Richard Ford - The Ultimate Good Luck

“Las montañas,” Muñoz said. “Hay muchas lugares. There are many places safe there.” Muñoz looked confidentially at Susan Zago.

“What do you want?” Quinn said.

Susan Zago translated.

“Money,” Muñoz said, and looked serious.

“How much?” Quinn said.

“In dólares,” Muñoz said. He paused a moment to think. “Five thousand,” he said firmly. “There is the risk. It is more.”

“When would it take place?” he said.

“You don’t have time to wait, do you?” Susan Zago said abruptly. She stepped out of the dark.

“I’ll find time,” he said.

“Esta noche,” Muñoz said quickly.

“And I pay when he’s out, right?” He guessed the answer, but he wanted to hear it.

“No,” Muñoz said emphatically. “You pay now.” He blinked several times.

“Half. And half when he’s safe,” Quinn said.

Muñoz looked at Susan Zago oddly, as though he had failed a connection. She spoke something in quick Spanish, and Muñoz held the lantern higher so that the kerosene smell became richer. “You must trust us,” Muñoz said. His eyes flickered but he wasn’t angry. “I will show you.” Muñoz stepped past into the dark half of the studio.

Quinn was aware of the rain beating on a skylight at the end of the room. Muñoz stepped toward the far wall, holding the lantern up, until the yellow began to illuminate something unusual he could only partly see. Muñoz came near whatever it was and the light clarified a shape wrapped in clear plastic, leaned against a wood chair. Behind the chair several framed canvases were stacked against the wall. One he could see was of a terrace over-looking a harbor with pennants flying at the edge of the blue water.

“See,” Muñoz said, and pulled away the plastic. Deats was in the chair. Muñoz folded the plastic so that Deats’ head was exposed. A purple bump spoiled the middle of Deats’ smooth forehead. His eyes were half-open, and his arms had been tied back with cloth, and blood had come out his nose and run into his mouth. Muñoz stared at Deats appraisingly, then looked up at Quinn with confidence. “Es Señor Deats,” he said in a proud whisper. He held the lantern near Deats’ face so that the light made Deats’ khaki skin shine, then held it up again in the dark.

“You’re showing this to the wrong customer,” Quinn said. Deats wasn’t different from any other dead man, just nothing there. But he didn’t want to look at Deats again, and the entire room seemed different, as if it had suddenly become too familiar.

“It’s what you paid for,” Susan Zago said flatly. “It’s what Carlos was arranging for you.”

“Sometimes it is necessary to kill someone,” Muñoz said, standing holding the lantern. “So you must trust us now,” he said.

He realized everyone was offering pledges of steadfastness all of a sudden. “Let’s just get the fuck on with this.” He turned back to Muñoz.

“Pay us now,” Muñoz said. He held the lantern in front of him. “It is business.”

“You bet,” Quinn said.

Susan Zago said something in Spanish. Muñoz stopped walking and frowned at her as if she had suggested something that insulted him. He looked at Quinn, then reached suddenly for his pistol with the lantern hand. The glass chimney swagged his leg and the bail caught the hammer, and Muñoz peered down at it oddly as if he didn’t understand the mechanics of it. Quinn already had his gun in both hands, pointing at Muñoz’s shirt pocket. The lantern jigged up and down as Muñoz carefully unclasped the bail from the hammer.

“Don’t do that,” Quinn yelled. He couldn’t think of the right Spanish words and it made him feel stupid, as if he wasn’t going to be able to make the boy understand before he had to shoot him.

“No, no,” Susan Zago said. She extended both hands, palms out. Her face was panicky. “Basta, querido mio,” she said. She looked at Quinn beseechingly. “He’s just a baby,” she said. “He isn’t doing this right, please. You haven’t given him a chance.”

Muñoz looked up at her and pursed his lips tightly. Her alarm seemed to disappoint him, and he looked womanly, like someone caught impersonating a man.

“Tell him just leave the fucking gun alone,” Quinn yelled. He heard footsteps outside and squeezed on the grips. Muñoz stared at the pistol pointing at him, then raised his own slowly. “Come on, for Christ’s sake,” Quinn said, and he shot Muñoz high in the chest.

Susan Zago screamed. Quinn got himself turned quickly in the direction of the door, the pistol out in front of him. He couldn’t see Muñoz, he couldn’t take his eyes off the door. He couldn’t release a breath and get another one, and he had the fear that Muñoz was going to shoot him. Susan Zago stood up in the dark. “You fuck. God damn you fuck,” she screamed, and the door opened behind her. A body came into the frame very low, and there was a yellow and red flash and the room was full of noise, and Susan Zago was in silhouette, then knocked sideways as though someone had grabbed her shoulder and flung her out of the way. He put three rounds into the door opening and slid sideways, and whatever had been in the door went out and something metal hit on the floor, then everything stopped. Susan Zago was lying on her stomach in front of him, not moving or making a breathing sound. Muñoz began jabbering in Spanish, his face to the floor, the lantern leaking fluid so that a flame began to travel on the tiles. There was the hot metal smell in the air, and Quinn had a roaring in his ears, as though he was dying and could hear it coming. He pushed back to the wall and waited for the boy outside. He put the gun exactly where he had it before and let himself slide so that he was aiming the pistol up through his bent legs. Muñoz kept jabbering for a minute, then suddenly took a deep exhausted breath and exhaled in a way that made his lips flutter, and then he was quiet and the room was quiet.

He needed out, though he wasn’t sure yet who was outside or how even to get to the door. There was a strong kerosene smell in the room now. Muñoz’s pants had caught fire and begun to burn with a lazy yellow flame, and Quinn wanted outside before the flame lit the room. He pushed away from the wall and rolled toward the door. It was raining, and he couldn’t hear a small sound distinctly. There was a machine gun on the floor, and when he looked through the door he saw someone was lying against the stone balustrade. The rain made a soughing noise and beat loudly on the skylight inside. He got on his stomach, squirmed onto the gallery facing the way he had come, and rolled behind the dead man. The dead man was the boy who had killed Bernhardt, his slick hair and the soft features slightly disarranged. The boy still smelled like disinfectant. He had been shot in the neck and the flesh of his arm was torn and he felt soft. His glasses were still on. Quinn peered up over the boy’s chest toward the steps. There was no way to see both ends of the gallery, and there was no way to tell which direction anyone would take around the paseo. He waited what felt like ten minutes to see a movement. Water drained off the baluster and washed blood down the front of the dead boy’s shirt, and Quinn realized if he lay any longer he would get caught in the building and somebody would shoot him.

He got on his feet and crept low along the balcony, gun out in front of him, and came round the steps. No one was there, though a gun was on top of the baluster. He knelt against the cold stone and listened for anything, the sound of footsteps or sirens or whistles or an engine in the street, and he could hear nothing to believe someone was coming or that the commotion had been noticed at all. He stood and looked down the second tier of the building through the rain and dark, and could see nothing. The door to the studio was invisible and nothing seemed out of order. Everything was just as it had been for ten minutes.