Cutting Loose, page 13
“Help me how?”
“I can talk to people.”
“You can talk to Bo Diddley.”
“If you give me something solid, I’ll get you a transfer.”
“Says who?”
“My word is good. Get you away from field work.”
“Uh huh.”
“Put you closer to your folks, maybe.”
“They’re close enough right now. In Fairfield. But I ain’t seen ’em in many years. That suits both sides.”
“Yeah?”
“So, Appelbaum. Sure, we met a few years ago. He was in the life, in a low-level way. Mostly, we’d see each other in bars. Then we got to talking.”
“Have the two of you ever done anything together?”
“Yeah, we robbed a place or two. You need me to testify, that’s okay.”
“Give me some dates.”
“Eight years, mebbe. Jewelry store. Wrightsboro, was it? Belmont?”
“You tell me, Mack.”
Pruett ran his tongue along his lower lip. “Okay, Belmont. August ’75. I did the job. He drove. Got three thousand dollars. Check your records. It’s right there. Like I say, if you can pin it down, I’ll be there in court to say yes.”
“And the second one?”
“Little store in Cordele. I forget the date. A year later.”
“This is good, Mack.”
“You need him bad?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Then we’re both happy. It works two ways. Hear me?”
“I hear.”
Pruett, spreading his hands, the cigarette hanging from his mouth, said, “Are we cool?”
“Mack, I can work with this. I’ll chase it up. If it pans out, we’ll come to an arrangement.”
“Okay, Emmett. I got other dates if you need ’em.””
“It needs to be solid.”
Pruett smiled. “As solid as you need.”
“! like that certainty.”
“Where could you get me moved?”
“If this is what I’m looking for, I’ll fix you something. Relax.”
“Okay.”
Emmett stood and banged on the cell door.
Stan, walking with Emmett once more down that long corridor, said, “Hope it was worth your while.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Pruett can lay down a line of talk but bottom line is, he’s a mean son of a bitch. Some of these cons, it’s like they’re Jesus and we’ve got them on the cross. Nothing we could pin on him, but he picked a fight with a young guy in the same wing and left him blind in one eye, blood coming from his ass. Do we need someone like that on our streets?”
“I hear you, Stan.”
Driving away with that gaunt building in his rear-view mirror, Emmett knew, for certain, that Pruett had never met Appelbaum. His story was baloney and the dates did not match.
He stopped at a road-side diner at one thirty and ate pan-fried chicken, black-eyed peas, and mashed potatoes with gravy. Over coffee, he opened his grip and took out the file on Mack Pruett. Even if Pruett was not involved in the case, his file was worth one more look before Emmett finally set it aside.
His parents had cut him loose: they must have seen and understood that he was beyond redemption, and Emmett knew they had made the right choice. Pruett had mentioned that his parents lived in Fairfield, and the information was there in the file.
Harold Loomis Pruett, 7/9/1913, and Etta Lucille Pruett (née Moncrieff) 13/7/1920, 32 Bewlay Avenue, Fairfield
It would need only a slight detour to pass through Fairfield on Emmett’s journey back, so he decided he would take the back roads and have a look at the house. By three thirty he was into the low hills east of Centerville, and nearing Fairfield in Leon County, which proved to be little more than a scattering of houses in ranch country. His map showed a turning beyond a church and there, ahead, was a steeple set among cedar elms. The road had no sign, but he made the turn and after a couple of miles, saw an address on a mailbox that said 17 Bewlay Avenue. He carried on slowly, checking mailboxes, and after twenty minutes, saw a clapboard house, weathered but well-maintained, set back from the road, with a mailbox numbered 32. A black dog lay on the stoop. A touch of breeze moved a bedroom curtain.
There he stopped. A Ford F100 pickup truck was parked alongside the building. No one was in sight, but he heard sounds from within. This unremarkable house was where Mack Pruett grew up, and where his life had, for whatever reason, gone astray. Emmett stayed there, looking for a while, then got out to stretch his legs, knowing it had been pointless to come. Gravel crunched underfoot, and he turned. A man in his seventies was standing there. He must have been in the small barn on the other side of the road.
“He’p you, Ranger?”
He had been big and powerful in the past, but time had shrunk him. The face was seamed but strongly-formed. His white hair looked as though his wife cut it. He wore a plaid shirt, jeans, and ankle boots.
“Just been talking to your son, I believe.”
The guy moved a hand as though to swat a fly.
