Lone Star (65 page)

Giancarlo was a snake-oil salesman, and Alastair and Marley knew it. They had no choice but to trust him. They gave him half of the agreed-upon sum, and traveled with him to Poland. In Warsaw, Giancarlo had the brothers cornered, beaten, and robbed in an alley, and all remaining expense money from Lenora stolen. They searched for Giancarlo in Warsaw, but the man had disappeared. The brothers concluded that Giancarlo knew very well what was inside the blue suitcase and wanted the contents of it for himself. And who wouldn't?

Enraged, injured, and now with a personal stake in the outcome, they agreed between themselves that a fifty-thousand-dollar payment was not nearly enough to balance the grave risk to their life and limb. They decided that if and when they eventually recovered the suitcase, they would take some of the rubies for themselves. To justify this course of action, the brothers reasoned that if they were truly terrible men with no scruples, they would keep the entire suitcase for themselves, as Giancarlo was clearly planning to, and never return to Maine, or see Lenora again. While stuck in Warsaw with no cash and no leads, they fantasized about what they would do with a million dollars' worth of rubies.

The brothers had no choice but to call Lenora to ask for another infusion of cash. While they waited for the wire to come through, they tried to figure out from where in Europe Giancarlo could possibly conduct his nefarious business. While googling for some possibilities at an Internet café, Alastair keyed in the initials of the fake Maine junk company, BCN, into the search engine, and the very first item that came up was Barcelona International Airport. BCN.

It was nothing more than a hunch, but the brothers had no other leads. They decided to follow it. Giancarlo looked as if he could be from Spain. They headed south.

In the underbelly of Barcelona, Alastair and Marley encountered a network of jewelry thieves far more elaborate than in Riga or Warsaw. They could not ferret out Giancarlo. He was too well protected on his own turf. Our two heroes were beaten up, plied with drugs, thrown off trains. They refused to give up. They contrived a plan to lure away Giancarlo's bodyguards with a clever deployment of irresistible strippers, and then to impersonate them (bodyguards not strippers). Once Giancarlo was in their clutches, they would persuade him by all interrogatory means in their power to return the stolen suitcase. The mission had become very personal for the brothers.

They succeeded in this thrilling and elaborate sleight of hand. The bodyguards were seduced, tied up, and muzzled, and Alastair and Marley, in masquerades, accosted Giancarlo, who himself was a masquerade. They dragged him into an alley, tackled him, and beat him, demanding he surrender what was never his.

A bloodied but unbowed Giancarlo gleefully informed Alastair and Marley that yes, he and his partner Rubio traveled all over the United States, posing as junk dealers and preying on the gullible daughters of recently deceased mothers. They removed jewelry from their homes, and then brought it to Europe to sell over their vast underground network. Giancarlo admitted he cleaned out Lenora's mother's house, and he had taken the blue suitcase because he assumed from its prominent position in the bedroom that it contained valuable items. But neither the suitcase nor its contents were here with him in Barcelona. The suitcase never made it to Europe.

“I already told you this in Riga,” Giancarlo said, “and you didn't believe me. You should've listened to me, you morons. The suitcase contained nothing valuable. Only old papers. Think of all the trouble you could've saved yourselves and me, if you
had only returned to the States immediately, when you learned weeks ago you were chasing nothing but a phantom.”

Alastair and Marley hadn't believed him then, and they believed him even less now. They resumed beating him until Giancarlo pleaded for his life. Swearing on every church, cross, saint, Buddhist temple, he vowed what he was telling them was true. He was so disgusted with the worthless Samsonite that he never even took it to Europe. He left it where he opened it, in the woods right behind the rented shack.

Alastair and Marley refused to believe him. They had walked around the small cottage in Denmark and nothing blue caught their eye in the forest. They knew that if there were no rubies, they would get no money. Enraged at Giancarlo's repeated assertions to the impossibility of their demand, they continued to physically insist Giancarlo produce what he didn't have. During this night of endless assault and interrogation, they dragged him to a remote Barcelona beach on the Mediterranean coast. Their desperate ploy of waterboarding to get him to disclose the location of the suitcase went on one minute too long. Giancarlo drowned and died in the shallow waters.

