Текст книги "Before The Killing Starts"

Автор книги: James Harper

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Chapter 4

Dixie didn't say anything. He just sat quietly and waited for Chico to finish. The way things were looking, he should probably have brought a pillow.

Chico was an evil son of a bitch, although you couldn't really blame him for turning out that way. He'd been unlucky enough to be born in 1951 which meant that he was seventeen years old in 1968. That was the year the movie Once Upon a Time in the West was released and the patrón of the local Hacienda—José Salgado—went to see it in Mexico City. It would have been much better for the young Chico and his family if the patrón had visited when Planet of the Apes or Bullitt was showing, but that's the way it goes sometimes. Shit happens, as they say.

The patrón was an impressionable man despite his standing and he came away from the movie with his head full of ideas. Unpleasant ideas, as if there weren't enough of those in there in the first place. Chico's father wasn't to know any of that, of course, when he stole a pig that year.

So it was that when the patrón and his men turned up at the shack where Chico lived with his family and took Chico—the eldest son—and his father out into the desert, the patrón had something very specific in mind. Under the branches of a Desert Ironwood tree, Chico's hands were bound behind his back and his father stood on his shoulders, also bound, with a noose around his neck, the rope looped over one of the branches.

If Chico had been born in, say 1959, he would only have been nine years old in 1968. Unless he'd been an unusually big and strong boy for his age—which would have been unlikely given that he spent his whole life hungry—he wouldn't have been suitable for the role that the patrón had in mind for him. At age seventeen he was just perfect (although the patrón ended up being very disappointed nonetheless).

Dixie had heard the story many times but he could never remember whether the young Chico had cussed the patrón or whether the patrón simply saw himself as an innovative sort of man, but, whichever it was, he added an extra touch. A certain je ne sais quoi. Before standing Chico's father on his shoulders, they tarred his feet. Then they broke a couple of beer bottles into small pieces—the men had been enjoying some cold beers while they had their sport—and pushed the pieces into the tar. It made Dixie shudder to think about it. Who knows whether it was the pain of the glass shredding his shoulders or his legs giving way, but he didn't suppose Chico could have taken it for long. Twenty seconds? Thirty, at most.

Dixie seemed to remember that the patrón had gone for lunch—he'd never bothered asking how Chico was supposed to know that detail; people always got irritated if you questioned their stories too closely—his men staying behind and severely beating Chico. When they'd finished, they'd gone on their way, leaving him to die in the desert. Somehow he'd managed to drag himself to the nearest road where he'd been found by a pack of roving Jesuits. Unable to get any sense out of him, they'd taken him with them back to the seminary where they put him to work to earn his keep.

Chico had stayed with them for three years, the last two as a noviate, hoping to find the elusive state of grace in the ranks of God's Soldiers. But the state of grace did just that—eluded him—perhaps because there was a part of him that nobody could reach and nothing could rid his mind of thoughts of revenge. So, after two years he left the seminary, roman collar tucked away in his bag.

It took him six months to get close enough to the patrón. The patrón was a careful man with a lot of enemies and it would have taken a lot longer except for the fact that nobody suspects a man wearing a roman collar in a Catholic country like Mexico. A bit like a man with a clipboard; he can't possibly be up to any mischief. Chico caught up with him in a hotel in Mexico City and, after putting the fear of God into his whore, set about the process that left the patrón in need of the last rites.

Chico had studied diligently in the seminary and although he wouldn't have said he went hunting for the means of his revenge in the scriptures, he knew it when he saw it. So it was that the patrón went to meet his maker in the manner of Saint Bartholomew the Apostle and Chico liked to say that at least his chosen method had better provenance than a spaghetti western starring Charles Bronson and Peter Fonda, however good a movie it might have been. He also said he wore his dog collar the whole time.

Dixie believed most of the story, subject to a certain amount of artistic license (such as the patrón's lunch appointment and maybe the dog collar) but there were other aspects that he wasn't so sure about. Foremost amongst these was Chico's claim that he'd kept a large piece of the patrón's skin and found a man in the city who had made it into a wallet for him. Ignoring any questions about the suitability—mainly the durability—of human skin for an item that is going to go in and out of your pocket all day long, Dixie doubted this was true. Not only that, but Chico was always careful to ensure that nobody ever got too close a look at it.

Dixie was pulled from his reverie by the realization that Chico had stopped pacing up and down, his ranting and raving finally running out of steam. He looked at the trim, sixty-something man opposite him, his hair still without a hint of gray, and smiled.

'You shouldn't get so uptight, Chico. You'll give yourself a heart attack,' he said, settling back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other.

'Three million dollars go missing and he tells me not to get so uptight.' Chico shook his head in amazement. He took a sip from the glass of Tequila in his hand. Dixie had a glass of coke in front of him. With ice and a slice of lemon, as if that made it any more palatable. The last bartender who'd asked, with a mocking smile on his lips, what color bendy straw he wanted with it had got a sharp poke in the eye with a cocktail umbrella.

'Easy for you to say,' Chico continued. 'I knew I should never have sent the stupid bitch with them.'

'You don't know it's her fault.'

