Ricky didn't answer, and that was fine with Jack.
The guy was irritating, talking all the time.
Which is what your Mescan's doing, that's what he's got to do.
A taco don't talk a lot is fine.
You get a good Mescan boxer, he's hell in the ring, he don't talk all the time.
Same thing with your black sports figures, they can beat a white guy coming and going, on the field or in the ring. Jack didn't know why, but it was so.
He couldn't blame Chavez for being pissed. Crawling out the cellar up the hole has got to be pure aggravation, a guy's stark naked, his hands taped up, that's got to be a bitch.
Now the guy's really complaining, he's triple-duct-taped to the dumpster back of Wan's, his ankles taped too, taped around his gold-tipped boots, Jack figured he'd be pissed too.
"I got to put this stuff on your mouth, an' there'll be some discomfort in that.
It's for your protection, though, in case you start yelling or something, it's Cecil or one of them that's coming, and you don't want that."
"That is not necessary.
I will not call out."
"I know you think you won't now.
But I seen panic set in when you least expect it to."
"I will not lie to you, Jack.
I intend to keep my end of our agreement, but that does not mean I do not hold you in contempt.
I think you are a
puerco
of the very worst kind."
"Whatever that is, I don't expect it's any good.
And I wouldn't respect you, Mr. Chavez, if you didn't resent the treatment you've received."
"That revolver has the sentimental value to me.
The watch does not, but it is very expensive as you can see."
"Right.
You hang in there, Mr. Chavez, you going to be just fine."
Before Ricky could speak again, Jack wrapped the duct tape across his mouth, stretching it around his head twice.
Ricky didn't move, but he had much to say with his eyes, which Jack thought were hostile at best.
O
rtega's car was where it ought to be, under the ancient oak.
Mr. Chavez' watch said 3:29.
Ortega would be sleeping in the kitchen.
Ahmed would be in the storeroom, dreaming of desert nights.
Rhino was the only member of the crew who made enough to keep his own place, which was a blue double-wide east of town.
All the girls were gone from Piggs.
Cecil, Grape and Cat would be where they always were after closing time. They'd sit at Cecil's table, drinking and playing cards half the night.
Grape wouldn't drink much, and Cat would curl up like a giant hound on the floor.
Jack peered in, to make certain they were all in place, then backed outside again. The night was extra dark, and the air was steamy hot.
Jack's gut was knotted up tight, but he couldn't help that.
He stood against the corrugated wall for some time, breathing in and breathing out, staying in shadow, listening in the dark.
A train rumbled by a mile off on the crossing, the road to I-35.
Far down the street, a single traffic light blinked on and off.
Stand here forever, asshole, and you can blow it all off, say the time isn't right, you just need to wait it out...
He heard the sound then and froze.
A shoe, scraping on the ground.
And close, shit, right in the parking lot, only no one was there, everyone was gone!
Jack pressed himself against the wall.
Looked to the right without moving his head.
A car.
Black Lincoln.
Out on the edge of the lot, far from the 20-watt bulb that lit the front door at night.
Three guys.
Four.
One in the car, the others outside.
One dragged on a smoke, lighting up his face.
Jack's heart nearly stopped.
He knew who they were, who they had to be.
It was Ambrose Junior's people–couldn't be anyone else just waiting out there.
Fuck, the deal was going down, it was going down tonight!
If Cecil hadn't emptied his stash, he'd sure as hell do it now.
Jack clenched his fists until they hurt.
It was hopeless, no way he could ever chance it now.
Even if the stash was still there–which it wouldn't be, for sure–Cecil would catch him red-handed, would kill him without a blink.
It was over, then, done.
Like all the other great plans since he'd been a hardass kid in Shawnee, Oklahoma.
Something always went haywire, something always went wrong.
And that something, a lot of the time, was him.
Not always, maybe, sometimes another bozo helped, or a bottle or a woman came along, but he'd always sure as hell volunteered without ever looking back.
At least this was one time he knew when to quit, when the odds were too heavy even for a dumbshit like him.
If Jesus wanted him to have a lot of dough and a girl like Gloria Mundi, he'd have worked something out before now.
Before Jack went off to Huntsville prison.
Before he started washing dishes at Wan's, taking shit off of Cecil R. Dupree.
Riding fucking underage singers on his back.
Right?
Right.
So fuck it.
Go for it.
Death is just passing through one door and tripping through another.
Ortega was always saying that, saying it didn't hurt at all.
But what did Ortega know?
The guy was a taco and didn't even speak his native tongue.
Why would you listen to a dummy like that...?
H
e had a strip of tin, bent and folded the way G.G. Perk had showed him to do.
G.G. was doing twenty to life, and could open any door in the world except the ones he lived behind now.
Jack worked in the dark, hunched at the top of the stairs.
He didn't use the flash.
The stairs were just past the bar, and past that was Cecil, Grape and Cat. He could even hear them talk, which didn't help at all.
Sweat stung his eyes as he tried his pick in the first lock on the door.
