know when they're gonna get fucked."
Billy put the joke in there to save me from myself, damned if he didn't. I was ready to track Coyle and gut him right then. But Billy said to calm down, said he'd go over to Coyle's place later on. I wanted to go, said I'd bring along Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson.
"Naw," said Billy, "there won't be no shootin'."
When Billy got to Coyle's, Kenny was smoking weed again, had hold of a big-assed, stainless steel .357 Mag Ruger with a six-inch barrel. Billy didn't blink, said could he have some iced tea like Coyle was drinking. Coyle said it was Snapple Peach, not diet, but Billy said go on'n hook one up. Things got friendly, but Coyle kept ahold of the Ruger.
Billy said, "Way I see it, you didn't set out to do it."
Coyle said, "That's right. Ellis did it."
Billy said, "But you still got me for sixty large."
Coyle said, "Depends on how you look at it." He laughed at his joke. "Besides, nobody asked about my eye, so I told no lie. Hey, I can rhyme like Ali, that's me, hoo-ee."
Billy said, "Coyle, there's sins of commission and there's sins of omission. This one's a sixty-thousand-dollar omission."
Coyle said, "You got no proof. It was all cash like you wanted, no taxes."
Billy said, "I want my sixty back. You can forget the free rent and the twenty-five hundred you got off me every month, but I want the bonus money."
Coyle said, "Ain't got it to give back."
Billy said, "You got the BMW free and clear. Sign it over and we're square."
Coyle said, "You ain't gettin' my Beamer. Bought that with my signing money."
Billy said, "You takin' it knowin' your eye was shot, that was hum-bug."
Coyle said, "I'm stickin' with the contract and my lawyer says you still owe me twenty-five hundred for this month, and maybe for three years to come. He says you're the one that caused it all when you put me in with the wrong opponent."
Billy'd put weight on around the belly, and Coyle was saying he wasn't dick afraid of him.
Billy didn't press for the pink, and didn't argue about the twenty-five hundred a month, didn't say nothing about the lost projected income.
"Then tell me this," Billy said, "when do you plan on gettin' out of my building and givin' back my keys?"
Coyle laughed his laugh. "When you evict me, that's when, and you can't do that for a while cause my eye means I'm disabled, I checked."
Billy laughed with Coyle, and Billy shook Coyle's left hand with his right before taking off, cause Coyle kept the Ruger in his right hand.
Billy said, "Well, let me know if you change your mind."
"Not hardly," said Coyle. "I'm thinkin' on marrying that cop's daughter. This here's our love nest."
Me and Dee-Cee was cussing Coyle twenty-four hours a day, but Billy never let on he cared. About a week later, he said his wife and kids was heading down to Orlando Disney World for a few days. On Thursday he gave me and Dee-Cee the invite to come on down to Nuevo Laredo with him Friday night for the weekend.
Billy said, "We'll have a few thousand drinks at the Cadillac Bar to wash the taste of Coyle out of our mouths."
He sweetened the pot, said how about spending some quality time in the cat houses of Boys Town, all on him? I said my old root'll still do the job with the right inspiration, so did Dee-Cee. But he said his back was paining him bad since the deal with Coyle, and that he had to go on over Houston where he had this Cuban Santería woman. She had some kind of mystic rubjuice made with rooster blood he said was the only thing what'd cure him.
Dee-Cee said, "I hate to miss the trip with y'all, but I got to see my Cuban."
I told Billy he might as well ride with me in my Jimmy down to Nuevo Laredo. See, it's on the border some three hours south of San Antonia. I had a transmission I been wanting to deliver to my cousin Royal in Dilley, which is some seventy-eighty miles down from San Antonia on Highway 35 right on our way. Billy said he had stuff to do in the morning, but that he'd meet me at the Cadillac Bar at six o'clock next day. That left just me heading south alone and feeling busted up inside for doing the right thing by a skunk.
