Fifty Grand (33 page)

“Why were you at the garage?”

“
Señor,
I think you’re mis—”

He grabs a handful of hair, drags me out of the chair, and throws me to the deck.

“Who put you up to this? Who? Is Esteban too fucking chicken to do his own legwork? How much did he pay you? What’s his angle? What’s his fucking angle? Answer me, you little bitch.”

I try to scramble away from him but he grabs my ankle and pulls me back across the deck. He kneels down on my legs and draws his gun.

“We’re going to get some fucking answers or you are gonna fucking disappear.”

He slides the hammer back on his .38 and points it between my legs.

“Maybe I’ll just blow your cunt off. Won’t be able to whore then, will ya? Won’t be able to fuck movie stars on the side. What’s Esteban’s cut on that little racket? Eh? Still not talking?”

He pushes down on me with all his weight, crushing my thighs. He points the gun at my head.

“Nah, forget that, I don’t want to wound ya. One in the temple, a group of three beside it to triple check. That’s the ticket. Vanish you off the face of the Earth. Message to that Mex bastard: Mind your business, Esteban.”

“
Señor,
I don’t know what you’re t-talking about,” I stammer.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about?” he says, leaning forward to slap me across the face. My lip catches a ring on his hand and starts to bleed.

“Think I’m stupid? Is that what you think? Think because you fucking speak English you can beat me in a battle of fucking wits? I’ve been through the fucking war,
señorita
. I’ve been farther than you’ll ever fucking go. Farther than Esteban, farther than all of ya.”

“
Señor,
I—”

“No. No. Forget it. Don’t talk. I’ll get it from him. You’re history, little girl. Nobody knows you from Adam. You’re life ain’t worth shit. One less dumb whore for us to worry about. Close your eyes, sugar.”

He climbs off me and stands back so the blood splatter won’t get on his coat. He points the gun, squeezes the trigger.

I start to scream from somewhere deep. From New Mexico. From Havana. And deeper still. Louder than the helicopter at my uncle’s house in Santiago, louder than the prisoners in the Cominado del Este.

Scream and scream.

“Jack! Help me! Help me! Jack!”

“There’s no help coming, little sister, this is my t—”

A blur. A smash.

Jack barreling into him. Knocking him down. The gun going off and simultaneously flying out of Briggs’s hand. No bluff. He would have killed me. Jack punching Briggs twice on the head. Briggs thumping Jack on the back of the neck. Jack crumpling. Briggs getting to his feet, kicking Jack in the stomach. Briggs looking for the pistol, looking on the deck, under the chairs, behind him, and finally at my right hand.

“Ok, now, steady on. Hold on a minute. Let me explain something, let me explain just a little.”

I put my finger to my lips. “Ssshhhh.”

He shushes, puts his hands up.

Jack dry heaves and manages to get into a sitting position.

“What’s going on, María?” Jack says, choking out the words.

What to say? “I don’t know, Jack. I think Sheriff Briggs has gotten me mixed up with one of the other girls. Since coming here I have broken no laws and I have kept to my own business. I only want to work hard and stay out of trouble.”

Briggs looking at the gun. Eyes wide. Still can’t believe it. Are you scared? Are you having a premonition?

“What in the name of all that’s fucking holy is going on, Sheriff?” Jack asks, furiously. Boxer shorts, T-shirt, no shoes. His face white with anger. Jack gets to his feet and I offer him my hand. Show solidarity. Jack takes the hand.

Briggs’s brain up to Mach 5. Thinking escape routes, consequences. The movie star. The movie star’s lawyers. The wetback with the gun. He clears his throat.

“I think I’ve made a terrible mistake here, Mr. Tyrone. I got a tip that someone from the Mex motel was asking questions about the, uh, car trouble, that, uh, Mr. Youkilis, that we dealt with in May. I thought it might be a blackmail attempt or an attempt to get a scurrilous story into the tabloids. I showed pictures and María here was ID’ed.”

