The Hemingway Thief (18 page)

“What did you give him?” I said. I had expected there to be an echo, but there wasn't enough room in the empty space to create one.

“A grand,” Milch said. I couldn't see him even though he was close enough that I could feel and smell his breath on my face. I became keenly aware that neither of us had showered in three days.

“In cash? Where'd you get that kind of money?” It was warm inside the shack. It had been baking in the desert sun like a Bundt cake all day.

“From the First American Bank of Digby's front seat,” he said. Even in the dark I knew he was grinning.

“He gave it to you?”

“It was a one-sided two-party loan.”

“You stole it.”

“More or less. I figured I'd need it to get us in.”

“So that makes it all right?” I said.

“Yes,” Milch said without any humor. “Look, I took the grand and I used it. That's all.”

“How do I know you didn't take more?”

“Because I would imagine Digby knows how much is supposed to be in there. When we're done here, you tell him what I took. If he can subtract, he'll know if I'm lying.”

I had no reply for that.

The floor dropped out from under us.

Chapter Nineteen

It was a two-inch drop. It lasted less than half of a second, but when we stopped my teeth smacked together with an audible clack and my mouth filled with the warm, coppery taste of my own blood. There was a metallic screeching of gears, and the floor continued to descend with a lurch that eventually smoothed out into a consistent drop at a slight angle. I leaned against the wall but found that it was moving upward, or rather it was staying where it was and the floor was lowering.

The dark abated and a series of incandescent lights dug into the rock walls passed by. I pulled my handkerchief and inspected my mouth. My tongue was fine and not, as I imagined, cleft in two. I spat a small hunk of my cheek into the hanky and stuffed it back in my pocket.

“He told us there would be a slight jolt,” Milch said, the amber lights reflecting off the walls gave both his smile and laughter a ghoulish quality.

The ride took forever, or two minutes, depending on whom you asked. The floor settled into an open bay with more rock walls and lights set into them. A tall door stood opposite the elevator about three feet away. It was steel, with the same tear-drop pattern as the elevator, but with rivets the size of a man's fist embedding it to the rock. The doorknob was a large hoop of brass about the size of a basketball. We were, I imagined, in some sort of antechamber. It looked like the staging area for a mining operation, and I realized that's where we were. Los Ojos had been a mining town once. When the lode ran dry, the town died. Chavez had hollowed out the carcass and made a home there. The brass ring turned from the other side and the door opened with a soft whisper, as if it weighed nothing at all.

There were fewer lights in the main room than there had been in the antechamber. I got the sensation that the room was cavernous and went on as far as my imagination would let it. A cluster of spotlights hung from the ceiling, illuminating a raised platform. Canvas stretched across the floor of the platform, and it was surrounded on all sides by four padded ropes painted red, white, and green, tied to a pole in each corner. It was a fine boxing ring, although I'd never seen one in person before, so I could be wrong.

The white light ended at the edge of the ring as if the line between light and dark had been drawn with a thin black Sharpie. There were sounds in the darkness, rumblings and murmurs. Things moving, settling into seats, exchanging opinions and cash. Now and then a part of them would emerge, a white cowboy hat with a silver buckle, jewels sparkling over tanned décolletage. There was power and money out there in the shadows, and it sent an icy shiver through my spine.

There was a bar to my left. A green neon sign promised cold beer. A red one made sure I knew top-shelf liquor was also available. A grinning little man in a tuxedo stood with a brass phone receiver to his ear and his other hand resting on a crystal tap. I wondered how he could see enough to know what the hell he was pouring.

He nodded as he spoke into the phone, but he kept his eyes on Milch and me. He hung up the phone onto an antique cradle and signaled us by crooking his finger. I followed without looking at Milch for consent. When I reached the bar, my con-man compatriot sidled up next to me.

“Gentlemen,” the bartender said as he placed a beer in front of each of us.

“This for us?” I said.

“I put it in front of you, didn't I?” the bartender replied. “Don't worry. It's on the house. Now, if you could wait here, Miss Samantha will be with you in a moment. She will take you to Mr. Chavez.”

