Hailey's War

even if we hadn’t had our dustup the last time I’d been staying here. I thought Serena had made a lousy choice in lieutenants, but that was an opinion I was going to keep to myself. I knew what Serena would tell me. She’d say that my kind of ethics were a luxury, that nice girls were eaten alive in her neighborhood, that Trippy and girls like her didn’t get to go east to war school and learn the rules of engagement.

I changed the subject: “Listen, Serena, speaking of bikes and all, I can’t keep doing what I’m doing on city buses and whatever. God knows, when we find Nidia, we’re going to need a car to take her away in.”

“You know Chato’s always got a couple of cars,” she said.

“Too dangerous,” I said. “I’m not going to use this car for an hour or two and dump it. I’ll need it long-term, and sooner or later, some patrolling cop or meter reader will run the plate. I can’t afford to get arrested for driving a stolen car.”

She said, “We’ve probably got a legit car around here you could use.”

“True,” I said, “but I’m thinking of something specific. I don’t know if I can outrun Skouras’s guys if it came to a chase, but I don’t want to be in a four-banger, just in case. It’s got to carry a couple of soldiers and, eventually, a pregnant girl, and reasonably comfortably. It needs to be plain enough that I can do surveillance in it. And it can’t be a speeding-ticket magnet for cops or a theft magnet for-”

“People like me?” Serena said archly. “So what you really need, then, is money.”

“Yeah,” I said. “This mission is gonna run up expenses that go beyond just the car.”

“We can help; I told you that,” she said. “Trece’s got some plata.”

“Not that much,” I said. “You guys are living proof that crime barely pays.”

“So what’s your idea?” Serena said. “Gonna go to Bank of America? That’s a loan program we could use around here. ‘Whether you’re starting a small business or starting a gang war, BofA is here to help.’”

I rolled over again, looking up speculatively at the ceiling. “That’s not exactly what I have in mind.”

thirty

LAX has a great energy: the constant flow of people whose lives are in motion, and, of course, the diversity. It’s hard to think of anywhere else you see such a racial and economic mix of people. It’s like a gigantic jury pool.

It was also a useful place for me to meet someone: accessible by public transportation and crowded enough for me to blend in. You’d think I’d chosen it as a place of meeting. I hadn’t. Nonetheless, around four in the afternoon, I was sitting in a bar off a main concourse, people-watching, with an ice-choked Pepsi in front of me. I’d been there about fifteen minutes when I saw him: CJ, half a head taller than the people around him, wearing tight, wash-faded cords and a T-shirt with the classic picture of Che Guevara over the legend I Have No Idea Who This Is. He was carrying no bag, just his Dobro guitar in its case, and a small box wrapped in paper from the Sunday comics and a red self-adhesive bow, the artless way men wrap a birthday present. It had been CJ who chose our meeting place. His flight to New York left in fifty-five minutes.

“I like your shirt,” I said, by way of greeting.

CJ said, “Funny, I was just about to say I liked yours. I think it’s a healthy step in you moving on from your relationship with the Army.”

Serena had loaned me a few things, but I was getting fond of the Navy T-shirt, which was why I was wearing it.

He set down his guitar. “I don’t feel really great about you being in L.A. like this,” he said, sliding onto the opposite stool.

“This isn’t even L.A.,” I said. “And I’m pretty sure someone like Marsellus travels by private plane.”

“People think someone like me travels by private plane,” CJ said, “yet here I am.”

I said, “I doubt you’re even going first class, dressed like that.”

“First class is a waste of money,” he said dismissively. “I just want to get there; I don’t need my ass kissed.”

“Maybe,” I said, “though I’d expect you could use the extra legroom. Speaking of, isn’t your guitar too long for a carry-on?”

“I always clear it with the airline in advance,” he said. “If they lose my bag, that’s no big deal. I wear the same thing two days running-people just assume I went home with a girl and never got back to my room to change. But I lose this”-he nodded at the guitar case-“then we have a problem. I promised some people I’d play for them.”

At that moment, the cocktail waitress approached. “What can I get you to drink today?” she asked him.

CJ shook his head. “Nothing, thanks. I’m not staying.”

She said, “Are you sure? It’d take me no time to bring out a Rolling Rock, or mix up something.”

Women loved to get things for CJ. And because I didn’t want to see him leave quickly, either, I said, “How did you know? He loves Rolling Rock.”

She smiled at me as though we were co-conspirators and went back to the bar.

CJ said, “You want me to miss my flight?”

“I didn’t notice you telling her that if you wanted your ass kissed, you’d go first class.”

He gave me a look and said, “Someday I’ll understand why asking favors and having them granted actually makes you meaner instead of nicer,” putting the newspaper-wrapped, ribboned box on the table between us.

I glanced down, gently shamed by the sight of it. “CJ, I-”

Then the waitress, true to her word, came back with the Rolling Rock. She noticed the box. “Somebody got a present.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Lucky you,” she said, and walked away, CJ watching the swing of her hips as she went.

I tried again: “Listen, I don’t know how to thank you for this. I’ll probably be years repaying you.” If I’m alive to do it. “You don’t even want to know what it’s for?”

“That isn’t a lot of money for me,” he said. “And I know things have been tough for you.”

It was best to let him think I’d let debts pile up, so I didn’t say anything to that.

He drank a little Rolling Rock and then said, “I’m sorry I haven’t been up to see you.”

I shrugged. “It’s okay.”

I saw It in his pale eyes, that he was weighing his next words. Then he said, “You should know… Marsellus’s wife left him.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Or he asked her to move out, I don’t know,” CJ went on. “I just thought you’d want to know. I’m not saying it’s anything to do with Trey. Marriages fail for a lot of reasons.”

“I know,” I said.

But my voice must have sounded leaden, because I saw the sympathy in his gaze as he spoke again. “Hailey, we’ve talked about this,” he said. “That boy’s death-”

“Is something I’m supposed to feel bad about, fault or no fault,” I interrupted. “That’s not being morbid, CJ. It’s being human.”

“You’re right,” he said after a moment. “I get it. I do.” Then: “I just wish things were like they used to be.”

I nodded.

“Hailey,” he said, “the other thing is, it’s not like I want you even farther away, but there are cities a good deal farther away from Marsellus. Places where you could live more out in the open.”

“Like where? Wichita?”

“Well, probably not New York or Miami, those are places that Marsellus and his associates travel to. But I always figured someone like you would do great in Alaska. Or down on the Gulf Coast.”

“Doing what?”

“I’d loan you a little money if you wanted to start a bar. Someplace on the water. You’d never have to pay me back, as long as I could drink there for free, and you learn to cook something Cajun for me when I come down.”