Now they were truly out of options. They disposed of Giancarlo's body in the sea, and returned home to Maine, defeated and penniless. Before they went to see Lenora to tell her of their failure, they decided to drive to the Denmark shack one last time to confirm for themselves that Giancarlo had been lying.

They spotted the electric-blue suitcase almost right away. They didn't know how they had missed it the first time. It was almost in plain sight, in the woods, a few yards away from the house. It lay on its side in a ditch, partly covered with old leaves and moss. The thieves hadn't even bothered locking it after they ransacked it; the locks were still flapping open.

What a horror. Giancarlo had been telling the truth! To the brim, the small case was filled with nothing but papers. Junk.
There was no million dollars' worth of jewels, no rubies. After latching it and cleaning it off, Alastair and Marley took it to Lenora's house, ready to confess everything.

Through the curtain of her living room, Lenora saw them walking to her front door, carrying the blue case. She dashed out, grabbed it out of their hands, asked tremulously if it was full when they found it, and when they said yes, she started to weep. She ran back inside the house, carrying the case like a baby in her arms. Bewildered, they followed her inside. They found her sitting on the floor of the living room, face streaked with tears, suitcase open at her legs, papers spilling out. She was on the phone with her sisters. “They found it,” she cried. “By God, they found it!”

Alastair and Marley stood baffled. One thing had to be true: either Lenora or they had gone insane. She wiped her face, got up off the floor, went to her desk, and wrote them a check. She handed it to Alastair. The check was for a hundred thousand dollars—double what she had agreed to pay them.

“If I told you the suitcase had in it nothing but letters,” Lenora said, “would you have risked your life and searched all over Europe to find it and bring it back for me and my sisters? I know human beings, and I knew that if you believed the case had a million dollars' worth of jewelry, you would bluster and chafe at being grossly underpaid. Which would make you turn Eastern Europe upside down to find it. And I was right.”

The brothers were aghast. They did a lot more than turn Europe upside down. They killed a man. Granted, he deserved to be dead, but still. They didn't want his death to be on their hands.

“What's really in that thing?” Alastair asked.

“Love,” Lenora replied. “Nothing but love.”

She took out an envelope from the desk. The envelope contained a letter from her mother. Alastair and Marley read it.

“My dear daughters,” the letter began. “Of all the things in
my house, I beg you, implore you, command you, preserve the contents of the blue suitcase with your entire hearts, with your entire souls. Everything else is vanity. In the suitcase is each and every one of the letters your father wrote to me over our seventy-four years of married life. I leave you these letters to let you see with your own eyes how he loved me once. I leave you love instead of rubies.”

San Diego University Senior Schedule

F
ALL
S
EMESTER:

Fitness Triathlon

Kant's Deontological Ethics

Special Topics in Music Theory

Armed Conflict in American History

Philosophy of Law

Internship Law Society

S
PRING
S
EMESTER:

Judo Multilevel

Belief and Unbelief

Plants and Landscapes

Post-tonal Music

Drugs in U.S. Society

Philosophy of Love

Philosophy of God

Dani Falco

Dear Chloe,

I'm glad you liked my story. Thanks for letting me know—again. As I said before, it means a lot that you liked it.

To answer your other question, I haven't been in touch because I've been super busy. Besides working, I spent most of February and March in court, trying to clear my name from accusations of thievery and greed. We settled a few weeks ago. Best thing really. I was done with the MF lot of them. I get to keep Lupe's Jackson house and the bed-and-breakfast for Hannah and Orville. I'm also elbow deep in the Spring Fair prep. We're expecting fifty thousand people this year. Mother has quit her school job to administrate. Dad and I are building a stage. Nick Santino and The Maine are performing.

I must run, I'm supposed to be babysitting my nephew, not emailing. Best of luck with deciding on law school. I'm sure SDU will be perfect if you stay on. You'll make a pretty good lawyer and a fine florist wherever you go.

P.S. I know you're sorry and confused and whatever, but you gotta work out your shit, Chloe, all the shit. Or not. I'm good either way. I've got nothing more to add on the subject. Stop asking.

Blake

Dear Chloe,

I hear you, sister, you sound swamped. You're almost at the end though, a college grad. So exciting. As for your question, we've seen a bit of Blake, not much, because he's been wrapped up in that lawsuit. They settled out of court, but Joey says Blake should've never done it because he definitely would've won. From Joey I heard he's been keeping time with Dani Falco from seventh-period Trig, remember her? She was the one with the braids and the thick glasses. Apparently, she let her hair out and got contacts, so.