“Keep driving, Ranger.”
“Yeah.”
The guy waited.
“What?”
“You deserved better, sir.”
The eyes were as still as his son’s.
“Surely did.”
“There’s no fixing someone like that.”
“I don’t need telling.”
“Just came to see where he was raised. It’s on my way back.”
“Well now you seen.”
“Sure.”
Emmett did not move.
“What you waiting for?”
Emmett shrugged.
“Huh?”
“Yeah, I’ll be on my way.”
“Thought you’d learn something?”
“Maybe wondering why people become who they become.”
“You’ve been doing cop work for a while by the look of you, and guess what, you still don’t know. And I don’t care no more.”
“Sure.”
“He’s gone. We’ve wiped him from the record. Like he never existed.”
“These things echo down the years.”
“We have our lives to live. Damn it to hell.” He clenched a fist, then let it fall.
“Yeah, okay. Come on in.”
“Etta,” he said. “We got company.”
Why had he not driven on? There could be nothing to learn here. All he could do was rake the cinders and cause unhappiness.
“Afternoon, ma’am. My name’s Emmett Capps. I’m real sorry to break into your day.”
“That’s all right. We’s Loomis right there and I’m Etta, like he said.”
She was a few years younger and solidly formed, with gray hair pinned back.
“Lemme fix a pot of coffee. Emmett, come sit in the kitchen.”
The furniture and cupboards were handmade and the floor was bare boards. Pans hung from hooks. Emmett took a seat.
“Emmett’s been at the Ham,” said Loomis.
“That’s a sorry place. Let me get you some cookies.”
The dog came in and settled by Loomis.
“You made this kitchen, Loomis?”
“Yeah. Worked with my hands all my life.”
“Wood sure beats that melamine and MDF,” said Emmett.
“Took me a while.”
“I was cooking on a camp stove while he was fixing it,” said Etta. “I guess we live in here. But, Emmett, a country boy like you knows all about our way of life.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I guess. The old ways are the best.”
“For sure,” she said. “Emmett, I’m gonna tell you something cos I know why you’re here. Mack is dead to us and we never discuss him. That’s maybe the first time I’ve said his name in a bunch of years.”
“That’s fine, ma’am. I shouldna stopped. Reminding you of the past.”
“Anything else, I’ll talk all day.”
“These are good.”
“Eat ’em all.”
“Where’re you based, Emmett?” said Loomis.
“Masonville.”
“Uh huh. I remember hearing you need to start as a regular cop before you can apply to the Rangers.”
“That’s right. I put in my time in San Antonio, a beat cop. But I always had an eye on the Rangers.”
“Is that in the family? Being a cop?”
“No. My dad did time for check kiting.”
There was silence, then Loomis said, “Is that right?”
“I fought the world I grew up in. And, no, I’m not a country boy. But―I just wanted to be a cop. Maybe the first Capps ever to put on the uniform.”
“No one gets a free ride,” said Etta.
“No, ma’am.”
“Everyone has a story,” said Loomis. “You can never tell from the outside who a person is.”
“Are you married, Emmett?” said Etta.
“No. I’ve come close but, maybe it’s the job, maybe it’s my need to be alone . . . but, no. And I find I can tolerate my own company.”
“There’s no right way to live your life,” said Etta.
“Do you folks have kin?”
“Sure,” said Loomis. “Cousins every which way.”
“That’s the way it should be. I seen a vegetable patch walking up. Does that see you round the year?”
“Pretty much,” said Etta. “That’s my department, I guess. The soil here has a lot of clay, so, come spring, I add the right sand and compost.”
“Save money, that way.”
“I even sell some of it. Cantaloupe, cucumber, winter squash, English pea, sure . . . We got a spring on the property, so watering isn’t a problem.”
“It didn’t need much digging,” said Loomis. “Aquifer means the water’s pretty close to the surface.”
Loomis showed Emmett his workshop in the basement after coffee, then they returned to the kitchen, where Etta was slicing potatoes. Emmett heard the sound of a car engine in the distance and saw Etta and Loomis look at each other.
“That’s Marie,” said Etta. “She wasn’t due back till later.”
There was silence for a moment, then Loomis shifted in his chair and said, “Marie is like a daughter to us, I guess. She rooms here. Works in a Walmart down there in Sefton.”
There was no mention of her in the file, but perhaps that was not surprising since she was a tenant.
“I’ll fix her something,” said Etta. “Emmett, are you hungry?”