He couldn't read Mr. Chavez' expensive watch in the dark.
What good was a watch, you couldn't see it in the dark?
Fucking Mickey, you could see those little gloves in the dark, and it didn't cost a couple grand.
Ricky's gun was something else. It pressed against his ribs, and poked him in the groin.
Rich guys had to have everything big.
Big cars, big watches, big guns.
You never see a rich guy driving a Geo, he's never got a little gun you can drop in your pocket somewhere.
The pick wouldn't go in the first lock, wouldn't even get past the front.
Got it in the second but it wouldn't do shit.
Rattled around and made a lot of noise.
He decided not to bother with the third.
Two don't work, maybe one does.
So what?
So try it, you're here, okay?
The third one did the trick.
Went in smooth as silk, clack-clack-click, like the pick and the lock were old friends.
Jack waited, listened for the voices down below, then gently turned the pick.
The pick went snap! and broke off neatly in his hand.
Jack's gut began to churn, began to burn, began to go into its act.
Jack held his breath, bit down the pain.
He had to get down, without making a sound, tripping on something, maybe passing out.
Death, where the fuck you going to sting?
That's another thing Ortega said that didn't make a bit of sense.
Then he did what everyone does, the thing you got to do when you know you been licked, when you can't get in the house, when you can't get in the car.
You try the fucking knob, as a gesture of defiance, as a hopeless prayer that God will intercede this time, wake up a minute, and work his magic on the door.
You know it's not about to happen, but it's human nature to try.
It opened without a sound...
The oldest gimmick in the book if you go to the movies, if you watch the TV, but art sticks a broken mirror up to life, as Ortega didn't say, but someone maybe did.
The next part was easy.
Jack used his flash and went right to the spot where the trick board had to be.
He stuck a fingernail in the crack and the panel slid away...
The box was still there.
Jack took a deep breath.
If the box was still there, and the buy was going down, Cecil would be up those stairs any minute now.
The box would be gone.
Cecil R. Dupree would go bananas. He'd kill everyone in sight.
Especially Jack, if he caught him up there.
He had to get out, get out of there fast.
Get Mr. Chavez, get Ortega's car, drive the car to Ricky's car, get the hell out of Mexican Wells.
Jack pulled the box out of the hole.
It was heavy, like it ought to be, a box full of that much dough.
He set the box aside, replaced the panel in the floor.
Didn't hear a thing until someone rattled the knob, someone opened the door.
Jack rolled, the box tucked into his belly, rolled behind the sofa as Cecil flipped the lights.
Jack froze, his hand on the grip of the heavy, silver-engraved weapon.
The hammer caught in his belt, the sight stuck in his shorts.
Cecil stomped about the room.
Jack watched his shadow on the wall. Reached into his pants, freed the revolver and eased the weapon out.
Cecil walked to the far side of the room.
Opened a closet, got something out, turned and started back.
Jack, flat on his back, could see Cecil's big bare feet, the frayed cuffs of his overalls dragging on the floor.
Jack's gut went berserk.
He knew what Cecil was doing, he was coming for the stash, coming for the money to make the buy.
Jack's hand tightened on the weapon.
It would happen, happen in a minute, in a minute and a half.
Cecil opens the panel, sees the box is gone.
Yells and goes nuts, shouts for Grape and Cat.
Jack shoots Cecil, so he won't have to take on all three.
Wait–they'll hear the shot, know he's in there.
Jack has to chance it, whack them all at once.
He's not Bruce Willis so he'll miss at least one–maybe all three.
Pow!
End of the movie, no more problems after that...
Jack gripped the Magnum, watched Cecil's feet.
Cecil stopped.
Waited a second, then turned and flipped the light and walked out the door.
Jack nearly lost it.
Nearly threw up on Cecil's floor.
Cecil didn't even go to the stash, he didn't get the money at all!
And Jack, several hundred rungs below Cecil on the ladder of crime, still knew at once what Cecil had in mind.
That's what he was doing, stopping and thinking, in the middle of the room.
He was thinking how he'd stiff the sellers, get the merchandise and keep the dough.
Cecil Dupree would do that.
Cecil R. Dupree was crazy enough to try it, and crazy enough to bring it off...
J
ack used every ragged nerve he had left to get back down the stairs, and out the side door.
Cecil, Grape and Cat were gone.
Drinks left on the table.
Peanuts, candy wrappers on the floor.
They were outside, then, meeting the Ambrose bunch.
Jack kept close to the building, didn't even look at the lot, didn't take the shortcut to Wan's, went the long way around.
For a minute, he thought about Mr. Chavez, leaving him behind.
What if someone saw him?
The dumpster was close to the lot. The trouble was, the Mescan was the only person who could get him that offshore truss account, put his money safe somewhere so he and Gloria could get off to a good start.
Without Ricky's help–
Jack's heart nearly stopped.
Chavez was gone!
Ragged strips of duct tape clinged to the dumpster, but the son of a bitch beaner was gone!