“Nice place you’ve got here,” he said.
“I’ve been doing pretty well lately.”
“What do you do? You don’t mind my asking…”
“I’m a hairstylist,” she said.
“Must have some good clients.” He did his best to sound light.
“Yeah, a lot pay in cash. Don’t tell the government on me.” She hit him with a mischievous smile.
“I won’t,” he said. He found it difficult to imagine anyone acting against her wishes. But even she had managed to find some son of a bitch who had caused her to run for it and cover her tracks when she went. “So how did you meet him, by the way?”
She made a scissor-cutting motion with her fingers. “Of course,” Behr said. “When was this?”
“A couple, three months back,” she said, and then she unzipped and peeled off her sweatshirt down to a tight-fitting tank top that revealed her inviting figure. She carried an extra five pounds down by her hips where her velour pants sat. Somehow the extra weight suited her though, and the color of the thong panties that rode up at her lower back made Behr think of mangoes before he realized his mind had wandered.
“He came into your shop?” Behr asked, racking his brain for any recollection of Aurelio sporting a memorable haircut. How good a job would she really have to do to keep you coming back? Behr thought to himself.
“I’ve been between places for a while,” she smiled. “It was a referral. It must’ve been.”
“Who?” Behr asked, not pleased at all by the bald interrogatories he was tossing around.
Her shoulders went up and down in an I don’t know, and she yawned in a way that made Behr feel old and lame for concerning himself with such trivialities. “Mr…?”
“Behr,” he said. “Call me Frank.”
“Frank. I’m tired, can we…”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll get out of here,” he said, heading for the door, then pausing. “So, nothing between you and Aurelio?”
“We joked about going out after all the rolling around on the mat. It didn’t happen. Like I said.”
“Right. Your ex.”
“Yeah. Never happen now.” A slight shadow of sadness passed over her eyes, and Behr found himself on the other side of the door. “I don’t know if you write reports or who else you’ll be talking to, but could you leave my name and address out? I’m in a place in my life where I just want to be under the radar, you know?”
That ex must be some peach, Behr thought, then nodded. “Okay, shouldn’t be a problem,” he said.
“Give me a call if you want a haircut.” She treated him to a last, heavy-lidded smile.
“I will,” he said, and the door closed.
• • •
They went in through the front door, loaded. Terry was first, then Knute, Charlie, and Kenny. Dean was already inside. The dude running the place didn’t know him, so he’d slipped in as a player. Deanie was to spread fifty dollars, and when the shake was over and the other players were leaving, go into the bathroom. When it sounded quiet, he was to emerge and unlock the front door for them. They had seen the people exiting the house and the cars starting to leave the street. When everyone had gone, they pulled in close, pointing their vehicles east, the direction they wanted to go when it was done, and left them running. Then they went around back of the Durango and armed up. Kenny took his pipe, and Knute the bat. Charlie had his gun and offered the flashlight to Terry, who passed on it and instead chose a machete that had been sharpened on a grinder at the shop and had duct tape wrapped around the handle until it was as comfortable to hold as a tennis racquet. Then they went single file toward the house.
As they reached the door they heard the muffled pop from a small-caliber handgun from inside.
“Is your brother carrying a piece?” Terry asked, moving quickly.
“Uh-uh,” Charlie said.
Terry tried the knob. It turned and the door swung open. Deanie had done his job. They stepped inside to see him wrestling with the little spic pea shaker, numbered plastic balls rolling all over the floor around them.
Terry crossed the living room in two steps and grabbed the Latin man by the hair, wrenching his head back.
“He’s got a gun,” Dean yelled when he saw them.
“Are you shot?” Terry asked.
“No,” Dean grunted. Terry saw that Dean had both hands locked around the Latin man’s wrist, immobilizing a piece of shit silver. 32. Terry hit the man in the side of the head with the butt of the machete and wrenched the gun out of his hand.
“You little fucking asshole,” Terry seethed. He stepped down on the man’s back with most of his weight, pinning him to the floor and allowing Dean to get up. “Good job, Deanie,” Terry said.
“Fuckin’-A, bro,” Charlie said.
Dean climbed to his feet, a little shocked, and rubbed the powder burn on the underside of his wrist. “Shit,” he said.
They all grabbed a part of the pea shaker-his arms, his legs, his neck-and gang carried him toward the back bedroom.
How have things gone so malo for the Nogeros so quickly? Hector wondered, fear surging through him like a current. He’d been in the hospital all day with Chaco, sitting beside the bed of his father, who lay in a coma, then he’d bought the gun in the alley behind a criolla restaurant, and when he’d returned for the evening shake and found Austin was a no-show, he had no time to replace him. So when the tall, shaggy-haired man he’d never seen before showed up, there was little he could do to stop it, short of pulling his new gun and clearing the house. Instead, he’d let him in to play, taken the fifty-dollar bill, and set up the shake. Hector was doing it all on his own now, since the girl also hadn’t come back after the attack. When the drawing and the payouts were finished, all the players started to leave, and he’d lost track of the new man. Then, when the house had gone quiet, Hector saw him emerge from the bathroom and move toward the front door. Instead of leaving, the man turned the lock.
“What the hell?” Hector said, wasting no time in pulling his new gun.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the new man said, raising his hands. “I was just taking a piss…”
But when Hector came close, to throw him out and lock the door behind him, the new man lunged at him and tackled him to the ground. Hector managed to fire a shot, but it must’ve gone into the floor because the new man didn’t lose strength. In fact, he was strong as a bull, Hector realized with dismay. Then he heard footsteps and voices inside the house and felt the blow to his head. Hector saw the ceiling rush by as he was carried down the hall, before his vision went black and blurry from what he knew must be blood running into his eyes.
Hector felt himself tossed down onto the sheetless bed and managed to get a hand loose. He wiped his eyes to see them. He recognized three of them from the last time. And there was another man, older than the rest, but resembling them-the father he felt-leaning over him. He thought of Chaco and knew his boy would be hiding in his cabinet in the den. The thought gave him the force to fight, and he ripped a foot loose, kicking up into the face of the youngest. The young man barely flinched.
“Cocksucker,” he said, and spit down on Hector.
“All right, hold him,” the father said, the cords in his neck standing out like high-voltage wires, and Hector felt himself held still. The air went thick with the finality of it, even before it happened.
“No,” Hector said. Then he felt his head jerked back by the hair and his throat exposed. He saw the father loom over him and raise a machete, his black eyes devoid of light. Chaco, flashed through Hector’s mind, Papa. The blade came down toward him.
TWENTY-TWO
It was a night of cataclysmic mash-ups for DJ M.D. “Crazy Train” and “99 Problems” were joined in a mad creation that had the dance floor packed. Then the Schlegels and Knute came in, and their corner of the bar cleared without a word. They all sat and Pam served them Jameson poured to the top of rocks glasses with no rocks, and beers back. Dean said something to her, and Doc saw her use the speed gun to soak a bar towel with water, wring it out, and hand it to him. None of them spoke to one another. They just drank and stared at themselves in the
