by Laird Barron
“You have chosen the way of the animal.” He gazed upon me with pity and hatred. “Not entirely your fault. You’ve got Satan in your blood. My people are drunk coal miners. Your mama, well, she was a dark-hearted woman from an evil line. Her ancestors ate the brains of their enemies. The worst of them still do. No chance you’d possess a scrap of humanity.”
I choked and watched the white-and-red sky dim to black. He swung the oar overhead, poised to split my skull and end it for good and all. The way his eyes went dead, the way his mouth twisted into a snarl, no question he meant to murder me. I spat a stream of blood at him. He lowered the oar and gazed at me with disgust.
“Had they trawled the lake, they would’ve found that derringer I bought her for Christmas on the bottom. She took me out there to kill me. Jealous of some floozy I took to bed. I only meant to slap the pistol from her hand, but she ducked into the stroke. Complete accident.”
I remembered the night she’d stabbed him with a cleaver when he got too rough, and another time she took a halfhearted potshot at him with that very derringer and blew a hole in the wall. She tried to ice him over the fact he’d painted the town red with a burlesque dancer he’d met at a USO show. Mom’s temper was legendary.
“The bitch had it coming.” He hurled the oar away and fell to his knees at my side. Tears froze in his eyes like flecks of crystal. He cradled my head and wept and snarled. “It’s too late for you, son. I love you anyway.”
I awoke with a cry on my lips and the phone beeping a warning.
Goliad, aka my cauliflower-eared friend with the White Manitou, said, “The man wants to see you. Be at the Rainbow in twenty. He’s gonna buy you any breakfast you want.”
THIRTY-NINE
Donnie Talon and his henchmen rendezvoused with me at the Frozen Rainbow café. A short meeting—I barely had time to dip into a chocolate milk shake.
“I’ve decided to help you out, Coleridge.”
Talon wore sunglasses, a bear-tooth necklace, and a powder-blue sport coat. He appeared older in broad daylight, a few white streaks in his glossy hair. Only thirty-three. Full-time villainy had consequences. Still, it felt strange seeing him in such a mundane setting. No brimstone, no horns, no black cape. He picked at a BLT.
“You’ve decided to help yourself,” I said.
“Careful, be careful. It’s a terrible mistake to presume I can be manipulated. Dr. Peyton lost his head over your arrogance. Next time, it might be someone close to you. The sad part, at least for Dr. P, is that you had no need to jump through hoops to get with me. A man of your talents could’ve written his own check.”
He waited for me to respond. I exercised the better part of valor and sipped my milk shake.
“I would’ve thought you’d appreciate the gesture. The Manitou is still the underdog in the eternal turf war. Admittedly, most of what we do, the symbols, the mutilation and torture of our foes, is pure theater. I didn’t grow up with a strong tradition. I attended exclusive private schools, white schools. My friends were white. My mother was a Presbyterian.” He hesitated, watching my reaction.
I gave him one.
“Just because I’m half Maori doesn’t mean you need to unburden yourself. We’re not bros, we don’t share a struggle.”
“Don’t we? Perhaps not. Perhaps the hollow materialism of American culture has absorbed your soul. Hard to accept. There’s hatred in your eye. The only men with that kind of anger are men who believe in a cause. It grieves me to see a warrior of your caliber succumb to entropy.”
“Hang around long enough, you’ll get used to it.”
He shook his head.
“As a man, I’ve chosen my own traditions, the ones that will serve me and my comrades best. The Manitou are pan-tribal and trade in fear as much as anything else. I greatly admire the Mohawk ruthlessness, their historic reliance upon what most consider barbarism and cruelty. Civilization is soft. It responds well to the knife and the spur. Stellar audition at the Wigwam nonetheless. I can’t stop thinking about the mayhem you committed. Makes me want to call you brother . . . makes me wonder if you might not be precisely the bad-to-the-bone sonofabitch I need to get one over on my enemies.”
I pushed aside my glass and held his gaze.
