Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

“Benny.”

His head rolled toward me without the eyes opening.

“Sorry, Benny.”

His face scrunched. “It hurts. My ribs.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“It hurts.” His voice was a whisper, the hiss of a knife sliding into its sheath.

“Bob’s dead, Benny, and I barely know New Guy. Why didn’t you come to me? I’d have done anything if you’d just come to me.”

“I tried… I was too scared.”

“Tell me.”

He coughed, and his whole body wracked. He faded, and I thought he’d gone out on me. “Benny.”

I exhaled long, rubbed my temples. I must’ve hurt him more than I’d meant. I felt along his ribs, and he sucked breath. I tried with a lighter touch. I might have broken a couple. Maybe a punctured lung, internal bleeding. He was groggy.

“I hit you,” said Benny. “I’m sorry. I called Beggar after Bob and I left your mother’s house and told him you were taking the books to Stan, and he said I’d better get them or be sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“So I went to your apartment. I waited in the shrubs, and when you came out I hit you.” He coughed, red flecks on his lips. “I guess the joke was on me. I grabbed the briefcase, but it was empty.”

“Just take it easy.”

“It’s cold.” Benny’s eyes were glassy, unfocused.

“It’s okay.” I sat on the bathroom floor and pulled his head into my lap. “It’ll be okay.”

I pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger, put my other hand over his mouth. He went stiff, feebly tried to wiggle free, but there wasn’t much left in him. I felt him give, go slack under my touch, and that was all.

I pulled down the drapes in the master bedroom and wrapped him, dragged him to the hall closet, and put him inside on the floor under the shelves. I had to fold him up to make him fit, put him in a sitting position with his knees up to his chest.

I took one of the rags we’d used to tie him and wiped the place down, made sure I covered all the fixtures in the bathroom and all the doorknobs. I didn’t want to leave any prints. I circled the house twice, once inside and once out, to make sure we hadn’t left anything.

Then I went to Shane. He sat like a shrunken ball up against the stairs. The duct tape was twisted and stretched where he’d tried to pull free. He must’ve heard everything that had happened to his brother. He looked at me like I was the devil. I cocked his pistol, lifted it, aimed it at his forehead. Shane was a loose end. He shook. Tears in his eyes. I felt something hot and wet on my face. Tears there too. Everything had gotten so fucked up. How did it happen?

I lowered the pistol.

I fetched the package of coke, spilled half of it in front of Shane. “If you call the police, you’ll have to explain that. If I were you, I’d just get out of here, understand? Keep pulling at that tape, and you’ll get free. Benny was… just business. He screwed up.”

I couldn’t tell if Shane understood or not. It didn’t matter. I went outside and sat on the back steps. The night was cool. I huddled inside my jacket, and the tears came quick and hot down my face. I let it out, put my face in my hands, my shoulders heaving up and down. I was a mess of tears and sweat and snot. I made the low whimpering sound of a wounded animal.

An hour later, Lou pulled into the backyard, driving one of those updated Volkswagen Beetles. It was electric green. Lou opened the door, looked like a giant climbing out of a clown car.

“This is what you got?”

“I figured it was the thing most opposite of a Suburban. Inconspicuous.”

“You’re a regular James Bond.”

“I also stole a license plate off a Dodge up on blocks two houses over for when the Bug’s reported stolen.”

“Good. Help me get the stuff.”

We took everything out of the Suburban and jammed it into the backseat of the Bug. I checked under the Suburban’s seats and went through the whole thing, but it looked like we’d gotten it all. I wiped it down with the rag.

“Anything new?” Lou asked.

“I’ll tell you on the road.”

“What about the kid?”

“It’s been taken care of.”

He didn’t ask about Benny.

We ditched the VWabout a half-mile from where I’d left my car. We walked in silence, Lou all sullen. I dropped him at his motorcycle and sent him back to Orlando with some instructions. I needed him to keep an eye on some people.

“How will I get hold of you?” he asked.

I gave him Ma’s number and waved bye. The Harley thundered away like the end of the world. I found a phone at an Exxon station. Time to put Benny’s information to use.

I dialed Jimmy’s number. He answered in one ring but sounded sleepy. I apologized for ruining his nap.

“Hookman, what’s the latest?”

Almost nobody called me Hook or Hookman anymore. “I got a lead, Jimmy.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”

“Nobody ever does.”

“It’s important.”

“Okay, Charlie-boy. Make the drive. I’ll be waiting.”

The drive from Gainesville to Wedgewood, the golf course community on the edge of Orlando where Jimmy lived, took just a hair over two hours. I wanted this to be over quick. If Stan were on ice in the warehouse Benny had told me about, then I needed Jimmy’s help to bust in and grab Stan out of there- dead or alive.

Wedgewood was an up-and-coming community with gleaming white houses that all looked more or less the same with cookie-cutter lawns. But it was near good schools, safe and clean. A place where the residents didn’t have to worry about guys like me and Jimmy. I parked in the driveway behind his Cadillac.

I knocked, and he let me in with a smile and a nod. He was still a great big fat tub of goo.

“Hey, Charlie, come on in.” Jimmy waved me into his living room. A ten-year-old kid sat watching The Wizard of Oz on video. It was near the beginning of the film, and the house had just landed on the witch. “That’s my son, Jimmy Jr. Say hi to Charlie, Junior.”

The kid turned, gave me a wave, then glued his eyes back to the tube.

“The tin man’s my favorite,” I said.

“I like the monkeys,” said the kid.

“The what?”

“The monkeys.”

“What for?”

“They fly.”

“They only fly when the witch tells them to. How about the lion?”

“He can’t fly.”

“There’s more important things than flying, kid.”

“You look like shit, Charlie,” said Jimmy.

“I had a long night.” It was true. I was wrung out, no sleep.

“Come on. I got coffee.”

I followed Jimmy into the kitchen and slumped at his table. He poured me some coffee in a World’s Greatest Dad mug. Jimmy sat across from me. His mug said 100% Italian . For a second it was like we were two buddies, maybe getting ready to hit the golf links, maybe going fishing. But I forgot all that when Jimmy raised an eyebrow, cleared his throat. Time to get down to business.

“I might know where Stan is.”

Jimmy’s face was blank. “Yeah?”

“I found Benny. If Beggar has Stan, Benny had an idea where they might have stashed him.”

“Where’s Benny now?”

“He’s not in the picture anymore,” I said.

He knew better than to ask more about it. I told him about the warehouse in Bithlo. Jimmy nodded, said he knew the place. That made sense, since Jimmy was in charge of moving stolen goods in and out of the city. I didn’t know too much about that end of the operation, but I’d heard there were warehouses and storage sheds all over the city full of hot televisions, car radios, leather jackets, tires, compact discs and booze.