Big Trouble (8 page)

“Take a look at this,” said Officer Kramitz, feeling very happy about this case again. He was crouched by the TV set, pointing at something inside the gaping opening where the picture tube had been. Monica went over and saw that he was pointing at a small, perfectly round hole in the back of the plastic cabinet. Looking behind the TV, she saw a matching hole in the wall. She went around to the other side of the wall, which was the dining room; there was a hole in the wall, and another hole in the wall on the opposite side of the room.

“Jesus,” she said. She went back into the family room.

“OK,” she said. “Let's go over what happened again, and this time, let's include the part about who shot the TV set.”

Arthur Herk, pouring a drink, jerked his head up.

“
Shot
it?” said Anna. “Nobody shot it.”

“It's a
squirt gun,
” said Matt.

“Listen,” said Monica. “There's a bullet hole in the wall there, and I want to know, right now, how . . . Wait a minute.”

Monica turned and went over to the window next to the sliding-glass door and stood for a moment, staring. Eliot, Matt, Anna, Jenny, and Officer Kramitz moved closer to see what she was looking at. What she was looking at was a neat, round hole in the glass.

“Oh my
God,
” said Jenny.

“Is that a
bullet
hole?” asked Eliot.

“Looks like,” said Monica.

“So,” said Matt, “like, a bullet came
through this room?
With us
here?
”

“Oh my
God,
” said Jenny, again. Anna hugged her.

At the bar, Arthur Herk went pale.

“Matt,” said Monica, “when you and your imaginary friend were outside, did you see anybody else?”

“No,” said Matt.

“Mrs. Herk,” said Monica, “does anybody live here besides you and your daughter and your husband?”

“Well,” said Anna, “there's . . . My God,
where's Nina?”

NINA could smell beer. It wasn't a bad smell; in fact, it reminded her of her father, when he came home late from work on Friday and sometimes she would sit on his lap and he would sing her songs, and on his breath was the sweet smell of the
cerveza
.

She could smell it now, but it wasn't her father; it was somebody with a different voice, a higher voice, and he was saying, “You OK? Lady? Lady? You OK?”

Nina opened her eyes, and she saw a man, but she didn't scream, because she was not afraid of this man. He had a beard and sad brown eyes, kind of like Roger the dog's, and she could see in them that he had a sad brown soul, and that he would not hurt her.

Puggy thought that Nina was beautiful. Just beautiful, like an angel in a blue nightgown, or a woman on the TV. He could not believe that a woman as beautiful as this was in his tree. He knew—he was sure—that she was the reason for the flute music, because that music was as beautiful as this woman was. He had never really loved a woman, or even really talked to one, but he believed that he loved this woman very much.

“You OK?” he said again.

“
Sí
,” said Nina. “Yes.”

Spanish,
thought Puggy. He would die for this woman.

“What happen to me?” she asked, tentatively touching her forehead, discovering a large and tender lump.

“That guy ran into you,” said Puggy.

“Señor Herk,” said Nina. “He chase me.”

Whoever Señor Herk was, Puggy hated him.

“I got the gun,” said Puggy.

“Gun?” said Nina. She pronounced it “gon.” Puggy thought it was a beautiful way to pronounce it. He wanted this woman to stay in his tree forever, pronouncing things.

“The gun the other guy had,” said Puggy. “I got it.”

“There was another?” asked Nina.

“There was two guys,” said Puggy. “They're gone, though.”

Nina looked around her. She was lying on something hard and flat, like wood, but she was outside, with branches all around.

“Where is this?” she asked.

“This is my tree,” Puggy said.

Nina sat up a little bit, and saw that she was in a tree.

“Well,” said Puggy, “it's not
my
tree. But I live here.”

“How do I come here?” asked Nina.

“I picked you up,” said Puggy, remembering how warm her body felt over his shoulder. “I hope I didn't . . . I mean, I wasn't . . .”

“No, no,” said Nina. “Is OK. You help me.
Muchas gracias.
Thank you.” She smiled at him. She had very white teeth.

Puggy had never been happier in his entire life, never, not even the time when he was little and his dad, who was still around then, took him to the volunteer firemen's carnival and let him ride the bumper cars over and over, his dad drinking beers and laughing and handing the bumper-car guy some bills and saying, “Let'm go again!” That was the best time he'd ever had, and this was better, to have this TV-beautiful angel smiling at him.

“Nina!” called a voice through the darkness, from the direction of the house.

“Ay Dios,”
said Nina.
“La señora!”

Nina,
thought Puggy.

“I must go,” said Nina.

“Nina!” called the voice.