“Look, Donnie. I’ll tell you the same as I told the Italians—I’m not interested in working. I left the job permanently.”
“Fooled the shit out of me and those four punks you iced. From where I’m sitting, you are larger than life and on the scene. I’ve got plans for you, friend. Deny it as you will, but you’re one of us in your heart.”
“Everybody has plans for me,” I said.
He smiled, perfectly white with only a hint of yellow on his incisors.
“A conversation for another day. Meanwhile, we tidied up after your visit to The Battery. You owe me for dry cleaning.”
I would have preferred to kick the table over, pin him and his cronies against the rear of the booth, and drill all three with my revolver. The revolver remained in the glove box of the truck. I smiled back at Talon and pretended to be reasonable rather than desperate.
“Point taken. How might I settle my tab?”
“It won’t hurt a bit. You’re going to extract a scumbag from his hidey-hole and deliver him to justice. The three gentlemen you seek, your Three Stooges? Three Amigos? After exercising due diligence, their location has come to my attention. Secluded shack in the country. Cozy. Heavies are standing guard, in case the boys get the crazy notion to call out or, heaven forfend, fly the coop. The soldiers answer to . . . well, not me. They won’t let you waltz in and take anybody. For that matter, the Amigos probably won’t be happy to see you either. Might call for brute force.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Get what?” he said.
“Why me? Why not an anonymous call to the Feds? Those yahoos would swoop in with a tactical team before you could say Janet Reno.”
“Because I don’t trust the FBI, Coleridge. I trust you.”
This had been his play all along. He’d known from the jump that Martinez sang like a bird for the authorities. Should Martinez happen to testify against Modine in a certain federal investigation, there’d be a vacuum in the Manitou leadership. Talon was the type to abhor a vacuum. He’d reacted as all master villains do: he gathered information and bided his time until the right moment to strike.
And here I came, lumbering along, to fill the bill as potential fall guy. Manipulate me, traveling rōnin extraordinaire, into carrying out his light work while he maintained an alibi if it went sour. Smooth as Satan indeed. Uncle Apollo and my dad would’ve shaken his hand with pleasure.
He took my silence as consent.
“Deliver Martinez into federal custody. I cannot sufficiently stress the importance that he makes it to trial.”
“And his buddies?” I sipped my milk shake with an unflappable air.
He grinned and transformed into the Prince of Darkness, well and true.
“I do not give a shit about the others. Because of ongoing federal investigations, there are a dozen guys chilling in safe houses. It’s making the honchos more nervous than you can imagine. Several of them are not content to wait for this to blow over. A purge order is in the pipeline. Once that gets whispered in my ear, I don’t have a choice.” He glanced at his watch. “You’ve got forty-eight hours, give or take. Machinery is in motion. Today, you sit before a humble prince. Should certain stars align, next we meet I’ll be a king.”
“Okay, Your Majesty,” I said. “The girl?”
“She’s not with the Amigos. Sorry.” He dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I’m certain the truth will come out when this is over.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t be glum, Coleridge. This is better than going on Oprah when she’s in the mood to give away cars. It’s what you’ve wanted.”
FORTY
> When shit hits the fan in my life, it’s usually a truckload. Today had not proved an exception thus far. My side ached. Everywhere I glanced, I beheld a constellation of woe and travail. The death’s-head of the universe grinned at me, either in sympathy or contempt.
I returned to the farm and plotted my next move. As the first order of business, I fetched a bag of guns and brought it into the cabin. Lionel walked in as I laid an array of weapons on the table, cleaning and loading or whetting, as the case demanded.
He lit a cigarette and listened to the rundown.
“Your cleaning those rifles is a coincidence, of course. As you’re half dead from stab wounds and incidental injuries, no way you’d be planning a commando action. I sorta hate myself for suggesting it, but . . . This is where we turn it over to the cops, right?”
“That would be nice and simple,” I said.
“Why aren’t we going to do the nice and simple thing?”
“Because Talon has us on the hook for the homies we iced at the Wigwam.”
