Whiplash River (15 page)

Chapter 22

T
hey found a hotel in Chetumal. A nice enough one, more like a bed-and-breakfast, down by what passed for a beach. The owner of the place, a leathery blond woman from New York, checked them in and gave them keys to their rooms. She said she'd bought the place a year ago, betting that the tourist boom would eventually stretch south from the Riviera Maya.

“Tulum used to be just a little fishing village before the tourists discovered it,” she said. “And look at it now! A lot of people say Chetumal will be the next Tulum.”

Shake thought it was probably just the guy who sold her the place who said that, but he didn't want to rain on her parade.

“Don't you think?” she asked, her eyes pleading.

“You bet,” Shake said.

He'd been planning to sleep on the beach, but Quinn insisted on paying for Shake's room, no strings attached.

No strings attached.

But Shake didn't argue. It was late, he'd been driving through the jungle all day, he was tired. Too tired to sleep on a beach, too tired to argue with Quinn. And besides—Shake planned to be long gone first thing in the morning, on a bus to Mexico City before Quinn even woke up. Before Quinn started pulling strings.

So why couldn't Shake get to sleep, if he was so tired? His room was quiet and cool, the sheets were soft. But he tossed. He turned. He kicked off the top soft sheet and then pulled it back on.

Even as hard up as he was at the moment—no cash and no prospects, stuck in Mexico and gazing back with fond nostalgia on a time when it was just Baby Jesus who wanted him dead, not Logan James—Shake wanted nothing to do with Quinn or his Egypt scheme.

The six or seven million had to be a wild exaggeration. Probably, Quinn's buddy in Egypt was as trustworthy as his buddy back in Belize had been. Probably, the rich expat selling the black-market antiquity had his own private army to protect it.

Shake had no desire to visit Egypt. He pictured deserts. Women in black, their faces covered. And he couldn't imagine that the food was very interesting. A lot of hummus, probably. Kebabs.

“Simple and safe,” Quinn had said. “Is that what you want? How much fun would that be?”

Fun. Shake's previous career had involved a fair amount of risk. But a good professional wheelman tried to minimize that risk—a good day on the job was a boring day on the job. It had always escaped Shake, how anyone in his right mind could put together
tricky
and
dangerous
and come out with
fun.

How anyone in
her
right mind.

He tossed and turned some more and then got out of bed. He took the coin out of his wallet, a Panamanian balboa he'd picked up a few years back and carried with him ever since. He flipped it, called it. The coin came up tails. Two out of three, he told himself, but then said, “Fuck it.” He knew he was going to make the call, no matter how the coin landed.

Shake went down to the front desk. The leathery blond owner had gone to bed, but an old Mexican lady sweeping the floor nodded when Shake asked if he could use the phone on the desk. Shake checked the clock on the wall. It was midnight in Vegas.

Jasper answered on the first ring. Shake could hear the throb of music in the background. “Who that?” Jasper said. “What you want?”

“A nice quiet life,” Shake said. “No surprises and lots of fresh fish.”

The was a moment of silence, just the music throbbing. Shake could almost recognize the song in the background, but not quite.

“Shake?” Jasper said. “Shit.”

“Where y'at, Jasper?” Shake said, letting his hometown accent breathe a little.

He and Jasper had both grown up in New Orleans, only a few neighborhoods apart. But they hadn't actually met until many years later, in Vegas, when Shake clubbed Jasper in the head with a phone book and Jasper tried to shoot him. They'd managed to work out their differences, eventually, and were now on better terms.

“I'm all right,” Jasper said. “What you want, Shake?” Jasper, not a man to waste words.

“So how you like it?” Shake said. “Running your own place?” Jasper owned a strip club on the north end of the Vegas Strip, the same club where he'd been second in command for years.

“Shit.” Jasper sighed.

“Running your own place can be a headache.”

“Brand-new one every day.”

“I know it. How's the Lucy thing going?”

Jasper made a sound that could have been a growl, a sigh, or a chuckle. Or maybe all three. “What you want, Shake?”

Shake didn't want to ask the question he'd called to ask. Jasper figured it out fast.

“Shit,” Jasper said. “Gina.”

“You know where she is these days?”

“Why you wanna know that?”

“Still in Vegas?”

“She out in San Fran,” Jasper said. “Last I talk to her.”

“San Francisco? What's she up to out there?”

“No good, be my guess.”

“The girl knows trouble.”

“Yeah, you right.”

“You have an address for her?”

Jasper didn't answer.

“C'mon, Jasper. Do a homeboy a solid.”

“You best move on, homeboy.”

“I just want to see her again.”

“Move on, Shake. I know you ain't asked my opinion.”

“I just want to take another shot. You of all people, Jasper, you should know. Everybody deserves another shot.”

“Ain't mean they get it.” But then Shake heard Jasper sigh again and set down his phone. After a second he came back on and read Shake an address in San Francisco.

“I appreciate it, Jasper,” Shake said.

“Better wait and see 'bout that.”

 

THE NEXT MORNING SHAKE FOUND
Quinn in the breakfast room. Quinn was showing the owner how to properly work a French press. He had his hand on her hand to gently guide it. “Nice and easy,” he said. “Like most things in life, right?” She blushed when she saw Shake watching and quickly excused herself.

Shake sat down. “Nice and easy. That's your secret?”

“I don't need a secret. That's my secret.”

“I'll try to remember that.”

Quinn crossed his legs and sipped his coffee. If he was surprised that Shake hadn't already hopped the first bus to Mexico City, he didn't show it. Shake was annoyed either way, Quinn not surprised or not showing it.

“I've got one condition,” Shake said. “Nonnegotiable.”

