The Pinkerton looked down at the arrow in his heart, this funny, quizzical look on his face. Then he fell dead in the dirt.
Bullets started flying; more arrows.
A slaughter ensued.
***
As ambushes so often go, it was a decidedly one-sided affair. Hector’s side didn’t lose any—not even a flesh wound suffered among his rag-tag crew.
The remaining occupants in the cantina stood out in the parking lot, watching that private little war, quaking even as they quaffed. El Paso residents, Hector remembered reading, long ago sat on their rooftops, watching Villa’s attack on Juarez, back in the day. Call it history on repeat cycle, he thought.
Hector looked over at Jimmy, the Irishman had a look of disgust on his dusty, sweat-streaked face. The slaughter was all too much, even for Hector, truth be told.
Jimmy said, “At least we spared the bridge. Why don’t you unwire that feckin’ bomb before somebody trips on the detonator cord? I’m going to go talk to that tavern keep before he decides to call in the local law. See if I can’t buy him off. What do you say we offer him those two cars for his silence?”
Jimmy pointed at the sedans behind the bus.
“Sure,” Hector said. “Get the drinks flowing, too. I’ll see to the mop up.” Hector figured it was the least he could do.
He held back the Mexican kid with the gold teeth and his young friend. They’d both been looting the bodies—boy surely didn’t seem to mind getting their hands dirty, or even bloody.
Jesus, even the bikers, disappointed to find no drugs, hadn’t had the stomach to pat down the tattered and bullet-riddled corpses for wallets or the like.
With the two wildest boys’ help, Hector hauled them up and inside and piled the bodies in the back of the bus.
The duo followed Hector in one of the sedans as he drove the bus deep into the dust flats to abandon it.
Far from any road, Hector took the grenade rig he’d pulled from the bridge and wrapped the bundle around the bus’s axle near the gas tanks.
Hiding behind the sedan, Hector pulled the cord.
He figured the resulting fireball must be visible all the way back to the cantina.
The ensuing mushroom cloud looked a little like newsreel footage Hector had seen of atomic bomb tests conducted in his home state of New Mexico.
Given the terrible evidence whose destruction the swelling cloud portended, it seemed to the novelist a sublime and lovely thing in its terrible way.
***
The boys did the driving back to that watering hole where Jimmy waited; Hector sat in the backseat, watching desert scenery whip by.
The boys turned up the radio extra loud on some barely-there mariachi station. Hector ordered them to keep dialing. They at last settled on a somber cover version of “Prairie in the Sky.”
Hector stretched his arms out and tipped his head back against the seat, eyes closed, smelling the desert air and savoring the music, thinking of the quiet farm and that woman awaiting him in rural Missouri.
42
Eventually, a couple of shell-shocked bikers agreed to give Jimmy and Hector a lift back to Juarez. The two men brushed dust off their clothes and crossed the border bridge back to the States. They took a taxi back to Hector’s hacienda.
There, they showered and slept maybe just a little like all the new dead across the border.
The next afternoon, the two drifted back across the border, purportedly to belatedly celebrate Hector’s fifty-first birthday and the New Year now that there was time for that frivolous kind of thing.
***
The Irish cop and Hector were in the Kentucky Bar, slumming and slamming them back, pointedly avoiding the subject of the bloody slaughter back there on the outskirts of Juarez.
Jimmy toasted Hector’s birthday again. “We drink to your coffin, Hector. May it be built from the wood of a hundred year old oak tree that I shall plant tomorrow.”
Hector laughed and said, “Sure, to that.”
Slurring a little, Jimmy told Hector again how pleased he was Hector had found Hallie.
Jimmy suddenly squinted into the mirror behind the bar, then turned around for a better look. “Holy Christ, look what the cat dragged in, Hec. It’s Francis himself!”
Distractedly, Hector said, “What? Who?”
“Francis—Frank. You know—feckin’ Sinatra.”
Hector looked up from his tequila. It was Sinatra. Frank and Hector were half-assed acquaintances. Rumor had it Sinatra had been getting down Juarez way more often in recent times.
Frank had Ava Gardner on his arm, a dark-haired, dark-eyed, walking wet dream—the kind of woman to draw out every last inch of the fool in a man.
