What he wanted, what he needed, was to get high. That was all there was to it. And tomorrow, thank God, that was exactly what he was going to do.
That morning, when he’d returned to the Blue Moon to see Gene, the usually-congenial bartender had seemed irritable, ill at ease. I can’t get you scag, he growled. And I don’t want to, either. Capeesh?
Taken aback by Gene’s combative attitude, Dieter had merely nodded.
You don’t need that shit, man, nobody does. I’m sorry, but that’s how I feel.
I understand.
A flicker of a glance around the tavern to make sure no one was listening, before turning back to his friend.
What I can get you is some Percocet.
Yeah?
Fifty tabs.
Fifty’s good. Fifty’s great.
This was more like it, Dieter thought. Percocet was a popular choice in Quintana Roo, too, where you could score anything; less lethal than smack but in the correct dosage, a righteous high.
Milligrams?
Seven point five.
Excellent.
With a small, sad smile, Gene accepted Dieter’s grateful hand, and then held on to it a moment too long.
You sure you wanna do this, D? You really sure?
In his room at the Gibson, Dieter poured three fingers of blended whiskey into a smudged glass. He swallowed a sleeping pill and lay back on the bed, waiting for the drug to release its potion, for his muscles, and his mind, to unwind. Worry accomplished nothing. In the end, whatever was going to happen was going to happen. He would stay in Crooked River or he’d leave. He’d break up with Maggie Paterson or declare his undying love. He’d write a sequel to Jaguar Moon or go back home to build cabinets. It was out of his hands now. Lureen might be convinced that God had some kind of master plan, but Dieter didn’t think so. Chance, or luck, or serendipity; ultimately a random throw of the cosmic dice is what determined your fate. Ask a gambler. Ask a soldier. Ask him.
30
Raul parked his car beneath the catalpa trees behind the abandoned building. Trying to stay calm, he listened in the sudden rural silence to the tick of the Toyota’s cooling engine followed, seconds later, by a ripple of wind. Checked his wristwatch, 6:45. Fifteen minutes to go, fifteen more jittery minutes until the target, expecting nothing more than a simple drug exchange, arrived. For reassurance he slipped a hand into the pocket of his windbreaker to make sure the plastic vial, as well as the pistol, was still there.
He had a bad feeling about this one. Nothing specific, nothing he could really put his finger on, just a vague unease, a roiling in his belly that made it impossible to digest the tamales he had eaten for lunch that day.
The details of the job were not the issue. The location was ideal, a neglected shack that used to house a canoe outpost on a narrow stretch of the Wakulla River five miles north of town. Empty for years, the outpost had been built in a clearing of tangled woods off a quiet country road. Out back, above the river, on a slope that was mostly weeds now, there was a rusty rack that once held the canoes, and a cedar picnic table stained gray by time.
The identity of the man he was going to kill wasn’t a problem either. He was anonymous, an unknown, not even a name, and that was the way Raul preferred it. A white male in his late twenties—that was the only information he had been given, and it was all he wanted to know.
The weapon was a snub nose .38 that fit snugly in the pocket of his windbreaker. And the setup was simple. A drug deal out here in the boonies far away from curious eyes. When the target arrived, Raul would place the vial of pills on the picnic table, and when the man reached out to grab it he would shoot him between the eyes. Then he’d scatter the pills on the ground and wipe his prints off the vial and toss it down into the weeds next to the body. Simple, clean, efficient; a drug deal gone awry. And yet despite all that, he still felt queasy. Unwilling to admit that the root of his unease was a troubled conscience, he blamed it on the tamales.
He had killed twice before, the first time in Guadalajara, the year he turned seventeen. Saturday night, a deserted parking lot, two rival gangs. By prior agreement the only weapons were to be fists. But when one of the opponents, a good-looking kid who bore a striking resemblance to the actor Sal Mineo, reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade after Raul broke his nose with a sudden right hook, Raul reacted the only way he knew how, al tú por tú, unsheathing his own six-inch blade and slashing it at his assailant. The boy feinted once, twice, slicing the air and forcing Raul to back away. But on the third feint Raul was ready for him, and without giving it another thought he lashed out, driving his knife deep into the victim’s ribcage. The blade severed an artery and a geyser of blood spattered the pavement as the boy collapsed. For a few minutes Raul stood over the body unable to assimilate what had just occurred. In front of his eyes, the Sal Mineo look-alike bled out, and the other fighters fled. Eventually, Raul ran also.
