The Hemingway Thief
Read The Hemingway Thief Online
Authors: Shaun Harris
Published 2016 by Seventh Street Books®, an imprint of Prometheus Books
The Hemingway Thief
. Copyright © 2016 by Shaun Harris. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopyÂing, reÂcordÂing, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, exÂcept in the case of brief quotations emÂbodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Prometheus Books recognizes all registered trademarks, trademarks, and service marks mentioned in the text.
Cover photo © rackishnewzealand/Dreamstime
Cover design by Jacqueline Nasso Cooke
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Harris, Shaun, 1980-
Title: The Hemingway thief / by Shaun Harris.
Description: Amherst, NY : Seventh Street Books, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016007219 (print) | LCCN 2016018414 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781633881754 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781633881761 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Hemingway, Ernest, 1899-1961âManuscriptsâFiction. |
Lost articlesâFiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction | Suspense fiction
Classification: LCC PS3608.A783283 H46 2016 (print) |
LCC PS3608.A783283 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6âdc23
LC record available at
https://lccn.loc.gov/2016007219
Printed in the United States of America
For Anne
CONTENTS
Part 3 A Clean, Well-Lighted Place
Part 1
In Another Country
Chapter One
I sat in the cantina at the Hotel Baja, putting away rum with lime and scratching out the crossword in a three-week-old Tijuana newspaper. The crossword was pure hubris. I barely spoke enough Spanish to order coffee. I was just about to pack it in when Grady Doyle arrived for his evening tequila.
“Been looking all over for you,” he said, hanging like an ape from the doorframe with the setting sun surrounding him in a bloody corona. “You still thinking about offing yourself?”
“Authors sell better after they're dead,” I replied without looking up.
“You're not really gonna do it though, right?” he said.
“Depends on how this crossword goes.”
Grady sauntered behind the bar and leaned over to look at the paper spread out on the bar top's chipped lacquer.
“I got bad news for you,” Grady said feigning commiseration. “None of your answers are written in what I would strictly call the Spanish language.”
“Then what the hell is it?” I said.
“Looks like Esperanto. Maybe Apache Indian? Definitely not Spanish.”
“Suicide it is,” I said, and threw my pen across the room.
“You Catholic? Cause Catholics don't let suicides into heaven you know,” Grady said with a frown.
“Technically it's murder. When you ice your nom de plume, it's murder. The Pope got a problem with murder?”
“Not if you're sorry you did it.”
“Ah, there's the rub,” I said. “I'll never be sorry.” I've written thirty-two romance novels starring Alasdair MacMerkin, the Scottish vampire detective. All of them were under the pseudonym Toulouse Velour, and I was hoping to publish my thirty-third novelâone bereft of Scots, vampires, and genital euphemismsâunder my own name, Henry Cooper. The second part of my plan was to issue a press release detailing poor Toulouse's gruesome death. My agent was not a great supporter of either part.
I snapped my fingers and pointed at the cooler next to Grady's feet. He kicked off the cheap lid and sent it careening into the corner, where it scared a gecko that had been offering silent support for my cruciverbal efforts. The gecko flicked its tongue at him and scurried away to the safety of a crack in the wall.
“See what you did,” I said. “That gecko was my only friend.”
Grady fished out my personal bottle of Sailor Jerry and kicked the cooler over, dumping the slushy contents out to mingle with the dust. He scratched his nose and considered the mess he'd made.
“Don't it bother you the booze here sucks so bad you have to bring your own?” Grady asked.
It did bother me, but it wasn't something I felt compelled to change. I was only down here on advice from my agent. I was supposed to clear my head and make a decision on my literary future, maybe even find some inspiration for a new book. It was only supposed to have been for a few days, maybe a week. That was a month ago.
“Yeah, but what are you gonna do?” I said.
“Buy the place,” Grady said. He slapped the bar and hopped on the balls of his feet. “Which I did this morning. The hotel too.” He was proud of this, though I couldn't fathom why. I thought the joint was a shit hole. I turned around on my stool to reexamine the place. Maybe I had missed something.
The cantina hung off the Hotel Baja like a broken ornament on a burnt-out Christmas tree. About the size of a barn and furnished in the same fashion, it was empty save for a young American trying not to pass out in the corner. The hotel was located in the center of Pendira, Mexico, a town with a population of sixty people and ninety-two stray dogs. The closest city was Ensenada, and that was two hours of mountain-hugging, crumbling road away. Low patronage was common.
