The Exiled

by Christopher Charles

  “He owes, he owes, so off to work he goes.”

  Dunham stuck the mail back in the box, shut the lid. They took the elevator up five flights. The same nail file worked on Mora’s front door. Inside, an efficiency with a dorm-size fridge, a microwave, a Murphy bed folded into the wall. Frayed carpeting. Water stains on the ceiling.

  “If rats were human size, this is how big the traps would be,” Dunham said.

  Columns of milk crates for a dresser, the top row filled with medals, trophies, an amateur belt. This fight with Malone was supposed to be Mora’s break, his first spot on national TV, part of the undercard for a Hearns bout.

  “He’s disciplined,” Dunham said. “I’ll give him that. It’s not easy to keep a place this size looking clean.”

  Dunham emptied a column of milk crates onto the floor, stacked them in the center of the room, dragged over a pair of folding chairs. Raney set Pierre’s meal atop the mini fridge.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “We have time before he shows. Let’s get comfy. Do a little blow, eat some nice food, watch some TV.”

  “What TV?”

  Dunham scanned the room.

  “Jesus,” he said. “Fat cats really do feed on skinny mice.”

  It was the closest he’d come to naming Meno.

  Take-out tins lay scattered across the carpet. Dunham’s high had him jabbering, pacing Mora’s three hundred square feet, dropping to pump out a set of push-ups. Raney stuck to the peephole.

  Mora got off the elevator at a little after ten, dressed in a wifebeater and shorts, weighted down with a gym bag, a backpack, a sack of groceries. Raney pulled on his mask.

  “It’s about fucking time,” Dunham said. “I was starting to get jail-cell flashbacks. Take a seat at the table and keep quiet—you’re making me nervous. Just be sure he sees your piece.”

  The lock turned. Dunham grabbed Mora by the ear, yanked him inside, waved his Glock. Mora dropped the groceries, unleashed a string of expletives in Spanish.

  “Yeah, that’s nice,” Dunham said. “Hands against the wall.”

  “Fuck you, pendejo. I know why you’re here, and the answer is kiss my ass.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong. I just want to talk.”

  “Call me next time.”

  “What next time? We’re going to get everything nice and settled.”

  Mora spat.

  “That’s your floor, dipshit.”

  Dunham took Mora’s shoulder, spun him around. The fighter was shorter than Raney remembered, but he’d bulked up: a legit middleweight. He still wore a beard to mask the long scar running above his right jawline, but the tats were new—props to accentuate the muscle. A tiny pair of silver boxing gloves hung from a chain around his neck.

  “What am I going to find?” Dunham asked.

  “A switchblade in my left sock.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Why don’t you put down that gun and we’ll work this out like men?”

  “You know, your English is really good.”

  “I’m from Washington Heights, dipshit.”

  “Like I said, your English is really good.”

  Raney watched, wondering what he would do if Dunham turned up in his living room, threatening to kill Sophia unless he took a dive against a fighter whose prime was five bouts behind him.

  Dunham tossed the switchblade across the room. Mora turned, eyeballed Raney for the first time.

  “This your torture bitch?”

  “Nah, nothing like that. He just has a blood condition. Why don’t you sit down? I saved you a glass of wine.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  “Come on,” Raney said. “Have a seat.”

  “The piece-of-shit coward in the mask talks,” Mora said.

  Dunham smacked him hard across the back of the head.

  “Easy, suede man. I might turn the tables real quick.”

  “Sit the fuck down and let’s get this over with.”

  Mora took the chair opposite Raney. Dunham crouched between them: a parody of a prefight interview.

  “I’ll get straight to the point,” Dunham said.

  He tucked his gun in his waistband, lifted two envelopes from inside his jacket, dropped one on the makeshift table.

  “There’s ten grand in there. Double what we offered last time.”

  “Fuck you twice as hard.”

  “You sure? You could buy yourself a nice TV.”

  “Where would I put it?”