“Excuse me?” I said. I had planned on some finagling to get in to see the head man. I was prepared to lie, or let Milch lie, or offer a few more bribes. I did not expect to be given an escort and a beer with minimal effort. The Catholic in me mistrusted this unearned good fortune. The writer in me just thought it was poor plotting.

“Miss Samantha will explain, sir. Ah, here she is now,” the bartender said, and pointed behind us. She emerged from the dark as if she had been created by it. She was blond, the hair pulled back in a cascading bun over her head. Wisps of golden curls dripped over her cheeks. She wore head-to-toe khaki in the British military fashion, but I don't think Montgomery ever had a body like hers. She had the type of beauty that a man could not take in all at once, and so I had to look at her slightly askew, as if I were trying to get a glimpse of the sun during an eclipse.

“Mr. Velour?” she said. Her voice was like silk and it wafted over me like a sonata. She arrested me completely.

“Coop,” I said. “Velour is my professional name.” Samantha looked confused, but I couldn't think of anything to follow up with. Milch grabbed his beer off the metal bar and took a long swig before he took her hand.

“What's the deal here?” he said, waving his hand around the arena. Samantha put her hands in her jacket pockets and pushed her bottom lip out in a look of contemplation.

“It is an underground boxing ring,” she said, and turned to me. “You're a writer, yes? You're here for the Hemingway story, right?”

“Yeah, how did you . . .”

“Twenty cents on every dollar made in this joint goes to Mr. Chavez,” she said. She turned and continued talking, not looking back to see if we followed. I strode after her immediately, but Milch paused to finish his beer and then chug the one I had left behind. He caught up to us as she was finishing her explanation. “You gave Luis upstairs a thousand dollars. Two hundred dollars of that is Mr. Chavez's. Luis did the right thing and called Mr. Chavez while you were in the lift.”

We moved past the empty ring on the opposite side of the ghostly murmurings in the dark. My feet crossed from rock to steel grating, and Samantha started to rise in front of me. I expected stairs but found that we were ascending gradually on a low-grade ramp. Milch stumbled behind me and caught himself on the wall. I hoped he was just surprised by the rise in the floor and that the beers had not gone to his head. I'm not sure I wanted to be partners with a drunk Milch. Shit, I wasn't sure I wanted to be partners with a sober one.

“The SOP in this situation is for Luis to take your money, let me know about it, then send you down here. We let you hang around until you get bored and leave. If you get bitchy and demand to see Chavez, then we'll escort you out. Today, though, is different.”

“Why is today different?” I asked. We had reached a narrow hallway with cages stacked along the sides. Inside the cages, roosters cocked and crowed and scratched. Brown, red, green, yellow, and as big as bulldogs. One of them eyed me like I was a juicy piece of steak, which confused me because I thought chickens were herbivores. Samantha was difficult to hear over the ruckus they made. And then there was the sound of the fans. Huge industrial blades set into the rock ceiling.

“Today Chavez finds you interesting. He likes writers.” We passed one final large cage set into the stone wall. A large ball of thick black fur snored in the far corner on a bed of hay. As we passed it, the ball shifted and I could see a snubbed brown snout and coal black eyes. They had a fucking bear. I hoped the cocks didn't have to fight it.

The hall ended with two double doors made out of dark wood. A scene was carved into the wood—two large men stripped to the waist with raised, bare fists. It was lovingly carved and each stroke of the knife was accented with gold filigree. Samantha pushed open the doors and we followed her inside. As the doors closed behind us I heard the bear moan softly.

The office was brightly lit in contrast with the dark hallway. The decorator had been a fan of the art deco movement but did not have access to the proper materials. The result looked something like the stagecraft of a high school production of
The Broadway Melody of 1940.

A tall statuary of Jesus stood between two silver clamshell wall sconces. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the statue's face had thick black eyebrows and a Fuller Brush mustache, making Him look more like Burt Reynolds circa
Hooper
than Our Lord and Savior circa the Sermon on the Mount. Two wiry but muscular men knelt before the statue, their taped hands lying against the base of a prayer candle between the icon's feet. One wore blue trunks and the other wore white. Their sweat-slicked backs were bare, and their heads were bowed with solemnity. I focused on this odd sight first, and so I was startled by the deep, rumbling voice from the far side of the room.