The second killing was preordained, strictly for cash. On an unusually chilly October evening he had waited at the end of a fishing pier on a freshwater lake in southern Alabama. He was scared and cold and impatient, stomping his boots on the pier’s balky planks until headlights swept the leafy darkness and a middle-aged man Raul had never seen before climbed out of his car. The man was wearing a herringbone suit jacket, custom fit blue jeans, and black wingtips that must have been recently polished, the way they gleamed in the light of the moon. He was carrying a briefcase Raul had been instructed not to open. Whipping out his pistol, Raul waved the briefcase away and ordered the man to kneel down, facing in the opposite direction.
Afterwards, grabbing the briefcase, he marched to the end of the pier, his heart hammering so loudly he thought it was going to burst. He kept reminding himself that this was nothing more than a business transaction, but that night, and for many nights after, he woke in a cold sweat picturing, again and again, those shiny black shoes.
Sometimes he conducted imaginary conversations with the kid he’d killed in Guadalajara. Over and over he begged forgiveness until the boy, with a ghostly smile, granted his wish. But what kind of man murders a stranger for money? He could blame the killing in Guadalajara on self-defense, but in Alabama there was no such excuse. Clutching the briefcase, he had hurried down the pier wondering how he was going to live with himself now.
Kill once on contract and you establish a street rep and inevitably, other offers come your way. And yet for the last seven years, ever since that dreadful night in Alabama, Raul had rejected every one. The money was enticing but there was more to life, he had discovered, than a bank account. For one, there was Marlena to think about, Marlena and their three adorable kids.
After moving to Crooked River he had lived, for a time, within his means, slaving five days a week on a roofing crew sloshing hot black tar. It was tough, mindless labor but the paychecks were steady and there was usually a little left over at the end of the month. When Marlena returned to work at Ochoas following the birth of their third (and last, they decided) child, there was even a little more. With two paychecks coming in every week they felt flush enough to put a down payment on a two-bedroom home. In addition they purchased, on installment, a dishwasher for Marlena, a swing set for the kids, and new furniture. To a poor immigrant like Raul it was the American dream, deficit spending providing a predictable life with modest rewards he and Marlena learned to cherish. A baby’s first steps, a three-day vacation at a motel on Clearwater Beach, a report card featuring one or two A’s.
Raul tried not to dote on the mountain of debt they seemed to have abruptly accumulated (he wasn’t sure what a balloon mortgage was, but apparently they had one) or how, when the dust finally settled, they would possibly pay it off. And then one fateful Sunday evening a local bookie strolled into the bar at Ochoas and talked Raul into placing a side bet on the baseball game he was watching on TV. Raul won the bet and collected the stranger’s twen
ty, and all at once he saw a way to scramble out of the financial hole he had tumbled into. All he needed was a bit of luck.
It didn’t take long for Raul to become one of the bookie’s steadiest customers. Baseball, jai alai, the dog races at Derby Lane, the yearly pigskin rivalry between Florida and Florida State; after awhile it didn’t really matter what he bet on because the real payoff was the juice, the buzz, the willingness to take risks.
For a time he did okay, too, losing now and then but in the end at worst breaking even. Then his luck ran dry and he had no choice but to cover one bet with another, robbing Peter to pay Paul. The vig alone was killing him, so he started to do a little freelance work on the side for the bookie and some of his friends. Not breaking kneecaps—that was Hollywood’s version—but nonetheless convincing poor suckers just like him to fork over their life savings or suffer the consequences of saying no. Sometimes he wore brass knuckles, or carried a gun, and yet he continued to draw the line at killing. Right up, that is, until now.