“Oh. He’s going there? What a sweetheart.”
“Screw Talon and his gun to our heads. He isn’t why I’m going in.”
“Like what I’m hearin’.”
“I need the Amigos alive for questioning. This may be our last chance to find Reba. The cops can’t be trusted. None of them.” I winced to hear my words echo Talon’s own.
“No shit, Columbo. We already knew that after they tried to smoke you the other day.”
“This goes deeper than a crooked action or them panicking after their Gestapo tactics went sideways.” I spun the cylinder on my .357 Magnum, then loaded the bullets. Hollow-point and flat-nose alternating, three of each. “Donnie Talon is under federal surveillance. Yet he and I had tea and cookies at Ye Olde Soda Shoppe not forty-five minutes ago. No switching of cars or covering of mouths with the menu. The whole damned thing was relaxed as a picnic. C’mon, man. I’ve seen all the crime movies. What does that behavior tell you?”
Lionel took a drag.
“Talon knows when and where the tail will be.”
“Elementary, Dr. Watson.”
“Sonofabitch. Noonan and Bellow?”
“Noonan is definitely a toady to greater forces. Bellow is clean.”
“Don’t be too sure. Birds of a feather, man.”
“Listen, I think I’ve got a handle on this mess. Talon is making a power play. It’s a delicate balance for him. My hunch is that certain forces in D.C. want Modine like Ness wanted Capone. By the book, hellfire and brimstone Dudley Do-Rights. I’d say Bellow fits the description.”
“I’ll buy that.”
“Other parties don’t subscribe to a zealous pursuit of justice. These persons are quite pleased with the status quo of fat bribes and the devil-you-know philosophy. The pragmatic business as usual as long as they get paid. Sounds like Noonan and whoever Noonan reports to in D.C. These latter parties wouldn’t care for Martinez testifying against Modine and upsetting the apple cart. I’d bet my bottom dollar Noonan is supplying Talon with intelligence. He basically admitted it the day he ordered Rourke to smoke me.”
“Uh, if Noonan is pro-Modine, why would he help Talon?”
“The good ol’ double cross. He feeds Talon junk. It’s a roundabout way to protect his interest in Modine and keep tabs on Donnie boy.”
“Think Talon knows Noonan is conning him?”
“Talon would assume treachery because that sort of suspicion is in his DNA. Besides, I can tell you from bitter experience—organizations use dirty cops and dirty Feds, but they never trust them an inch further than necessary. This is a game of Chinese checkers for Talon. He’s got to play it cool and outfox not only his boss but his boss’s stooges at the Bureau. That’s where you and I come in. I’m a longtime bad guy; plus, he’s got the Wigwam dirt on us. He’s gambling that these factors make us reliable.”
“Lot of moving parts,” Lionel said.
“Talon talked about machinery. It’s not perfect. Nothing is. Still, the bastard is ballsy. He can’t pass up an opportunity to spring Martinez and take down Modine. All without lifting a finger.”
Lionel lit another cigarette. His lips curled into a sneer.
“Thought I left this shit behind. Shoulda figured the government is in the business of picking what crime bosses prevail in their territorial pissing. This is what the CIA does in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Where-the-fuck-ever-stan. They pit the tribal chieftains against one another and back the winner. How the British Empire conquered the world.”
“Did you expect it to be different? Warfare is warfare. The Justice Department takes the long view. Some criminals they collar. Some they kill. Some they promote because it will help them bust or kill the others. It’s a business.”
“Wanna bring along Cal?”
“No way. He’s still shook over The Battery.”
“Okay. Good. I didn’t want to drag him in again.”
I slid the revolver into its holster.
“The Shakespearean maneuvering between gangsters will keep. Reba won’t keep. Martinez won’t either. We have to act.”
“I’m down, Hoss. But let’s not be fall guys.”
“Too late. We can still fall right.”
