American Blood (33 page)

Rojas finished his beer. “Look. No offense, can we talk by ourselves?”

Jackie shook his head. “No offense. I don’t do business unless I got guys with me. Just how I do it, sorry. Especially since this Frazer thing.”

Jackie took another long pull. Rojas waited. He said, “Name your price.”

Jackie laughed. “What if I said four, what would you do then?”

“I’d say three point one is a pretty good down payment.”

Jackie shook his head. He knitted his fingers in his hair, tugged his forehead taut. He said, “You see that? Up along my hairline.”

Rojas saw a scar running just below his widow’s peak, bone-white, suture marks right across.

Jackie said, “That’s about fifteen years old now. Dealing with some guys, a bit of product they’d sent up went missing, and they were under the misconception I had something to do with it vanishing. So they said: Tell us where it is, or we’ll cut your face off. And yeah, luckily by the time they got the call to say it’d been found, they hadn’t got too far.” He lowered his hands. “Coulda been like that movie with Travolta. You know the one? With the faces?”

“Yeah.”

Jackie put his hat back on, the brim covering one eye like when he’d walked in. Maybe conscious of the scar now he’d brought it up. He said, “Some people in life I really do not want to cross, and Leon is one of them. And I’d be stupid really: I set up a lot of business for you guys, I take a good cut, I want him as an ongoing client.”

He held a hand edgewise on the table, slid it away from him. “It’s like a long-term investment thing. I don’t want to snip a decent revenue stream. I’ve got a good setup. And look, you want my advice, you come into that sort of money, you don’t fuck about. You say sayonara and take off for, I dunno. Swaziland.”

Rojas shook his head. “He’d kill my boy. Or my mother.”

Jackie sucked a tooth. “Yeah, well. I guess you gotta look after number one though, don’t you?”

Rojas said, “I’ll give you the bag. Three point one to make it happen.”

Jackie shook his head, palms raised. “No, you’re not getting me. I’m not going to do it. I mean, shit, if we’re taking sides, I’m with him. In fact, jeez. Who’d you think it was sent those cartel guys out this morning? Up in Bernalillo.”

Rojas didn’t answer, but Jackie must have seen him pale. He waved a hand like it’d been too easy. “Troy, come on, Leon wants cartel guys to do a hit, who you think he’s going to call? I mean, god. Who else does he know with my kind of connections?”

Rojas didn’t answer.

Jackie read his mind: he reached across and took the .44 out of the bag, laid it on the table with his hand on the grips. He smiled. “Can’t be too cautious.”

“Fuck you. You’re going to rat me out?”

“Well, I kind of already have. I’d say he’ll be here soon.” He killed his drink, paired the two empties side by side. He said, “You want another beer?”

FORTY-TWO

Lucas Cohen

On the drive back to Santa Fe his phone wouldn’t stop ringing. He kept his eyes on the road, almost worse than answering, made him speculate about the nature of the call. Bad news and that sort of thing. Deputy, we’re somewhat puzzled at your actions. Deputy, we’re not wholly convinced that shooting was kosher. However it was that they put these things. When he pulled up at the courthouse on South Federal Place he stayed in the car and checked his messages.

A sheriff’s CID detective he’d already talked to, wanting more of a statement.

State police, requesting some clarification.

Marshal’s office, same again.

He called the sheriff’s guy, figuring he’d be the friendliest of the three, on account of being least in the dark.

Cohen opened his door for some air and said, “Detective. Lucas Cohen speaking.”

Traffic noise and wind crackle at the other end. Cohen pictured him out on 550, trying to comprehend it all.

“Deputy. Just wondering about your whereabouts.”

Cohen said, “Santa Fe. I was hoping to stay put if that’s all right.”

“Right. Well, our officer-involved shooting people would like a word.”

Cohen said, “I ain’t an officer, I’m a federal marshal.”

“Yeah, I conveyed that. Hang on.” Notebook pages turning, letting Cohen know this was someone else’s view on the matter. He said, “Something to do with how you were pursuing a state fugitive and therefore you were executing the duties of a sheriff’s employee, so they’d like to talk to you. Just for completeness’ sake, I’d say.”

Cohen said, “I handed in both my firearms with about twelve bullets missin’, so I would’ve reckoned it’s all pretty self-explanatory.”