“They pray to Jesus Malverde,” the voice said, and I turned to find a Mexican rising from a chrome desk. He was a full foot shorter than me, and he had the same mustache as Jesus. He came around the desk at a languid stroll in a blue polo shirt and mom jeans. He stopped by the two praying pugilists, and they crossed themselves in unison before they stood up to face him. He placed a hand on each of their shoulders and whispered in their ears. They genuflected, repeated the sign of the cross, and exited side by side through the door that Samantha held open.

“They fight next,” the Mexican said. “It will be a good fight. It is always a good fight when two brothers are on the card. So much history will be spilt on the canvas tonight.” He extended his hands to us like a grandfather welcoming his grandchildren. “Gentlemen, I am Sugar Ray Chavez.”

“Mr. Chavez, my name is Henry Cooper,” I said.

“Sugar Ray, please,” Chavez said. “And your friend here is Joe. Luis informed Samantha and Samantha informed me. You want the Hemingway story, yes?”

“That's right, Sugar Ray,” I said. “I'm writing a book. Sort of an
In Cold Blood
–type of thing.” Chavez nodded slowly.

“I was very young when I met Papa,” Chavez said. He guided us to matching rattan deck chairs that sat in front of the gleaming desk. He took a seat on the opposite side. He opened a box of cigars and held them out for us. I declined, but Milch took two. One he stuck in his mouth and the other went into his shirt pocket. Samantha arrived silently next to Milch with a lighter. She bent at the waist to light it for him. I reconsidered the cigar, but Chavez had already taken them off the table. With the cigar lit, she moved to stand next to Chavez, her arm slung over the back of his chair so that the tips of her blood-red fingernails grazed his collar.

“I have heard this story many times,” Samantha said with a cool smile. She brushed the back of her hand against Chavez's cheek, and the gesture seemed to surprise him. He looked up at her with raised eyebrows as if he were looking for some sort of cue from her.

“Would you rather watch the fight?” he said.

“I do not want to watch it alone,” Samantha said. She looked at Milch and a pang of jealousy shot through me. “Mr. Milch is not a writer. He seems like a man who prefers action to stories.”

“You've got me pegged,” Milch said, and the look on his face was borderline lascivious. She returned the grin and tilted her head in a way that almost made me fall out of my chair.

“Would you join me?” she asked.

“I have a private booth above the ring,” Chavez said, beaming with pride. “Samantha will make sure you have anything you may need.”

“Is that right?” Milch said, standing up. “I do believe a boxing match is just the sort of entertainment I need on a night like this.”

“Don't you think we shouldn't, um,” I tried to think of a word that wouldn't make us sound like we were a couple. I failed. “Get separated?”

Chavez let out a booming belt of laughter. Milch snickered. Samantha smiled.

“What do you think will happen to you?” Chavez asked.

“I'm just saying,” I said. “You know, the buddy system.”

“Well, Samantha will be my buddy,” Milch said. He offered her his arm and she took it. She walked with him to a door behind Chavez's desk. We both watched them go, or rather we watched her go. When the door closed behind them, Chavez turned back to me.

“You've got quite a woman,” I said.

“Samantha?” Chavez said, and looked genuinely confused. “Oh no, she is not mine.”

“She works for you, though, right?”

“Do you want to hear about Hemingway or the girl?”

“The girl,” I said. Chavez took a cigar and lit it. I heard the muffled roar of the crowd and then a thin ding that was the bell. The fight had begun.

“I have a better story than Samantha's,” Chavez said. He cocked his ear and, as the din of the crowd crescendoed, he leaned back and stared at the glowing tip of his cigar.

And then he told me a story.

Chapter Twenty

Chavez was eight years old when the American first came. This was back when Los Ojos was still a town. After the mine went bust. After the United States flew her planes and dropped her chemical death. Before the fire. The American arrived on a bicycle, an old piece of rust that shouldn't have been able to support a teddy bear, let alone a man. On the back were two bags, a soft olive-green duffel like one carries in the American army and a small cardboard suitcase that looked very old, but well cared for.