A few days ago when Colt Taylor requested a meeting, Jimmy Santiago had suggested the bar at Ochoas. On the appointed evening, Marlena posted a Closed sign on the front door, dimmed the overhead lights and placed, on the table where the men were waiting, a bottle of tequila and three cans of beer.
The tension was intense. Jimmy, for one, remained adamantly silent while refusing, when Colt lifted his shot glass for a mutual toast, to acknowledge the gesture. In response, Colt merely shrugged, unwilling to let the slight deter him. In a quiet, measured voice he apologized to Jimmy for cutting him at the club. Then he turned to Raul.
A man has to pay for his mistakes. I understand that now.
Raul waited for more. An eye for an eye, Colt added. I believe in that, too.
Raul flicked a glance at Jimmy, whose impassive expression gave nothing away.
So this is why you called the meeting?
To let it go.
To let it go? The gold tooth, the menacing smile. No comprendo, señor.
To move on.
Ah, to move on. Sí. There was more to this, then. Raul raised his shot glass. So let us move on, amigo. Please. Continue.
To show good faith, Colt wanted to offer them a deal.
Jimmy, who had yet to utter a word, finally leaned in toward the man he had once considered a compañero. A deal?
A contract.
Raul was confused. All along he had been expecting a double cross but this didn’t sound like one. Colt Taylor was a tough guy, maybe even stand up in a funny sort of way—he hadn’t, after all, blown the whistle after the beating out on Pheasant Hill Road—but he was no mover and shaker like his boss Teddy Mink, and Raul had a hard time believing he could come up with something this elaborate as the basis for a betrayal. With rising interest he listened to Colt describe the canoe outpost, the Percocet, the gun.
And the target, señor?
A white male, Colt replied, in his late twenties. Nothing else. Not the man’s name nor his occupation nor what he had done to deserve such a fate.
The figure was fifteen hundred dollars, a sum Colt agreed, at Jimmy’s insistence, to provide upfront. Meekly, the mule gazed down at the floor. Look, I’d do this myself but I don’t . . .
What? You don’t what? Raul demanded.
Have the balls. Colt forced himself to look across the table at Raul. I’ve never done anything like that before.
This surprising confession of macho weakness convinced Raul that Colt wasn’t lying. Teddy Mink—who else could it be?—wanted someone dead, and he was willing to pay for it. Besides, by asking for the money upfront, Jimmy had exposed Colt’s hand and taken a double cross out of the equation. Then Raul recalled the shiny black wingtips the man he had murdered in Alabama was wearing that night and all at once he felt ill. Despite his vow never to kill again, he knew he was going to cave. It was as simple as that; he was going to buckle. Your move, amigo.
Okay then. Colt reached into his wallet and counted out, one by one, fifteen bills.
Behind the canoe outpost Raul checked his wristwatch again. Less than five minutes to go. To work off some of his nervous energy he climbed out of the car and walked over to the shack and peeked inside. Nothing. An empty room, walls stained black with mildew, broken panes. Still antsy, he ambled over to the river to watch the tea-colored current carry sticks and leaves downstream. Then he heard the toot of a horn and wheeled around in time to see a blue pickup ease into the drive.
Dieter was not particularly surprised to see Raul waiting for him under the catalpas. Gene had told him that a man—he wasn’t sure who—would meet him at the outpost to exchange the drugs. So why shouldn’t that man be someone with real street savvy, Dieter thought, like his friend Raul?
But if Dieter wasn’t particularly surprised to see Raul, the hit man was flabbergasted. His mind refused to accept what his eyes were telling him was true. He recalled Colt’s brief description of the victim—a white male in his late twenties—and tried to match that description to the man standing in front of him now, but his mind balked. No, this had to be some kind of mistake, some kind of misunderstanding.
Buenas noches, amigo! Sliding out of his truck, Dieter raised a hand in greeting. Then he noticed the blank look on his friend’s face.
Buenas noches, Raul mechanically replied.