  “How about a bigger pad?”

  “Man, enough with the clown act. Just show me what’s in envelope two.”

  Dunham stood, rubbing his palms together.

  “I’m trying here,” he said. “But I’m starting to take a personal dislike to you. You don’t want that.”

  “Step from behind that gun. Then we’ll see who wants what.”

  “Fine,” Dunham said. “It’ll be more fun this way.”

  He tossed the second envelope on Mora’s lap.

  “Open it.”

  Mora pulled out a thick sheaf of paper, unfolded pages of maps and itineraries: the location of his kids’ schools, the routes they took home, the places where their mothers worked. Mora shrugged, folded the pages back into the envelope, handed it to Dunham.

  “You think I give a shit?”

  Dunham leaned inches from Mora’s ear.

  “I’ll kill every one of those kids,” he said. “I’ll do it myself. And if the mama’s a piece of ass, I’ll fuck her first.”

  “Man, go for it. Please. What you got in envelope two will save me ten times what you got in envelope one. Hell, you even missed a kid. You want his address?”

  “This isn’t a game,” Raney said. “Spare yourself a lot of pain. Take the ten grand.”

  “Why is the retard in the mask playing good cop? Don’t you got it backwards? Yo, I’ll take that glass of wine now, bitch. This shit’s worth celebrating.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Dunham said. “I’m not.”

  “Man, I’m the same as you,” Mora said. “The only life I give a fuck about is my own.”

  “Let’s put that theory to the test.”

  Dunham stepped behind Raney, tore off his mask. He pushed the muzzle of his Glock hard against Raney’s skull.

  “You recognize your pal Dixon here?”

  “Dixon?”

  Mora’s face went soft. He looked confused, even hurt. Raney mouthed the word cop. He kept mouthing it until Mora caught on.

  “Yo, Dix, man. How can you fuck me like this? What’s this psychopath into you for?”

  “Joey,” Raney said. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Shut up.”

  To Mora:

  “Take the ten grand or I swear to God I’ll do him right here. I’ll do him and be back in an hour with your oldest kid’s cock.”

  Take it, Raney mouthed. It’s okay. Take it.

  Mora leaned back.

  “Like, fuck it, man,” he said. “Fuck it: I can use the cash. For real.”

  “Good boy,” Dunham said. “Just remember—third round, no later. Say it back to me.”

  “I dive in the third.”

  “That’s smart, because if the bell rings for a fourth, your life won’t be worth shit.”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  Dunham lowered the gun.

  “Let’s go, Deadly.”

  The stoop granny had company now, was part of a small crowd gathered around a parrot in a bamboo cage. People were laughing, listening to the bird fire off a pattern of staccato squeals. Dunham stopped to look.

  “It’s the rats,” a man said. “He imitates the rats.”

  “Fucking hell,” Dunham said.

  They drove south on 3rd Avenue. At the first red light, Raney slammed the gearshift into park, pulled out his gun and shoved the barrel against Dunham’s cheekbone.

  “You like it?”

  “Jesus, Deadly. There are cars all around us.”

  “I don�
�t give a fuck. You try that shit again and you better fucking pull the trigger.”

  “Relax. I never would have done it. It was an act. I thought you knew.”

  “An act?”

  “Yeah, and it worked, didn’t it?”

  Raney hesitated, thought: The badge will protect you.

  “So what’s it going to be?” Dunham said. “You going to kill me right here?” Raney felt the blow fading, felt suddenly on the verge of sleep. He pocketed his gun, stepped out into the center lane of traffic. Cars honked and swerved. Raney cranked up a middle finger.

  “Come on,” Dunham said. “Get in. No hard feelings.”

  “I’ll catch the subway.”

  “It was an act, Deadly. I thought you understood.”

  “I didn’t like it.”

  “I know. I got it. It won’t happen again. Are we square now?”

  Raney shrugged.

  “I’ll cool down,” he said.

