Dennis Lehane: Moonlight Mile

Tadeo said to me, “The re-up’s coming on that shit, homes. Believe it,” but there was a hollow catch in his voice that came from trying not to look at Bubba.

“I’m Max.” The tweeker behind my laptop gave me a broad smile. He sucked oxygen into his nostrils and gave me a wink. “I’m the IT guy up in this shit. Nice laptop.”

I nodded at the table. “My laptop.”

“Huh?” He look wildly confused. “This is my laptop.”

“Funny. Looks a lot like mine.”

“That’s called a model.” His eyes popped against their sockets. “If they all looked different, they’d be kind of hard to manufacture, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Tadeo said, “you fucking retarded and shit?”

I said, “I’m just a girl standing before a boy looking for his laptop.”

“I heard you’d got your head in the right place about this,” Max said. “We were never supposed to see you again. No harm, no foul. You want to bring us into your life, you don’t fucking understand how bad that will be.” He closed my laptop and placed it in the drawer to his right.

“Look,” I said, “I can’t afford a replacement.”

He rocked forward into the desk, his whole endoskeleton surging against his skin. “Call a fucking insurance company.”

“It’s not insured.”

“This fucking guy, bro,” he said to Bubba, then checked the position of his men. He looked back at me. “You’re out of this. Just let it go and you’ll stay out of it. Run back to your little life.”

“I’m going. I just want to take my laptop back with me. And the picture of my daughter that was in my bag. Bag’s yours.”

Tadeo moved all the way out from behind the desk. The fat guy stayed against the wall, breathing heavy. The kid mechanic was breathing heavy, too, and blinking like crazy.

“I know the bag’s mine.” Max got to his feet. “I know this office is mine, that ceiling, the O-ring in your ass, if I feel like it.”

“Uh, okay,” I said. “Hey, who hired you, by the way?”

“Man, you with the questions .” He flung his hands at me like he was auditioning for a Lil Weezy video and then scratched the back of his head furiously. “You don’t make demands. You go the fuck home.” He shooed me with his fingers. “Bro, I say one word and you’re fucking-”

Bubba’s shot spun him in place. Max let out a sharp shout and fell back into his chair. The chair slammed off the wall and dumped Max to the floor. He lay there for a bit with blood pouring from the vicinity of his waistline.

“What’s with all this ‘bro’ shit lately?” Bubba lowered his gun. It was his new favorite, a Steyr 9mm. Austrian. Hideous-looking.

“Ho, shit!” Tadeo said. “Holy fucking shit.”

Bubba pointed the Steyr at Tadeo and then the fat guy. Tadeo put his hands on his head. The fat guy did too. They both stood there shaking and awaiting further instruction.

Bubba didn’t even bother with the kid. He’d dropped to his knees and lowered his head to the floor and kept whispering, “Please, please.”

“You fucking shoot the guy?” I said. “A bit harsh, no?”

“Don’t bring me out on this shit if you’re going to leave your pair at home.” Bubba frowned. “Goddamn embarrassing what a civilian you’ve become, man.”

I got a closer look at Max as a burst of air left his mouth. He ground his forehead into the cement floor and pounded a fist on it.

“He’s fucked up,” I said.

“I barely hit him.”

“You blew one of his hips off.”

Bubba said, “He’s got two.”

Max began to shake. The shakes quickly turned to convulsions. Tadeo took a step toward him and Bubba took two steps toward Tadeo, the Steyr aimed at his chest.

“I’ll kill you just for being short,” Bubba said.

“I’m sorry.” Tadeo raised his hands as high as they could go.

Max flopped onto his back. Kettle hisses preceded his gulps of air.

“I’ll kill you for wearing that deodorant,” Bubba told Tadeo. “I’ll kill your friend for being your friend.”

Tadeo lowered his hands until they shook in front of his face. He closed his eyes.

His friend said, “We’re not friends. He gives me shit about my weight.”

Bubba raised an eyebrow. “You could lose a few but you’re not an orca or anything. Shit, man, just lay off the white bread and the cheese.”

“I’m thinking Atkins,” the guy said.

“I tried that.”

“Yeah?”

“You gotta give up alcohol for two weeks.” Bubba grimaced. “Two weeks .”

The guy nodded. “That’s what I told the wife.”

Max kicked the desk. The back of his head rattled off the floor. Then he was still.

“He dead?” Bubba asked.

“No,” I said. “But he’s heading there, he don’t get a doctor.”

Bubba produced a business card. He asked the big guy, “What’s your name?”

“Augustan.”

“Well… No, really?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Bubba looked over at me and shrugged before looking back at Augustan. He handed him the card. “Call this guy. He works for me. He’ll fix your friend up. The fixing’s free, but the drugs’ll cost you.”

“That’s fair.”

Bubba rolled his eyes at me and let loose a sigh. “Grab your laptop, would you?”

I did.

“Tadeo,” I said.

Tadeo lowered his shaking hands from his face.

“Who hired you?”

“What?” Tadeo blinked several times. “Uh, a friend of Max’s. Kenny.”

“Kenny?” Bubba said. “You got me out of bed so I could shoot some prick over a Kenny ? That’s fucking humiliating.”

I ignored him. “Redheaded guy from the house, Tadeo?”

“Kenny Hendricks, yeah. He said you knew his old lady. Said you found her kid once when she went missing.”

Helene. If it smelled of stupid, Helene just had to be somewhere nearby.

“Kenny,” Bubba repeated with a bitter sigh.

“Where’s my bag?” I said.

“Other drawer,” Tadeo said.

Augustan said to Bubba, “I can call your doc now?”

“Augustan always?” Bubba asked. “Never Gus?”

“Never Gus,” the big guy said.

Bubba gave that some thought, then nodded. “Go ahead. Call the number.”

Augustan flipped open a cell and dialed. I found my bag in the desk drawer, found Gabby’s picture and my case files, too. As Augustan told the doctor his buddy was losing a lot of blood, I put the laptop in my bag and walked to the door. Bubba pocketed his weapon and followed me out of the garage.

In my dream, Amanda McCready was ten, maybe eleven. She sat on the porch of a yellow bungalow with stone steps, a white bulldog snoring at her feet. Tall ancient trees sprouted from a strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street. We were somewhere down South, Charleston maybe. Spanish moss hung from the trees, and the house had a tin roof.

Jack and Tricia Doyle sat behind Amanda in wicker armchairs, a chess table between them. They hadn’t aged at all.

I came up the walk in my postal outfit, and the dog raised its head and stared at me with sad black eyes. Its left ear bore a spot the same black as its nose. It licked its nose and then rolled on its back.

Jack and Tricia Doyle looked up from their chess game and stared at me.

“I’m just delivering the mail,” I said. “I’m just the mailman.”

They stared. They didn’t say a word.

I handed Amanda the mail and stood waiting for my tip. She leafed through the envelopes, tossing them aside one by one. They landed in the bushes and turned yellow and wet.

She looked up at me, her hands empty. “You didn’t bring anything we can use.”