Something was wrong. Dieter could feel it, the bad vibes. People thought that phrase was silly and outdated but it wasn’t; sometimes there was a shimmer of evil in the air. He glanced around the weedy clearing to see if anyone else was there. Because something was definitely wrong. Raul, who under any other circumstances would have greeted his gringo friend with lively banter and a gleaming gold tooth, was eerily silent today. And his eyes were unsteady, shifting back and forth.
As Dieter stepped across the clearing Raul reached into the pocket of his windbreaker and withdrew a vial of yellow pills.
Dieter hesitated, looking down at the vial. So that’s it, he said lamely. Percocet, sí?
Sí, senor. Not taking his eyes off the target, Raul placed the vial on the table. Percocet. What you requested, no?
Why, Dieter wondered, is he being so formal? This was a man he had broken bread with. He knew his wife, his children, considered him a friend. He couldn’t comprehend what was happening. In disbelief he watched Raul slip a hand into the pocket of his windbreaker again and this time withdraw a gun.
Dieter stared at the pistol without comprehension, like a man in shock. Why was his friend pointing a gun at him? He had just come here to buy some pills.
Raul, amigo, que esta pasado?
In lieu of an answer Raul went into a crouch, which in Dieter’s fragmented state of mind seemed almost comical, a bad actor’s unconvincing performance in a movie no one would ever see. Gripping the .38 in both of his stubby hands, the hit man circled his quarry, until he was standing directly behind him.
Dieter swiveled his head, trying to see what Raul was doing. It occurred to him that this must be a scam, a joke. Was that it? Was this some kind of elaborate practical joke? He had seen Raul’s playful side before, goofing around with his bambinos. Would he turn around now and discover the pistol was a toy, the whole charade some kind of elaborate bluff?
But the answer was no. Raul’s sad, raspy voice issued a command and in that surreal moment Dieter knew that this was no ruse. The man was going to rob him, perhaps even kill him. But why?
Arrodillese, amigo. Arrodillese ahorita por favor. Dieter could hear the sorrow in Raul’s voice, and the strain. In a daze, he obeyed, kneeling down in the ragged weeds. This is it, he thought. For some reason I’m to die beside a river in Florida. He closed his eyes, waiting for the bullet, and saw his father in his workshop, Maggie in her kitchen, Jen on the beach in Quintana Roo . . .
He heard Raul begin to murmur a Spanish prayer. Then he felt the barrel of the pistol press against the back of his
head as it began to rain, a spatter of drops dimpling the river and tapping the leaves of the trees. Addled by terror, he deemed this somehow appropriate; to die in the rain, as Jen had. His mind detached from his body and he floated up through the damp air until he was high enough to gaze back down, with some dispassion, at the clearing where his double knelt in the shadow of his assassin. Soon it would be over. He closed his eyes, took a final breath, and repeated, word for word, the Spanish prayer Raul kept reciting as he’d squeezed the trigger, flung the gun into the river, and fled.
31
After a ringing telephone at 3:00 a.m. left him with no choice but to lie in the dark listening to jittery Gene whine like a little girl about the contract to kill William Dieter, Colt had been unable to go back to sleep. He fidgeted with the sheets, punched the inadequate pillow, tried in vain to ignore the lighted numbers on Nicky Meyers’s bedside clock. In the past, visualizing certain successful golf shots had sometimes conquered his insomnia, so he tried that too, replaying the first four holes at Hopkins Creek, which he had maneuvered around last week at one under par. But even the epic tee shot on the opening hole or that twisty downhill putt, a double breaker, on the par-three fourth failed to lull him back to sleep, so he finally gave up. He climbed out of bed and stomped into the kitchen and switched on the overhead lights. Fuck it. If he was going to be up all night he may as well get a buzz on. He yanked open the fridge and fished out a bottle of beer.
A what? When Gene breathed into the phone Colt swore he could smell the cheap bourbon on the bartender’s sour breath.
A premonition.
Great. So you’re what’s his name now, that psychic.
Wait. I guess it was more like a dream.
Fever Tree Page 17
