Chuck Logan - The Price of Blood

Broker nodded. “Ray’scigarette case.”

Nina’s eyes narrowed. “Mom gave it to him for Christmas.”

They leaned close, undeterred by Tuna’s putrid breath. He arched as if electrocuted and fell back and groped feebly and muttered, “Big one…”

Nina’s fingers flew over the towel on the crate. “Hold this.” She slapped the cooking spoon in Broker’s hand like a scalpel.

“That’s too much,” said Broker as she shook the heroin into the spoon and thumbed the plastic lighter. They watched the powder turn gummy in the heat, bubble.

“Sorry about the dirty needle, Jimmy,” Nina said under her breath as she inserted the syringe and drew back the plunger. “Okay.” She took a breath.

Broker fastened the rubber tie around Tuna’s left arm. Last time he’d shot in the right. Then he held the arm straight down and with both hands tried to duplicate the motions of clenching Tuna’s fist.

“Not much of a vein,” said Nina, judging her target.

“Hit him,” said Broker.

The needle punched into the flour-colored parchment of Tuna’s arm. She pulled back the plunger and got a watery blossom of blood in the clear liquid. She shoved the shot home. Total concentration. Nothing but steady. She was field-grade material, all right. She could send men to their deaths. No problem.

Tuna’s jaw unhinged and fell slack. His tongue got stuck in the dry rot of his cheeks. Nina reached for a napkin next to the food plates and wet it with San Miguel and swabbed his lips. “C’mon, Jimmy,” she crooned. She could have been coaxing an infant.

This time Tuna didn’t vomit. Broker imagined the cancer chasing down the jet of heroin like a sparkle of tracers in the dark cavern of Tuna’s brain.

“Joke,” gasped Tuna. “Joke’s on Cyrus.”

“We got him back,” said Nina.

Tuna blinked and then smiled with immense calm. “Man, she’s something, ain’t she,” he said and stared at the bloody needle in Nina’s hand. “They teach you that at OCS?”

“What about Ray’s gold cigarette case?” asked Broker.

“Evidence,” said Tuna and nodded out. They shook him.

One eye rolled open. “That night…morning really…when Cyrus showed up, Ray wouldn’t do it. You know Ray. By the book. Insisted on getting the orders in writing. Made Cyrus write it down, sign it. Op order to go for the gold…get it?”

Broker and Nina locked eyes.

Tuna giggled. “Saw him fold it in a piece of radio battery plastic, tuck it in his cigarette case, and button it into his chest pocket. All comes down to me fucking up. I was supposed to take it off him…forgot when the shooting started.”

Nina made a face but did not look away.

“He rolled out. But he fell into the cargo net . Snake city, fire coming in. The guys on the ground had the gold on the forklift, tipped it into the net on top of Ray. Get it?”

“If he stole it why’s he buried with it,” recited Nina.

“You got it, he’s on the beach under the gold, orders should be there with his…remains. Evidence,” he pronounced, again. Then he surged up toward Nina. “You still got that copy of the UCMJ, the article I underlined?”

“Yes I do,” said Nina.

“Figuring that out kept me going after I got the cancer. Now go out there and burn Cyrus at the fucking stake for everybody to see. That’s my act of contrition. My gift to you…” said Tuna. He turned to Broker. “You keep her on track over there. Do this right and you and Trin can get moderately rich. But to nail Cyrus the gooks have to catch him digging it up. So promise me, they get most of it.”

Broker nodded.

Tuna croaked again. “Map.”

Broker held up the map. Tuna blinked. “There’s this gook graveyard, on a hill over the dunes. And this little cove-here.” He stabbed the map. “It’s about four klics north of Trin’s vet’s home.” Tuna cackled. “Jimmy Tuna’s Memorial Home for Crippled Viet Cong. I love it. See the cemetery symbols?” Broker saw them. “Three of those old graves, with the big round walls…hope they’re still there.”

Broker nodded. “Get me something to write with,” he said urgently.

Tuna shook his head. “Don’t mark the map.” He grinned. “Trin’s rules, remember. Memorize the location. Center grave. Fix on the grave to your right, shoot an azimuth, one hundred and sixty-three degrees. Walk eighty-two steps. I paced it off. And dig.”

“You getting this?” said Broker, looking up.

“Got it,” said Nina.

There was an interval of silence while Tuna rested. All things revolved unsaid. Just eyes.

“That’s it. Now go,” Tuna blurted. He reached up and pulled Broker close by the arm. For a second his old strength flowed with the heroin. “Wait. Tell Tony not to bury them. And gimme the Colt. When the time comes I’ll have Tony leave me down there with the rifle and the pistol. Send for the sheriff so none of this rubs off on you.”

Nina nodded and handed Jimmy the.45. He squinted. “When push comes to shove, go with Trin, you understand?”

“I understand,” said Broker.

“Now you better split,” said Tuna. “Tony and me will fix it all here. Don’t worry, they won’t get to me. Be nice, though, if a few more of them would come through the woods into that field.” He lurched in his chair, fumbled at the rifle leaning against the rail, picked it up, and locked his eye to the scope. He scanned the trees. “Coming. Hear ’em in the grass. Black maggot sonsabitches.”

Broker stood up and tucked the map under his shirt. He hefted the Mini-14 and turned to Tuna. “Does this square it for killing Ray?”

“Fuck you, Broker.” He grinned and brandished the rifle. “Get outta here and let me die in peace.”

“That’s it, let’s go,” Broker yelled to Nina.

They ran.

Halfway across the field she stopped and held him by the arm. “What did he mean? Trin’s rules?”

“Trin’s first rule: Trust no one,” said Broker. “Now run.”

They jogged down through the springy alfalfa and into the oak grove. Jimmy Tuna’s raucous stoned laughter and the crack of the Carcano echoed through the trees, over the roar of the cicadas. Crazy. Shooting at sunspots.

A beleaguered Tony Sporta, breathing heavily, his overalls smeared with mud, waved to them from across the swamp. They plowed into the deep drag trail that now furrowed the sunken causeway, sinking past their knees. The two bodies lay in the muck just ahead.

“C’mon, c’mon. Leave ’em be,” yelled Sporta, waving them on. “I gotta go get some logging chains for weight.”

“There’s been a change,” yelled Broker. “No logging chains.” Sporta held his cupped hands to his ears and then stomped in a circle, swearing.

As they dragged their feet through the mire and struggled, half stepping, half slithering, over the corpses, Nina panted, “Remind you of anything?”

Broker frowned and she started chanting something under her breath, upbeat and vaguely familiar.

“Country Joe and the Fish,” said Broker. He scanned the trees. The Mini-14 floated in one hand, the other touched the tiger tooth under his shirt for luck. The mud sucked at his feet.

Next stop, Vietnam .

They had a map. The map would draw Cyrus like honey. Broker popped the clutch. Rubber scorched. Tony Sporta had thrown them the Beretta and Nina’s purse and shooed them from his office. Now he ducked a volley of gravel and, still swearing mightily, waved them on with a final gesture of good riddance.

They were wearing slimy hip waders of mud. Broker’s tennis shoe slipped off the accelerator.

Nina yelled over the grinding engine, “We have to run this by the U.S. Mission in Hanoi. Catch him red-handed. Arrange to get him…extradited.”