“No, ma’am, and it’s best I be on my way.”
“You sure?”
“I’m gonna thank you both for your hospitality and leave you to fix Marie her vittles.”
He waited, though, and soon enough the car stopped in the yard. He heard footsteps, and a woman in her late thirties with unstyled hair and no makeup came into the kitchen.
“Honey,” said Etta. “Everything okay?”
“Joey wanted my afternoon shift. I said sure.”
“Hon―this is Emmett Capps. He dropped in for a chat.”
Her gaze touched on the badge and the revolver. “Hi, Emmett.”
“Hi, Marie.” He stood and put his cup and plate by the sink.
“Come by anytime,” said Etta.
“Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”
Marie carried herself with an air of deference and wore a plain dress with no adornments. Her hair was brown; her shoes had sensible low heels; her eyes had an odd blankness.
“Why, I’m driving Emmett away.”
He laughed. “No, not at all. But I got to get back to work.”
He took his Stetson off a peg. “Folks, thank you.”
“I’ll walk you to the door, Emmett,” said Loomis.
Upstairs, in her bedroom, Marie dropped her tote bag on the floor and buried her face in her hands. A feeling of faintness overwhelmed her, and she leaned against a wall, her heart thudding against her ribs. There were voices outside, then the front door was closed. Trying to calm herself, she went to the window, standing to one side, and saw the Ranger walk down the path toward his car. He had the calm, unhurried manner of someone at ease with himself. Why was he here? Was it Mack? She had never met him, had no wish to, and his case was surely of no interest now, but . . . if it was not Mack, then―
The Ranger turned and looked straight up at her window. Their eyes met, and the Ranger smiled and touched his hat.
Carey Astaire, on the run for thirteen years, raised the fingers of one hand. Their eyes held for a moment, then she watched as he returned to his car and drove down the dusty road west toward Centerville.
FIVE
“One more,” said the big American, holding up a finger.
“It has a bite,” said the bartender, reaching for the pulque. Why, he wondered, was the foreigner there? It was not the sort of place tourists frequented―a small taberna in a side street, away from the expensive shops. He did not care, though, so long as the tip was adequate.
“Thanks,” said the American.
“Por nada, se̴̴ñor.”
Those who knew him called him Moose. He stood six feet four and seemed to fill any room he entered. His manner and bearing were intimidating: people would make space for him on the sidewalk. He had been in Belize City for two weeks, staying in a small, walk-up hotel run by a retired butcher and ambling around like a tourist. A stroll along St. Jude Street on the second day took him past a door that bore a brass plate with the words Clínica Almanzar; that was the only plate; Moose kept walking. He had lunch at a place overlooking the sea, and asked his waiter why the street names were all in English, and was told it had been British Honduras until fairly recently. After coffee, he went to a hotel next door and used a payphone there to make a local call, spoke a few words, and wrote in a notebook. Later, he sat in a park and watched locals playing petanca.
The next day was a Saturday. In the afternoon, he had a drink in a place on Estell Street, looked a couple of times at a small photo, then kept an eye on an apartment block opposite. A skinny man in his thirties with slicked-back hair, dressed in a shell suit, came out after half an hour, and Moose put his glass down and left. The man was fast and agile, loping along at a good pace. He made a couple of turns, and cut through a fruit market before entering quiet residential streets beyond. Moose had to walk quickly to keep up. The man seemed preoccupied, but his instincts were better than Moose expected, because he suddenly turned in a deserted alley and saw Moose hard on his heels. Moose, though, was fast when he needed to be and he grabbed the guy by the collar.
“Jesus! Get the fuck off me!”
Almost as soon as he had spoken, he quietened down. Mooses’s sheer size and the loneliness of that location made him drop his arms to his side and say, “Okay, what?”
“Ario, right?”
“Her husband sent you? That’s it?”
Moose straightened Ario’s silver-and-blue top, still keeping a hold on him. “No, relax. You wanna screw around, that’s fine.”
“Okay, okay. So, what you want?”
Ario stood about five feet eight and Moose dwarfed him. Moose pushed him against the wall with one hand and took an envelope from a pocket with the other.
“You try to run, I’ll smack you around, Ario. So be nice. You’re gonna take this envelope and look inside.”
Ario silently took the envelope and saw the contents.
“That’s what $10,000 looks like.” Moose took back the envelope. “So now, Ario, I’m gonna take my hands off of you―see? You’re free as a bird. Stay, go. Up to you.”
