The Best American Mystery Stories 1998

by Otto Penzler

  “Ah, you noticed,” said Medina, gesturing toward the photograph. “My wife, Lucinda.”

  “Beautiful,” said Bobby. The woman looked about 35, heavily made-up, a puff of pinkish blonde hair like a halo surrounding her pretty, small-featured face, which wouldn’t age well. She’d get fat, Bobby thought, and look like a plump pigeon.

  Medina stepped through sliding glass doors to an outdoor bar alongside a heart-shaped swimming pool. His wife, sitting at the bar nursing a drink, looked up with a small jerk, as if frightened. She was maybe 20 years older than her picture, 20 pounds heavier. Just like a pigeon, Bobby thought, a plump pigeon in a flowing pink caftan.

  Medina introduced them. Sheila flashed Lucinda her patented 8 X lo-glossy smile. Lucinda returned a quick, nervous little smile. A Nicaraguan bartender in white served drinks. Another servant appeared with a tray of caviar and toast. Medina snapped something in Spanish and one of the white-clad servants hovering in the darkness hustled inside. He returned with a long box, which Medina opened, showing it to Bobby and Sheila. Nestled on tissue paper was a replica of an Uzi machine gun, except that it was carved out of ivory

  “My good friends from the estate of Israel gave me this,” he said. “In gratitude for my assistance. A little matter of a Hamas terrorist. He turned up in Miami trying to buy Cemtex. He was very foolish. Made the wrong connections. Poof!” Medina wiped the palms of his hands as if to clean them of blood. “It is lovely, no?”

  “Lovely! ” said Sheila.

  “But at times, a patriot needs more than artifacts, eh, seriora?”

  Sheila smiled and nodded.

  “Come, Serior Esquared. Let the women talk while I show you the grounds.”

  Bobby and Medina walked into the warm, humid darkness, leaving the two women at the bar. Bobby glanced back to see Sheila, smiling, trying to make conversation. The plump woman nodded nervously, like a toy bird dipping its head for water.

  “I have lived in your country 30 years,” said Medina as they walked across the huge expanse of lawn toward what looked like a garage. “But I am still a Cuban. My wife is a Cuban. My children. We will die only Cubans. Do you understand?” Bobby nodded. Medina went on. “Even here in exile I go to Mass every morning as I did in Havana, years ago, before that bandit destroyed my country.”

  He stepped into a dark mound in the grass and screamed, “Aiee! Fucking dogs!” He danced aside and wiped his shoe furiously on the grass.

  When they came to the garage, Medina pushed a button to open the doors. The doors rolled up, a light went on and Bobby was staring at a beautifully restored, lipstick red 1957 Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible with white leather upholstery.

  “Is beautiful, no?” Medina said, smiling at the car.

  “Very beautiful,” Bobby said.

  The little man went over to the gleaming car, ran his hands lovingly along its fender. “It is the same model I used to ride through the streets of Havana,” he said. “I found this one and restored it myself. A hobby of mine, mechanical things. It took me five years but that did not matter.” He looked at Bobby. “Do you know what sustained me, Senor Esquared?” Bobby shook his head no. Medina said, “The knowledge that one day Lucinda and I will drive this car again through the streets of Havana, past cheering crowds welcoming me home from exile. I come here at night to stare at this beautiful thing. I see myself in it back in Cuba.” He looked at Bobby. “I’d give it all up, you know. This house, the life, to return.”

  Sure you would, Bobby thought. A humble patriot. Not a fucking ruthless butcher. Not a guy who once, Sol claimed, blew a Cuban airliner out of the sky. Two hundred eighty-eight innocent people, some of them exiles from Miami, because he wanted to make a point. “You know what they call him?” Sol had said. “£/ Loco. The Crazy One.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Senor Esquared,” Medina was saying. “I am grateful to America. It’s been very good to me. And it’s made me rich. But a patriot needs something more. His roots. My roots are in Havana. My father is buried there. He was a great patriot. He fought that butcher, Castro, until my father was captured. I was only a boy. My mother and I were called to the prison to watch. We had to stand in the hot sun while they brought my father out in front of Castro. Castro made him kneel at his feet. He told him to bow his head, but my father refused. He looked up into that butcher’s eyes and defied him to kill him man-to-man. And that coward, that bastard....” Medina’s fingers jabbed the night air, saliva forming in his cheeks, spittle on his lips, as he raged on. “That pig bastard didn’t have the courage. He turned to one of his henchmen, an American, a hired assassin, this big fucking gringo, and he handed him his pistola, a P-38, a Nazi gun, of course, and said, ‘Here, gringo, you do it. He is not worth my time.’ And the gringo shot my father between the eyes.”

