The Hemingway Thief (15 page)

“Bad idea, you coming here, man,” Levi said. “La Dónde's still looking for you.”

“Who's that?” I asked.

“You don't know?” Levi said. “Baddest hitter in North America.”

“Is that all?” I said, glaring at Digby. “The baddest in North America, not the world?”

“A guy operates out of Ireland's pretty good,” Levi said matter-of-factly. “I ain't into hyperbole.”

“Thank God for that,” I said. I bit my lower lip trying to remain calm. “And this guy's looking for you? That's fucking fantastic. You couldn't have told us about this?”

“La Dónde is a woman,” Digby said. “
La
is feminine. You really should learn the language, Coop. And I didn't think she'd still be looking for me.”

“You didn't?” Levi said with a dubious look.

“I didn't think she'd be
actively
looking for me.”

“It's a standing order, Virgil,” Levi said. “Anyone sees you and don't call her gets a shitload of trouble.” He wasn't smiling anymore. His expression was quite pained.

“Getting on her bad side could cause a lot of problems for a man in your line of work,” Digby said, and set his revolver down on the table next to the bottle of Jack. He sounded almost sad.

“A lot of problems,” Levi conceded. The feeling in the room had changed. Something was going down that was beyond my understanding.

“How long until her people show up?” Digby asked.

“About ten minutes,” Levi said, and held up his hands apologetically. We'd been sold out. I could figure out that much. The only question was what Digby was going to do about it.

“Ten minutes, huh,” Digby said, rubbing the bristles on his chin. Levi nodded slowly. Digby reached for the bottle of whiskey. “Just enough time for a drink.”

Chapter Fifteen

Levi Monroe had been just a boy when his father, Lincoln, was swept up in an early sixties' version of the Back-to-Africa movement. Lincoln changed his name, renounced his American citizenship, and took his whole family to Liberia. Their stay lasted exactly three months. Three months of malaria, sweltering heat, and no employment. Lincoln changed his name back, but in the wake of the Kennedy assassination, the Cambridge Five, and the Profumo affair, the authorities were leery of someone who had voluntarily given up their right to be an American. They told him, sorry, but no take-backs. Lincoln had a choice between Canada and Mexico. He chose Mexico because, in his words, he didn't go back to Africa only to end up in the whitest place on Earth.

Lincoln traveled to the Monte because he'd heard it was a place where a man could be free. Of course, this had meant men without families, and Lincoln soon discovered that traveling through the Wild was infinitely more difficult with a wife and child. They settled in Tequilero, where Lincoln opened a tavern.

The drug-running business was picking up steam, and the Madres, with its lack of law enforcement and vast amounts of land, was at the heart of it. The people who frequented Lincoln's tavern were smugglers, thieves, pot farmers, and occasionally sheep ranchers. Lincoln's place gained a reputation as a joint where people could conduct business without fear of the
judiciales
. Lincoln studied his clientele, and he knew who was doing what, where, why, and with whom. That kind of information made him a powerful resource to the dangerous men who spent most of their time out in the Wild incommunicado. Lincoln became a
casamentero
, a broker, a man who could point you in the right direction for whatever you may have needed, legal or illegal. All he asked was a reasonable fee. When he died, he passed the job onto his son, Levi.

“So you're going by Scripes again, huh?” Levi said. He took the bottle, spun the cap off with his thumb, and took a pull.

“Figured it was a name only you knew,” Digby said with a smile. He leaned back in his chair and slid his hands in his pockets. “I was trying to fly under the radar.”

“Is that how you know him?” Levi said to me. “As Virgil Scripes?” I looked to Digby for help, but Levi laughed and held up a hand. “Fuck it. I don't even want to know. Virgil's got so many names I bet
he
don't remember what you call him. The real question is, what's he call you?”

“Shouldn't we be leaving?” I said, feeling a nervous heat creep up the back of my neck.

“This is Coop.” Digby answered Levi's question, ignoring mine. “He's a writer from Chicago.”

“What's he write?” Levi said. It was clear I wouldn't be speaking for myself in this conversation. It dawned on me that this was probably Digby's reason for bringing me rather than Milch. I doubted our con-man friend would have liked holding his tongue.

