The Hemingway Thief (14 page)

“You're looking at it like he was a character in a book,” Grady said, crushing his beer can and tossing it playfully at my head. “He was real. Flesh and blood, not words on a page. No one really thinks that way in real life.”

“Writers think that way,” I said. “Hemingway thought that way.”

“Bullshit” he said with a sniff.

“Fine, then,” I said, and laid my arm across my eyes. “How about this. A lot of historians think he had hemochromatosis. His body couldn't process iron, and it affected his brain. It's why he put a shotgun in his mouth in Idaho. Maybe he was crazy in Paris, too.”

“I can buy that,” Grady said. “Then again, just being in Idaho was probably enough to make him blow his brains out.” I felt him waiting for a reply. I didn't give him one. Instead I let the wariness of the day wash over me and I drifted away. I dreamed of a mountain made of books smoldering under pink flames, and in the shadows, I heard my father laughing.

Chapter Fourteen

We arrived in Tequilero just as the sun skulked over the Madres and illuminated the tiny town coiled up in the foothills. Grady drove our vehicular dinosaur as Digby guided him through the small city like a U-boat through enemy waters. The buildings fluctuated in shape and size from small and deflated to large and ornate and back again. We turned down a dusty street strewn with debris and infested with stray dogs, and parked in front of a two-story wooden building with batwing doors and a host of faded beer signs on the front. He cut the engine and we sat in silence, listening to the town wake up.

“Who's this guy now, Digby?” Grady said, looking through the grime of the cracked windshield.

“A guy I used to know,” Digby said. He pulled his pistol out of his gun belt and checked the cylinder. Satisfied, he slapped it home with a flick of his wrist, and slipped the gun into the waistband at the small of his back. He slid the gun belt off and tossed it on the floor between the front seats. “He's been around Tequilero forever. If Milch's uncle came through here, he would've known him or his father would have. He'd also know if Thandy hired any talent to come looking for us, too. If he's alive.” He leaned back so he could look at me. “You come in with me, Coop. Mr. Doyle and Milch can hang out here and keep a lookout just in case.”

“Why can't I come in?” Milch asked, rousing himself from his slumber. He had slept for nearly the entire ride from the ferry.

“Because Coop is a writer. That'll be our in,” Digby said.

“A writer?” Milch said. “Look, man, if you need a writer I can play a writer.”

“Not in there you can't,” Digby said. “Do you know where we are now? Tequilero is at the edge of the Monte.”

“The Monte?” Grady and I said together.

“The Wild,” Digby said. “The Monte is the Madres proper, where civilization ends. You'll find no god in the Monte, but you'll find shrines to Jesus Malverde, the patron saint of hit men, bandits,
narcotraficantes
, and other bits of human filth. These are the people you will have to deal with. People Thandy will have to deal with. These people keep their own council and they have no trust reserved for outsiders. In the Monte, blood is currency and death is the language.”

“And you speak the language?” Milch asked with a scoffing sniff. Digby tossed his cigarette out of the window.

“Fluently,” he said, and stabbed his finger at the dilapidated hovel across the street. “And so do the people in there. They know your kind. They'll smell the grift on you. You won't get more than four words out before they slice open your throat and pull your tongue out through the hole.”

Milch looked unimpressed. I did not share his skepticism.

“Maybe Grady should go,” I said. Digby slapped me on the shoulder.

“You'll be fine,” he said, and got out. He started across the street without waiting for me. Grady nodded some encouragement and I crawled out of the RV. I could hear the tendons in my legs creak as I half-jogged to catch up with Digby. I had slept intermittently while on the ferry, but when we had reached the dock, a rickety structure that tilted back and forth with each incoming wave, Grady had shaken me awake and shoved me into the front seat so I could keep him awake while he drove. I was on about two hours of sleep and no coffee, about to walk into a building filled with people who are adept at a Colombian necktie.

A filthy Rottweiler stood at attention at the door. It growled at us, a low guttural noise, but Digby passed by and pushed through the batwings without breaking stride. The Rottie's head followed him and then snapped back to me. The growl grew louder and he raised his hackles as if to pounce.

