Adrian McKinty - Fifty Grand

“Shit. Is it something we should be concerned about?”

Briggs shakes his head. “I don’t know. Something might have gotten garbled down there. I’ll check it out. I’ll ask Esteban. No, to hell with ask, I’ll brace the fucker. I’ll find out what’s going on. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“Should I tell Paul?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ll look into this, really look into it. Let you know Monday.”

“Ok.”

Briggs shakes his head, ruefully gestures at the overturned chair. “And, and I’m sorry about all this, Jack.”

Jack, not Mr. Tyrone.

“It’s a bit much for a Sunday morning. You scared the shit out of María.”

“I’m sorry about that. Maybe made a mistake about her. Anyway, I’ll let you know what’s going on by tomorrow.”

Jack murmurs something that I can’t hear.

I press my face right against the bug screen but I still can’t catch it.

Jack and the sheriff shake hands. Briggs picks up the poker and hands it to Jack.

Jack laughs.

The sheriff laughs.

Very cordial. Very anglo. Is this how they do things here? In Cuba you don’t let a man rough up your woman. You put him in the fucking hospital. You kill him.

This… this seems too easy.

Briggs points back at the house. I shrink from the window. He puts his hands on his hips, spits.

“Thing is, Jackie boy, even if she’s clean, I mean, really, the maid?”

“She’s great.”

“You don’t see me running around with easy pickings and I’ve got plenty of opportunity. You gotta get your act together,” the sheriff says.

“Hey, I wanna-”

“Wait a minute, hear me out. I mean, what do you want? What do you really want out of life?”

“I want a career. A good career,” Jack says.

“You want to do good work, you want to be remembered. Right?”

“Yes. That and friends and a family.”

“You don’t think I want that? You don’t think I want to get married again, have kids? I’m not getting any younger. But I’m trying to build something up here. A town. A community. Something that will last. Even if the Scientologists don’t come, I’ll have made something that’ll be here a hundred, a thousand years from now. This was barely a village before we got started; in a few years we’ll be in full competition with Aspen and Vail. You gotta get with the program, Jack, you have to take life more seriously. Your friend María, Esteban, people like that, they’re not thinking about the future-I doubt they’re thinking at all-don’t let them drag you down to their level. Set your goals high, Jack, make some sacrifices. It’s not about instant gratification, it’s about the long term, it’s about posterity.”

Jack nods solemnly. Briggs puts his big paw on Jack’s shoulder.

Gives me a spine shiver from neck to ass.

Briggs walks down the gravel path. Jack waves and then says, “Hey, Sheriff, you were in the Marines, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You think we could talk some time? I’m playing a British Army officer in this movie I’m doing. Maybe we could have coffee and you could give me a few hints.”

“Sure. Let’s do that. I’ll call you Monday.”

Jack waves again and comes back into the house.

When he appears in the kitchen the coffee’s ready. I pour him a cup.

“Thanks,” he says.

I wait a beat, then two, then almost half a minute before finally he remembers to say it: “God, María, I’m really sorry about Briggs.”

“I was so scared,” I tell him, giving him a big slice of the truth.

“It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok,” he says.

I sit on his lap and have coffee and a stale bagel. Not once does he offer an explanation but several times he looks at his watch.

I shower, scald myself with the water. Wither away that expensive olive oil soap.

I change into my invisible clothes from yesterday. No lipstick, no makeup. Wool hat over my forehead.

Jack’s on the phone when I come out of the bedroom. He hangs up with an enormous smile on his face. “Fucking hell! Sunday lunch at the man’s! Can you believe it? Can you believe it? Beckham’s gonna be there. Not to mention Kelly and Katie. Fuck, he didn’t say Travolta but if Kelly’s gonna be there, who knows, right? Me and Mister C. Jesus! Jesus! Gotta tell Paul and Danny.”

“That’s great,” I say without inflection.

“Wow, he remembered me, all right. Did I tell you we were in Mission Impossible 3 together?”

“Yes.”

“I was little more than a glorified extra, but he must have remembered me. See, that’s how things go. It’s all contacts. And Paul’s right. Do some indies, the big pics follow. I’m not even thirty-officially-and I’m moving into the territory. Lead in Gunmetal and then maybe a second lead in a Cruise flick. Maybe the quirky best friend. Second banana in a Cruise movie. Fuck! That’ll pay the pension. Ever see A Few Good Men ? The guy can act. Oh, and don’t think I’m discounting Travolta, hell no. Pulp Fiction , Saturday Night Fever, man, two of the all-time classics.”

His eyes glaze over and he stares through me. His face falls.

“Oh, honey, look, I’m sorry, forgot to say, invite’s only for one. Wait a minute, look, tell you what, do you want me to call up and ask if he’d mind or…” His voice trails off.

I try not to smile. Would he really do it if I asked him?

“No, no, thank you, Jack. I have a million things to do.”

Relief. Maybe Katie or Kelly has a sister.

I kiss him on the cheek and he calls Youkilis. I don’t think he even notices me when I slip out.

Five minutes later I’m walking back down the hill to the crossing.

In town I stop at Starbucks and order an espresso. It comes in a giant cup. Even when I add sugar it’s about as far from a Cuban coffee as A Few Good Men is from a real depiction of the naval base at Guantánamo Bay. The espresso costs a dollar seventy-five, which is more than the average daily wage in Havana. I can’t bring myself to finish it.

I shoulder the backpack and continue on. Past the trophy-wife stores, the ski shops, the delis, up the other hill to Wetback Mountain.

A police cruiser waiting outside the motel.

Might be a deputy, might be unrelated to me and the garage, but I can’t take the chance. The last thing I want is another encounter with that psychopath. I step off the road and disappear into the woods. I walk through the pine cones and fallen branches and sit on a log.

There’s a river running through the trees. The quiet glade reminds me of Río Jaimanitas, just outside Havana.

Time to think. Think about suspects, think about the clock.

Suspects. Their talk has more or less cleared Esteban. They thought he was involved in a blackmail plot about the accident. Ergo it can’t be him. I never thought it was. Ricky’s hunch-who kills a man and leaves his car unrepaired for six months? Still, I’d like one last interview to ask him about his deer.

Not E. Not Mrs. C., not in a million years. It’s Y.

Jack has given him to me. Jack and his good buddy the sheriff. Y. Y. Y.

The clock. Sunday morning. My flight from Mexico City to Havana is early Tuesday. So by this time tomorrow I need to be on the bus to El Paso. Cross over, to Juárez. Flight from Juárez to Mexico City. Jesus, it’s tight. I certainly don’t have all the information. In Havana I’d call this half a case. I’d need another full week’s work before I’d even think about going to Hector with the file. But that’s there and this is here. Here Briggs is on my neck and my options have collapsed into one simple thought: If I’m going to do this then it has to be tonight .