When Louis fired, Chip saw the gun jump in his hand and saw Bobby drop his and throw his arms in the air as he was hit and hit again and it knocked him down, Bobby caving in and blown off his feet at the same time, without any stumbling around.
Hey, shit—it brought Chip straight up on the sofa.
He heard the gunfire, faint pops coming from outside, like a cap pistol firing, but Bobby was down, lying there with real bullets in him, and Louis was walking over, looking down at him now and saying something. Louis turned then to look at the camera, held the muzzle of the gun to his mouth and seemed to blow into it. Another familiar bit, Louis mugging for the camera. Now he was dragging Bobby by his feet to the deep end of the pool. He tried to push Bobby in with his foot, but had to get down and shove with both hands before Bobby rolled over the side, gone.
Was Bobby still alive? Chip wasn’t sure, but it looked like Bobby tried to grab hold of Louis as he went in the pool.
Louis stood with his hands on his knees looking down at the scummy water. Now he came over to the patio table, laid it on its side and wheeled it by its round edge to the pool, to the spot where he’d dumped Bobby in. Louis let the table fall in the water, jumping back as it splashed up at him. He turned to look at the camera again. With a big smile—Jesus, like a kid—proud of himself and wanting to be acknowledged.
Chip said out loud, “Nice going, man,” thinking, Yeah, great; but beginning to have doubts. That took care of a serious problem—Bobby. Or did it?
Coming into the study Louis checked the TV screen, the patio still on big. “Saw me blow him away, huh? That was the famous Puerto Rican gunfighter, wanted to High Noon it and met his match.”
“You planned that?” Chip said.
“No, it just came to me. When I was talking to Mr. Walker.”
“You said something to Bobby.”
“I told him he wasn’t going to Freeport.”
“He was still alive?”
“Just hanging on. I didn’t see a reason to shoot him again. The scum on top the pool like opened up? But the water in there’s so putrid, brown like a sewer, what it smells like, too, you stir it up? But you can’t see him down there, man’s in nine feet of deep shit.”
Chip said, “Louis, what about Bobby’s money? He had quite a bit, didn’t he? What he got for Harry’s car?”
He could tell Louis hadn’t thought of that.
“Was a wad on the dresser this morning.”
“Is it still there?”
He was thinking of it now, you bet.
Louis said, “Lemme look,” and was gone.
Chip eased back in the sofa telling himself, Great, no more Bobby Deo, Chip picturing the scene again and wishing he could play it back. He felt a sense of relief, no more Bobby, a big mistake corrected before his eyes. . . . Except that the bottom of a swimming pool wasn’t the bottom of the ocean. Not seeing him didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Someone, sometime or other, would find him. They couldn’t say, oh, he must’ve fallen in; not with two bullet holes in him. Chip didn’t want to think about it, but the fact remained, Bobby was still with them.
Louis believed there had to be a couple thousand in the wad Bobby carried around and left on the dresser sometimes, like daring Louis to touch it. The money wasn’t there; it wasn’t in any of the drawers or anyplace Bobby kept the clothes he’d brought. Looking around, Louis thought of Bobby’s lizard shoes; he should’ve tried them on before pushing the man in. He still had on the black silk sport coat, a gun in each pocket—the Sig and a Browning—he took out and laid on the dresser. The Browning he’d used he’d bury somewhere in the yard; so he left it stuck in his waist when he went downstairs and said to Chip:
“It wasn’t there.”
Chip had a blank look on his face from doing weed, like he had to think hard of what to say.
“You sure?”
“I looked every place it could be. He must have it on him.”
“You’ll have to get it,” Chip said.
“I have to get it. You crazy? Dive in the pool in all that scummy shit?”
“You put him there,” Chip said.
Like that was supposed to make sense.
“You the one wants the money, you dive in. Just don’t breathe, you in there.”
“We want the money,” Chip said, “to pay Dawn. Christ . . . we have to get rid of the body anyway.”
“I did get rid of it. Go on out and look at the pool, you can’t see him. He ain’t gonna gas up and float, neither, not with that table on him. The man’s the same as gone.”
