Майкл Коннелли - The Best American Mystery Stories 2018

I had left the door to the bar open, and as I peered from my seat at one of the tables, I could see the approaching headlights of the black Lexus make their way toward the Sporting Place. The headlights shone into the doorway as the car turned into the three-car parking lot in front of the bar.

I heard two car doors open and then close and then Arjoon was at the doorway, followed by a very large light-brown-skinned man with a curly Mohawk and a thick black beard. Arjoon grinned as he looked at me, revealing those crooked teeth.

“Mr… . Buon… fig… lio,” he said, drawing out my name with intended drama. “Very good of you to invite us here at this late hour. It has been a long day and I’m tired. I expected to be asleep by now in one of LuJean’s comfortable beds and dreaming about her famous breakfast.”

I kept my eye on the big man as Arjoon walked past me to the bar.

He glanced at the bar, staring at the breadfruits there. “I came to St. Pierre bearing breadfruit, a carton of twelve. I have accounted for ten—two went missing. Are those my missing breadfruits?”

I didn’t answer. “You didn’t have to do what you did to Mr. Grainey,” I said instead. Arjoon turned back to face me. I looked back at him.

“Oh, but we did. He had something that belonged to me and would not tell me where it was. We… well, not we, really, but my associate Parker here did his best to get him to tell us where we could find my property, but the old man just wasn’t much of a talker.” Arjoon was studying me—trying to read my expression. “I know you gave him what was mine. The poor man suffered because of what you did. But how would you know? You shouldn’t really blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault at all.”

His smile returned, and I felt my mouth go dry. I sensed the big man behind me. I wanted to get up from my chair. It took all I had to stay put.

“I’m hoping our business can conclude without more violence,” he said, again turning to the breadfruits on the bar. “I would very much like that. I would very much like to collect what is mine and leave this island. It was a mistake to come here, and I take full responsibility for that.”

He leaned against the bar and picked up one of the breadfruits, weighing it in his hand. He looked back at me. His smile was gone. He pulled out a knife from his pocket and opened it, the blade glinting from the lighting behind the bar. He slit the breadfruit open with the knife. Pulp and seeds spilled onto the bar. He quickly cut open the other—again just pulp and seeds. He shook his head as he looked at me and then glanced at the big man behind me.

Before I knew it I was lifted up off my chair and thrown hard against the side of the bar. I felt the air whoosh out of me. I tried to get onto my feet, but the big man, Parker, had me again; this time his fist was driving hard into my chest, knocking me back again.

I slowly tried to stand. Parker was moving toward me again. I needed to get to my feet. I had to get up. Arjoon moved in front of me and held out his palm, keeping Parker away from me. “This is no game, Mr. Buonfiglio,” he said, bending over me so close I could see the blackheads on his pockmarked face and smell the curry he ate for dinner on his breath. “Where is my property?”

I stood straight up now. My chest felt as if it had been hit by a sledgehammer. I kept my eyes on Arjoon. “You shouldn’t have hurt that man,” I whispered to him.

Arjoon just shook his head and pulled his hand back. Parker moved to me again. This time I set myself so I had one leg in front of the other, leaning back a bit on my rear, right leg. It had been a long time since I had done this. I hadn’t trained at all since I left New York. I never had the desire. That was part of my past; St. Pierre was my future, whatever was left of it. I didn’t think there would be a need for anything like this, but now there was. I flexed the ball of my left leg and, opening up my back right leg, swung up my left leg, whipping it around as fast and straight as I could, my shin driving hard into Parker’s neck, the roundhouse kick sending him backward and down onto one of the bar’s few tables, shattering it.

The kick stunned me as well; my leg was throbbing and the many nerves in my back buzzing like high-voltage jolts of electrical shocks. Parker was down, but the kick was not forceful enough to put him out. He got up surprisingly quickly and grabbed hold of me. He pinned my left arm against my chest tightly as he delivered jabs to my neck and jaw, but there wasn’t enough behind them to take me out. Still, each blow was like a shovel to my head. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. He was much younger. He was much bigger. And my window was closing fast. He had his left arm tight around my own left arm and chest, holding me firm as he delivered his blows, but he had left my hips and legs free. Again, trying to draw on my training from years ago, I quickly swiveled, and almost leaving my feet, I drew the fist and elbow of my right arm up in a rapid motion, spinning it around at full force and driving it through Parker’s temple, just above his eye. The diagonal elbow strike stunned Parker, and his arms went lifeless now as they fell from my body. He went down again. I turned, poised now in a fighting position. But this time he didn’t get up.

The pain from the blow to Parker’s head shot through my elbow down my arm and back up to my neck. It was a numbing tingle that made my legs sway. I was about to turn to Arjoon when I felt the cold gun muzzle against the back of my head. “Put your head on the bar,” he commanded. I did as he said. “Very impressive, Mr. Buonfiglio. But now it’s over. I have no more time for any of this. I will kill you. And though I liked meeting and chatting with you earlier, now I don’t like you at all and will take enormous pleasure in seeing your brains splattered on your shiny bar. So one last time before I take my leave from this backwater island: where is my property?”

With my head pressed to the bar, I heard his words, but I wasn’t thinking about them. They were just fading background noise. Instead I thought about how heavy the smoke was and how it singed my throat as I made my way up those stairs on that June morning. I was as close to death then as I was now. But I kept moving. I survived and helped others survive. I didn’t do it to be a hero. I had my own selfish—dishonorable—reasons. But they said I was a hero. And that was my curse. I survived that day and many times wished I hadn’t. Did I want to survive this one? I wasn’t sure.

“Okay now.” I heard him grunt and then I heard what sounded like a shot. I expected pain. But all I felt was the force of his body on top of mine.

I pulled myself out from under him. The back of his head was caved in; even that unsightly male hair bun was matted with blood and indented into his skull.

I slowly turned around. Tubby was there. In his hand was a cricket bat, the blood from Arjoon’s skull discoloring its wooden finish. I fell back onto one of the barstools. My body was a painful throb that wouldn’t stop.

“I see a move like that on TV once,” he said. “Muay Thai?” His eyes were on me in a combination of awe and pity.

I looked at him but didn’t answer. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest. I was too tired to talk.

“You go to my ma’s house and take her breadfruit,” Tubby said to me, his eyes on the beat-up mess in front of him. “Next time ask me and I bring the breadfruit to you. Next time you’ll know better than to hide de stuff from your partner.”

Next time? There better not be a next time, I thought to myself. I gave him a weary nod. “Yeah, Tubby, I will,” I mumbled while I continued to try to suck air back into my lungs.

When my heart slowed enough for me to speak more clearly, I pointed to the door to the back. “Tubby, go out to the smoker,” I said. “There’s a big jar in it. Bring it here.”