  “So get in. It’s Friday night. The clubs have their best girls working.”

  “I need some air.”

  “You’re too serious, Deadly.”

  “I’m as serious as I need to be.”

  “But I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Like I said, I’ll cool down.”

  He watched Dunham drive off, felt his legs quiver. Act my ass, he thought. Mora saved his life. Dunham had doubts. Maybe he’d researched Mike Dixon’s amateur record, noticed Mora wasn’t listed.

  He walked over to 4th Avenue, scanning for Dunham’s car. In the subway, he bought a token, sat on the platform, thinking, letting trains go by. His mind was muddled. He needed a fix. He wondered if it showed on him, if any narco strolling by would glom his habit.

  He waited fifteen minutes, then walked back through the turnstile. Above ground, the neighborhood was still alive, or was maybe just now coming alive. Friday night in the barrio. Warm, muggy. A party on every stoop. Competing boom boxes. Cabals of old men playing cards in front of bodegas. Kids chasing each other with foam pistols. Gossip on fire escapes. Everyone seemed to know everyone else.

  He felt his head nod as he walked. He stopped in a café, ordered two double espressos. Men sat at the tables lined up against one wall, drinking beer and talking. He heard a voice say policía: the only scenario that fit a white guy drinking espresso in a Mexican hood at a little before midnight.

  Raney felt his paranoia flare. There was a question he needed answered.

  “Teléfono?” he asked the bartender.

  The man nodded toward the back. Patrons stared as he walked past. The telephone hung on a wall between a door marked GAUCHO and another marked VAQUERA. The space smelled faintly of vomit. Raney pulled a fistful of coins from his pocket, dialed his old lieutenant.

  Hutchinson answered.

  “It’s Raney.”

  “Wes? You in trouble?”

  “No.”

  “Then why the fuck are you calling me?”

  Raney could see him at his desk, leaning back in his swivel chair, gut bulging, phone pinned between his neck and shoulder, chucking darts at a board he’d sketched himself on the back of his office door.

  “I’m kidding,” Hutchinson said. “What is it?”

  “I need to know who put me forward for this case.”

  “You know that already. It wasn’t a who—it was the boxing thing. It made sense.”

  “That wasn’t all of it. It couldn’t have been. I barely had a year out of uniform. Someone backed me, and I know it wasn’t you.”

  “All right,” Hutchinson said. “Fuck it, I don’t think it’s any big secret. You can send the thank you card to my esteemed colleague Lieutenant Kee. He pushed hard. Said he saw something in you. I figure it’s capital for me down the road. Kee’s up for promotion.”

  “I’m sure he’ll get it,” Raney said.

  “You’re welcome,” Hutchinson said.

  Raney hung up. Kee had been at Ferguson’s side all through his captaincy. Before that, he’d been Ferguson’s partner on the street. He’d been sitting in a squad car outside the Queensboro Apartments the night Ferguson killed Bruno. And he’d never so much as laid eyes on Raney.

  The stoop granny was gone. Raney passed through a small crowd with his head down. No one seemed to notice him.

  The elevator reeked now of onions and ammonia. The fluorescent bulb stung his eyes. He walked to the end of Mora’s hallway, knocked. No answer. He heard children fighting somewhere behind him. He knocked again. An eye showed at the peephole. The door swung open. Mora pulled him inside, pressed a blade to his throat.

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you,” he said.

  Raney laughed. He kept laughing. Once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. Tears striped his cheeks. Mora backed away, confused.

  “Yo, man. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

  “You high?”

  “I’m coming down.”

  Mora pocketed the knife, kicked the door shut. The milk crates were back in place, the Murphy bed folded out. Mora gestured for Raney to sit.

  “You want some of that wine you left me?”

  Raney waved it off.

  “All right, let’s hear how you’re going to get me the fuck out of this,” Mora said.

  “I’m making a case. Dunham and Meno will be locked up before you step in the ring.”

  “It’s one thing to say it. What if you can’t make your case?”