Jack looks at me, doubt flashing between his eyes. In one sentence the fucker’s changed the game back again.

“But I was with Jack,” I say, though of course Briggs didn’t say when it was.

“She was with you?” he asks Jack.

Jack nods. “Sheriff, María was with me. She wasn’t asking anybody questions. She wasn’t doing anything. She was with me,” Jack insists.

Briggs frowns.

And now is the moment to turn that pond of doubt into an ocean, to show him that I’m completely innocent, that he or someone else has gotten this thing entirely wrong, that the tip was garbled, the ID screwed. Something.

I smile meekly, take two steps across the deck, and offer him his gun.

The barrel glistening. Bullets in the chamber. The death end pointed toward my heart.

He looks at the weapon, looks at me, nods.

He takes the revolver and puts it back in its holster.

“I’m sorry to have caused all this trouble,
señor,
” I say in my best Mex, my best
invisible
.

Sheriff Briggs grimaces and it shows me that I’ve convinced him. For now. Somebody fucked up. He’ll find out who.

Briggs shakes his head. “It’s me that should apologize, ma’am, you’re a, uhm, a guest in our country and I thought I was acting in the best interests of the town and I see that I’ve gotten incorrect information. I’ve made an error and I’m sorry.”

Jack grins. “Well, I’m glad that’s sorted out,” he says cheerfully. “Glad and a little disappointed. That’s the most heroic thing I’ve ever done and all for some stupid mistake. That’s not going to make a good story.”

“If you do not mind, Señor Jack, I will go and put some coffee on,” I say.

“Wonderful. By all means, excellent idea. Thank you very much, María,” Jack replies.

I look at Sheriff Briggs. “Would you like some coffee, sir?” I ask him.

His face is red with embarrassment. I repeat the offer of coffee and he shakes his head. This little encounter has given me breathing room. It’ll take him a few hours to pin down the real story—maybe all day. That’s all I need. One more day.

“No, ma’am, no, thank you,” he says stiffly.

I go inside the house and once I’m out of view I run to the kitchen, press the button on the coffeemaker, and wind open the window so that I can hear their conversation.

The two men are standing close, intimately so, like brothers or lovers or confederates.

“Is Youkilis in some kind of trouble?” Jack asks.

“I don’t think so.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. Probably nothing. You know that girl Marilyn from Ohio that works for Jackson?”

“Yeah. Sure. Not bad-looking.”

“She used to work for me at the sheriff’s station. Got rid of her. She thought it was Bond and fucking Moneypenny. We’re still close, though. Good head on her shoulders.”

“What about her?”

“Calls me up last night and lets me know that someone’s been asking questions about the accident. The day the Mex got killed.”

“Shit. Is it something we should be concerned about?”

Briggs shakes his head. “I don’t know. Something might have gotten garbled down there. I’ll check it out. I’ll ask Esteban. No, to hell with
ask,
I’ll brace the fucker. I’ll find out what’s going on. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“Should I tell Paul?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ll look into this, really look into it. Let you know Monday.”

“Ok.”

Briggs shakes his head, ruefully gestures at the overturned chair. “And, and I’m sorry about all this, Jack.”

Jack, not Mr. Tyrone.

“It’s a bit much for a Sunday morning. You scared the shit out of María.”

“I’m sorry about that. Maybe made a mistake about her. Anyway, I’ll let you know what’s going on by tomorrow.”

Jack murmurs something that I can’t hear.

I press my face right against the bug screen but I still can’t catch it.

Jack and the sheriff shake hands. Briggs picks up the poker and hands it to Jack.

Jack laughs.

The sheriff laughs.

Very cordial. Very anglo. Is this how they do things here? In Cuba you don’t let a man rough up your woman. You put him in the fucking hospital. You kill him.

This . . . this seems too easy.

