Denis Johnson - Nobody Move

“Did you hear that?”

Anita reached for the dial, and Luntz stopped her fingers and squeezed until she made a small sound.

“Desilvera. That’s your name.”

He crushed her fingers. She didn’t resist.

He let her go. “That’s Hank. Henry Desilvera. That’s your husband.”

She looked straight ahead. “Not anymore.”

JIMMY

steered the pickup left-handed, his right arm crossing his chest and the right hand dangling out the window. “Did you kill him?”

Anita lifted the bottle from her lap and made sure it was perfectly empty. She wondered how Jimmy had hurt his hand.

“Did you kill your old man?” Now his right hand hopped back and forth between the gearshift and the radio knobs. “It said so on

this

radio, right

here

Henry Desilvera. Shot to death in his home.”

“God rest his soul.” She closed her eyes and curled her toes around the barrel of the shotgun at her bare feet.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Why don’t you say ‘Wow’?”

He found something and turned it up, a trio of women singing—

Tubular and tasty

Wanazee, Wanazee

Tubular and tasty

— and Jimmy said, “What?” and Anita said, “Wanazee,” because it sounded magical, and Jimmy spun the knob—“Goddamn hillbilly mugwump

shit

.”

Jimmy pulled the truck over and nearly ran down a fence post and braked hard and killed the engine. In the pasture before them stood horses switching their tails, lifting their heads up and down. Jimmy said, “Let me see your gun.”

“I’m not showing anybody my gun.”

“I want to see if it’s been fired.”

“How would you know if it’s been fired?”

“Let’s have it.” He took the revolver from her purse and shoved it under his seat. “Where are your shoes?” He gripped her knee with one hand and took the shotgun from under her feet with the other and dropped the weapon behind his seatback. “No more guns.” He stuck his fingers in the pocket of his floppy shirt and came up empty and felt around the dash and got his cigarette pack, which was flat. He balled it up and threw it at the windshield in front of him and turned the key and floored the pedal, and this time he hit the fence post.

Anita stayed quiet and let him think, if that’s what he was doing. He looked across the quiet farmland in front of

them as if he might climb the fence and walk out into the fields and lose himself.

“I don’t know what the setup is,” he said. “But I know you set me up.”

He reversed and got on the road and floored it again. They sailed into Madrona, where the demands of sparse traffic seemed to help him focus. He shut up and drove halfway through town without a destination before pulling into the Alaska Burger’s parking lot. He turned off the engine and gazed at the polar bear holding up a gigantic bun at the curbside.

Anita said, “I want my gun.”

“No more guns.”

“I’ll need it when we talk to the judge.”

“You set me up.”

“I brought you in. You’re just right. The judge has been in court. He’s seen bad people.”

“I’m not a thug.”

“You don’t know what you are. He’ll know. And he’s a sick old man. He’s just a sack of cancer.”

“Wow. You’re meaner than I thought. And deeper down.”

“My people are of the earth. We know who the devils are. But we love the devil. We love the devil.”

He stared hard at her. Something moved in her belly like a child, and the child was Jimmy. She shut her ears to its crying, and she could feel him drawing strength from

her blood. Jimmy dropped his gaze. He turned and put both hands on the wheel. He raised the left one to consult his smashed wristwatch. “How long till dark?”

“I don’t know.”

“We should go after dark. Does this judge have his own computer?”

“Maybe. I guess so.”

“What about somebody taking care of him? Are there other people in the house?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then we’ll scope the place right now. You know where he lives, right?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I said we had ten percent of a plan. It’s more like two percent. I gotta get some smokes.”

While Jimmy was gone she shut her eyes and dozed, until he ruined the moment by jerking open his door and blowing tobacco smoke and saying, “Red alert. I just saw Juarez. Or his Caddy. Or it was Gambol’s Caddy. Those fuckers have identical cars.” He slammed the door, it didn’t catch, he slammed it again and got the truck going, looking everywhere at once like a juggler watching airborne objects. “Yeah, Gambol went and got his Caddy. Or it’s Juarez. They’re like high school chicks — twin Cadillacs.” He drove fast, watching only the rearview mirror. “They weren’t following us. They don’t know this truck. Except Gambol saw it last night. But I mean — a million pickups. Unless Sally told them. Fucking Sally. Fuck. We

get this done and get the fuck out. Get the fuck out and. .” Anita sat with her eyes closed, humming “Wanazee, wanazee,” and feeling the sensations of a cliff diver in a night sky while Jimmy tore through the streets and never stopped his mouth.

Gambol sat at the table in the breakfast nook, close to the window. Half an hour ago he’d claimed he wasn’t hungry, but now that his breakfast was cold, he wanted it.

Mary put both their plates in the microwave and said, “Zapped steaks and eggs — not real good.” She held up the Mumm’s and tapped it with a fingernail. “What about this champagne?”

“None for me.”

They heard a car outside, and Gambol watched through the window until it had passed.

Mary said, “Is the Tall Man really with him?”

“I said he was.” Mary shuddered, and he added, “He’s not so bad.”

“How long till he comes?”

“Once you’re on the Five,” he said, “it’s a straight shot up.”

“Look good, okay? Walk tall. I want him to pay me off for resurrecting your leg. Twenty grand. This time I’ll get to Montana.”

“This time?”

“I’ve done stuff for him before. He helped me with my last big move.”

“From where?”

“From here.”

“You’re still here.”

“I didn’t think big enough. I made some money, but only enough for a car.”

“What did you do for him?”

“Sold him a gross of Dilaudid.”

“I remember. That was you?”

“I mean a solid gross. I snatched it three days before my discharge. He made a bundle, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t. I made a bunch, but less than a bundle. Was it over a hundred thousand?”

“I don’t count his winnings.”

“He paid me fifteen.”

“You could’ve gotten more.”

“From who? You think I know a lot of crooks?”

Gambol put his fingers on the windowsill. Another car out in the street. Mary said, “Is Juarez big in the drug trade?”

“No.”

“But not entirely no. Sometimes yes.”

“No, he’s just — if there’s a nickel to be made, he’s usually the one who makes it. He’s quick like that.”

The microwave rang. No reaction from Gambol. By the

way he fixed his attention out the window, Mary figured she’d better go get a longer robe on.

When she came out of the bedroom, Gambol was bent over his plate, and Juarez sat across the table, watching him eat.

“This is torture,” Juarez said. He looked plumper these days and pouchy around the eyes, and he seemed excited, sitting with his ankle on his knee, leaning forward, patting his fingers on the toe of his boot. He still wore those little ankle-high fruit-boots and also, this morning, a box-cut silk shirt like spun platinum with faint designs along the buttons. “I haven’t had one bite since yesterday.” The hem of his shirt had slipped upward over the butt of a small automatic in a clip-on holster.