Chip said, “Louis, you know we can’t leave him there. He’ll smell.”
“It already smells; I told you that.”
The man had his mind made up, thinking how to do it, saying, “We’ll have to get a pump and drain the pool.”
Louis stared at him, not agreeing, not angry, not anything, just staring, thinking what he should do was put the man in the pool with Bobby, something heavy like the TV set he was sick of looking at tied around the man’s neck. If he didn’t owe the man nothing, what was he putting up with the man’s shit for?
The phone rang.
Chip reached for it and Louis said, “When you gonna learn? You been smoking, huh?” He walked over to the sofa and picked up the phone from the end table.
“Ganz residence.”
A girl’s voice said, “Where’s Bobby?”
“He ain’t here.”
“You know where he went?”
“Didn’t tell me.”
“Well, when’s he coming back?”
Louis said, “Girl, I’m busy. Bobby ain’t here or ain’t ever coming back. So don’t call no more. You understand what I’m saying?”
“You understand this?” the girl’s voice said. “Get fucked.”
They both hung up.
Louis said to Chip, “Some girl looking for Bobby.”
Chip said, “Who was it?”
See the patience you had to have with this stoned ofay motherfucker?
“I just told you, didn’t I?” Louis said. “Some girl wanted Bobby.”
“I meant, what was her name?”
“She didn’t tell me.”
“Anyway,” Chip said, “you know where we can get a pump?”
Louis stared at the man, still not angry or anything, but thinking, Shit, put him in the pool.
twenty-six
There was a poster with the heading HANG ‘EM HIGH that showed a famous hanging judge of a hundred years ago, Isaac Parker, against a montage of condemned prisoners on scaffolds waiting to be dropped through the trapdoors.
Raylan would look at the poster, in the lobby of the Marshals Service offices in Miami, and feel good about their tradition. Not the hanging part—they had quit handing out death penalties in federal court—but the tradition of U.S. marshals as peace officers on the western frontier. Every time he looked at Judge Parker up there in the poster Raylan thought of growing a mustache, a big one that would droop properly and look good with his hat.
Rudi Braga would be sentenced in the central courtroom of the United States District Court for the Southern District of Florida, in Miami. Raylan and a three other marshals shackled Rudi’s wrists and ankles, brought him down to the basement of the new building, shuffled him through the corridor to the old building and up in the smelly prisoners’ elevator to the central courtroom holding cell on the second floor.
An old hand at court support, Milt Dancey stepped out to the hallway for a smoke and Raylan went along to ask him a question. The second-floor hallway was outside and looked down over a railing on an open courtyard with potted palms and a fountain.
Raylan said, “Does a kidnapping conviction always draw life?”
Milt Dancey, smoking his unfiltered Camel, told Raylan that kidnapping, abduction or unlawful restraint carried a base offense sentencing level of twenty-four. “Look it up in the guidelines,” Milt said, “it’s fifty-one to sixty-three months for the first offense. If ransom is demanded it
goes up five or six levels, say to around a hundred and twenty months. And it goes up depending on how long the victim is held or if the victim is sexually exploited.”
Raylan admired Milt’s use of the word exploited, the way, Raylan was pretty sure, it would appear in the guidelines.
They removed Rudi Braga’s shackles before taking him into the courtroom and seating him next to his attorney at the defense table. Raylan and the three other marshals sat behind them, while the rows of spectator seats, like church pews, were nearly all occupied by people who could be friends or cartel associates of Rudi Braga. Watching them was a contingent of full-time court security officers in uniform, blue blazers and gray trousers.
The assistant U.S. attorney present, the one who’d prosecuted the case, was the same natty young guy in seersucker who had seemed anxious to prosecute Raylan following the Tommy Bucks shooting. Seeing him gave Raylan a momentary feeling of sympathy for Rudi, a bald little guy about Harry’s age and even resembled him, except Harry had hair. Rudi had been convicted of the unlawful importation and trafficking of a controlled substance, more than 150 but less than 500 kilograms of cocaine, and was facing, according to the presentence investigation report, 360 months to life. This was the reason, Milt Dancey said, for the crowd, nearly all Latins. The sole responsibility of Raylan’s group was Rudi. If he tried to run, demonstrate, or threaten the court, “We will assist him,” Milt said, “in regaining his composure.”