  Medina stopped talking. Finally, he said, “Excuse me, Senor Esquared; I am a man of passion. You understand. For my people, passion is everything. Passion is the food that keeps me alive. Makes me remember my enemies.” He smiled. “And my friends. Will you be my friend, Senor Esquared?”

  Bobby dipped his head slightly, as if to bow, and stretched out his hand. “It would be an honor to be your friend, Senor Medina.”

  The little man nodded, took the tips of Bobby’s fingers in his and held them a moment. In the moonlight, Bobby could see that his face was still dark from his outburst.

  “Good, senor. That is good. I know I can trust you.”

  Yeah, Bobby thought. But can I trust you?

  During dinner Medina hardly spoke, except to snap at his servants and once to whisper a few words to one of his bodyguards. The man backed off slowly, bowing slightly, turned and disappeared through the sliding glass doors.

  Sheila looked quizzically at Bobby, but he shook his head and put a firm hand on her arm to prevent her from going to the bathroom. No sense taking chances. Senor Medina’s mood had soured. The little bastard’s mind was still back in Havana and he seemed to be tasting revenge with every morsel of food he jabbed into his mouth. His wife ate with her head down, the good Cuban wife. She must be terrified out of her wits, Bobby thought, the things she knows. Jesus, the poor old broad!

  Bobby tried to make small talk with Senora Medina, but the woman just flashed her tiny, terrified smile and looked down again at her food.

  When the silent dinner was over, Medina snapped his fingers and a servant appeared with a leather briefcase. Medina handed it to Bobby. “My grocery list, Senor Esquared. Do you think you can fill it?”

  “No problem,” said Bobby.

  “It is a very extensive list, Senor Esquared.”

  “I can fill it.”

  “I have heard of only one man in your city who can supply such items. Difficult to contact.”

  “I have my sources.”

  “Yes, that’s what I am told.” The man was silent for a moment.

  Then he said, “You know, of course, this man, this man with the guns, is not sympathetic to my cause.”

  “No?”

  “I have heard this.” He smiled. “I, too, have my sources. They tell me it is necessary you exercise, how do you say, discretion as to your buyer with this man.”

  “It is understood, Senor Medina.”

  “Good. Then how long will it take you?”

  “Maybe a few weeks.”

  “A few weeks is no problem. More than that ...” Medina shrugged. “So let us agree, two weeks it is.”

  Bobby reached his hand toward Medina. The little man took his fingertips. His fingers were cold.

  “Agreed,” Bobby said.

  “A telephone number and a name are on the list. My associate Raoul. You will contact only him from now on. He will explain the details of the transfer of the groceries.”

  Bobby nodded.

  “The dollars, of course, are there too.”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you like to count them?”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “Good.”


  Later, as they drove back to Fort Lauderdale, Bobby told Sheila what had happened in the campesino hut, and, for the first time, he told her about Sol’s warnings.

  Sheila shuddered. “What a scary little man!”

  Two weeks later, during spring break, a college student — a wrestler from the University of Pennsylvania — was strolling on Fort Lauderdale beach, taking in all the girls glistening in the sun a few yards from the Mark Hotel’s Chickee Bar. His eye fell on a gorgeous one lying close to the water, on her stomach. A small red-and-white dog lay on the blanket beside her, sunning itself too. She had a perfect tan, a beautiful ass and short blonde hair like a crew cut. He paused a moment, looked down at his own winter-white body, then made up his mind.

  “Excuse me,” he said. The dog sat up, alert. “Excuse me!” he said more loudly. She rolled over onto her back, shading her eyes with the flat of her hand. He felt foolish. This woman was in her late thirties. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just wondering what kind of dog you have.” He smiled.

  She looked at him with cold blue eyes and rolled back onto her stomach. The boy hesitated uncertainly, and then retreated.