* * *
—
DESPITE MY POLICY OF SPEAKING nary a discouraging word to Lionel, forty-eight hours wouldn’t be nearly enough to plan and execute a professional operation. Such a tight deadline meant storming the joint blind and praying to the gods for a lucky break. Not an example of best practices, according to my personal manual of extermination.
I sorted through Kline’s dossiers and made the hard choice.
Teddy Valens and his crew occupied the second bucket-of-blood tavern I investigated—The Iron Sights. One of the windows remained boarded up from the last drunk who’d gotten pitched through it. I arrived around 2 p.m. Didn’t get much deader than that. One of those tacky joints with out-of-state plates and beer posters for wallpaper.
Valens sat in a dim corner drinking beer with his Fu Manchu buddy, Wes Hawkins. Ken Galt and Steve Tucker were shooting pool, both of them dressed in muscle shirts a neck size too small. An old drunk in coveralls slumped at the bar. The bartender stared at me as I loomed in the doorway. Basketball on the tiny corner screen. Odors of cigarette smoke and impending violence.
There we were.
“Hey, sailor,” I said to Tucker. He choked up on his cue stick.
Everybody tensed when I unbuckled my holster and laid it on the table. The knives followed. I showed them my hands and introduced myself.
“I remember you,” Valens said. “You’re pals with Robard.”
“Yep, and you’re bosom buddies with my dad.”
“Huh. That Isaiah. Must take after your ma, ’cause you don’t look an itty bit like your pa. How is the old man?”
“Mean as a snake.”
“Sounds right. Love that guy. A real soldier. Not a fan of Black Dog, sadly. He told you where to find me, huh?”
“No, one of his cronies did. Dad can’t be bothered. Damndest thing. He acted as if the name Valens meant zip to him.” I’d pondered on the subject. The more I weighed the evidence, the more I questioned what Dad had left out of the dossiers he’d instructed Kline to send my way. “He’s got a hundred photos cluttering his mantel. One happens to feature your mug.”
“’Course he did,” Valens said. “We were close, once. I was the son he never had. It embarrasses him in his twilight years. Like you, we had a falling-out.”
“He didn’t mention it.”
“He don’t like to admit mistakes. Your pop put distance between us after an . . . incident in Iraq. Bad press all the way around. Could also be he’s trying to make amends, reconnect with his long-lost eldest boy. Throw you a bone. No skin off his ass.” He stood and made an elaborate point of studying me. “I
can’t figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to be.”
“My girlfriend is a librarian and you’ve probably never met one of them before. She thinks I’m a dangerous animal from the Black Forest. I take a hoof to the mug here and there before I bring down my prey.”
“Superstar badass,” the one called Galt said.
“What can we do for you?” Valens said.
“Maybe he came here to shoot us,” Galt said. “I recall you stuck a heater in my face last we spoke.”
Valens shook his head at Galt.
“Thirty seconds. Whatever you need to get off your chest, mister.”
“Three pieces of business,” I said. “One, I’m getting set to hit a target and need equipment. Kind of materials you soldier boys play with.” Nobody spoke. They exchanged glances, except for Valens, who kept his eyes on mine. I continued. “Second, forget about Lionel. You mess with him, I’m involved. That will be messy, bank on it. Last, one of you bozos swiped a pic of his girl. Give it up.”
The tension in the room climbed a notch. Tucker and Galt grinned, getting wind of blood.
“Are you high?” Tucker said. He stepped toward me, stick gripped at port arms, looney tunes smirk widening into a fright mask.
“Belay that,” Valens said. Cold and sharp; an NCO barking at his troops. “Coleridge. As a favor to your daddy, I’m going to let you walk out the door under your own power. Our beef isn’t with you. It’s with your cowardly friend.”
“You are mistaken. I don’t keep cowardly friends.”
“The one who sent you here to fight his battles. I expected better from Robard. Wouldn’t have dreamed he’d pull this weak shit.”
“He hasn’t a clue. I left him home because I don’t want anybody to get ventilated. By anybody, I mean you guys.”
“Really. Color me curious.”
Without giving away details, I outlined my problem with the Manitou safe house.