I left early so's I could listen to Royal lie, and level out with some of his Jack Daniel's. When I pulled up in front of the Cadillac Bar at ten of six, I saw Billy's bugged-up Town Car parked out front. He was inside, a big smile on him. With my new hat and boots, I felt fifty again, and screw Kenny Coyle and the BMW he rode in on. We was laughing like Coyle didn't matter to us, but underneath, we knew he did.
Billy got us nice rooms in a brand-new motel once we had quail and Dos Equis for dinner, and finished off with fried ice cream in the Messkin style. Best I can recollect, we left our wheels at the motel and took a cab to Boys Town. We hit places like the Honeymoon Hotel, the Dallas Cowboys, and the New York Yankey. Hell, I buried myself in brown titties, even ended up with a little Chink gal I wanted to smuggle home in my hat. Spent two nights with her and didn't never want to go home.
I ain't sure, but seems to me I went back to the motel once on Saturday just to check on Billy. His car was gone, and there was a message for me blinking on the phone in my room, and five one-hundred-dollar bills on my pillow. Billy's message said he had to go on over to Matamoros cause the truck for his shrimps had busted down, and he had to rent another one for shrimp night. So I had me a mess of Messkin scrambled eggs and rice and beans and a few thousand bottles of Negra Modelo. I headed on back for my China doll still shaky, but I hadn't lost my boots or my El Patrón so I'm thinking I was a tall dog in short grass.
There seems like there were times when I must a blanked out there. But somewhere along the line, I remember wandering the streets over around Boys Town when I come up on a little park that made me stop and watch. It happens in parks all over Mexico. The street lights ain't nothing but hanging bare bulbs with swarms of bugs and darting bats. Boys and girls of fourteen to eighteen'n more'd make the nightly paseo —that's like a stroll on the main drag, cause there ain't no TV or nothing, and the paseo's what they do to get out from the house to flirt. In some parts, the young folks form circles in the park. The boys' circle'd form outside the girls' circle and each circle moves slow in opposite directions so's the boys and the girls can be facing each other as they pass. The girls try to squirt cheap perfume on a boy they fancy. The boys try to pitch a pinch of confetti into a special girl's month. Everybody gets to laughing and spitting and holding their noses but inside their knickers they're fixing to explode. It's how folks get married down there.
'Course, getting married wasn't on my mind. Something else was, and I did my best to satisfy my mind with some more of that authentic Chinee sweet and sour.
Billy was asleep the next day, Sunday, when I come stumbling back, so I crapped out, too. I remember right, we headed home
separate on Sunday night late. Both of us crippled and green but back in Laredo Billy's car was washed and spanky clean except for a cracked rear window. Billy said some Matamoros drunk had made a failed try to break in. He showed me his raw knuckles to prove it.
Billy said, "I can still punch like you taught me, Reddy"
Driving myself home alone, I was all bowlegged, and my heart was leaping sideways. But when it's my time to go to sleep for the last time, I want to die in Boys Town teasing the girls and learning Chinee.
I was still hung over on Monday, and had to lay around all pale and shaky until I could load up on biscuits and gravy, fresh salsa, fried grits, a near pound of bacon, three or four tomatoes, and a few thousand longnecks. I guess I slept most of the time cause I don't remember no TV.
It wasn't until when I got to the gym on Tuesday that I found out about Kenny Coyle. Hunters found him dead in the dirt. He was beside his torched BMW in the mesquite on the outside of town. They found him Sunday noon, and word was he'd been dead some twelve hours, which meant he'd been killed near midnight Saturday night. Someone at the gym said the cops had been by to see me. Hell, me'n Billy was in Mexico, and Dee-Cee was in Houston.
The inside skinny was that Coyle'd been hogtied with them plastic cable-tie deals that cops'll sometimes use instead of handcuffs. One leg'd been knee-capped with his own Ruger someplace else, and later his head was busted in by blunt force with a unknown object. His brains was said to hang free, and looked like a bunch of grapes. His balls was in his mouth, and his mouth had been slit to the ear so's both balls'd fit. The story I got was that the cops who found him got to laughing, said it was funny seeing a man eating his own mountain oysters. See, police right away knew it was business.