  It had been funny at first, Sheila thought. College boys hitting on her. Now it was a pain. She shaded her eyes again and looked up at the Chickee Bar, where Bobby was conducting business with a character called Machine Gun Bob. They sat at a table close to the sand. Bobby was in his bikini, all tan and muscles, and Machine Gun was in his camouflage cutoffs and SS thunderbolt necklace, with swastika tattoos on his reddish-burnt skin. Fucking poster boy for Hitler youth, Sheila thought. She did not like Machine Gun.

  She saw Bobby stand up and shake Machine Gun’s hand. He came toward her now, his big body shaded by the sun at his back. Hoshi scrambled up to greet him and Bobby bent to ruffle the fur at the base of his neck. Sheila looked into Bobby’s shadowed face, her eyebrows raised.

  “It’s all settled, baby,” he said. “Tomorrow at midnight.”

  “I can’t stand that guy,” she said. ‘Just look at him.”

  Bobby laughed. “Yeah, they’re all into that shit, those gun freaks. You should see his van. Nazi helmets, uniforms, medals.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s spooky.”

  “Don’t worry, baby. Machine Gun’s OK. Just your average stoned Nazi surfer dude who deals in guns.”

  “He’s a pig ”

  Bobby was losing patience. “Listen, baby. I need him. Nobody gets to the man with the guns without Machine Gun. And Machine Gun is coming through for us. For $25,000, what’s not to like?”

  The next evening as they drove west on State Road 84, Hoshi sat on the briefcase beside Bobby. Sheila sat by the passenger window, staring out at the gas stations, the ramshackle barbecue joints, the seedy country-and-western bars, their parking lots filled with trucks owned by rednecks who fancied themselves to be cowboys.

  “Keep your eyes peeled for the diner, baby,” Bobby said. “It looks like one of those old-fashioned Airstream trailers. That’s where Medina’s man will be with the van.” He had already told her the plan. They would park at the diner, drive the van out to the ranch where the guns were, load them, return the van to Medina’s man at the diner and drive back home with their cut. Twenty-five thousand.

  Sheila absentmindedly began stroking the fur behind Hoshi’s left ear. “Bobby,” she said. “I still don’t know why we had to bring Hosh. It could be dangerous.”

  “Hoshi’s the burglar alarm.” He glanced at her. “He’s gotta earn his keep, too. Ain’t that right, Hosh?” The dog looked at him and then out the front window. No dog’s as smart as a Shibu Inu, Bobby thought.

  Sheila reached into her leather satchel, felt the cool, chrome-plated Seecamp, found her cigarettes. She lit one and inhaled.

  “Here, baby. Take the wheel.”

  She held the steering wheel while Bobby reached behind his back. He withdrew a black CZ-75, racked the slide to put a round in the chamber and stuck the gun in his belt.

  “I thought you trusted that Nazi surfer,” Sheila said.

  He glanced at her. “The only person I trust, baby, is you.”

  They drove awhile in the darkness, then Bobby said, “The gun guy’s some kind of Aryan Nation guy, you know, those racists. Lives out in the woods with his pit bull and enough guns to start his own revolution. The Reverend Tom of the Aryan Mountain Kirk, whatever the fuck that means. Has all these skinheads and Nazis out to his ranch for midnight cross burnings, then a nice church supper prepared by the ladies.” Bobby laughed. “The reverend hates niggers but hates spies even more.”

  “There it is.” Sheila pointed ahead to a shiny aluminum diner set back off the road. Bobby turned into the deserted parking lot and reminded himself that the lot would probably be full of trucks when they returned with the guns. He drove around the brightly lit diner to the dark back parking lot and pulled in next to a white van.

  “You wait here,” he said, and got out.

  Hoshi leaped up and followed Bobby with his eyes. “Good boy, Hosh,” Sheila said, stroking his neck. A man got out of the van. She couldn’t make out his face in the darkened lot, but he seemed tiny next to Bobby’s bulk. He handed Bobby something and walked around to the front of the diner. Bobby waved for Sheila.

  Sheila took the briefcase and her bag and got out. Hoshi jumped out after her. When she slid into the van’s passenger seat, Hoshi stood outside. He began to bark and back up nervously.

  “Come on, Hosh,” Sheila said. But the dog kept barking and backing up, then lunging at Sheila. He took her jeans cuff in his teeth.

  “What the hell’s the matter with him?” Bobby snapped. “Get him into the fucking van.”