Raylan wondered if the court clerk would have a spare copy of the sentencing guidelines.
Waiting for the proceedings to start, he looked around thinking this was what a courtroom should look like: the ceiling a good twenty-five feet high, gold chandeliers, marble panels on the wall, the windows draped in red velvet, antique-looking lamps on the front corners of the judge’s bench. His Honor came in and everyone rose, sat down again and the court clerk called the case number, 95-9809, the United States of America versus Rudi Braga.
It gave Raylan another momentary feeling for Rudi, the whole country against the poor little guy. Then changed his mind about this rich little guy—Rudi’s attorney up to argue that his client shouldn’t have to forfeit his Learjet, his Rolls, his other cars, his boat and his home on Key Biscayne. Milt Dancey said, behind his hand to Raylan, “Near President Nixon’s old place.” Reverence in his voice.
The discussion went on for a while, the natty young assistant U.S. attorney wanting it all, arguing that Mr. Braga’s possessions could not be excluded for the reasons contained in the presentence investigation report, and the judge ruled in his favor.
There was more arguing, the defense attorney requesting a downward departure in the sentence, using the low end of the guidelines, 235 to 293 months at the most, because of Mr. Braga’s age. The assistant U.S. attorney argued that the defendant had been involved in criminal endeavors for over four decades and wanted an upward departure. Which Raylan understood to mean, throw the book at him. Raylan would listen to parts of the long-winded arguments, all the legal terms, while thinking about a house in Manalapan and a guy named Chip Ganz and the prospect of meeting him face-to-face, maybe tomorrow, if Dawn was right and Chip hung with the Huggers on weekends. Raylan had been thinking of that more and more, Chip trying to make money off runaways.
Finally he heard the judge say, “Pursuant to the Sentencing Reform Act of 1984, it is the judgment of the court and the sentence of the law that the defendant, Rudi Braga, is hereby committed to the custody of the Bureau of Prisons to be imprisoned for a term of three hundred and sixty months to life as to the indictment.”
Raylan heard groans behind him, words in Spanish.
The judge stared out at the audience from the bench, pounded his gavel one time only, and there were no more sounds. He said, “The defendant is remanded to the custody of the United States marshal,” and it was over. Everyone rose.
Once they had Rudi in the holding cell, Raylan went back into the courtroom to talk to the clerk.
Milt Dancey was by the railing of the outside hallway smoking a cigarette. He saw Raylan coming toward him with the United States Sentencing Commission Guidelines Manual under his arm.
“You’re on Warrants,” Milt said, “investigating a kidnapping? How come I haven’t heard anything about it?”
Raylan started telling about Harry Arno and the collector Harry was supposed to meet at a restaurant a week ago today, Raylan wanting to give Milt a short version. But he kept talking—what did you leave out?—and Milt kept smoking and by the time he’d finished another cigarette Raylan had told him the whole story.
“What do you think? Have I got probable cause?”
“To get a warrant?”
“Yeah, go in the house.”
“What’s your probable cause based on?”
“I just told you.”
“You don’t even know a crime’s been committed.”
“I’m pretty sure Harry’s in there.”
“You hear what you’re saying? A guy is snatched and kept in the kidnapper’s home? How do you come up with an idea like that?”
“I’m psychic,” Raylan said.
“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so?”
Raylan sat at a desk in the court support squad room to call Joyce at home.
“Did she show up?”
“After I sat there for almost a half hour. The reverend goes, ‘Oh, have you been waiting long?’ She looks like Marianne Faithfull with dark hair.”
“I told you she has that hippie look. How’d you get along?”
“I showed her up to Harry’s apartment and gave her the key. That was it.”
“I thought you wanted a reading.”
