Denis Johnson - Nobody Move

“I like a bad man who hates himself. I want all the bad people to hate themselves.”

“Are you bad, Anita?”

“Yes.”

“Do you hate yourself?”

“Not enough.”

Luntz kept track of the days. Today was Tuesday.

Luntz went down once around 3:00 p.m. and came back upstairs with burgers and fries and soft drinks and vodka. She made love like a drunken nun, and he liked that, but the conversation afterward was not at all aimless or relaxed. “What you really want,” he told her, “is revenge.”

“Yeah. I’ve fantasized about revenge. Do you want to hear how sick it gets?”

“No.”

“The judge has the money. Or half of it at least.”

“What about Hank?”

“I’ll take care of Hank.”

Luntz said, “You don’t hide two million in a shoe. They’ve got it in some offshore account.”

“The judge is a sick old man. When we put two guns in his face, he’ll come up with it. We’ll make him transfer it.”

“Must be eleven felonies in that scenario.”

“Unreported felonies. You can’t steal stolen money. If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, did it really make a sound? Fuck, no!”

Luntz said, “You’re the sure shot. In my whole life, I’ve fired exactly one bullet.”

Anita said, “I can knock bottles off a fence all day. But I’m not the guy who shot a guy.”

Blondie sat on the ottoman, helping him with leg lifts.

“What’s your name again?”

“Mary.”

“How much more of this shit?”

“Till I say. Or else you’ll lose muscle mass, and you’ll gimp around for months.”

“It looks good. I mean the sutures and all, a very professional job. Were you in a war?”

“I was on a hospital ship off Panama during that thing, and at the Army hospital in Frankfurt during the first Gulf. And I did six months in Iraq in oh-three.”

“No shit. Where’d you get all the equipment?”

“Stole it. I work as a temp sometimes, in different clinics. And the hospital.”

“You sell it out of your garage, or what?”

“Nope. I just like to steal things.”

She helped him lie on his belly on the couch and started an alcohol rub between his shoulder blades. He told her, “Baby, don’t ever stop.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“I’m sorry if your car’s ruined.”

“No, man, I know gunshot wounds are bloody. I had the whole back seat and floor covered in plastic sheets all ready for you.”

As he spoke, lying there under her pleasant hands, he felt his chin lifting his head up and down. “I guess this whole business is pretty fucked, huh? Guy with a hole in his leg just shows up and moves in.”

“I don’t mind. It’s got some reality to it. Like war.”

“So how did our boy talk you into this?”

“He sends me money every month.”

“Why?”

“Because my attorney said so.”

“You were married to Juarez?”

“I know what you think — I got fat and middle-aged and he dumped me. But no, he dumped me way before that. Then I joined the service.”

She helped him ease over onto his back, and she began on his shoulders and chest.

“Are you a natural blonde?”

“None of your business,” she said, “but yes, I sure am.”

“How’d you get mixed up with a Mexican?”

“Hey. Mexicans are human too.”

“I’m just curious. Wait,” he said as she moved her hands to his legs, “you’re skipping the important part.”

“How well do you know Juarez?”

“We go way back.”

“Not as far as me,” she said. “Ever wonder why Juarez doesn’t have any Mexican friends? Why he’s not in with a totally Chicano gang with headbands and tattoos and all that? I mean, where’s his Mexican buddies? It’s because he’s not Mexican. He’s Jordanian. And partly Greek, I think.”

“You mean Juarez is an Arab?”

“Arab, yeah. His name is Mohammed Kwa-something.”

“He’s a fucking Muslim?”

“What? I don’t know.” She put her hands lightly on his groin.

Gambol pushed her hands away, gripped the back of the couch, and hauled himself to a sitting position. “I could’ve called any one of a thousand guys on the phone to get my ass out of that culvert. And not one of them would’ve done it. Only Juarez.”

She tried to close the robe for him, gave up, moved to the end of the couch, wide-eyed. “Sorry.”

“Juarez is not a fucking Muslim.”

“I didn’t say he was. Sorry.”

“Come here. I’m going to come in your face.”

“Lie back down and keep the leg elevated.” She stood up and gave him the finger. “You’re not ready for target practice.”

It was morning, and — according to Jimmy — Wednesday.

With her lipstick in one hand and the bottle in the other, she took two swallows of Popov, and it went down like mother’s milk. Jimmy wrested it away from her and screwed the cap on and said, “No drunks in court.”

She leaned into the mirror and got her lips just right. She turned to him. “I’m nervous.”

“Beautiful women don’t get nervous.” He rested one

hand on her shoulder. “Just cross your fingers and stay calm. And don’t talk fast.”

“I’ve seen it done.”

He escorted her down the stairs.

Just before she got in the car, he took out his wallet and handed her five one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Hey. No.”

“Take it. You’re with me now.”

As she got into the Caddy, he said, “Remember”—and raised two crossed fingers. “And don’t talk fast.”

He shut the door for her as she turned the key. She gunned it twice. He tapped a finger on her window, and she lowered it all the way.

He put his forearms on the sill and leaned toward her and said, “Let’s get it.”

“For real?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t say it if it isn’t real.”

“I’ve more or less done the hard part, which is gunning down a member of the gangster police force. I declare their shit null and void.” His eyes were wide and his face tight with fear.

Mary came in from the store and set two white plastic bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. The next thing she did was light a cigarette. She wore a skirt today.

Gambol held out the classifieds and shook them at her. “Call this guy.”

“Who?”

“Buy the gun. He’s offering a case of ammo too, but don’t take it. Is there a gun store in town?”

“How would I know that?”

“Look in the book for a gun shop. Get me some MagSafe ammo for a three-fifty-seven Magnum. They come in packs of five or six. Get me ten packs. You need me to write that down?”

“Don’t strain your mind.” She opened a drawer in the kitchen and found a pen and pad. Sat on the coffee table and placed her cigarette on the ashtray’s edge and crossed her legs like a secretary. She had good legs. “Say again.”

“MagSafe. Three-fifty-seven Magnum. Ten packs. And a box of fifty regular rounds too — the cheapest, it doesn’t matter. And get me clothes, three of everything. Extra-large shirts, extra-large T-shirts. At least a forty-inch waist for the shorts. And forty-two waist and thirty-six length for the slacks. I’ll reimburse you later. And shoes, jogging shoes. Eleven-E.”

“It won’t be the same, you without your cute robe.”

He stared at her legs.

“Ernest. What are you looking at?”

“Let me ask you something. What did you think, fighting against the Arabs and knowing you used to be married to a fucking Arab? That one of them used to fuck you?”

“Hey. Arabs are human too.”

Gambol ground his thumb down onto the burning ember in the ashtray and extinguished it. “And get a new robe for yourself. Get a short one.”