Hector swiveled back around and lowered his head, in no mood for mock civility and the “star scene” that would ensue if Frank spotted him.
Jimmy turned back around and shook his head. “Question is, what exactly did we accomplish back there, Hec? We wiped out that lot, sure. Meg and Shannon are safely lost in all that big empty out this way, at least for the moment.”
Jimmy started into his glass. “But Vito can just hire more brigands. Maybe even find himself some Mexican bounty hunter who won’t be so easily lost or put off as all these Italian torpedoes and ex-Pinkerton thugs he’s been sending our way. I feel like we just bought those two gals some short measure of additional time, and that’s about all we did back there.”
Too true… maybe. Jimmy’s dark thoughts echoed Hector’s in some ways, sure they did. He said, “I hear you, Jimmy. I wish I could tell you I’m thinking otherwise.”
This loud slap on Hector’s back that stung.
That voice, all Jersey bravado: “Jesus, Heckso, I thought it was you! Ava, looky here, it is Hector!” He said Hector’s name so it sounded like Heck-tuh.
Sinatra: he’d shed the sports coat and tie he’d been wearing when he’d come in a few minutes before. Frank’s collar was open now and his sleeves rolled up. He’d left on his porkpie hat though—this unseasonable bid to hide his spreading monk’s bald spot.
The Chairman of the Board took up a stool by Hector’s side. He patted the empty stool next to himself and said to Ava, “Take a load off, Kitten. Park that luscious caboose right here. Me and Heckso have some serious catching up to do.”
Frank slapped the writer’s back again. “When was it last? Jamaica, I’m thinkin’. You and that limey hump in the hotel bar? The playwright, fuckin’ Coward? No offense, and maybe he ain’t even your friend, but what a flaming, light-in-the-loafers queen that one is. I made a promise to myself to personally castrate that limey hump Noel with a pair of safety scissors if he crosses paths with me again. Jesus, but he’s touchy-feely.”
Hector leaned back so Frank could get a look at Jimmy. He introduced them. Frank said to Jimmy, “Fuckin’ Irish, clearly—but good fighters, ain’tcha?”
Jimmy shrugged and gave Old Blues Eyes a crooked smile. “So they say. Hector can serve as a reference.”
Frank winked and said, “And now, thinkin’ of the goddamn Irish, just like that, I’m cool to the fucking mescal I came here thinkin’ I was craving.” Frank slapped his hand on the bar and said, “Fuckin’ keep—I want a bottle of Jameson and another of Bailey’s right here.” Frank pointed at the bar in front of him with a finger. “Right here.” He said to Ava, “IRA Cocktails—you’ll fuckin’ love ’em, dollface.”
Frank pulled out a cigarette case and Hector fired him up with his old Zippo. Frank said, “Heckso, we don’t see you so much around the old good places in the Big Apple no more. What’s with that?”
Hector lit his own cigarette and flipped closed his Zippo. “Hell, Frank, I’m just kind of tired of the same old scenes. Everything around New York City just keeps repeating itself for me, these years. Nothing good there for me.”
“Well, I hear that,” Frank said. “Guess that’s why we’re down here now. Just did the Berle show and after I wanted nothing more than to get out of that town and away from the weather and fucking
Uncle Miltie. I know what you’re saying, Heckso. I do. All the suck-ups and sycophants back East? Chee-rist.”
“Fuck ’em all,” Hector growled back, playing to Frank. “Francis, you’re the only one I can countenance.”
Frank smiled. “Jesus, sounds like a fucking Harry Ruby lyric.” The singer bit his lip, then patted Hector’s cheek. “But I dig the sentiment, baby. It’s getting’ late in life and that is no season for suck-ups. I’m simpatico, Heckso. I’m up to here with both coasts, myself. Hell, I’m for real Quitsville with that bunter East Coast scene. Again. I think you’ve got the right notion, Heckso. I mean all this clean desert living. But why are you lookin’ so hangdog? You want I should secure you and your Irish pal a couple of broads? I can get some señoritas sent over with Charleys out to here.”
Hector watched Ava roll her dark eyes and got the sense Frank’s act was playing out for her. Frank was oblivious, however.