“The reverend was tired. She said she had to rest and meditate. If I want to come by in the morning she’ll see me.”
“She’s just gonna sit there?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never meditated.”
“Well, what do you think of her?”
“In what respect,” Joyce said, “her looks, her manner? Do I get the feeling she’s sincere, a nice girl? Or do I think she has you believing whatever she tells you?”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Raylan said.
Melinda surprised him, walking up only a few minutes after the waiter had served Raylan his beer and conch fritters, on the sidewalk outside the Santa Marta. She said, “Well, hey,” coming to him with a big smile. She wore a blue tank top and a little purse that hung from her shoulder on a chain. Raylan had the Guidelines Manual open on the table. Sitting down, Melinda looked at it and said, “What’s that?” making a face. “Like you’re doing your homework.”
“Looking up things,” Raylan said. “I was afraid you might be in Hialeah, dancing.”
“I’m going later.” She smiled again. “You were waiting for me?”
People strolling past in their trendy outfits would observe the young girl sitting with the older guy in the only suit and tie on South Beach. Raylan would raise his gaze beneath the hat brim and they’d look away. He said to Melinda, “I’ve been thinking about you. You okay?”
It seemed to surprise her. “Sure, everything’s fine. Except I haven’t seen Do-do all week.”
“Who’s Do-do?”
“Bobby. Everybody calls him Bobby Deo? I call him Bobby Do-do.”
“He mind?”
“I don’t say it to his face. I did once and he tried to slap me around. I told him, he ever touched me again I’d leave. I don’t need that.”
“I guess not,” Raylan said. He took off his hat and laid it on the table and saw Melinda smile.
“You have nice hair. I thought you might be bald—why you wore the hat. Oh—I phoned Bobby today, where he’s working? Some colored guy answered and said he’d left and wasn’t ever coming back.”
Raylan closed the Guidelines Manual.
“Maybe to get rid of you.”
“He did. He goes, ‘I’m busy,’ and hangs up on me. Very impolite.”
“Bobby was there yesterday.”<
br />
“Oh, you saw him? Good. Was he working?”
“Taking a rest.”
“He must’ve finished; that’s why he left.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, if he was working he’d still be there.” She looked up, as though Bobby might be coming along the street. “I should’ve asked what time he left. I sure haven’t seen him.”
Raylan said, “You really want to?”
Melinda gave him a look with half-closed eyes, putting it on. “You trying to move in?”
“I’m older’n Bobby,” Raylan said. “And he’s too old for you. Where’s home?”
“Perry, Georgia. You know where it is?”
“I’ve been through there.”
“Everybody who comes down Seventy-five has. You work at a motel cleaning rooms, making beds, or you get out of town. Here, I can waitress if I want and have something to do at night.”
“Bobby’s a bad guy,” Raylan said.
She seemed about to speak, maybe to defend him, and changed her mind to think about it first, looking out at the street.
“You can do better.”
She looked at Raylan now and nodded. “You’re probably right. I mean about him being a bad guy.”
Raylan said, “Can I ask you something? What is it about him you like?”
“Not much, when I think about it.”
“But you’re attracted to him?”
“Well, sure, he’s hot. Look at him, his hair. . . . You should see him dance.”
“I’ve got another question. What’re you doing tomorrow, around noon?”
“What do you mean?”
“You ever been to a Huggers Gathering?”
It got her to smile again.
“I’ve been to a couple, yeah, and I went to a Deadhead party at the Miami Arena. I mean in the parking lot, I didn’t go to the concert. I don’t like the Dead, that grandpa rock. I like Pearl Jam, Spin Doctors . . . It’s funny, I think of Huggers and Deadheads as almost the same—they’re not all, but you see everybody smoking doobs and getting dosed on acid. I’ve done that and I’ve done nitrous oxide, everybody going around talking like Donald Duck. Those Hugger girls are a trip, they look at you funny if you shave your armpits. I do mine once a week, and my nails. Yeah, they’re fun, Hugger parties, except they’re always trying to hug you and I like my space. Where’s this one?”
Riding the Rap Page 19