“Uh huh.” Ario nodded, his eyes jumping. “Yankees think money buys everything.”
“Yes we do, Ario. It’s the terrific nutrition we get growing up. It means our brains work right. But walk away if that’s what you want.”
Ario nodded again and looked both ways down the street. “So, uh―”
“Call me Jack.”
“Okay.”
“You got a question?”
“Uh . . .”
“Ario, tell you what―let’s go get a drink. You got a favorite place, quiet?”
”Sure. A block down.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
They walked down the alley together and turned onto a street laid with cobbles.
“Ario, no kidding, you got a great climate down here.”
“You’re right, Jack,” said Ario, clearing his throat. “Every day, open the curtains―sun is shining. ’Cept when it’s raining. Past the blue building there.”
They turned into a courtyard taberna, and Moose said, “What’ll it be, Ario?”
“Uh―Don Equis.”
“Take a seat.”
When Moose returned, Ario was at his ease in a wicker chair.
“What do you guys say? Salud?”
“Sure.”
They clinked glasses.
“Though English is spoken all over, cos of the British.”
“Yeah, I noticed. So, Ario, you got a nice life down here.”
“Pretty good.”
“But good can get better, am I right?”
“No situation is perfec’.”
“Right. Though, uh, the gal back there . . .”
“Yeah. The husband doesn’t know what he’s got. I mean, she make me shake all over.”
“That good?”
“Definitely. And I’m a pretty good judge.”
“The action you get?”
“Exac’ly. So, Jack, you a tourist, looks like.”
“I seen the sights. Took me about half a day.”
“Please. Is really nice here.”
“You’re right, Ario. I could settle into this siesta life real easy.”
“People live a long time here, no stress.”
“I believe it.”
“Okay, Jack, you rough me up, show me the money, we have a drink.”
“That’s right. And, I gotta say, Ario, you’re quick on the uptake.”
Ario shrugged.
“But then,” said Moose, “You’ve done time. You know which way is up.”
“I know how things work.”
“And you got a good job.”
“True.”
They looked at each other silently for a while, then Ario said, “What?”
Moose shrugged. “There’s this guy.”
“Of course.”
“I need a name.”
Ario waited.
“Guy’s on the run.”
“I can talk to people.”
“You can talk to Bo Diddley.”
“If you give me something solid, I’ll get you a transfer.”
“Says who?”
“My word is good. Get you away from field work.”
“Uh huh.”
“Put you closer to your folks, maybe.”
“They’re close enough right now. In Fairfield. But I ain’t seen ’em in many years. That suits both sides.”
“Yeah?”
“So, Appelbaum. Sure, we met a few years ago. He was in the life, in a low-level way. Mostly, we’d see each other in bars. Then we got to talking.”
“Have the two of you ever done anything together?”
“Yeah, we robbed a place or two. You need me to testify, that’s okay.”
“Give me some dates.”
“Eight years, mebbe. Jewelry store. Wrightsboro, was it? Belmont?”
“You tell me, Mack.”
Pruett ran his tongue along his lower lip. “Okay, Belmont. August ’75. I did the job. He drove. Got three thousand dollars. Check your records. It’s right there. Like I say, if you can pin it down, I’ll be there in court to say yes.”
“And the second one?”
“Little store in Cordele. I forget the date. A year later.”
“This is good, Mack.”
“You need him bad?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Then we’re both happy. It works two ways. Hear me?”
“I hear.”
Pruett, spreading his hands, the cigarette hanging from his mouth, said, “Are we cool?”
“Mack, I can work with this. I’ll chase it up. If it pans out, we’ll come to an arrangement.”
“Okay, Emmett. I got other dates if you need ’em.””
“It needs to be solid.”
Pruett smiled. “As solid as you need.”
“! like that certainty.”
“Where could you get me moved?”
“If this is what I’m looking for, I’ll fix you something. Relax.”
“Okay.”
Emmett stood and banged on the cell door.
Stan, walking with Emmett once more down that long corridor, said, “Hope it was worth your while.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Pruett can lay down a line of talk but bottom line is, he’s a mean son of a bitch. Some of these cons, it’s like they’re Jesus and we’ve got them on the cross. Nothing we could pin on him, but he picked a fight with a young guy in the same wing and left him blind in one eye, blood coming from his ass. Do we need someone like that on our streets?”
“I hear you, Stan.”