The crooner said to Jimmy and Hector, “No jokin’, boyos, just give the word if it suits your Clydes. If you’re not up to the full course, I can guard the john door while the ladies play tonsil hockey with your birds. How’s about? Jaw-jobs sound good to you boyos?”
Hector shook his head. “Maybe later, Frank. I’ve been having myself a time with some folks. Just tryin’ to get even from that.”
Frank’s smile went away. He didn’t make eye contact directly, just looked at Hector in the mirror behind the bar. The singer’s eyes seemed to go a little dead. “Ah, yes. The Dalton twist. Well that is the talk in certain circles. All that, and your role in it, kid.”
Ava excused herself then, wandered over to the jukebox, all luscious hips and languor. A few dozen sets of eyes wandered there with her.
But not Hector’s. The novelist was still looking at Frank in the mirror behind the bar.
And then Hector realized what was happening. “You being here, finding me like this,” Hector said. “It’s no accident, is it, Frank?”
“Wish it were otherwise,” Sinatra said. “But word is you’re down this way, and I was down this way. So a friend asked me to talk to you. We should get us a booth now, Hec.”
“Let’s do just that,” Hector said carefully. “Jimmy hears this too, though. He and I are in this together.”
Frank gave Jimmy another look and said, “That’s your call, Heckso.”
The booths were all taken, but Frank gave some gringo tourists the eye and they cleared out for their vacated seats at the bar.
Frank slid into the booth beside Hector and wrapped an arm around the writer’s shoulders. “Let’s just cut to the chase, yeah? Momo is not pleased, my friend. Things are unsettled like they’ve never been, and with that fucking woodchuck Kefauver in the mix? Well, trust when I say there is much unhappiness due north. Momo is looking for a way to calm the waters. He thought maybe you’d want to help with that.”
Momo—that would be Sam “Momo” Giancana.
“I’m going to assume you know even more than you’re letting on,” Hector said to Frank.
Sinatra smiled. “Always a safe fuckin’ assumption, Lassiter. Go on…”
Hector wet his lips and said, “Has Mr. Giancana heard that Vito Scartelli is going, you know, nuts?”
“There’ve been rumors,” Frank said, checking his manicure. “There are always humps who like to work their mouths. But I think—strictly my opinion—that Momo thinks such talk about his Ohio friend is just low gossip.”
“It isn’t,” Jimmy said. “Scartelli’s certainly losing it. And Vito knows it, too. His memory is going away like a night train with the hammer down. That’s why he writes everything down, Francis.”
Hector sensed he and Jimmy were thinking along same lines about then.
“Writes down,” Frank said, brows knitted. “Everything… Like, a written record?”
“Every damned thing,” Hector said. “All of it put to paper. Show him, Jimmy.”
Jimmy pulled out some last folded ledger sheets from his wallet, the more damaging ones he’d held onto for a hole card when Gibson had so disappointed them. Jimmy spread the papers out on the table in front of Frank.
“Pretty damning stuff,” Hector said, taking one of the sheets. He looked it over and had to bite back a smile. His luck was running good. “And look right here, Frank. Here’s some notes regarding some transaction between Vito and a certain ‘Sammy G.’ And down here, a ‘Momo’ notation. Small world, ain’t it? Unusual nicknames? They’re vanity’s tiger traps, if you ask me.”
Frank’s voice was low. “This is from the fuckin’ ledger that dead broad Kate stole from her old man?”
“That’s right,” Hector said.
Frank’s blue eyes bored into Hector’s. “Where’s the rest? There are only four or five pages here.”
“Feds got the rest,” Jimmy said. “Back in our early naïve days, when we thought cops would care for material such as this, we gave them the rest.”
Frank looked like he was ready to rip out Jimmy’s throat. The Chairman of the Board said, “And fucking Momo was written up in those pages you gave to Kefauver’s stooge?”
“Jimmy purged the book before we turned it over,” Hector said quickly. “Jimmy thought we should hold the best or most damaging stuff back. Keep some options open for ourselves.”
Frank grunted. “One forward lookin’ Mick, that’s what you are, Harleyhand.”
“Hanrahan, and thanks, boyo,” Jimmy said. Something in Jimmy’s voice: now Hector was starting to fear a little for Frank.
“So these pages…?” Frank’s voice trailed off.
