Paying Back Jack (32 page)

“Harry's most important lesson was to take life ten meters at a time.”

When Jack Malone didn't show, Harry returned to the hotel to wait for his call. After the third game of pool with Ian Mac-Donald, he'd pretty much told Jarrett the outline of his story. A
Perth businessman named Cleary, who made his money in shady real estate, gold mines, pearls, and shipping, had made a death threat. But MacDonald said he wasn't too worried. He called Jarrett around to the side of the pool table, patted his ankle with the cue stick, and then used the end to raise his pant cuff to reveal a handgun in a holster. Cleary bragged about the number of people he'd had killed before. It was part of doing business. Once in New York, the Perth businessman called in a favor with a drug-dealer connection to arrange for the murder of a banker who'd repossessed a couple of antique cars to settle a debt.

Afterwards, Cleary had gone into his office, closed the door, and showed him a clipping from a New York newspaper, an obituary, describing how the guy had been murdered. He wanted the two million that MacDonald received from cashing in shares in Cleary's company. And Cleary wanted
his
money back. It was his money, he said, with no shade of doubt. And like the banker, MacDonald could run off to some remote place, but Cleary would find him and that wasn't something that MacDonald should ever want to happen.

Jarrett was still waiting for Jack to appear when Daws and Varley, the two men sent by Cleary, walked into the pool hall. It didn't take MacDonald more than thirty seconds to figure out that Cleary had sent them. They said they wanted to talk to him, alone, in private. Jarrett looked on as MacDonald said he didn't want to talk to them in private or anywhere else.

“That's not an option,” the hood called Daws told him. His partner, the Aussie named Varley, told Jarrett to get lost, as he was getting in the way of some personal business.

Jarrett's hands gripped the pool cue as one hip leaned against the pool table. “Either of you guys see a redheaded guy coming into this place a few hours ago?”

Daws, the taller one with a military brush haircut and a Hawaiian shirt worn loose outside of his pants, said, “This is the redhead we want.”

“What he's saying, in case you aren't listening, is piss off.”

Jarrett noticed that the skin had been scrapped off the knuckles of Varley's right hand. What looked like a streak of blood had dried above one pocket as if he'd put a bloodied hand into it for something. There was a fresh bruise under Daws' right eye where someone had
landed a solid punch. Daws showed no signs of a crashing headache or double-vision, but that newly born mouse cried out for a piece of raw steak.

Just as Jarrett was ready to make his move with the cue stick, Ian raised his hand and smiled, “It's okay. We'll catch up a little later on the beach. Hope that you find your friend.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Jarrett, holding the pool cue; he'd understood what was going down and what MacDonald wanted. They'd shot a number of games, and fell into a pool-room bullshitting session. MacDonald had written down the location of his beach house and stuffed it in Jarrett's shirt pocket. He must've figured that maybe these guys would have turned up. “Bring your dad and Jack. It's a big place. I've got a boat.”

Tracer saw that Jarrett had that faraway look. “Why don't I break this time?”

“Winner breaks,” said Jarrett. “But why don't I make an exception?” He gestured at the table.

Tracer obligated with a solid break, scattering the balls with the orange thirteen ball dropping in the corner pocket. “Looks like I got stripes again. I got no luck with stripes. And when you get that faraway look, I wonder what is going on in your head.”

He waited until Tracer lined up over his next shot. “Thinking about the smell of the sea.”

Tracer pulled a face. “When I think of the sea, I smile. You weren't smiling.”

“It's not just me. Something's bothering you. Maybe you were thinking about something but keeping it to yourself,” Jarrett said.

Tracer studied the lay of the balls on the table. “I can't say one way or another. Somporn being a no-show was a sign. But then that kind of shit happens. The man's running for public office. His time isn't his own. Then I think, what about tonight in the bar? That guy who hit our car in Washington Square walks in and all hell breaks loose. Maybe it's got nothing to do with our job, or maybe it's a sign we ought to think about.”

“There's no connection I can see,” said Jarrett.

Tracer seemed rattled, missing an easy shot on the striped-red eleven in the side pocket. “Fuck, how did I miss that?” He shook his head and picked up the chalk.