“Nonetheless.”

Cohen said, “You get anything out of those cars?”

“Not so far. Guy from the Chrysler had a phone on him and some fake ATF ID. So that was something. Haven’t got into the phone yet but I’ll let you know soon as we do. Sometimes these fancy ones take some cracking, but they’ll do it. They’ve got this whiz girl at the state lab, she’s quite something. I’ve seen her do one of those Rubik’s cubes in about ten seconds flat, maybe she can do the same with a phone. Not that I’ve asked.”

Cohen said, “Kids these days.”

“Yeah. Kids these days. Anyway, well. I’ll call you, but are you gonna come back down?”

Cohen said, “I’ll give them a call.”

He clicked off and tossed the phone on the seat beside him, sat there a moment with his door open and his head tipped back on the rest, just watching the comings and goings. Everyday courthouse stuff he could have seen from his office, but he liked how one tough morning could give an old scene fresh splendor. He could have sat there all day. That was the payoff, though: you make it through, you get the warm contentedness of knowing you’re still a part of the world, and goodness it’s a fine place. He wondered how long it’d last. Might be reveling in the sunrise for weeks to come.

He picked up the phone again and called Loretta at home.

When she answered he said, “Thought you might still be at work.”

“So whyn’t you try the office?” A smile in her voice.

“Thought I might get lucky.”

She laughed. “How’s the day been?”

“Oh. Not too great. I had some trouble this morning.” He thought about how to say it, and then he realized there was only the one way. He said, “Had to shoot a man.”

“God, Lucas. What, just now?”

“Yeah. Just this morning.”

“Oh, no. He make it, or has he passed?”

“He’s passed. Actually two of them. First one moved along fairly promptly, second man’s still hanging on. Could go either way.”

“Lord. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’m all right.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I just … We had to go down to Albuquerque, pick up a coupla guys. But they didn’t want to come quietly.”

“And they shot at you?”

“Yeah. I shot back a bit straighter.”

“Sweetheart. You’ve hit some bad luck recently. Only just been the Farmington thing.”

“Yeah, I know. Haven’t been shot myself, so must be some good in it.”

“Oh, Lucas. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah. It just weighs on you when you think about it, you know?”

“Sweetheart, I know. But you shouldn’t let it. You have to be strict about what goes into your head. Keep the regrets out.”

“Yeah.”

“And I’ll keep pulling them out long as you keep putting them in.”

He laughed but didn’t answer, moral issues tugging on him the more he talked.

She said, “Is it this drug violence business or is it a new thing?”

“It’s a bit of everything I think.” He smoothed his tie, making sure it was good and central. “Shouldn’t tell you about it, give you the heebie-jeebies.”

“Why don’t you come home a bit early? Or are you still doing interviews?”

“Yeah, I still got some interviews to get through. They’ll probably want me to write a novel about it, as well.” He thumbed his star, watched the metal cloud and then clear. He said, “Funny. Much as I wish I hadn’t done it, idea of killing a man doesn’t bother me nearly as much as getting killed myself. I don’t know. Maybe that’s callous. How it’s been put to me in my own head, anyway.”

“And that’s the exact same way I’d put it to you, too. And the girls.”

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. On the courthouse lawn the flag was shifting and popping faintly in the breeze. “Yeah, I know. I just … Sometimes I worry if I got hurt I wouldn’t see you again.”

“Sweetheart. Don’t be silly.”

“I know. It’s just … Something like this happens, puts all the things you care about in real sharp perspective, so I thought I’d better call you, case I got clipped by a truck or something coming home. Ten o’clock news they’d all be like: and just today he’d survived a major shootout with cartel fellas, but now he’s been hit by a drunk driver. Something like that.”

“Now you are talking silly.”

“Yeah. Just makes you wonder about things though, you know? Like whether people have always agonized over the state of it all, or whether it’s a new thing.” He studied the mirror, like somehow with his own reflection lay a broader image of the world. He said, “Place’s actually getting worse maybe. You know what I mean?”

“It’s not getting worse for me. I get to see you every day.”

He knew he needed to wrap it up, things at risk of snagging in his throat, but he said, “When I die I want to be in bed with you. Having just had a nice long evening playing Scrabble. And drinking something good.”