Driving away with that gaunt building in his rear-view mirror, Emmett knew, for certain, that Pruett had never met Appelbaum. His story was baloney and the dates did not match.
He stopped at a road-side diner at one thirty and ate pan-fried chicken, black-eyed peas, and mashed potatoes with gravy. Over coffee, he opened his grip and took out the file on Mack Pruett. Even if Pruett was not involved in the case, his file was worth one more look before Emmett finally set it aside.
His parents had cut him loose: they must have seen and understood that he was beyond redemption, and Emmett knew they had made the right choice. Pruett had mentioned that his parents lived in Fairfield, and the information was there in the file.
Harold Loomis Pruett, 7/9/1913, and Etta Lucille Pruett (née Moncrieff) 13/7/1920, 32 Bewlay Avenue, Fairfield
It would need only a slight detour to pass through Fairfield on Emmett’s journey back, so he decided he would take the back roads and have a look at the house. By three thirty he was into the low hills east of Centerville, and nearing Fairfield in Leon County, which proved to be little more than a scattering of houses in ranch country. His map showed a turning beyond a church and there, ahead, was a steeple set among cedar elms. The road had no sign, but he made the turn and after a couple of miles, saw an address on a mailbox that said 17 Bewlay Avenue. He carried on slowly, checking mailboxes, and after twenty minutes, saw a clapboard house, weathered but well-maintained, set back from the road, with a mailbox numbered 32. A black dog lay on the stoop. A touch of breeze moved a bedroom curtain.
There he stopped. A Ford F100 pickup truck was parked alongside the building. No one was in sight, but he heard sounds from within. This unremarkable house was where Mack Pruett grew up, and where his life had, for whatever reason, gone astray. Emmett stayed there, looking for a while, then got out to stretch his legs, knowing it had been pointless to come. Gravel crunched underfoot, and he turned. A man in his seventies was standing there. He must have been in the small barn on the other side of the road.
“He’p you, Ranger?”
He had been big and powerful in the past, but time had shrunk him. The face was seamed but strongly-formed. His white hair looked as though his wife cut it. He wore a plaid shirt, jeans, and ankle boots.
“Just been talking to your son, I believe.”
The guy moved a hand as though to swat a fly.
“Keep driving, Ranger.”
“Yeah.”
The guy waited.
“What?”
“You deserved better, sir.”
The eyes were as still as his son’s.
“Surely did.”
“There’s no fixing someone like that.”
“I don’t need telling.”
“Just came to see where he was raised. It’s on my way back.”
“Well now you seen.”
“Sure.”
Emmett did not move.
“What you waiting for?”
Emmett shrugged.
“Huh?”
“Yeah, I’ll be on my way.”
“Thought you’d learn something?”
“Maybe wondering why people become who they become.”
“You’ve been doing cop work for a while by the look of you, and guess what, you still don’t know. And I don’t care no more.”
“Sure.”
“He’s gone. We’ve wiped him from the record. Like he never existed.”
“These things echo down the years.”
“We have our lives to live. Damn it to hell.” He clenched a fist, then let it fall.
“Yeah, okay. Come on in.”
“Etta,” he said. “We got company.”
Why had he not driven on? There could be nothing to learn here. All he could do was rake the cinders and cause unhappiness.
“Afternoon, ma’am. My name’s Emmett Capps. I’m real sorry to break into your day.”
“That’s all right. We’s Loomis right there and I’m Etta, like he said.”
She was a few years younger and solidly formed, with gray hair pinned back.
“Lemme fix a pot of coffee. Emmett, come sit in the kitchen.”
The furniture and cupboards were handmade and the floor was bare boards. Pans hung from hooks. Emmett took a seat.
“Emmett’s been at the Ham,” said Loomis.
“That’s a sorry place. Let me get you some cookies.”
The dog came in and settled by Loomis.
“You made this kitchen, Loomis?”
“Yeah. Worked with my hands all my life.”
“Wood sure beats that melamine and MDF,” said Emmett.
“Took me a while.”
“I was cooking on a camp stove while he was fixing it,” said Etta. “I guess we live in here. But, Emmett, a country boy like you knows all about our way of life.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I guess. The old ways are the best.”
“For sure,” she said. “Emmett, I’m gonna tell you something cos I know why you’re here. Mack is dead to us and we never discuss him. That’s maybe the first time I’ve said his name in a bunch of years.”
“That’s fine, ma’am. I shouldna stopped. Reminding you of the past.”