“Let's hear it.”

“Your plan is we chop the pot three ways. You, me, your buddy in Egypt.”

“That's the plan.”

“The new plan, we chop it four ways, not three.”

That caught Quinn off guard. “You want to bring in another party, you mean?”

“Equal shares,” Shake said. “Whatever we come away with.”

Quinn drummed his fingers on the table. Part of Shake, most of him, hoped Quinn would balk at a four-way split. If he balked, even for a second, Shake would have the opening he needed to get up and walk away and hop the next bus to Mexico City. He'd have the opening he needed to take Jasper's advice and move on with his life.

But Quinn didn't balk. Instead he lifted his coffee cup to make a toast. “The more the merrier,” he said.

Chapter 23

M
eg watched Jorge use his hip to push open the door of his apartment. He had a big paper bag in one hand and a bottle of orange Fanta in the other one. He was taking a drink of the orange Fanta. When he saw Meg sitting there in the chair by the window, he stopped still. He kept the bottle pressed up against his lips while he tried to think what he was going to say.

Meg let him think. She wasn't in any rush. Finally Jorge slid the bottle out of the way so he could give her a big smile. “Hey,
chica,
” he said, “I been hoping you come by.”

Meg shot him in the shinbone. “Hey,” she said.

Jorge squealed and spit and fell to the floor. The bottle of orange Fanta rolled over into the corner. The paper bag had split open and now the apartment started to smell goaty and sweet, from the tacos Jorge always ate.

“Chica,”
Jorge said, his teeth locked together hard. “Wait. Just wait. Wait. I can explain.”

“Explain what?” Meg shot his other shinbone, almost missing because she had to hold the gun in her left hand and she wasn't used to that yet.

Jorge was praying to the Virgin Mary in Spanish, but it sounded more like he was cussing her out instead. Meg limped over to shut the door behind him. She didn't see anybody with their head stuck out into the hallway, wondering should they call the police. That was a handy thing about Guatemala, Meg had found out. People here already had enough trouble all their own, they didn't need to borrow any more.

“How the fuck you still alive?” Jorge said. Crying now. “Fucking
puta.
”

She showed him her right hand, purple and swollen up like an eggplant. “That's how.”

Jorge looked confused. “I don't understand.”

“I don't expect you do.” Her hand was purple and swollen from yanking it out of the handcuff. Her ankle was swollen up too, though not as bad. She'd twisted it when she jumped down out of the office window in Belize City.

“Wait,” Jorge said. “Just wait.”

“I ain't going nowhere.” Meg limped back over to her chair and sat down.

She'd known something was wrong the very second the man handcuffed her to the file cabinet. What kind of government official drove you to a deserted building in the middle of the night and handcuffed you to a file cabinet?

She should have figured it out sooner, on the ride over. Goddamn it. But Meg had been too occupied with all the evil she planned to do, and not occupied enough with the evil might be done to her and Terry.

When the man said he was taking Terry to the back room, the dread had welled up in Meg so suddenly she could barely breathe. “Terry,” she'd said.

The man took Terry to the back room. Meg put both feet against the file cabinet to brace herself. She didn't care if she ripped off her whole arm, just so long as she got herself loose in time to save Terry.

She got herself loose finally, but before she could run to the back and save Terry, a strange feeling came over her and she knew it was too late. The strange feeling was like a whisper, a nudge, like a dog panting in her face. Like Meg was right there next to Terry, dying along with him.

Meg had crept down the hallway. From the doorway she saw Terry. She saw the man, his back to her, crouched down and wiping his knife on the carpet.

Terry was the love of Meg's life. Her life would now be without love, for however long it went on.

Meg had wanted to scream and cry, to run at the man and dig his eyeballs out of his head with her bare hands. He had the knife, though, and likely a gun too, and Meg knew he'd kill her before she could even get started on him.

She couldn't bear the thought of leaving Terry behind on that bloody carpet. But if she didn't run now, if she let the man who killed Terry kill her too, then he'd walk out of this office building without a care in the world. Meg couldn't bear the thought of that either.

So she crept back up the hallway and dropped down out of the window. As she ran through the night on her twisted ankle, she promised Terry she'd make the man pay for what he'd done, no matter how long it took her, no matter what it cost.

“He died for me. 'Cause he wanted to protect me.”

“What?” Jorge said.

Meg shot him this time in the elbow. He cried and cussed the Virgin Mary some more. “Who was it came to kill us?” she said.

“I don't know him. I swear.”

“Tell me how I can find him.”

“I don't know. You think I know?”

“Tell me.”

“Please. Meg.
Chica.
”

“Second ago it was
puta.
”

“I never talk to him, Meg. My boss talk to him, not me.”

Meg figured that was probably right, unfortunately. “Okay,” she said. “Tell me how I can find your boss.”

“Find my boss?”

“Did I shoot you in the ear?”

“Be serious, Meg. My boss, he is a heavy man, Meg. Is that how you say?
Es un hombre muy poderoso.
”

“If he's so powerful, why don't your boss do his killing himself?”

“He will, Meg. If you go look for him, he will kill
you.
I say this as your friend.”

Maybe I want him to kill me,
Meg caught herself thinking, just for second. But she didn't tell Jorge that. Instead she pointed her gun at his good elbow.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, Meg. No problem. I tell you.”

She stood up, limped over to the kitchen table, and found a pen. She limped back and tore a piece of brown paper from the bag of tacos that Jorge had dropped on the floor. She handed him the pen and the piece of brown paper.

“Write it down. Where your boss is.”

“No problem, Meg. Okay?” Jorge wrote fast, his hand shaking. When he finished, Meg made sure she could read his handwriting and then she shot him in the head.