“Right now he's doing a book on Ernest Hemingway,” Digby said. In my head I let out a sigh of relief. I didn't want to have to explain Toulouse and his vampire detective to this man. I'd only known Levi for a few minutes, but his opinion, for some reason, had come to mean a lot to me. “There's a guy down here he wants to interview.”

“Why bring him to me?” Levi said. He slunk down in his chair, knees spread, and his hands on his thighs. He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it while Digby told him about a thief named Ebenezer Milch who'd come through Tequilero in the late fifties. It was all so relaxed, as if armed killers were not on their way. As if we had all the time in the world to chitchat. I couldn't even remember how much time had passed since Levi had told us we only had ten minutes. It seemed like hours.

“Shit, that was before my daddy's time,” Levi said, and rubbed his chin dramatically.

I started to do a little nervous dance like I had to take a major piss, and I realized I did.

“He was here for a while. People would have known him. Your daddy might have when he first started.”

“Come on, Digby,” I said, and my voice almost cracked. “People are coming to kill us.”

“Relax. They're not coming for you,” Levi said. “They comin' for him.” Then a cocky smile spread over his face. “La Dónde gonna wanna kill Digby, here, her ownself.”

“What about me?” I said.

“Yeah, they probably gonna kill you too, if I'm being honest,” Levi said, scratching his ear.

I sank to the floor and put my head between my knees.

“This man Ebenezer may have been going by a pseudonym,” Digby said.

When Levi didn't answer right away, I thought I'd clarify. “An alias.” I said, lifting my head up and whacking it against the wall. I hardly noticed the dull throb at the back of my skull.

“I know what a pseudonym is, motherfucker,” Levi said, shooting me a hard look. “You racist or something?”

“He didn't mean anything, Levi,” Digby said, and shot me a warning look.

“I'm just fucking with him,” Levi said, chuckling and scratching his chest. “Shit, I just ain't never heard of this guy. I feel bad, ya know. I wanna help you out, man.”

“See, he doesn't know the guy. Let's just go,” I said. I had been concentrating on the closed door, imagining a troop of desperadoes breaking it down in a fury of broken wood and bullets.

“You know, you should lay it on Elmo,” Levi said. “He knows every cat since way back.”

“I wouldn't go there unless I absolutely had to,” Digby said, and raised his glass. “Thanks anyway.”

“It's cool,” Levi said. “If this writer wants to interview someone about Hemingway he should go up to Chavez's place anyway, you know, up in Los Ojos,” Levi said.

“Why's that?” I said.

“He met Hemingway.” Levi said. “Back in like '58. Used to tell me about it all the time. Says he came to watch the fights. It's a good story for a book, man.”

“Los Ojos?” Digby said, picking at his front tooth with his thumbnail. “I don't know anybody up there.”

“Never met Chavez?”

“Not formally.”

“He alright. Gotta flatter the motherfucker. Make him feel important. I'd make a call, but if it ever got back to
her
I helped you . . .”

“I get it,” Digby said.

“Los Ojos,” I said. “Great, let's go.” I started for the door. I had a loosely structured plan to run as fast as I could to the RV. After that I would improvise. My hand was raised, poised to pull open the door and make a break for it, but the dog out front began barking with spastic intensity and I froze. Levi cocked his ear to the door as if the thunderous bark were hard to hear.

“Oh, Virgil,” Levi said with a mischievous grin. “I do believe the rest of your party has arrived.” Digby scratched his chin and rubbed his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess we'll take our leave.” He took his gun from the table. Someone downstairs pounded against the ceiling, three quick dull thumps, then nothing.

“Miguel says there are three of them,” Levi said, looking down at the spot from which the sound had emanated. “Inside at least.”

“Just three?” Digby said, took the last swig of his whiskey, and cocked his revolver. “Good. For a second there I thought we were in trouble.”