When the cops stopped by the gym Tuesday morning, I was still having coffee and looking out the storefront window. I didn't have nothing to hide, so I stayed sipping my joe right where I was. I told them the same story I been telling you, starting off with stopping by to see old Royal in Dilley. See, the head cop was old Junior, and old Junior was daddy to that plain-Jane gal.
I told him me and Billy had been down Nuevo Laredo when the tragedy occurred. Told him about the Cadillac Bar, and about drinking tequila and teasing the girls in Boys Town. 'Course, I left out a few thousand details I didn't think was any of his business. Old Junior's eyes got paler still, and his jaw was clenched up to where his lips didn't hardly move when he talked. He didn't ask but two or three questions, and looked satisfied with what I answered.
Fixing to leave, Junior said, "Seems like some's got to learn good sense the hard way."
Once Junior'd gone, talk started up in the gym again and ropes got jumped. Fight gyms from northern Mexico all up through Texas knew what happened to Coyle. Far as I know, the cops never knocked on Billy Clancy's door, but I can tell you that none of Billy's fighters never had trouble working up a sweat no more, or getting up for a fight neither.
I was into my third cup of coffee when I saw old Dee-Cee get off the bus. He was same as always, except this time he had him a knobby new walking stick. It was made of mesquite like the last one. But as he come closer, I could see that the wood on this new one was still green from the tree.
I said, "You hear about Coyle?"
"I jus' got back," said Dee-Cee, "what about him?" One of the colored boys working out started to snicker. Dee-Cee gave that boy a look with those greeny-blue eyes. And that was the end of that.
WHEN THE WOMEN COME OUT TO DANCE
2002: Elmore Leonard
ELMORE LEONARD (1925–) was born in New Orleans and educated at the University of Detroit, where he received a PhD in 1950. He worked in advertising for the next sixteen years before becoming a full-time writer. He wrote numerous short stories, mostly westerns, for men's magazines, and his earliest novels were in that genre, including The Bounty Hunters (1953), Escape from Five Shadows (1956), and Hombre (1961), which became a successful 1967 film starring Paul Newman, Fredric March, and Richard Boone. When mystery stories superseded westerns as the preferred fiction, Leonard switched genres to become one of the greatest crime writers in history.
His earliest work included The Big Bounce (1969), filmed disastrously—twice; The Moonshine War (1970), filmed the same year with Richard Widmark and Patrick McGoohan; Fifty-two Pickup (1974), filmed in 1986 with Roy Scheider and Ann-Margret; Cat Chaser (1982), filmed (1990) with his own screenplay; and Stick (1983), filmed in 1985 with Burt Reynolds starring. His later work, much of which has also been filmed, notably the excellent Get Shorty (1990), filmed in 1995 with John Travolta, has been less plot-driven, more character-based. Leonard is justly regarded as the modern master of dialogue, with never an extraneous or superfluous word, his vivid characters engaging in what appears to be normal speech patterns for them, their easy acceptance of understated threats of violence and retribution making their positions utterly realistic. Critics and reviewers failed to appreciate, or even discover, Leonard until he won the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Novel in 1984 for La Brava; since then he has been among the most beloved crime writers of our time—both by critics and by the readers who have made his books perennial bestsellers. He was given the Grand Master Award in 1992 by the Mystery Writers of America for lifetime achievement.
A cautionary tale about being careful what you wish for, "When the Women Come Out to Dance" was first published in the author's short story collection of that name (2002); it was selected for The Best American Mystery Stories 2003.
***
LOURDES BECAME MRS. MAHMOOD'S personal maid when her friend Viviana quit to go to L.A. with her husband. Lourdes and Viviana were both from Cali in Colombia and had come to South Florida as mail-order brides. Lourdes's husband, Mr. Zimmer, worked for a paving contractor until his death, two years from the time they were married.