Jarrett put down his cue. “Why don't we turn in? We could use a good night's sleep,” said Jarrett, “and then tomorrow we take another look at this thing that's bothering you.”

“Tomorrow we finish the job and fly back to Kabul,” said Tracer. He grinned, running a hand over the silencer fitted to the barrel of the rifle. This would muffle the shot. “That's what I like about you. You are always looking at the next ten meters ahead and ready to roll out.”

“I've been thinking about that woman who came in with the detective,” said Jarrett. “Did you see how scared she looked?”

“I saw the fear.”

He sat on the edge of the pool table, ran his fingertips down the nap of the felt. “There was something familiar about her.”

“Déjà vu,” said Tracer.

“She was that woman in Gijón.”

Tracer had remembered her, and he'd been hoping that in the dim light of the bar, Jarrett wouldn't have drawn the connection. The last time either one had seen her was through a telescope. Jarrett had hit a target smack in the head one thousand meters away, and a girl reading on the beach next to the guy had got herself splattered head to toe. He had seen her wild-eyed face through his spotter binoculars, and Jarrett had seen her frozen in the crosshairs of his scope. It was as if time had stopped. No one moved, said a thing, or breathed. Then the clock started again. The blood dripped down her chin, but they were too far away to hear the scream. The hit had been a job. He hadn't felt anything for the target. But in his mind he'd seen that girl on the beach for months afterwards. Whatever else had happened in that girl's life, he'd chopped off a huge shank of innocence. Tracer thought about what to say, scratched his head, and looked to a blues song for a little inspiration.

“What was she doing in the bar tonight?” Tracer said, rolling one ball after another on the pool table. “Man this is seriously fucked up.”

“I don't know. I don't think it means anything. She's never seen me. We were too far away. There's no way she could know,” said Jarrett.

“But she was looking at you.”

“I reminded her of someone. Mistaken identity. It happens. It happened to Jack Malone.”

Tracer paced up and down alongside of the pool table. “You're right. So what if it was her? It don't make any difference. She don't know you. She don't know me. And besides what happened in Gijón was a long time ago.”

Tracer had been right. Jarrett had been thinking about Gijón and the girl on the beach, and then thinking about the girl on the balcony. And thinking about Jack Malone. He remembered what his father had said about there being a borderline between regret and remorse. The line was different for every man. If a man failed to act, he was going to find himself with a load of regret sitting on his heart and scratching his head. What made the choice hard was when a man did something that seemed right but some emotion had colored his action. Sometimes later, when he recovered his senses, he'd look at the situation rationally and feel remorse for the pain his actions caused the other person.

“So when you're paying back Jack,” his Harry had said, “remember that no one can tell you what is heavier to carry: regret or remorse.” It wasn't anything his father ever had to tell him twice; he'd been there, he saw it unfold, he'd acted when it mattered.

JUAN CARLOS, after an hour, had warmed to Calvino, taking into account that the stranger had come out of his sister's bedroom with the easy kind of smile of satisfaction. His initial suspiciousness gave way to his characteristic openness and friendliness. Calvino sat close to Marisa on the sofa. The proximity along with the rumpled state of Calvino's trousers and black T-shirt hadn't gone unnoticed. He'd left his sports jacket and holster in Marisa's bedroom. Marisa wore a yellow short-sleeved blouse and black slacks, a different outfit from what Juan Carlos remembered her wearing when she'd left the condo earlier that evening.

“Vinny, thank you for helping my sister,” said Juan Carlos.

“I walked her home,” said Calvino.

“I remember running,” said Marisa.

Calvino shrugged, looking at Juan Carlos and then at Marisa. People often thought someone had saved their life when most of the time their life had not been at risk of ending. Inconvenience, a slap-down, a kick, or pulling of hair, but rarely did death enter into the mix. The men at Reno's bar had no intention of killing Marisa; that would have been bad business. They just wanted the kid back, and a bit of shoving, grabbing, and a hint of violence would have been enough to do the job.

