“I was upstate at the time,” Louis said, “but I heard, yeah, they send a guy to whack Harry out and he shoots the guy dead and takes off?”
“Went to Italy for a while,” Chip said, “comes back-I don’t know the whole story, but it’s like it never happened, all the trouble he had with the wiseguys. But now the feds’ve shut him down, he’s out of business.”
Louis noticed Bobby Deo on the diving board now, hands in his pockets, looking down at the scummy pool. Louis said, “So Harry’s closing his books, collecting what’s still owed him, huh?” watching Bobby on the TV and realizing the man’s hands weren’t in his pockets, he had his business out and was right then taking a leak in the swimming pool. Louis said, “You see what he’s doing?”
After a moment Chip said, “He spotted the camera and thinks I’m watching him,” the man not sounding too surprised. “Letting me know he doesn’t care to be kept waiting. Anyway,” Chip said, “I even thought of Harry as a possibility, when we were making out the list. I was gonna mention him to you, see what you thought?”
“Say he’s got all this skim money,” Louis said. “Where you think he keeps it?”
“That’s the first thing we find out.” Chip was looking at the TV screen again, at Bobby Deo coming away from the pool toward the house. “How much Harry’s got liquid he can get his hands on.” Chip moved across the room, glanced at Louis to say, “Here we go,” and opened the door.
He stood waiting as Bobby came through the sunroom into the study, Bobby looking at the TV screen, the empty patio showing, then at Louis standing with his hands on his hips, then at the shotgun lying on the sofa.
“You understand,” Chip said, “you were covered all the time you were out there. If you hadn’t put those snippers away when you did, you could’ve taken a load of buckshot in the ass. I just want you to know that.”
The man talking now with backup, confident as can be. Louis watched Bobby turn his way.
“You work for this guy?”
Louis shrugged. “We got something on.”
Chip said, “I believe you know my partner, Louis Lewis?”
Presenting one ex-con to another, the man watching to see the effect on Bobby Deo, a different situation than when they were outside. Louis and Bobby looked at each other with no expression to speak of.
Bobby saying, “Use to be Abu, the Bahamian Arabian,” with a mild expression now, pleasant enough.
And now Louis showed a slight smile telling him, “I gave up that shit once I got my release. What we’d like to know, Señor Deogracias, the bill collector, if you think you ready for the big time.”
See what he thought of that.
But then Chip stepped in saying, “What Louis means-something we’ve been talking about here-we wonder if you’d be interested in a proposition.”
Bobby looked at Louis and Louis said, “A score, a big one.”
Bobby seemed to consider it for a moment. He said, “How much we talking about?”
Louis had to smile, the man showing his greed, wanting to know the take before asking what it was about.
“We’ll be dealing in millions,” Chip said, “with a way to keep it coming in as long as we want.”
Bobby said, “What’s the split?”
“Three ways, we all get the same.”
“You say millions-nothing to it.”
“At least a couple mil each time we score. This is no one-shot deal.”
“Yeah, what is it? What do we do?”
“We take hostages,” Chip said and waited while Bobby Deo stared at him.
No doubt running out of patience, so Louis gave him a hint. “Like the Shia took those hostages over in Beirut? You know what I’m saying? Over in Lebanon-blindfolded them, kept them chained up? Like that.”
Chip said, “Only we’ll be doing it for profit.”
“You talking about kidnapping,” Bobby said.
“In a way,” Chip said, “only different. A lot different.”
By the time Raylan got to Joyce’s apartment in Miami Beach it was too late to go out to dinner. He mentioned he’d tried to call her three or four times. Joyce said she forgot to turn her machine on-nothing about where she was all afternoon. She fixed him scrambled eggs and toast and made herself a drink. Finally, sitting at the kitchen table while Raylan ate his supper, Joyce said, “Harry got picked up for drunk driving.”
“Today?”
“A few weeks ago. They took his license away for six months.”
“I told you it would happen.”
“I know. That’s why I haven’t said anything.”
“He still drinking?”
“He’s trying to quit.” She paused and said, “I’ve been sort of driving him around. Harry’s looking for customers who still owe him money.”
“You realize you’re aiding in illegal transactions?”
Joyce said, “Oh, for Christ sake,” and there was a silence.
Raylan got up to get a beer from the refrigerator. Joyce asked him, as she always did, if he wanted a glass. Raylan said no thanks. After another pause, aware of himself and aware of Joyce sitting with her drink, he said, “Why don’t you put that new Roy Orbison on?”
She said, “All right,” but didn’t move, lighting a cigarette now, a new habit she’d picked up being around Harry. The first time she played the new Roy Orbison for him the CD came to “The Only One” and Joyce said if she were still dancing she’d use it in her routine. Joyce had moved her hips to the slow, draggy beat and showed Raylan where she’d throw in the bumps. “’Every one you know’s been through it.’ Bam. ‘You bit the bullet, then you chew it.’ Bam.” Raylan liked it.
When they were first getting to know one another, almost a year ago, he’d told her how he’d worked for different coal operators in Harlan County, Kentucky, where he grew up, and before joining the Marshals Service. He told her, “I’ve worked deep mines, wildcat mines, the ones you go into and scratch for what’s left, and I’ve stripped.”
Joyce said that time, “So have I.”
He said, “Pardon me?”
She hadn’t wanted to tell him too soon about working as a go-go dancer when she was younger-one of the few topless performers, she said, without a drug habit. Like it was okay to dance half-naked in a barroom full of men as long as you weren’t strung out. He told her no, it didn’t bother him-not mentioning it might’ve been different if he’d known her when she was up there showing her breasts to everybody. No, the only thing that bothered him now was her devoting her life to poor Harry.
She’d say she wasn’t devoting her life, she was trying to help him.
Sitting at the kitchen table again Raylan thought of something and began telling about the bust he’d taken part in that morning. Telling it in his quiet way but with a purpose:
How they went to an address out in Canal Point to arrest a fugitive known to be armed and dangerous. Banged on the door and when no one came a strike team officer yelled at the house, “Open up or it’s coming down!” So when still no one came they used a sledgehammer-what the strike team called their master key-busted in and here was a woman standing in the living room no doubt the whole time, not saying a word. One of the strike team, a sheriff’s deputy, told her they had a warrant for the arrest of Russell Robert Lyles and asked was he in the house. The woman said no, he wasn’t, and had no idea where he might be. The deputy said to her, “If Russell’s upstairs, you’re going to jail.” And the woman said, “He’s upstairs.”
Raylan waited for Joyce, saw her nod, but that’s all; she didn’t say anything. She didn’t see the point he was trying to make.
So Raylan said, “You understand it wasn’t like the woman was giving the guy up, telling on him. There was nothing she could do, so she said yeah, he’s upstairs.”
Joyce nodded again, uh-huh. “So did you get him?”
She still didn’t see the point.
“We got him. Even with all the commotion, busting the door down? The guy was still in bed.”