T. Parker - The Famous and the Dead

“Vamos, amigos.”

“We’ll wait. You check it out, pinche gringo .”

“I’ll do that. I won’t be long.”

Hood ambled toward the clubhouse like a man with time on his hands. When he came to the bottom of the steps, he saw Clint Wampler standing off to the side of the building in his peacoat with a combat shotgun cradled in his arms. He had a hand on the grip and the white tape on his middle finger was luminous in the near-dark. “Good evening,” said Hood. “How’s the finger?”

“It’s fine.”

“Just bad timing. No hard feelings, I hope.”

“You can call it an accident but that’s like the kettle and the black pot. What are your greaseball buyers doing out there?”

“They don’t trust you. Or me, for that matter.”

“They brung the money?”

“Every cent.”

“Go on in, Glitter Gums. If you come out before me getting a prearranged signal from Lyle, I get to blow your head off.”

“Then I hope you have your signals straight.”

“I’m praying for some kind of mix-up. A timing thing, maybe, like my finger. They happen all the time.”

Hood pushed through a heavy wood-and-iron door and stepped into the clubhouse. The room was large and the ceiling high and there were double doors in the back. Near the center of it was an empty cable spool and on the spool stood two camping lanterns that gave off a whispering hiss and clean white light. Skull and Brock Peltz stood behind the spool, their faces beveled into light and shadow as if by stage lights. Skull had a pistol stuck behind his belt buckle and Peltz wore a shotgun strapped to his shoulder. Four open crates rested on the spool between the lanterns. Hood saw the wooden nests of packing material and the glimmer of the hardware within.

“Where’s the greasers and money?” asked Skull.

“The amigos are nervous.”

“So, what, they sit out there and jack each other off?”

“I suppose.”

Skull pulled a cell phone and said something, then clipped it back to his belt. “Get back out there and bring the money. Your men can stay where they are for all I care. You were the one who needed friendship.”

“Well, the kid didn’t shoot me so I guess I’m good.”

“You’re only as good as your money.”

“Can I have a look?”

“Step up but don’t touch until I’m counting my cash.”

Hood looked down on the missile launchers. He could smell them, metal and gun oil and solvent. The missiles themselves were in long narrow crates, one beside each launcher, all of them nestled into the wooden packing nest. “They look like puppies,” he said.

“You’re fuckin’ weird. Get the money.”

“Roger. You’ve got the chimp in the loop?”

“He’s expecting you.”

Hood went back through the heavy doors and saluted Wampler on his way to the parking lot. He stopped near the driver’s side door and spoke through the open window. “It’s time.”

“We’re going to burn one.”

“Suit yourself.” Hood watched as Marquez held the joint up and lit it. He blew onto the lit end to get the stuff going and soon the smoke lilted into the air and began to drift out the windows. “The Stingers look new, just like they said.”

Marquez passed the dope to Reggie Cepeda, who blew on it again and Hood saw the cherry glow. He looked back to the clubhouse for Wampler but saw only darkness. He glanced at the wall. “Let’s do this,” he said.

They walked back toward the clubhouse loosely abreast, Hood in the middle with the duffel. The last time he’d carried a bag full of money it was quite a bit heavier: one million dollars ransom for the life of Erin McKenna, Bradley’s wife, to be delivered by Hood to drug lord Benjamin Armenta at his castle in Yucatan. Not much about that quest had turned out as Hood planned, though he and Erin and Bradley had lived to be haunted by those days. He remembered Mike Finnegan’s Veracruz apartment, and the wet hiss of the knife across his scalp, and now here four months later in El Centro he felt his hat rubbing against the scar along his hairline. He pulled lightly on the brim to break the contact and felt a shiver climb his back. He glanced down at his transmitter and saw the green LED. Give me luck this time. Cepeda carried the joint and faked a big inhale, then flicked it ahead of him and ground it out on the way by.

Clint Wampler was not at his station. Hood’s heart sped up. As they approached he peered hard into the darkness on either side of the clubhouse doors but saw no movement or glimmer of gun or flash of bandage. “The lookout’s gone,” he said. “The young guy.” They climbed the stone steps to the covered landing and still Hood couldn’t see Wampler. There was still the weak light coming from between the big double doors. He looked at each of the men and they nodded and Marquez unbuttoned his sport coat. Hood rapped hard on the door. “Money talks.”

“Bring her in!” Skull called.

“Where’s the kid?”

“What do you care?”

“I want to know why he’s not out here.”

“Because I’m in here, you dumb turd! Show us the money!”

“I like the kid where I can see him,” said Hood.

“Then we’ll sell these babies to someone else,” said Skull.

“We’re coming in.” Hood took a deep breath and pushed through the heavy doors. In the brittle light of the lantern he saw that the crates were no longer open on the cable spool but leaning up against it, closed. Then all he saw was wrong movement: Skull and Peltz raising their weapons as their shadows mimed them from the ceiling, Clint Wampler springing in from the darkness beyond the lantern light, racking his shotgun.

“Police!” yelled Skull. “You are under arrest! Police! Put your hands up! Good! Up! And keep them there, you cartel beaners!”

Hood’s hands were high. “I’m Charlie Hooper, ATF. We’re all federal agents, Dirk. Put the guns down. You’re cops ? Then we have a big misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, and the cavalry is coming.”

“Don’t turn it into a Steven Spielberg movie,” said Hood.

“The fuck are you talking about?” said Wampler. “How come you said that?”

Skull squinted at Hood. Then, pistol still in hand, he gathered up two of the crates with his free arm. Peltz let go of the shotgun, which swung on its sling as he took up the second launcher and missile.

“Dirk Sculler,” said Hood. “Be cool now. We’re ATF. We’ve got our badges out in the cars. We’re stinging you and you’re stinging us. Guns down. Guns down. None of us wants to get shot over something like this.”

“For nothing like this!” said Wampler. “Don’t move or even dream about it.” He scuttled in and squatted to snatch up the money, smiling up the barrel of his shotgun at Hood.

“I’m Marquez, ATF L.A.”

“Cepeda, ATF L.A.”

“I’m Jesse James,” said Skull, sweeping by them with his gun still pointed at Hood’s chest. “See you later, you wetback greasers.”

Peltz and Wampler covered the agents as Skull put his pistol hand to the doorknob and pulled, keeping an eye on Hood. In the newly opened rectangle of night, Hood saw Yorth charging toward them with his sidearm drawn, Bly wide to the left and Velasquez to the right. Behind him, Marquez launched into Brock Peltz, who crashed hard into the door. Skull dropped his crates and was gone. Hood swept the pistol from under his coattail and went after him. From inside the clubhouse Hood heard a shotgun roar twice.

Skull was heavy but strong and he muscled through the darkness step for step ahead of Hood. Near the wall he stopped and fired three rounds that whirred past Hood’s head. Hood went down, rolled over his hat, then popped upright again without ever stopping. Skull climbed the wall, turned and fired off two more rounds, then scrambled over. Hood made the wall and ran along it for fifty feet before he jumped it. He landed flat and hard and he could see that Skull had lost sight of him. The cop started across the street. A car swerved and the driver cursed furiously as Skull lumbered into the park-and-ride lot. Hood sprinted with all he had. His two-toned brogans were poor running shoes but his legs were long and he could see that Skull was slowing. He crossed the street without traffic and sprinted past Yorth’s and Bly’s cars. Skull ran to the edge of the dimly lighted parking lot and charged off into the darkness of a cotton field.