Randy White - Dead Silence

“But all I wanted to do was get rid of those two, so I told them the cabin cruiser was great, it had huge range and where to find the keys. That was this morning, around six a.m., still dark. The Cubans were on the tarmac, the last time I saw them. I just walked away.”

I said, “Did you tell them where to find the keys to your boat?”

“I never tell anyone where to find the keys to my boat.”

“Then you’re sure they took the smaller boat?”

“Why should I care?” Myles snapped. “I thought I was done with the whole business… until you came along.”

In my mind, I was comparing this version of the story with earlier versions, as Myles said, “My manager lost more than his damn ugly little boat. He doesn’t realize it, but he’s about to be fired.”

I was picturing the Cubans aboard some junk cruiser, browsing through local charts, seeing hundreds of islands, and Havana Harbor two hundred miles to the south. “You sound heartbroken,” I replied.

“No, I’ll enjoy it. The man sees himself as some kind of blue-collar hero. When he really is a know-it-all jerk.” Myles gave it a few beats, then decided to test my boundaries. “You and my stable manager have a lot in common. You’d probably hit it off.”

I replied, “Maybe I’ll come visit one day.”

“Sure, I can see it-two macho guys bragging about their scars, having fun talking about guns. Stop for a few beers after work, then go bowling on Sundays. Real buddies, I can almost guarantee it.” From the corner of my eye, I could see the man staring at me.

“You have something against people who work for a living?”

“See? That’s exactly the sort of thing he would say. No, I don’t. But men like you have something against men like me, men who are successful, who make a difference in the world. That’s how you and my manager are similar. I can understand how galling that must be because there’s really nothing you can do to improve yourselves. It’s not your fault. Genetics-‘paralyzing the hope of reform,’ as Bryan put it. Do you know who I’m talking about?”

I said, “No,” thinking, William Jennings Bryan, Scopes trial.

Myles, the Ivy Leaguer, said, “ High heritability: Do you have any idea what that means? It has to do with genetics. Human IQs. It applies to animal husbandry, too.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding,” he smiled. “I’m not criticizing, mind you. It’s an observation. We don’t choose our parents or our social class. People like you, and the people who work for me, you’re all a type. There are a lot of mutts out there and not many purebreds.”

I was picturing Roxanne Sofvia, her expression of hurt and surprise, as he added, “Nothing wrong with either one. Sort of like horses: Some are champions, others pull plows. I think you know where you fit in.” Now the man’s ego was rallying. “No offense,” he said.

I replied, “Just being in the same car with you, Nels, is offensive enough.”

The man had a sly, bitter way of laughing as he spoke. “Funny! What a big night it must be for you, having power over someone like me. For a short time anyway.”

I said, “I think of it as being immunized against a personality disorder: assholishness. ”

“Is that a word?”

“We use it at the bowling alley all the time. Like getting a shot for something contagious. Like the flu…” I gave it a few beats. “Or herpes.”

The bully inside me enjoyed the man’s sour silence.

At 8:30 a.m., Saturday, January twenty-fifth, Farfel used his new cell phone to snap a photo of Will Chaser staring up from his coffin, then lobbed a handful of sand at the boy’s face before walking to confer with Hump, who was leaning on a shovel waiting.

The sand was a farewell gesture of contempt and punishment for the boy’s recent behavior.

When Hump had pried the lid off the box, after so many hours in darkness the boy had sat up and started bawling. He had stupidly misread the photographic interlude, believing the fresh sunlight signaled freedom instead of what it actually foreshadowed: William Chaser’s last living minutes on the face of the earth.

The boy had cried so hard that he started coughing, another silly mistake because his mouth was taped. Then he’d begun choking, coughing and choking with such violence that his eyes bulged.

Panicking, Hump had ripped the tape from the kid’s mouth and the kid instantly began begging for forgiveness and thanking Farfel for his life, crying through the entire scene.

Disgusting. How many times had broken men asked Farfel for forgiveness? It was a variation of the Stockholm syndrome. As a researcher, Farfel understood that all men have a breaking point. Begging was part of a predictable chain of behavior. But the boy’s perverse gratitude for being hurt and humiliated was unaccountable, a dramatic device used to evoke sympathy.

The Cuban had experienced it too many times.

“Shut up!” Farfel had yelled in English. “You’re a disgrace. Show some self-respect.”

When the boy continued bawling and blabbering for forgiveness, the Cuban had reached to slap him-something Farfel now had to admit was a rare mistake on his part.

Instantly, the insane young Indian had ceased crying, swung his jaws like a snake, and bit a chunk out of Farfel’s hand the size of a quarter.

Maricon! Basura!

In reply, the child’s Spanish improved when he used profanity to call Farfel sick names and threatened to kill him in sick ways until Hump finally silenced the boy with a fresh roll of duct tape.

Before Farfel took two steps, he turned and used the hand that wasn’t bleeding to toss another clod of sand at the boy and the boy thrust his face forward as if to catch it. Never in the man’s life had he seen such wild hatred, such black, crazed eyes.

Insane, yes, but at least interesting.

To Hump, Farfel said, “While I transmit the photo, nail the lid shut and bury the brat. After all the trouble he’s caused us? Don’t kill him. I want him to have some time with the worms before he dies.”

Touching the side of his head gingerly, Hump agreed, saying, “I’m worried I’m gonna lose my ear. You should make a poultice for your hand. The Devil Child’s teeth contain a poison, I believe.”

Farfel said, “Quit complaining and listen! Fill the hole, then use your weight to stomp around on the sand. Pack it smooth. That’s important. We don’t want anyone to spot it from the air.”

“Pack the sand smooth,” Hump repeated, making a mental list.

“After that, connect the battery to the fan and aim it so it’s blowing toward the pipe. I don’t care how close you put it, or even if the damn thing works, but it’s part of the agreement. We should be in Havana by sunset, but if something else goes wrong”-Farfel’s expression warned It better not! -“it would look bad in court if there was no fan as we promised.”

“Connect the fan,” Hump repeated, “but after I fill in the hole first?”

“ Yes. Is that so complicated?”

Hump had something on his mind, Farfel could tell by the giant’s twitching. He was working up the nerve to say, “My ears are still making a terrible boom-boom sound because of the rock the boy attacked me with. Is it possible I have a concussion? Something serious damaged inside my brain?”

Now Farfel’s expression read No… even if I said it, he wouldn’t get it.

“Dr. Navarro,” Hump continued, “just burying the brat doesn’t seem enough. While the coffin lid is off, couldn’t I first punish him in some small way by-”

“No! Hurry up and do what I told you. I want to be in the boat, on our way to Cuba, before the FBI starts analyzing the photo.”

Farfel walked away, concentrating on his new cell phone, a BlackBerry that could send photos over the Internet. He’d bought it on the black market in Havana using some of the money Nelson Myles, the rich child killer, had provided.