“Well, we can get the Scrabble out, and I think there’s a bottle of something somewhere. But you’re not going to be dying.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “Not tonight?”

“Not tonight. Not for a very long time.”

FORTY-THREE

Marshall

“How long are you going to sit there?”

Marshall was still at the table, look in his eye like he maybe enjoyed the wait, gun the only sign he was expecting conflict. He said, “I don’t know. Until it’s over.”

“You think he’s actually going to come here?”

He was nodding slightly, not an answer to the question, just working on his own thoughts. He said, “Someone will. Rojas came to my house, no reason he won’t come to yours, too.”

“Do you want something to eat?”

The way he looked at the ceiling he seemed to consider that in some depth. Eventually he said, “No thanks.”

She said, “So what happened to everyone?”

“In New York?”

“Mmm. In New York.”

He picked up the sunglasses and angled them so they fell open and slipped them on, somehow easier to talk when he was slightly hidden. He said, “Asaro’s in federal lockup like I said. Lloyd’s doing seven years at Sullivan on a Class D felony. Menacing me with a firearm. Probably out by now.”

“And what about the sister?”

“Chloe.”

“Yeah.”

Marshall inspected the ceiling again and said, “I think she’s probably okay.”

“Probably.”

Marshall said, “Last I heard she was in ICU. Only meant to shoot her in the arm, make her drop the gun, but I got her in the chest, punctured a lung. She had to have a transfusion. All that training, and I missed anyway.”

Shore didn’t answer.

He said, “Far as misses go it’s probably not bad, better than shooting fresh air. I don’t know. She would’ve just got a misdemeanor, if anything. But I almost don’t want to check.”

“Case you shot her better than you thought.”

“Well, yeah. Or worse, depending how you look at it. Something like that anyway. I call the apartment every so often but it’s never gone through, probably disconnected. Dumb habit really, sort of thing you could find out so easily but I keep thinking if I call, one day she might pick up and say … I don’t know. Don’t worry, you only shot me a little bit. Water under the bridge.”

She didn’t answer.

Marshall said, “Stupid, but … That’s what I do.”

She said, “I sleep with a loaded gun in the bed.”

Marshall nodded. “Did that for a while, too.” He raised the Colt’s muzzle off his knee. “Actually had it under the bed so I could just hang an arm down and there it was. Used to wake up all out of breath and have to check it was still there, put my hand on it. You know that real thumping anxiety? And then it just goes.”

She nodded. “You feel like you’re in danger?”

He traced a thumb lightly around the edge of the table, one way and back, like testing a blade. He said, “Saw Asaro in court, this was just before I went into the program. His lawyer gave me a letter, opened it up, all it said was ‘Dallas Man.’ Only thing he’d written. That was the name of the cleaner he used. The Dallas Man. Don’t even know if he was from Dallas, but anyway. I just knew it was his way of saying, Sleep with one eye open. He wasn’t going to let anything rest. I don’t know. Part of me always wanted to stay where I was and face it all down and see an end to it, whatever it was. WITSEC kind of felt like running. Right now feels better though, feels a bit like atonement. Who knows, I do this long enough, it might bring me back to what I should’ve finished before I left. But we’ll see. Right now I feel like I’m waiting. I’m not running from anything.”

“You think you’ll see them again?”

He nodded. “Probably. Everything in life’s got a ripple, every so often something bumps into something else. So. We’ll see. People always telling me how it’s a small world, I’m putting it to the test. See if it’ll rise to the occasion.”

She didn’t answer.

He said, “Are you going to go back to work?”

“I hope so. I’ll always do it, maybe not officially.”

Marshall said, “I saw your files in the living room.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got old robbery cases I’m working through. Slowly compiling stuff. One day I’ll find who did it. I’ve promised myself that.”

Marshall said, “I could help you.”

She didn’t answer. After a while she went into the living room and closed the door behind her.

*   *   *

He was checking the phone for messages every thirty minutes. He had the SIM and battery routine down to a fine art now. Nothing all day. Or, nobody he wanted to speak to.

In the strip of glass beside the living room door he could see Shore hunched at the coffee table making notes. Every so often he’d catch her looking at him, interesting how she’d give it a few seconds before looking away. Safe behind the sunglasses he wasn’t bothered. Pink as they were.