They didn't break up in April. Dani told her brother who told his best friend who told Joey that it was getting serious between them. FWIW, don't be surprised if there's an announcement soon, said Dani's brother's best friend to Joey.

Write, if you have time, but otherwise, I'll see you in a month. I think Joey might propose soon too! Fingers crossed. Can't believe you're driving back by yourself. That's mofo scary! You're a ninja.

Love,

Taylor

Lone Star at the Flying Monkey

Blake's casual but costly mention of Carefree, Arizona, leads Chloe to an oblique Tumblr post deep in the search pages, with a sad face next to the title,
Lone Star at the Flying Monkey.

Come back, Lone Star,
the post reads.
How we miss you on rowdy Saturday nights. Please come back
. No address, except
the copper state
. She researches that one. Apparently it's the other nickname for Arizona. Well, Carefree is in a copper state. And when she googles further, she finds this: a Flying Monkey joint in downtown Phoenix. About an hour from Carefree. A small lead. But a lead nonetheless.

After graduation weekend, her parents fly back home with Ray, while Chloe jams her boxes into the used red VW Beetle her parents had bought her for sophomore year Christmas and takes off one morning after sunrise for the copper state.

There are a million reasons to let him go, and only one to drive through the rain shadow dust of the parched Mojave Desert north of Yuma, all dirt and brown sand. The ink isn't dry on her degree, the ink isn't dry on her twenty days on another continent. His rendition of “The One I Love” still crowds her soul. Kierkegaard is right. Each human being has infinite reality. She can barely remember what he looks like, but she cannot forget what she felt like when she looked at him. The ragtag troubadour has not given Chloe back her only heart.

The Flying Monkey is a dive bar with a stage in the back. The burly dude with tattoos on his neck and his gut falling out of his easy-fit jeans looks as if he hasn't slept or shaved since the Lone Star days. His name is Lou.

“Johnny Rainbow? Boy, you're
really
dredging up the past,” he says. “I haven't seen him in years. He's not in town, 'cause I woulda heard about it. I didn't, so.”

“You remember Lone Star?” Chloe holds on to the edge of the counter. It's mid-afternoon, almost opening time. The clean glasses are stacked in pyramids along the bar. It's quiet. It smells of fermented hops and old smoke.

“
Him
. I remember him,” Lou corrects her. “Who could forget? What a piece of work he was. Did some wild shit. But I never in my life heard a voice like his. Before or since.”

“That's him,” says Chloe.

“He was the only thing on that stage. For years I had people coming in asking about the kid who sang Red Hot Chili Peppers' ‘Johnny Kick a Hole in the Sky.' He was something, that animal man.”

She cries, she cries
. “Do you remember his name?”

Lou frowns. “Are you being funny with me or something? You know his name. Johnny Rainbow.”

“I mean his real name.”

“Nah, have no idea.” He busies himself with wiping the counter.

“What happened to his band?”

Lou shrugs with hostile indifference. “What always happens? The lead singer and the guitarist chick start banging other people and their dreams of stardom vanish with the latest bonk.”

Chloe wants to know if that is what happened.

“It was a long time ago, girly,” Lou says. “I got a lot of bands coming through here, I can't remember why they all stopped playing.”

Chloe listens to him, appraises him. For some reason this overflowing man sounds too clipped in his speech. Chloe
peruses the options why. “Is that what happened here?” she repeats, gleaning something.

“I don't remember.”

“You don't remember Lone Star or you don't remember what happened?”

Lou mumbles. She asks him to repeat. He mumbles. She asks him to repeat.

“Look, sweetheart, what do you want? Do I remember him? Sure I remember him. I told you. You hear him sing, you don't forget a thing like that.”

Chloe stays motionless and mute.

“But that's not enough. Are you here on his behalf or something? Is he looking for a gig again? I'm not interested. I was glad for the business he brought. But that boy was trouble. With a capital T. A larger door means nothing if the cops are shutting me down, or worse, throwing me in jail for illegal shit conducted on my premises.”

“Are you saying you let Johnny go because he was doing things in your club?”

“I'm not saying that.” He glares at her suspiciously. His bulbous nose inflates. “Who did you say you are?”