“Anything else, I’ll talk all day.”
“These are good.”
“Eat ’em all.”
“Where’re you based, Emmett?” said Loomis.
“Masonville.”
“Uh huh. I remember hearing you need to start as a regular cop before you can apply to the Rangers.”
“That’s right. I put in my time in San Antonio, a beat cop. But I always had an eye on the Rangers.”
“Is that in the family? Being a cop?”
“No. My dad did time for check kiting.”
There was silence, then Loomis said, “Is that right?”
“I fought the world I grew up in. And, no, I’m not a country boy. But―I just wanted to be a cop. Maybe the first Capps ever to put on the uniform.”
“No one gets a free ride,” said Etta.
“No, ma’am.”
“Everyone has a story,” said Loomis. “You can never tell from the outside who a person is.”
“Are you married, Emmett?” said Etta.
“No. I’ve come close but, maybe it’s the job, maybe it’s my need to be alone . . . but, no. And I find I can tolerate my own company.”
“There’s no right way to live your life,” said Etta.
“Do you folks have kin?”
“Sure,” said Loomis. “Cousins every which way.”
“That’s the way it should be. I seen a vegetable patch walking up. Does that see you round the year?”
“Pretty much,” said Etta. “That’s my department, I guess. The soil here has a lot of clay, so, come spring, I add the right sand and compost.”
“Save money, that way.”
“I even sell some of it. Cantaloupe, cucumber, winter squash, English pea, sure . . . We got a spring on the property, so watering isn’t a problem.”
“It didn’t need much digging,” said Loomis. “Aquifer means the water’s pretty close to the surface.”
Loomis showed Emmett his workshop in the basement after coffee, then they returned to the kitchen, where Etta was slicing potatoes. Emmett heard the sound of a car engine in the distance and saw Etta and Loomis look at each other.
“That’s Marie,” said Etta. “She wasn’t due back till later.”
There was silence for a moment, then Loomis shifted in his chair and said, “Marie is like a daughter to us, I guess. She rooms here. Works in a Walmart down there in Sefton.”
There was no mention of her in the file, but perhaps that was not surprising since she was a tenant.
“I’ll fix her something,” said Etta. “Emmett, are you hungry?”
“No, ma’am, and it’s best I be on my way.”
“You sure?”
“I’m gonna thank you both for your hospitality and leave you to fix Marie her vittles.”
He waited, though, and soon enough the car stopped in the yard. He heard footsteps, and a woman in her late thirties with unstyled hair and no makeup came into the kitchen.
“Honey,” said Etta. “Everything okay?”
“Joey wanted my afternoon shift. I said sure.”
“Hon―this is Emmett Capps. He dropped in for a chat.”
Her gaze touched on the badge and the revolver. “Hi, Emmett.”
“Hi, Marie.” He stood and put his cup and plate by the sink.
“Come by anytime,” said Etta.
“Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”
Marie carried herself with an air of deference and wore a plain dress with no adornments. Her hair was brown; her shoes had sensible low heels; her eyes had an odd blankness.
“Why, I’m driving Emmett away.”
He laughed. “No, not at all. But I got to get back to work.”
He took his Stetson off a peg. “Folks, thank you.”
“I’ll walk you to the door, Emmett,” said Loomis.
Upstairs, in her bedroom, Marie dropped her tote bag on the floor and buried her face in her hands. A feeling of faintness overwhelmed her, and she leaned against a wall, her heart thudding against her ribs. There were voices outside, then the front door was closed. Trying to calm herself, she went to the window, standing to one side, and saw the Ranger walk down the path toward his car. He had the calm, unhurried manner of someone at ease with himself. Why was he here? Was it Mack? She had never met him, had no wish to, and his case was surely of no interest now, but . . . if it was not Mack, then―
The Ranger turned and looked straight up at her window. Their eyes met, and the Ranger smiled and touched his hat.
Carey Astaire, on the run for thirteen years, raised the fingers of one hand. Their eyes held for a moment, then she watched as he returned to his car and drove down the dusty road west toward Centerville.
FIVE
“One more,” said the big American, holding up a finger.
“It has a bite,” said the bartender, reaching for the pulque. Why, he wondered, was the foreigner there? It was not the sort of place tourists frequented―a small taberna in a side street, away from the expensive shops. He did not care, though, so long as the tip was adequate.
“Thanks,” said the American.
“Por nada, se̴̴ñor.”