“Leave him be,
cabrón
,” Digby said. He had reappeared at the door, arms hanging lazily over the batwings. His tone was bucolic, his manner disinterested. The beast sat down on its haunches, stopped growling, and panted contentedly. I inched by it and slipped through the batwing Digby held open for me.

“I remember when that dog was just a puppy,” he said. “Try not to fall behind.”

We stood in a large open room with a bar at one end and a few sporadic tables filling out the rest of the floor. The paint on the wooden walls had faded into an indiscernible color—I don't know, maybe it was green—and the splintered floorboards were caked with so much dirt I originally thought there wasn't any floor at all. The bar was a sturdy burled walnut, and the lacquer had been filled with chips and divots, giving it a veteran appearance. Glass shelves lined the wall behind it, but there were only a few bottles, and thick layers of dust obscured the labels of each one. At the end of the bar, a staircase built from unfinished wood climbed to a balcony that circled the room. There were four doors above the bar on the second floor.

A crew of four Mexicans sat at a table in the corner. It was not yet seven o'clock and they did not look like early risers. It must have been the end of a long night or series of nights. They were going through the motions of playing cards, but if it was poker then it was a version with which I wasn't familiar. One of them sat with his head back, staring at the ceiling, and half of the cards in his hand were facing the wrong way. The other three noticed our entrance with casual interest.

The bartender sat on the bottom step of the staircase, reading a newspaper, when we approached. He was a thin man with a sparse beard and an apron that looked like a work from Pollack's late period.

“I'm looking for Virgil Scripes,” Digby said. The bartender looked up at him and gave an indifferent sniff. He shoved his hand in his apron pocket, pulled out a pack of smokes, and tapped it against the wooden step. He pulled out a cigarette with his teeth and searched his pockets for a light. I offered him my silver Zippo, the one with the shamrock on it. He took it without looking at me, lit his cigarette, and tossed it back without thanks.

“I don't know him,” the bartender said.

“Then find someone who does,” Digby said. “Make your calls.” The bartender took a drag on his cigarette and his eyes moved to the men in the corner. He sucked his teeth and stood up, moving behind the bar. He was almost to the door at the other end when Digby called out to him.

“I'll need a room, too,” Digby said, and fished out a wad of cash from his pocket. He peeled off two twenties and laid them on the bar. The bartender nodded toward me.

“He want anything?”

“Coffee, please,” I said. The bartender tilted his head as if he had trouble hearing me.

“Put on a pot of coffee for my man here,” Digby said. The bartender breathed loudly through his nose and pushed through the swinging door and out of our sight. The money was presumably safe on the bar.

“Is this a whorehouse?” I asked Digby. He laughed and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “It's a bar. There are some rooms upstairs for people to flop if they need it. Forty bucks buys a shitty mattress and the bartender's silence should the
judiciales
show up. The guy we're waiting for won't show up for at least half an hour. I'm gonna go take a nap. You stay here and have a cup of coffee.”

“By myself,” I said.

“The dog doesn't come inside,” Digby said with a smirk.

“I'm not worried about the dog,” I said, although I was. “It's the three
hombres
in the corner who haven't stopped staring at us since we came in that scare me.” Digby looked over his shoulder at the men, who had given up any pretense of playing cards. They were now actively gawking at us. The fourth man was still staring at the ceiling, and I realized he must sleep with his eyes open.

“Don't be racist,” Digby said. “Just wait down here and keep an eye out. You'll know the guy when you see him.”

“Virgil Scripes?” I asked.

“No, I'm Scripes,” Digby said, and then added, “Sometimes at least.”

“But you said you're looking for him.”

“That name hasn't been used around here for a while,” he said. “It'll attract some attention, get spread through the channels. Levi'll hear it and come by to see who's asking for me.”

“Why not just ask for Levi then?” I asked. Digby shook his head and looked longingly at the stairs leading to a bed and rest. I couldn't blame him.