Juan Carlos sat forward on the edge of his chair. Marisa's account of the evening had pumped him up with a range of emotions—anger, fear, hatred, and finally gratitude. “I'm grateful for what you've done.”

A twin quality connected them. “My sister insisted that she go out for a walk on her own. I urged her to let me join her.” His tone dropped off with a long sigh as if his failure of persuasion was to be blamed for the encounter that evening. “Do we know who attacked Marisa?”

“No idea,” said Calvino, keeping it sweet and simple.

“Traffickers,” said Marisa.

Juan Carlos leaned forward and hugged his sister. “I should have been there,” he said. Calvino liked the brother but knew that if he'd been in the bar, challenging the Thai thugs to defend the honor of his sister, the result would have been worse for everyone.

“No one was hurt,” said Marisa from the sofa. She sat with her legs crossed, her arms stretched out.

“Except for a good friend whose arm got cut up,” said Calvino. McPhail had gone to the hospital.

“I hope that he will be alright,” said Marisa, squeezing his hand.

“Let me get you a drink.” Juan Carlos moved to the liquor cabinet.

“Scotch,” said Calvino.

“The single-malt,” said Marisa, smiling at Calvino.

Juan Carlos pulled out the bottle of eighteen-year-old single-malt and filled the glass half-full. A man who had saved his sister's life deserved nothing but the best.

Earlier that evening, after Marisa had left, Juan Carlos had gone out with a friend who was passing through Bangkok, a journalist from Madrid. Arnaldo had phoned from the Dusit Thani Hotel, which was near the condo.

“Arnaldo was in such good form earlier tonight,” Juan Carlos said. He was fully relaxed, speaking as if he'd known Calvino his entire life. “He said to me, ‘Juan Carlos, there are only three important things for a man.' And I asked Arnaldo, ‘Only three?' And he nodded and said, ‘Yes, three things matter to a man—meat, soccer, and women.'”

“I told Vincent what happened that day on the beach in Gijón,” said Marisa. Juan Carlos handed Calvino the glass of scotch.

The smile had disappeared from his face as he looked at his sister. “Why don't I get you a drink, too?”

“Juan Carlos thinks I should have forgotten about that day.”

“That's not true, Marisa,” he said from the liquor cabinet halfway across the enormous living room. “Forgetting is not possible. But returning to the place with a stranger doesn't help your mental health.”

“Vinny isn't just a stranger,” she said.

He was about to switch into Catalan and ask her how someone she just met on the street—even if he had saved her life—wasn't a stranger. Catalan was their private, tribal language, the one spoken at home with their mother and father, which they could safely assume almost no one from outside the region could understand. A nice, good, and decent stranger, yes, but the man in their sitting room was still a stranger nevertheless.

“Meat, soccer, and women?” asked Calvino.

The smile returned to Juan Carlos's face. “That's the holy three for Arnaldo. But he says it's true for all men. What do you think, Vinny?”

Calvino squirmed on the sofa, his knee brushing against Marisa's leg. “I'd say the first two were optional. But I'm not Spanish. I'm Italian and Jewish.”

Juan Carlos laughed. “I like you.” He raised his glass of red wine to his sister. “I like Vinny's sense of humor.” He sat a couple of feet away—in the excluded zone—from his sister and Calvino on the sofa. He had given Marisa a fresh glass of red wine. Calvino held his glass of scotch in both hands, wondering how he was going to get his holster and jacket and gracefully leave the condo.

“The authorities reported that the man who was shot in Gijón was a big-time drug baron,” said Marisa, sipping from the wine. “The authorities thought it was a professional job. Maybe the Americans assassinated him. Or it could've been another Colombian wanting to take over his drug cartel.” She stared at Juan Carlos, who remained silent for a full minute. On paper that isn't much time, but right then the minute stretched on for an embarrassing period.

“I need to get back,” said Calvino, catching Marisa's eye. He brushed the top of her hand and she nearly spilled her wine. “Sorry, that was clumsy of me.”

“Give me your card,” said Juan Carlos. “I want to invite you to the wedding.”

Calvino's half-grin betrayed his anxiety. “Wedding?”

“Marisa, you didn't tell our friend about the wedding?”