Chapter Sixteen

Digby moved across the room in two long strides, took a fistful of my collar, and redirected me toward the window. I went without protest. The window opened onto a narrow alley. The building across the way was a dilapidated, rotting mess. It was close enough for a jump onto the ledge, but I doubted the deteriorating plaster and wood could hold our weight, and the alley floor below was a thick jungle of discarded appliances and car parts so rusted and muddled that it was difficult to tell where one sharp tetanus-inducing piece of scrap ended and another began. Though the drop would not have been far, I imagined dying slowly and painfully with several nasty objects impaled in some of my favorite body parts.

Digby put a hand on the back of my head and shoved it through the open window. There was a ledge just wide enough to accommodate my boots. Digby stuck his head out next to mine, pointed to the ledge, and waved down toward the corner of the building; indicating that I should get out there and then make room for him.

I stepped onto the ledge and immediately regretted wearing cowboy boots for this adventure. I placed the treadless soles on the weather-worn wood, slick with mold and morning dew, and said a silent prayer that I wouldn't die as a result of my flare for costuming. I turned to move back through the window, but Digby was already halfway out and my only choice was to keep moving. As I sidled down, the ledge creaked in protest or maybe warning, but I was able to get to the corner and grab the rusted tin drainpipe for balance.

The broken window in the building across the alley reflected the room we'd just left, and we could see a Mexican dressed in a fine suit and Ray-Bans enter the room alone, just as Digby brought his second foot through. Digby put a finger to his lips and I shot him the bird. I didn't need to be told to be quiet.

“Dónde?” the Mexican said to Levi, who was still sitting in his chair with the whiskey bottle in his hand.

“I know who sent you, asshole,” Levi said. The cool amiability he had showed us was gone, replaced by a baleful serenity. Even though the Mexican was holding a gratuitously large handgun, Levi was the one in control.

“
No,
dónde está el hombre
,” the Mexican repeated, but this time it was less demanding.

“Where you think, motherfucker?” Levi said. “They went out the window.” I would have toppled off the ledge onto the rusty shards below if Digby hadn't reached out and righted me again. In the window's reflection, the Mexican cocked his head and shrugged. Levi sighed and translated. “
La ventana
.”

The Mexican nodded, racked the slide on his gun, and marched to the window. He shot his head out, looking first down at the scrapyard and then at the window across the way. He noticed us in the reflection and, in the moment it took him to realize we were right next to him, Digby brought his leg up and his heel down on the Mexican's jaw. There was a sickening crack, like breaking crockery, and the Mexican, who had been leaning precariously out the window, tumbled out. He did a half-gainer and landed on top of a pair of discarded lawn-mower blades.

The brittle ledge under Digby gave out, and he nearly followed the Mexican down to his ignominious end. He grabbed the windowsill and hung there, one arm waving behind him, still holding his gun, dangling over broken metal and a dead Mexican.

“A little help,” Digby said with a calm tone. I stepped over the piece of broken ledge and dove headfirst back into the room. I reached back through the window and helped Digby inside. Levi watched the whole thing with an amused grin.

“I forgot to tell you,” he said. “I've been letting Miguel use the alley to store some junk. It's a little dicey down there.”

“No shit,” Digby said. He moved to the open door and peeked out. “The other two are still downstairs. I guess we'll just have to shoot our way out.”

“Fuck that,” I said, walking over to the soiled mattress. “There may be two down there and fifty outside. We go out the window.”

“Fifty sounds excessive,” Levi said. I grabbed the mattress, ignoring the fouler stains, and dragged it over to the window.

“I would describe everything you two do as excessive,” I said. The mattress was a twin and old enough that it bent in the middle considerably. I folded it onto itself and got the end through the open window. Digby, catching on to my plan, helped me shove it through. It landed on top of the Mexican, adding another gruesome layer of cushioning.

“After you,” I said, and Digby shook his head.

“What if they come up here after I jump?” he said.

“You're just chickenshit,” Levi kidded him.

“You may be right,” Digby replied. I climbed outside without further comment. I hung down from the sill as far as my arms would allow and kicked out my legs, turning in the air. My ass landed on the mattress with the sound of creaking metal and the squelch of the dead man underneath. I kicked a few auto parts aside and gingerly slid off the mattress. I was barely on solid ground when I heard Digby hit the mattress behind me. I didn't wait for him. Winding through the debris and picking my way through the junk, I was very glad now to have my boots.