“I'm not sent by him, or by anyone. This isn't entrapment. I'm just trying to find him.”

“Get in line, girly,” Lou says. “Look, I can tell you I didn't want to fire him. He was a sweet kid. Sure, Lou. Sorry, Lou. I know the rules, I know the law. Don't worry. Won't happen again. And then the next weekend, bam. More trouble. More dudes coming to my place, dealing, using, fights, cops, just awful. And on Mondays I'd haul his ass in here and say, now look here, Johnny, and he'd be all smiles and charm, disarming me with his pipes. Sorry, Lou, won't happen again, Lou. Blah, blah. In the end, he made it impossible for me to keep him.”

“What did he do?”

“Some asshole keeled over in the john of my fine establishment. Johnny sold him the rock and the Mexican mud
for a speedball, and a hundred people saw it. That was the end. It's all fun and games until a junkie expires in a toilet stall. That black-tar bitch is satanic. Takes everything in its path. He came in once or twice after that, apologizing, but I was done. Told him to straighten himself out before he came to me again. Haven't heard from him since.”

Yeah, Chloe wants to say. Me neither. “Is he from around here?”

“Not sure.” Again, too clipped.

“But what about his name?”

Lou chews on a toothpick as he eyeballs her. “Johnny Rainbow is his name.”

“Come on.”

“I don't know nothing else.”

“So how did you pay him? Didn't you need his Social Security number, an address maybe?”

Lou laughs. “Clearly you never sang in a bar band. I pay cash from door receipts. They like it, I like it, that's how it's done.”

“So you don't know where he lives?”

“Nope.”

“Or his real name?”

“Nope.”

“Well,” says Chloe, “without one of those two things, I can't find him.”

Lou studies her. “Personally,” he says, “I think he didn't give out his real name because he didn't want to embarrass his family if he got caught. And trust me, they always get caught.”

“Who's his family?”

“How should I know? Just a hunch, I tell you.”

“Who is his family?”

“Girl, you're not listening to me.”

She
is
listening. To all the things he's saying and not saying. She fails to suppress a sigh, an eye roll, a fist clench, a pained frustrated ugly breath. “So you refuse to say or do or remember anything?” Chloe raises her voice. She sounds desperate because
she is. “I'm asking you. I'm begging you. I've been looking for him for four years. I have no one else to go to if you don't help me. I'm going to have to get in my car and drive three thousand miles back home. I came here for one afternoon, just trying—” She breaks off. Takes a deep breath. “To find him.”

Lou leans over the bar, elbows on the counter, chewing his toothpick. His eyes are blank.

“Thank you,” she says, grabbing her bag. “You've been very helpful.” She starts to walk away.

She hears his voice behind her. “Come back,” he says with a sigh. “Stop wigging out.”

Chloe quickly approaches the bar. That was wigging out?

The man scribbles down a few words on a napkin. He places the napkin on the counter but won't let go of it. “No, I can't give it to you,” he says. “You have two seconds to look at the words before I get rid of it. If something bad happens because I gave this out to a stranger, I won't have a business no more. Don't shake your head. I don't know who you are. You could be a stalker, or a killer. You could be an ex-convict with a death wish. It's happened. It gets found out I gave you this, forget about my business, I might not even keep my life. And I'm not fucking kidding you about that. So read up. Two seconds.”

Her hands reaching for it, Chloe stares at the napkin with five short words scribbled on it, her heart pummeling her chest. Before she can explain to Lou about dendrites and synapses, he snatches the napkin from her, flicks on his lighter and holds the flame to the paper over the bar sink. In fifteen seconds, the water washes the ashes down the drain. Not a trace of the address remains.

“Now I'm going to tell you a story,” Lou says. “One Saturday night, an
extremely
well-known locally prominent gentleman and his wife came to my bar to watch Johnny perform. They sat in the corner in the back like they didn't want to be noticed. I was so honored to have them, I talked about it for months. I brought them my best whiskey and of course never charged
them, would never charge them. The wife saved my niece's life. Horrible car accident, no one could stop the bleeding. But she did. Because she was holy. Anyway, right after they came, Johnny suddenly started working the stage with a six-thousand-dollar microphone and wearing twelve grand worth of alligator boots. I asked him where he got the mic because I'm in the business, I know a dope mic when I see it, and he said it was a gift from his family.”