Those who knew him called him Moose. He stood six feet four and seemed to fill any room he entered. His manner and bearing were intimidating: people would make space for him on the sidewalk. He had been in Belize City for two weeks, staying in a small, walk-up hotel run by a retired butcher and ambling around like a tourist. A stroll along St. Jude Street on the second day took him past a door that bore a brass plate with the words Clínica Almanzar; that was the only plate; Moose kept walking. He had lunch at a place overlooking the sea, and asked his waiter why the street names were all in English, and was told it had been British Honduras until fairly recently. After coffee, he went to a hotel next door and used a payphone there to make a local call, spoke a few words, and wrote in a notebook. Later, he sat in a park and watched locals playing petanca.
The next day was a Saturday. In the afternoon, he had a drink in a place on Estell Street, looked a couple of times at a small photo, then kept an eye on an apartment block opposite. A skinny man in his thirties with slicked-back hair, dressed in a shell suit, came out after half an hour, and Moose put his glass down and left. The man was fast and agile, loping along at a good pace. He made a couple of turns, and cut through a fruit market before entering quiet residential streets beyond. Moose had to walk quickly to keep up. The man seemed preoccupied, but his instincts were better than Moose expected, because he suddenly turned in a deserted alley and saw Moose hard on his heels. Moose, though, was fast when he needed to be and he grabbed the guy by the collar.
“Jesus! Get the fuck off me!”
Almost as soon as he had spoken, he quietened down. Mooses’s sheer size and the loneliness of that location made him drop his arms to his side and say, “Okay, what?”
“Ario, right?”
“Her husband sent you? That’s it?”
Moose straightened Ario’s silver-and-blue top, still keeping a hold on him. “No, relax. You wanna screw around, that’s fine.”
“Okay, okay. So, what you want?”
Ario stood about five feet eight and Moose dwarfed him. Moose pushed him against the wall with one hand and took an envelope from a pocket with the other.
“You try to run, I’ll smack you around, Ario. So be nice. You’re gonna take this envelope and look inside.”
Ario silently took the envelope and saw the contents.
“That’s what $10,000 looks like.” Moose took back the envelope. “So now, Ario, I’m gonna take my hands off of you―see? You’re free as a bird. Stay, go. Up to you.”
“Uh huh.” Ario nodded, his eyes jumping. “Yankees think money buys everything.”
“Yes we do, Ario. It’s the terrific nutrition we get growing up. It means our brains work right. But walk away if that’s what you want.”
Ario nodded again and looked both ways down the street. “So, uh―”
“Call me Jack.”
“Okay.”
“You got a question?”
“Uh . . .”
“Ario, tell you what―let’s go get a drink. You got a favorite place, quiet?”
”Sure. A block down.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
They walked down the alley together and turned onto a street laid with cobbles.
“Ario, no kidding, you got a great climate down here.”
“You’re right, Jack,” said Ario, clearing his throat. “Every day, open the curtains―sun is shining. ’Cept when it’s raining. Past the blue building there.”
They turned into a courtyard taberna, and Moose said, “What’ll it be, Ario?”
“Uh―Don Equis.”
“Take a seat.”
When Moose returned, Ario was at his ease in a wicker chair.
“What do you guys say? Salud?”
“Sure.”
They clinked glasses.
“Though English is spoken all over, cos of the British.”
“Yeah, I noticed. So, Ario, you got a nice life down here.”
“Pretty good.”
“But good can get better, am I right?”
“No situation is perfec’.”
“Right. Though, uh, the gal back there . . .”
“Yeah. The husband doesn’t know what he’s got. I mean, she make me shake all over.”
“That good?”
“Definitely. And I’m a pretty good judge.”
“The action you get?”
“Exac’ly. So, Jack, you a tourist, looks like.”
“I seen the sights. Took me about half a day.”
“Please. Is really nice here.”
“You’re right, Ario. I could settle into this siesta life real easy.”
“People live a long time here, no stress.”
“I believe it.”
“Okay, Jack, you rough me up, show me the money, we have a drink.”
“That’s right. And, I gotta say, Ario, you’re quick on the uptake.”
Ario shrugged.
“But then,” said Moose, “You’ve done time. You know which way is up.”
“I know how things work.”
“And you got a good job.”
“True.”
They looked at each other silently for a while, then Ario said, “What?”
Moose shrugged. “There’s this guy.”
“Of course.”
“I need a name.”
Ario waited.
“Guy’s on the run.”