Briggs points back at the house. I shrink from the window. He puts his hands on his hips, spits.

“Thing is, Jackie boy, even if she’s clean, I mean, really, the maid?”

“She’s great.”

“You don’t see me running around with easy pickings and I’ve got plenty of opportunity. You gotta get your act together,” the sheriff says.

“Hey, I wanna—”

“Wait a minute, hear me out. I mean, what do you want? What do you really want out of life?”

“I want a career. A good career,” Jack says.

“You want to do good work, you want to be remembered. Right?”

“Yes. That and friends and a family.”

“You don’t think I want that? You don’t think I want to get married again,
have kids? I’m not getting any younger. But I’m trying to build something up here. A town. A community. Something that will last. Even if the Scientologists don’t come, I’ll have made something that’ll be here a hundred, a thousand years from now. This was barely a village before we got started; in a few years we’ll be in full competition with Aspen and Vail. You gotta get with the program, Jack, you have to take life more seriously. Your friend María, Esteban, people like that, they’re not thinking about the future—I doubt they’re thinking at all—don’t let them drag you down to their level. Set your goals high, Jack, make some sacrifices. It’s not about instant gratification, it’s about the long term, it’s about posterity.”

Jack nods solemnly. Briggs puts his big paw on Jack’s shoulder.

Gives me a spine shiver from neck to ass.

Briggs walks down the gravel path. Jack waves and then says, “Hey, Sheriff, you were in the Marines, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You think we could talk some time? I’m playing a British Army officer in this movie I’m doing. Maybe we could have coffee and you could give me a few hints.”

“Sure. Let’s do that. I’ll call you Monday.”

Jack waves again and comes back into the house.

When he appears in the kitchen the coffee’s ready. I pour him a cup.

“Thanks,” he says.

I wait a beat, then two, then almost half a minute before finally he remembers to say it: “God, María, I’m really sorry about Briggs.”

“I was so scared,” I tell him, giving him a big slice of the truth.

“It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok,” he says.

I sit on his lap and have coffee and a stale bagel. Not once does he offer an explanation but several times he looks at his watch.

I shower, scald myself with the water. Wither away that expensive olive oil soap.

I change into my
invisible
clothes from yesterday. No lipstick, no makeup. Wool hat over my forehead.

Jack’s on the phone when I come out of the bedroom. He hangs up with an enormous smile on his face. “Fucking hell! Sunday lunch at the man’s! Can you believe it? Can you believe it? Beckham’s gonna be there. Not to mention Kelly and Katie. Fuck, he didn’t say Travolta but if Kelly’s gonna be there, who knows, right? Me and Mister C. Jesus! Jesus! Gotta tell Paul and Danny.”

“That’s great,” I say without inflection.

“Wow, he remembered me, all right. Did I tell you we were in
Mission Impossible 3
together?”

“Yes.”

“I was little more than a glorified extra, but he must have remembered me. See, that’s how things go. It’s all contacts. And Paul’s right. Do some indies, the big pics follow. I’m not even thirty—officially—and I’m moving into the territory. Lead in
Gunmetal
and then maybe a second lead in a Cruise flick. Maybe the quirky best friend. Second banana in a Cruise movie. Fuck! That’ll pay the pension. Ever see
A Few Good Men
? The guy can act. Oh, and don’t think I’m discounting Travolta, hell no.
Pulp Fiction
,
Saturday Night Fever,
man, two of the all-time classics.”

His eyes glaze over and he stares through me. His face falls.

“Oh, honey, look, I’m sorry, forgot to say, invite’s only for one. Wait a minute, look, tell you what, do you want me to call up and ask if he’d mind or . . .” His voice trails off.

I try not to smile. Would he really do it if I asked him?

“No, no, thank you, Jack. I have a million things to do.”

Relief. Maybe Katie or Kelly has a sister.

I kiss him on the cheek and he calls Youkilis. I don’t think he even notices me when I slip out.