Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

That was Waddy Dwyer’s question at the moment. The mobile number he had for his shooter was dead, as it had been for the past three days. There was no outgoing voice mail, no recording, nothing.

And why in the fuck did they call him “Banco,” which was short for “money in the bank,” when his real name was Juan, and he was such a bloody piece of shit?

That was probably a better question, Dwyer thought, but it wasn’t going to help him much now. He needed to find Banco, to hear how he’d bollixed the operation, and if he and the backup shooter-and driver he was sure to have used-had been further compromised. There was an account number in the Caymans, where Dwyer had wired the first half of the money, but good fucking luck reverse engineering that into anything useful. Dwyer did have an address on a small apartment where Banco had been staying during prep. Of course the tie-dyed bloke wasn’t going to just be sitting there, waiting for him or anyone else who might come knocking after the botched op. He would’ve gone into his hidey-hole for certain. But the address, 157 Keller Street, was all Dwyer had, which was why he was currently sitting outside the cheaply built, low-slung, tobacco brown apartment house.

He’d been squatting on the place for four hours and had yet to see a tenant come or go. He had his eye on the lower left-hand unit, marked MGR. on the building placard. Dwyer had knocked, gotten no answer, and had resigned himself to waiting it out. But here came a little man, walking with a shambling gait, a couple of grocery sacks banging against his knees. His skin was nut brown, including his mostly bald pate, and he wore a plaid utility shirt, twill trousers, and battered work shoes. He made his way to the manager’s unit and barely had his key in the door before Dwyer was on him.

“Hey there, buddy,” Dwyer said, adopting what the Americans called a Southern drawl. If he had to raise a ruckus to get what he needed, Dwyer preferred the cops to think they were looking for an American rather than a Welshman, and he found the Southern drawl the easiest jump for his tongue to make.

“Yes?” The manager turned.

“What’s your name, bud?”

“I am Elihu,” the man said with a Spanish accent.

“How you doing, Eli-yute? I’m looking for a good buddy of mine who was staying here for a while.”

“Yes, sir, who?”

“Aw heck, he’s hiding out from his ex-wife most of the time. His name’s Juan, but he might’ve been going by something else.”

“Yes, there is no Juan here. I’m sorry. He is hispanico?”

“Yep. Salvadoran fella,” Dwyer said.

“Oh …”

“He would’ve probably just moved out. He has sort of spotted skin …” Dwyer didn’t know what the condition was called, but Banco had some white discoloration on the skin on the side of his face.

“Yes, there was a guy, Jose Campos. He was here for six months only. Nice guy, very strong. Black hair, maybe this tall.” Elihu held his hand up at head level. “He left last week.”

“Hell, Eli-yute, that sounds like him. He happen to mention where he was moving?” Dwyer asked. There was nothing but a pause out of the manager. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell his ex-wife,” he continued, adding the winks and eyebrow bumps the Southern fellows seemed so fond of.

“He did not say. He used to eat all the time at La Pasion. He loved comida criolla. He would bring me back platanos. Maybe they know.” Elihu smiled blandly and finished opening his door.

Dwyer contemplated pushing him inside, closing the door, and hurting the man until he was good and sure he’d told everything he knew. Instead, Dwyer put a bland smile on his face, too.

“Thanks, bud,” Dwyer said. He’d save that hurting for somebody else.

20

The Wild Beaver-with its ubiquitous smell of warm beer and the low ocean roar of happy hour-was nighttime dark, thanks to its lack of windows, when Behr walked in. He wondered exactly what the hell he was doing here and what had possessed him to choose the spot over the quietude of his usual haunt, Donahue’s. His eyes cut around the bar for Decker, who wasn’t easy to miss.

Sitting alone at a two-top table, back against the wall, was a man with a military haircut, worn desert-issue combat boots resting on the opposite chair, and a pissed-off look in his eye. His jeans were well ventilated, thanks to holes at the knees; and a tight black T-shirt stretched over his frame, which was that of a small linebacker. Small for the NFL, that is. Beefy biceps, marked with some high-quality ink, hung from traps built of humping a heavy ruck and rifle over exceedingly long distances. As Behr walked up to the table he saw that Decker wore earbuds connected to a battered iPod that was encircled by corroded duct tape still crusted with what looked like desert sand.

“Hey,” Decker said, too loud, thanks to the headphones, which he pulled out as he stood and offered a hand. Behr shook what felt like a sandpaper mitt wrapped around a rock, and they both sat.

“What’re you listening to?” Behr asked.

“Pantera, Coheed and Cambria, Charred Walls of the Damned.”

“I don’t know what you just said.”

“Just a metal playlist.” Decker offered the headphones. Behr put a bud to his ear and heard guitar-driven music, guttural singing, and driving drums. “Can’t take this shit.” Decker gestured into the air at the music playing in the bar. If pressed, Behr would’ve guessed it was Prince.

“Yeah, I don’t really come here,” Behr said.

“Whatever. Two-for-one happy hour works for me.” Decker raised a pint glass of dark swill. The smell of licorice wafted to Behr across the small table.

“What are you drinking?”

“Deerslayer,” he said, taking a big gulp and waving at a waitress.

“And that is?” Behr wondered.

“Jagermeister, Wild Turkey, and Coke, chilled and strained. Technically it’s a black deerslayer. They usually make ’em with Sprite.”

A chubby strawberry blonde with a bright smile and a pink T-shirt that was two sizes too small arrived at Behr’s shoulder. “Hiya, what can I get you?” she said.

“Holly, get us another round of these,” Decker said, then turned toward Behr. “Unless you have a regular drink.”

“Sure, I’ll try that,” Behr said, and Holly went off toward the bar.

“Holly?” Behr said.

“What can I say, I’m a friendly guy.” Decker shrugged, and nudged a pint glass, the second of his two-for- one, toward Behr.

“Thanks.” Behr took a slug. “I’ve had better tasting gasoline,” he said through the fumes.

“We drank these when we came off detail,” Decker said, finishing the last few ounces in his glass. “When the object was to get as fucked up as possible as quickly as possible. It became a habit. You don’t notice the taste after a while.”

Behr appraised what sat across from him. Decker sported several-days-off stubble and though he couldn’t have been much past twenty-six, there was an aged quality about him. But it was what was in Decker’s eyes that spooked him, and Behr wasn’t someone who spooked: nothing. There was just a depthless black that conveyed great familiarity with pain, violence, and death.

“So the girls are friends,” Behr said, leaning back.

“Yep. Gina loves Susan like hell.” Decker nodded.

“Seemed like they were having a good time when I saw ’em together,” Behr said. “How long you been back?”

“Less than a year.”

“Army?”

“Marines. Third Recon,” Decker said. Behr recognized it as an elite unit.