Richard Ford - The Ultimate Good Luck

“That’s not really the point anymore,” Quinn said.

The woman smiled ironically. “Of course not,” she said. “But you’re ready to pay big for whatever the point is. Is that it?”

The Mexican in white shoes appeared at the head of the corridor and spoke something to Bernhardt. “Not that big,” Quinn said. He looked at Bernhardt. He wanted to get to whatever they were here for.

“He must have something you want,” Zago’s wife said coolly.

“Nothing,” Quinn said. “It’s charity.”

“Of course it is,” Zago’s wife said and leaned back into the cushion of the couch, still smiling. Her skirt had come halfway up her thighs.

“Perhaps you would wait with Señora Zago,” Bernhardt whispered softly to Rae.

“But there’s always a big price, isn’t there, Carlos?” Zago’s wife said. “I’ll entertain your wife, Mr. Quinn.” She blew smoke up toward the dark skylights. “We’ll talk about you.”

Rae glanced at Zago’s wife, then uneasily at Quinn standing in the bright spots. She seemed anxious not to stay. “How long will this take?” she said.

“A moment, only,” Bernhardt said encouragingly.

“We don’t want to talk about you too long, Harry,” Rae said.

“It will be no time, believe me,” Bernhardt said. He looked at Zago’s wife and touched Quinn’s arm.

He walked between the Mexican and Bernhardt down the corridor toward a door half-open at the end. When they reached it the Mexican pushed gently into the room where the lights were off, and the green TV flicker made the air swim as if there was deep water inside. The room was tiny with no windows and no things on the walls. The air had the same sweetish men’s room odor as the garage corridor had. Zago sat on a plastic folding chair by the TV, his elbows on his knees, watching a soccer game televised from high up in a stadium. Quinn felt the small muscles in his stomach coming taut. He had the feeling someone was going to hit him. The bodyguard shut the door and the sound of the Mexican announcer yelling into his microphone grew louder until Zago leaned slowly forward and switched off the sound. Zago had a kraut’s face and dense yellow hair parted on the side like a schoolboy’s. He was a thick, big man and wore a businessman’s starched shirt and tie with suspenders that stretched his trousers up over his stomach. He was seventy and looked like a grocer. He had a kraut grocer’s well-being and a kraut’s fat body, but there was something in his slow formality that made Quinn certain he was Mexican.

“Do you like this game?” Zago said, still engaged by the screen.

“Not much,” Quinn said. It made him uneasy to have Bernhardt behind him, and the air was too thick.

Zago looked up at him with an annoyed look. His eyes moved less quickly than his face. “Baseball?” he mumbled. “You appreciate that game?”

“Sure,” Quinn said.

Zago set his hands on his knees. “Una pasatiempo, nada más,” he said and shook his head. “It is not a sport,” he said. He looked up at Bernhardt as if he was disappointed.

“That’s if you don’t like it. I like it,” Quinn said.

“I don’t like it,” Zago said. His cheeks twitched. “Why do you want to have someone killed, señor?” he said.

Quinn glanced quickly at Bernhardt. Bernhardt was expressionless. “That’s not what I want,” he said. He looked at Zago again. “I want to get a guy out of the prisión. That’s it.”

“That demands that someone is killed,” Zago pronounced solemnly, staring up at him without blinking.

“Not to me it doesn’t,” Quinn said.

Zago let his thick hand rise and fall back on his thigh in exasperation. “Your friend is a goddamned son of a bitch,” he said. He caught a look at the flickering screen.

“I can’t help that,” Quinn said.

“He steals two kilos of Colombiano from me,” Zago said, still engrossed by the set.

“He says he got something in a hotel room and the immigration police took it off him at the airport. He said he doesn’t know how much was there.” He felt uncomfortable standing in the room with the old man paying only broken attention. It was another waste of time.

“Why would you be here, Señor Quinn, if that was so?” Zago said patiently. He placed his hand on his chest. “He received four and two are not at the air terminal. I am not wrong.”

“It’s not what he says,” Quinn said.

“And that is why you are here, Señor. Because what he says is not the truth. And you must help him.”

“Maybe your kid only delivered two,” Quinn said.

Zago looked at him and at Bernhardt, who had not uttered a sound. “No,” Zago said wearily and shook his head. “Not possible as a thought.” He sighed. “Do you want to get your brother out of the prisión, Señor?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Quinn said. There was nothing else to say.

Zago tampered with a knob below the TV screen. The picture flopped sideways, then went right. “Then you must tell your brother to return the Colombiano, ahorita. Quickly.” He nodded at his own words.

“What if you’re wrong?” Quinn said.

“Then your brother will be in the prisión until someone kills him. And that will not be too long.” Zago’s fingers fidgeted on his legs. “Señor Bernhardt is a good lawyer. But he cannot make miracles.”

“What about Deats?” he said. He was trying to locate Bernhardt in the transaction now, figure just when in the scheme Bernhardt had come to seem like a good idea to Zago.

“Mr. Deats has difficulties,” Zago said softly. “He can go on with his difficulties or we can stop them tonight. Depende.”

Zago was going to kill Deats no matter what, he could just take his time or hurry. That was all it came to. Whether Zago hurried or didn’t hurry. It was simple.

“And what if I don’t convince him?” Quinn said.

“I think he will be reasonable,” Zago said. “He will speak honestly to you. I have convinced him.” Zago stood. He wasn’t as big as the impression he gave sitting down, he was only slow and heavy-boned. “When I am young,” he said expansively, “I am myself a socialista, like you, like my wife.” He smiled as if the thought both pleased him and amused him. He put both his hands under his suspenders. “It is in my heart. But I found out it is necessary to work to live. My son is now at Stanford.” Bernhardt was opening the door behind them. He had not spoken. Zago extended his thick hand. “Happy dreams, Señor.” He smiled. “Y buena suerte.”

Something had been decided, and he wanted it clear. “What about Deats?” he said.

“Do not worry about Señor Deats,” Zago said consolingly. “He is no longer your problem. He is mine, now. And I will protect you.” He held out his hand and Quinn put his in Zago’s large warm palm. Nothing felt under his control. All his choices were made for him. Sonny had the only option that mattered anymore, and that was exactly, he figured, the way God intended it.

RAE STOOD BESIDE the Mercedes, waiting for Bernhardt. Quinn stood in the middle of the court, watching the garage door. There was a chill now that the floodlights couldn’t warm, but he didn’t want to get in the car yet. He was working through Sonny in his mind, figuring just exactly what the responsibilities were, at what point you had to bolt. Sonny was stringing it all out and he was having to put it back right. And that made him feel stupid and mad.

“Zago’s wife fucks Bernhardt,” Rae said calmly, tapping her fingers on the hood of the car.

“Is that it?” he said.

“It’s like he wants to believe she won’t surprise him anymore,” she said. “Except it worries him. It’s real queer. Maybe it’s just Mexicans.”