“Nina,” said Puggy, trying it out.

Nina liked the way he said it. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Puggy.”

“Puggy,” she said. She pronounced it “Pogey.” Puggy thought he was going to float out of the tree.

“NINA!” called the voice, sounding a little frantic, and a little closer.

“I must go,” Nina said again.

“OK,” said Puggy. He was used to people having to go. He held out his hand, and Nina took it, and he pulled her up, and she could feel that he was strong. She hoped her hand did not feel too rough to him. She had working hands.

But Puggy liked the way her hand felt, and he loved the way she gripped his hand, a firm grip, as he eased her down onto a lower branch, and then, following behind, eased her to the ground. He dropped down beside her, and they stood looking at each other. They were exactly the same height.

“NINA!” called the voice, now definitely coming this way.

“I don't think they know I live in their tree,” said Puggy.

“OK,” said Nina. She would not tell.

“Nina,” said Puggy, trying to figure out a way to tell her that he loved her.

“Yes?” she said.

“I'm usually here,” he said.

“OK,” she said. She touched his arm, leaving her hand there a second. Then she turned and walked, a little unsteadily, toward the calling voice, leaving Puggy watching her, still feeling her hand on his arm.

HENRY didn't want to make the call from his cell phone. The first pay phone he found was on Grand Avenue in Coconut Grove. This was not the world's safest place for middle-aged white guys wearing Rolex watches, which Henry was.

Leonard, still woozy and seriously hurting in the head, stayed in the car, lying across the backseat. Henry got out, fed a quarter and a dime into the phone, and dialed a number from a piece of paper. Watching him, from a vacant lot across the four-lane avenue, were three young men.

The phone rang once.

“Tell me,” said a voice on the other end.

“There was another shooter,” said Henry.

There was a pause, then the voice said: “What do you mean?”

The three young men started walking across Grand Avenue, very casually, toward Henry.

“I mean there was another shooter, is what I mean,” said Henry.

“Who?” said the voice.

“I was thinking maybe you would know,” said Henry.

Halfway across the avenue, the three young men fanned out, with one moving to Henry's left, one to his right, and one coming directly toward him. They were still moving casually.

The phone voice said: “Whoever it was, it wasn't us.” Then: “Did you take care of the job?”

“No,” said Henry.

“Did the other shooter take care of it?”

“No.”

“So you're saying there's
two
shooters, and our guy just walks away?”

The three young men had stopped about eight feet from Henry, forming a triangle around him.

“Hang on a second,” Henry said. He dropped the piece of paper with the telephone number on it, then bent down as if to pick it up. Instead, he pulled the gun out of his ankle holster, straightened, and pointed the gun at the one of the three young men, who Henry figured was the leader, on the grounds that he was the nearest, plus he was wearing the biggest pants. Henry arched his eyebrows at him, letting him know, hey,
not right now,
OK?

The leader nodded approvingly at the gun, at the general coolness of Henry's move. He pivoted and walked casually back across Grand Avenue, followed by the other two young men.

“Hello?” said the voice on the phone.

“Our guy didn't
walk
away,” said Henry. “He more
crawled
away when this other shooter comes running up like he's Geronimo, and then Geronimo gets jumped by the wife, and then the cops come.” Henry decided to leave out, for now anyway, the part where he lost his rifle to the guy from the tree.

The phone was silent for a moment.

“We need to talk,” said the voice.

“You got
that
right,” said Henry.

A police detective named Harvey Baker came and asked the Herks, several different ways, if they could think of any reason why anybody would want to shoot them. Anna had no idea. Arthur speculated that it was probably some fucking kids, because these fucking kids today, they all have fucking guns. Detective Baker did not believe that Arthur was telling him everything. He pointed out that the police could not protect people if the people didn't cooperate. Arthur stated that he didn't think the police could protect their own dicks with both hands. Detective Baker found himself developing a strong emotional bond with whoever had taken the shot.

Nina was not helpful, either. Detective Baker, with Monica translating, made it clear that he was not interested in the legality of her residence in the United States, but she wanted no part of any police business. All she would say is that when she heard noise, she jumped out the window, ran across the yard, and hit the wall. She did not see anything; she did not hear anything.
Nada.

Detective Baker decided that this was probably going to be one of those cases where somebody shoots a gun and nobody ever finds out who or why, which is a fairly common type of case in Miami. To make Anna Herk feel better, he poked around the backyard a bit, aided by Roger, but he didn't find, nor did he expect to find, any clues. He told the Herks that he would continue to investigate the shooting, which everybody understood to mean that he would not continue to investigate the shooting.