The decor consisted of a poster-sized Tecate ad tacked to the wooden paneling behind the bar. A half dozen splintered wood tables and a set of plastic lawn chairs scrounged from someone's porch filled out the floor space. There wasn't a roof, but Butch Wilson, the hotel's erstwhile proprietor, had hung a corrugated-metal billboard precariously above the bar as a jerry-rigged awning. There was a fair amount of garbage on the floor, carried in by the wind or left behind by the intermittent patrons.
I hadn't missed anything. The place was a shit hole.
“You bought the hotel?” I said. “You got that kind of money?” I hadn't pegged Grady for a guy with cash to spare. I hadn't pegged him as anything, really. All I knew about him was he was an ex-pat American, had been some sort of cop in his former life, and liked tequila at sunset. This had been enough to sustain a solid friendship over the past four weeks.
“Oh, I got it for a song,” Grady said. “Butch's been trying to get out of here since the cartel wars started heating up in Tijuana. I lowballed him and he took it.”
“You're not concerned about what's going on up north?” I asked. Though I couldn't read the article, the front page of the paper had a grisly photo of the latest carnage between the rival cartels near the border.
“That shit'll blow over. And when it does I'm gonna fix this place up nice. Get some of those pothead surfers down here from San Diego. You want some limes?” He bounded out from behind the bar and to the door, where a lime tree stood just outside. It was a homely, gnarled-looking beast, and it pushed against the edge of the doorframe like a medieval siege tower threatening to breach the entire west wall. Still, it had good limes and Grady studied it closely to find a few of the riper ones.
He moved with a lazy athleticism, dulled by years of disuse. He was of the age that I would describe as older, but not old, which put him somewhere between forty and whatever. His white T-shirt was soiled to a nice dirt color, its V-neck stretched to the breaking point. His skin was tanned into Naugahyde from days spent lying in the sun. His pants had once been chinos but were now simply vestiges of material ending just below his knees. He wore a pair of leather sandals so old and filthy they seemed to sprout from his hirsute, hobbit-like feet. Dark explosions of hair fell out from under his Miller Lite baseball cap and mixed into his unkempt beard. Back home, this man would have gotten thrown out of a McDonald's. Here, he just bought a hotel.
A man with a deep-orange spray-on tan and an absurdly tight sleeveless T-shirt brushed past Grady as he picked the limes. A pasty counterpart in a tailored three-piece followed closely after the first man. They moved predatorily to the table where the drunk American had lost his battle with consciousness. I watched them over my shoulder between sips of rum. The tanned one reached into the impossible mess of the drunken man's hair and pulled his head up. The one in the suit leaned over to examine his face. After a moment of deep consideration, he nodded and the other one let the drunk's head fall back on the table with a hard thud, like a pumpkin falling off a porch. They pulled chairs from a nearby table. The suit brushed his chair with a handkerchief and inspected it thoroughly before sitting. The tanned one turned his around and straddled the back.
“You know them?” Grady asked. He had returned to his place behind the bar and was slicing limes with a hunting knife. Keeping all of his fingers attached to his hand didn't seem to be a concern, as all of his attention was directed at the three men in the corner.
“Butch checked the kid in this morning,” I said. I had been using the hotel's only phone, located in a booth in the miniscule lobby, to call my agent for my daily bread of praise and abuse. The kid looked to be in his late teens, dressed in jeans and one of those Army-surplus jackets I'd heard were making a comeback, and moved with a fidgety wariness. He checked in as Richard Kimble, which made me laugh out loud. I never understood why someone would be so clever with a fake name. Just open a phonebook and pick one. Guy should've just called himself Johnny McAlias for all the good a name like Richard Kimble would do him. It was pretty clear he was on the run, and Butch, smelling the pungent aroma of desperation mixed with fear on the poor bastard, had charged him an extra fifty bucks.
“Kimble?” Grady said. He finished cutting the limes and dropped a slice in my glass before refilling it. There was a swallow at the bottom of the bottle, and he took it for himself. “What the hell kind of name is that?”
“A fake one, I suppose,” I said, taking a smaller sip than usual. I wanted to prolong the hundred-foot Bataan Death March back to my room for another bottle. “He told Butch he's a writer, but something about him makes me think he's on the run from somebody.”
“A writer, huh?” Grady said. “He gonna kill himself, too?”
“I hope not. I don't want the market to get saturated,” I said. Grady slid the hunting knife under the bar and grabbed the empty bottle of rum by the neck. He dropped it down by his thigh and held it there.