“Because nothing gets said around here that doesn't hit at least three sets of ears. I don't want to advertise that I'm back in town. You'll have to trust me on how these things work,” he said. “Scripes is an alias for an alias. Only Levi would know it, and only Levi would be interested in someone asking about that name. It pays to be careful.” He patted me on the shoulder and offered a smile before starting up the creaking stairs. I called to him in a loud whisper.

“Digby,” I said. He half turned, offering only his ear. “Who are you?”

“I'm just a guy does odd jobs at a small hotel in Baja,” Digby said, weariness creeping into his voice.

The bartender had left his newspaper on the bar, and I spent the next half hour trying to decipher the front page. The man pictured was a fat, wrinkled white man in a panama hat and aloha shirt. There was a second picture involving a large white sheet covering something about the size of a body inside what looked like a medieval prison cell. I translated the words using my mental film library. For instance,
Goonies
and Corey Feldman taught me that
muerte
means “dead,” but most of the words like “
Americano
” were easy to figure out, and, along with a few others such as
Ensenada
and
librero
, I eventually got the gist of the story. A Mr. Philip Norwood of San Diego, who may have been a book dealer, was murdered the night before while in the custody of the
judiciales
. He had been arrested, as far as I could tell, for smuggling, but I couldn't understand the details of it. The murder had taken place after we had already escaped. That meant Thandy could have ordered the murder before Grady kicked him over the side of a mountain, or the
judiciales
decided to kill Norwood when they didn't hear back from him. The third option was that Thandy had made it back to civilization in time to order the hit on Norwood before coming after us. And then there was the fourth option: I got the translation completely wrong.

“You lookin' for Virgil Scripes?” a voice said from the doorway. It sounded like pure maple syrup and had a rhythm to it that made the simple phrase sound like a soul song. The voice belonged to a tall black man wearing a faded Jimmy Cliff T-shirt, the last pair of bell-bottom jeans in North America, and leather thongs on his feet. His Afro was shot through with waves of white, but his beard was the color of strong coffee. Though his smile was sleepy, his eyes were alive, sizing me up like a gunslinger before the draw.

“This the one?” he said to the bartender, who had materialized at his spot on the bottom step.

“Him and another guy upstairs, Levi,” the bartender said. Without prompting, he reached under the bar and brought up a bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Let's go meet your friend,” Levi said, and grabbed the bottle. He took a pair of aviators from his belt loop, slipped them on, and made for the stairs. The bartender leaned over to let him pass. I followed.

Levi stopped at the top step and leaned over the banister. The bartender was looking at us, and he held up two fingers. Levi nodded and moved to the second door, the one Digby had entered. He stepped to the other side of the door, pointed at me, and mimed knocking. I reached up, but just before my knuckles touched wood, the door opened. It looked like the room was empty until I spotted Digby through the crack between the door and the jamb. He was smiling. Levi put one hand behind his back and cautiously poked his head inside.

“That you, Virgil?” he said.

“Thought you were a Bacardi man,” Digby said from behind the door. Levi slowly turned his head to the door.

“Rum don't get the job done like it used to,” Levi said, and scanned the rest of the tiny room. He stretched a long leg across the threshold, and the rest of his body slid inside in one fluid movement. All the while he kept his hand behind his back. I followed.

When I was clear of the door, Digby pushed it closed with his foot, revealing the gun he held on Levi. Digby eased the hammer down with a click, and I heard the same sound echo behind Levi's back. Digby lowered his revolver, and Levi held up both of his now-empty hands with a wide wave.

“You expecting trouble?” Levi asked, and nodded at Digby's .45.

“Always,” Digby replied. “Was that your Colt I heard behind your back?”

“You know me,” Levi said. “Always prepared. Could've been a Boy Scout if I liked shittin' in the woods.” Digby chuckled and waved his hand at a small Formica table. Levi took a seat on one of the two chairs and Digby took the other. Seeing as my only option was to sit on the soiled mattress in the corner, I chose to lean against the wall.