“Those are all that’s left,” Hector said. “They’re yours to give to Momo. Say it was our gift to him. We just want two things in return.”
“I can figure one,” Frank said. “The girls walk. Yes?”
“As much as can be expected, that’s right,” Hector said. “I just want a vow from Sam he’ll see the chase is stopped. Let those two fillies disappear and live on in obscure safety, here to forever. They’re no threat anymore. Meg just wants to raise her little girl, and Vito doesn’t give two squirts for that kid’s fate.” Hector knew how that last would go down with a proud Italian. Hector said, “Old Vito, he’s just not a family man like you or me.”
“I’ll convey,” Frank said coolly. “And the second favor?”
Hector said, “It’s my understanding that the prospect of Sam—or even some of Vito’s stooges—taking Vito out, despite his growing senility, is verboten.”
“It’s complication-laden, yeah,” Frank said.
“So have Momo clear the road for me,” Hector said. “I ask safe passage back to Ohio and Vito.”
Jimmy saw where Hector was going and clearly hated it. He said, “Hector…”
“Stop, Jimmy,” Hector said, holding up a hand. “In fact, you go now, Jimmy. I insist.”
Jimmy looked like he was about to come across the table at Hector. “It’s not like you think,” Hector said. “Please, Jimmy. Just allow me two minutes alone with Frank.”
Eyes smoldering, Jimmy slid out of the booth. Possibly just to needle Frank, Hector suspected, Jimmy wandered over and chatted up Ava at the jukebox.
Frank said, “Now cut to the chase, Lassiter. Are you saying if Momo pulls off Vito’s guards you’ll do the job? You’ll personally kill the son of a bitch?”
“Same as. Close enough. By that, I mean old Vito will be dead for certain. Promise.”
“And what would you want for a favor like that? What’s your reward?”
“Knowing the girls are safe, like I said, here to forever.”
“That was favor number one, Heckso. That’s granted. I’m asking, what do you want in return for removing Scartelli from the chessboard? Because seems to me that’s a different fucking favor.”
“Nothing, honestly. Vito’s given me plenty of grief these past few days to justify my wanting to hand some back with lethally compounded interest.”
Frank smiled thinly. “That I can feature. Everything is alway
s personal with our kind, am I right? I’m gonna to go make a call. You and your Mick friend have another round on me and watch over my gal. Don’t let anyone get fresh with her while I’m on the horn back east. When I get back, let’s forget this whole conversation, right? Forget these sides of one another we just shared, yeah? Let’s not let this become a thing between us.” An edge in Frank’s voice. The Italian street-punk and Mafia suck-up showing through the crooner’s suave veneer. “Ya better be with me, Lassiter.”
Hector said, “Sure, Frank, I’m with you, and I mean the distance. Sure.”
Frank patted his cheek again. “That’s my pal. Lass, you are one suave son of a bitch and a class act. Next life, I’m comin’ back a Texan.”
***
When Frank returned, it was just like he said.
He shot Hector a thumbs-up, then launched into a long ramble about the current shambles of his career. “But I’m chartin’ my course back, brothers,” Frank vowed, raising his glass. “Gonna find me the short path back to Comebacksville. Going to be on top again and soon. Swear to Christ, Fifty-one will not pass without some triumphs for me.”
Ava just watched Frank with bored eyes. She looked at Hector occasionally, inquiringly. Or so he flattered myself.
Hector shifted in his seat and tried not to make eye contact with her. At some point Jimmy started teaching Frank the lyrics to “Carrikfergus.” That exercise seemed to shift Ava’s interest from Hector to Hanrahan. Frank then sang a version of “Danny Boy” that reduced several gringo tourists to tears. Jimmy wasn’t far behind them.
Hector managed to hold it in. He was thinking of his future.
***
When Hector and Jimmy finally left Frank and Ava in the bar to head back to Hector’s hacienda on the other side of the border, Jimmy said, “What deal exactly did you cut with that Dago devil?”
“I’m not going to murder Vito,” Hector said. “It’s not what you think, Jimmy, truly.”
It was true enough. Personally killing Vito really wasn’t Hector’s plan. That much he was being honest about.
His Irish friend said, “There are worse things than killing a man, Hector.”
The Running Kind: A Hector Lassiter novel Page 24