  Sheila grabbed Hoshi’s collar and pulled him onto her lap. He squirmed. “What’s the matter, baby?” she said.

  “Hoshi, cut it out for Christ’s sake!” Bobby snapped again. The dog stopped squirming but began to whimper, staring at Bobby. Bobby ignored him and held up the keys the man had given him. “One’s to arm the engine burglar alarm,” Bobby said. “The other’s to arm the rear doors so they can’t be opened.” Bobby found the remote transmitter with a strip of white tape on it. He pressed the button and all the doors locked with a click, the front lights blinked and the alarm armed itself with a chirp. Bobby started the engine.

  “What about the rear doors?” Sheila asked.

  Bobby showed her the remote with the red tape on it. “Red for the rear. The back-door remote operates only with a full load in back. The little spic was very specific. Muy importante we arm the rear doors the minute the van is loaded with the guns. No sooner, no later. Fucking paranoid Medina.” Bobby backed the van out of the space and drove around the diner. Through the diner’s windows, he saw the little man seated alone at the counter, sipping coffee. “We come back with the guns,” Bobby said, “we just hand the little spic the keys and we’re home free.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they were bouncing over a rutted dirt road so narrow that scrub bushes and small pines brushed against their windows. Off to the left, tiny green lights flickered and disappeared.

  “Deer,” Bobby said.

  Soon they arrived at a clearing, then a small rise, more like a bump in the road, and then a hand-painted sign that said aryan mountain kirk, pastor tom miller. A small, dilapidated, wood-frame cracker house was up ahead and beside it sat a Quonset hut-like barn of corrugated aluminum painted in green and brown camouflage patches.

  Bobby parked the van a few yards from the front door and waited. A light came on over the door, and a huge, older man filled the doorway. He must have been 6'6", 300 pounds. ‘Jesus H.

  Christ,” Bobby said. The man was mythic-looking, with a John Brown spade beard and combat boots and bib overalls that strained against his belly and chest.

  “Wait here,” Bobby said. “I don’t come out in ten minutes, you start the engine and drive the fuck out of here.”

  She showed him her Seecamp. “You don’t come out, I’m going in after you.”

&
nbsp; “Christ, Sheila. That little thing will only piss him off. A couple of shots from that would be like mosquito bites.”

  Sheila shrugged. “Whatever, Bobby. Sure.”

  Bobby got out of the van and the huge man approached, followed by a muscular white pit bull, about Hoshi’s size. Hoshi flattened his ears and began to growl low in his throat.

  A few words were exchanged, the men shook hands and then the huge man seemed to embrace Bobby. He picked the pistol out of Bobby’s belt with thumb and forefinger, as if it were something rancid, and tossed it into the bushes. Then he put one of his massive arms around Bobby’s shoulders and walked him toward the Quonset hut. It was the first time Bobby had ever looked small to Sheila.

  The fur on Hoshi’s back bristled, and he growled again. Sheila scratched his ears, but he paid no attention. “Everything’s going to be all right, Hosh,” she said as the two men and the pit bull disappeared into the hut.

  Inside the hut, the Reverend Miller introduced his dog. “I call him Dog-Dog,” he said, and reached down to pat his head. “He’s a loyal guy. An Aryan, too.” He winked at Bobby and smiled. “White race got to stick together, Bobby.” He laughed. “You can go ahead and pet him. He won’t bite. Not unless I tell him to.”

  Bobby stroked the pit bull’s back, which was covered with scars. His ears were clipped for fighting and his eyes were mean and yellow.

  “Bobby Squared, huh?” the reverend said. “What kind of a name is that?”

  Bobby thought for a moment, decided to chance it, looked up into the huge man’s eyes and said, “It used to be Robert Redfeather, when I was on the reservation.”

  “It did, huh? You should have kept it. Indians are a noble race. They should never have let us in. Ruined the whole damn neighborhood.” He threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Come on. Let’s see what I got for you.”

  The Quonset hut was hot and smelled of mildew and hay and horseshit and, strangely, gun oil. A card table was stacked high with pamphlets and books: Letters from the Mountain Kirk. The Turner Diaries. The Brotherhood. The Order. The reverend palmed a copy of The Holy Book of Adolf Hitler. “What a great man, eh, Bobby?”