She came to the home on Ocean Drive, only a few blocks from Donald Trump's, expecting to not have a good feeling for a woman named Mrs. Mahmood, wife of Dr. Wasim Mahmood, who altered the faces and breasts of Palm Beach ladies and aspirated their areas of fat. So it surprised Lourdes that the woman didn't look like a Mrs. Mahmood, and that she opened the door herself: this tall redheaded woman in a little green two-piece swimsuit, sunglasses on her nose, opened the door and said, "Lourdes, as in Our Lady of?"
"No, ma'am, Lourdes, the Spanish way to say it," and had to ask, "You have no help here to open the door?"
The redheaded Mrs. Mahmood said, "They're in the laundry room watching soaps." She said, "Come on in," and brought Lourdes into this home of marble floors, of statues and paintings that held no meaning, and out to the swimming pool, where they sat at a patio table beneath a yellow and white umbrella.
There were cigarettes, a silver lighter, and a tall glass with only ice left in it on the table. Mrs. Mahmood lit a cigarette, a long Virginia Slim, and pushed the pack toward Lourdes, who was saying, "All I have is this, Mrs. Mahmood," Lourdes bringing a biographical data sheet, a printout, from her straw bag. She laid it before the redheaded woman showing her breasts as she leaned forward to look at the sheet.
"'Your future wife is in the mail'?"
"From the Latina introduction list for marriage," Lourdes said. "The men who are interested see it on their computers. Is three years old, but what it tells of me is still true. Except of course my age. Now it would say thirty-five."
Mrs. Mahmood, with her wealth, her beauty products, looked no more than thirty. Her red hair was short and reminded Lourdes of the actress who used to be on TV at home, Jill St. John, with the same pale skin. She said, "That's right, you and Viviana were both mail-order brides," still looking at the sheet. "Your English is good —that's true. You don't smoke or drink."
"I drink now sometime, socially."
"You don't have e-mail."
"No, so we wrote letters to correspond, before he came to Cali, where I lived. They have parties for the men who come and we get—you know, we dress up for it."
"Look each other over."
"Yes,
is how I met Mr. Zimmer in person."
"Is that what you called him?"
"I didn't call him anything."
"Mrs. Zimmer," the redheaded woman said. "How would you like to be Mrs. Mahmood?"
"I wouldn't think that was your name."
She was looking at the printout again. "You're virtuous, sensitive, hardworking, optimistic. Looking for a man who's a kind, loving person with a good job. Was that Mr. Zimmer?"
"He was OK except when he drank too much. I had to be careful what I said or it would cause him to hit me. He was strong, too, for a guy his age. He was fifty-eight."
"When you married?"
"When he died."
"I believe Viviana said he was killed?" The woman sounding like she was trying to recall whatever it was Viviana had told her. "An accident on the job?"
Lourdes believed the woman already knew about it, but said, "He was disappeared for a few days until they find his mix truck out by Hialeah, a pile of concrete by it but no reason for the truck to be here since there's no job he was pouring. So the police have the concrete broken open and find Mr. Zimmer."
"Murdered," the redheaded woman said.
"They believe so, yes, his hands tied behind him."
"The police talk to you?"
"Of course. He was my husband."
"I mean did they think you had anything to do with it."
She knew. Lourdes was sure of it.
"There was a suspicion that friends of mine here from Colombia could be the ones did it. Someone who was their enemy told this to the police."
"It have anything to do with drugs?"
The woman seeing all Colombians as drug dealers.
"My husband drove a cement truck."
"But why would anyone want to kill him?"
"Who knows?" Lourdes said. "This person who finked, he told the police I got the Colombian guys to do it because my husband was always beating me. One time he hit me so hard," Lourdes said, touching the strap of her blue sundress that was faded almost white from washing, "it separated my shoulder, the bones in here, so I couldn't work."