  “I have the DA’s ear. I’ll get protection for you and your family.”

  “Protection don’t come free.”

  “He’ll want you to testify.”

  Mora looked hard at Raney.

  “Hell,” he said. “If you can keep yourself alive long enough to arrest those cocksuckers, I’ll testify day and night.”

  “Good.”

  “Will I have to give back the ten grand?”

  “It’s evidence.”

  “How about we say it was five thousand and I get half for my hardship?”

  “You’ll have a nice purse from the Malone fight.”

  “In other words, fuck you.”

  Raney stood to leave.

  “By the way,” Mora said, “that split decision was bullshit. I won every round.”

  “Doesn’t change the knockout,” Raney said.

  “I could’ve kept going. The ref was a pussy.”

  “I just hope you’ve worked on your defense. You were easy as hell to hit.”

  18

  Their campsite was surrounded by scrub pine. Raney got a fire going in the adobe pit. Clara set out two folding chairs, placed a cooler between them.

  “Drink!” Clara said.

  Raney uncorked a bottle. Clara took it from him, read the label.

  “South African,” she said. “Is that good? I don’t know anything about wine.”

  “The man at the shop recommended it.”

  “Spirits and Live Bait? It’s like this is still a mining town.”

  “Bay says I’m living in the former brothel.”

  “It’s true. They’ve kept some of the old bedposts.”

  “I’m not sure they changed the mattresses, either.”

  “It suits you. Legend has it Wild Bill Hickok slept there. Another itinerant lawman.”

  Raney filled two plastic wineglasses. They toasted.

  “We’re a ways from New York, huh?” Clara said.

  Strands of auburn hair seemed painted against her off-white sweater.

  They ate long skewers of vegetables and shrimp, then sat watching the fire and talking until after the sun had set. Raney wanted to kiss her, couldn’t decide if this was the right or wrong moment, didn’t know how to close the distance between the chairs. Would she have brought him out here if she didn’t want to be kissed? Maybe, he thought. Her friend and mentor had died. Her future was uncertain. Maybe she wanted companionship. Maybe she didn’t know what she wanted.

  “It’s a bright night,” Clara said. “If we walk
away from the fire, it will be like the stars are on top of us.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bring the booze,” she said.

  They stood, circled the fire in opposite directions, met on the other side. Raney took her hand.

  “Brave man,” she said.

  She bumped him with her hip.

  “It’s been a while.”

  He’d almost said eighteen years.

  “It’s easy to be chaste in the desert,” she said. “Unless you’re Mavis.”

  They navigated the scrub, sat with their backs against the bole of a juniper tree. The breeze was cool and dry. Raney put his arm around her shoulder, felt her lean in.

  “Can you name the constellations?” she asked.

  “I know some,” he said. “The Big Dipper. Orion.”

  He pointed.

  “Don’t bother,” Clara said. “People have been trying to teach me since I was five, and I’ve never been able to see them. I usually just nod. It was Mavis who put up the stickers in Daniel’s room. Maybe there’s something wrong with my brain, or maybe I just don’t want to see them.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s hard to be in awe of something once you’ve named it. It’s like you’re done with it. You never have to look at it again.”

  “For me it’s the opposite. When I came here, I had to train myself to look. I had to learn the names of every tree and shrub so I’d stop feeling overwhelmed, so I could calm down and actually see them.”

  “That’s because you’re a detective. Your job is to keep identifying the parts until you have a whole. I like my world ill-defined and vaguely mystical.”

  “That isn’t frightening?”

  “Do I seem frightened?”

  “No.”

  “Of course I do.”

  She leaned forward, pressed her palms to her eyes.

  “There’s something I have to tell you,” she said. “Or at least I feel like I have to tell you. It’s stupid. We only just met. But then that was Mavis’s problem, wasn’t it? Once you’ve let a lie live for too long, it becomes impossible to back away from it. It’s too late to ask for help.”