Chico wasn't listening to him. 'This is what I get for giving a woman a man's job. For all I know she left it sitting in the car while she went to fix her makeup in the bathroom.' He looked down at the floor and Dixie was sure he was about to spit. 'I should have sent you.'

Dixie shrugged. Chico walked over to the window and looked out, resting a hand on Dixie's shoulder as he passed.

'Tell me again what happened,' Dixie said.

Chico took a deep breath and let it out slowly. 'I sent the three of them. That retard Ricardo'—Dixie just about managed to stop himself from laughing out loud—'with that bitch and one of the other guys, Domingo.'

Ricardo was Chico's son. Dixie picked up his drink and took a sip to hide his face. Luckily Chico was still looking out the window and couldn't see the smile on his lips.

'That should have been enough.'

Chico gave an irritated head shake. 'Tell me about. On the way back they had to stop for gas. Ricardo went to the bathroom. Probably to play with his pecker or comb his hair, who knows? Every time I look at that boy I know God holds a grudge against me, you know that? Anyway, Domingo's filling up; the bitch stays in the car. When Ricardo gets back from the bathroom Domingo's taking an unauthorized nap and bleeding all over the place on the ground and the car and the girl are gone.'

'And the money,' Dixie said helpfully, as if Chico needed reminding.

'And the money,' Chico said with some feeling to the window.

'So, either the girl got out of the car and snuck up on the guy while he was filling up—'

'Or somebody else snuck up on him and brained him with a baseball bat.'

'And you think it must have been her.'

Chico turned to look at Dixie and shook his head vehemently. 'I didn't say that. But whatever happened, she drove off with the money and we haven't seen her since.'

Dixie rubbed his jaw with his palm, the sound of bristles against rough flesh loud in his ear.

'If it was somebody else, they must have known about the deal.'

Chico let out a short bark of a laugh and turned away from the window. 'No shit? Either that or it was a damn good guess. A random mugger's three million dollar lucky break. Somehow I don't think so.'

'Who else knew about it?'

'Alvarez and his guys of course.'

'What? You think they did the deal, lots of big smiles and back slaps all round, then followed them and stole the money back again.'

Chico waved that away. 'Who knows? Somebody's got it.'

'Anyone else?'

Chico gave him a pained look.

'If I knew all the answers, I'd have the money back by now,' he said in the quiet, measured voice of a disappointed parent.

'I suppose so.'

'I need you to find out what happened,' Chico said.

'I thought you already sent a couple of men.'

'Men!' Chico snorted. 'You see any men around here; you point them out to me. I might as well have sent my mother-in-law. They caught up with her but she got away from them.'

'You still don't know it's anything to do with her,' Dixie said again.

'So where is she? Why did she run?' Chico said crossing his arms and sticking his thumbs in his armpits.

'You have . . . a reputation. I'd probably run.'

Chico crossed the room and sat on the corner of his desk and smiled for the first time that morning. He shook his head. 'Not you. Cojones the size of a bull.'

Dixie smiled at the compliment.

'She's probably scared. Even if she hasn't got the money herself, she's the one who lost it. Maybe she hasn't heard about Chico's legendary leniency. Just because you wear a dog collar doesn't mean you forgive people.'

Chico actually laughed out loud at that. Dixie started laughing too.

'Why can't you teach Ricardo to be more like you?' Chico said, the laughter fading, a rueful smile taking its place. 'Kick him into shape like he's your kid brother.'

Dixie studied his shoes for a moment; they could do with a shine and he rubbed the toe of the left one against his right calf. It didn't make a lot of difference so he didn't bother doing the other one. He really didn't want to get into all this now. Sure, he'd like to kick Ricardo, but not into shape. He knew Chico and his son had their problems. Ricardo's resentment of his own relationship with Chico was one of them; the only one as far as Ricardo was concerned. For Chico it was more to do with the fact that his son was an idiot. He got his brains from his mother, according to Chico.

Dixie stretched his arms above his head, then laced his fingers behind his head. 'What do you want me to do?' he said, getting the conversation back on track.

'Go and talk to Alvarez first. See what he has to say. Then find her. One of them's got it.'

'Or somebody else altogether.'

'Or somebody else altogether,' Chico agreed without much conviction.

Dixie nodded. 'At least you're prepared to consider other possibilities. That's a move in the right direction.'

Chico considered him carefully, his eyes clear and cold. Dixie shifted in his chair. Sometimes he saw his grave in those eyes, heard the shovels in the dirt.

'I don't know why you're so keen to put the blame on somebody else—you're not sticking it to her, are you?'

Dixie forced a laugh so that Chico understood what a ridiculous notion that was and shook his head, although he didn't exactly straight out deny it.

'Leave it with me. I'll make a start tomorrow.'

Chapter 5

The talk of kid brothers and kicking them into shape brought back some memories that Dixie didn't want to think about right now. About the day his own kid brother killed himself. But he couldn't blame Chico, he wasn't to know about that. He'd been working ridiculous hours—nothing new there—and hadn't been back to his apartment for a couple of days, just grabbing a few hours sleep wherever and whenever he could. And when he'd finally got back home there were two messages waiting for him on the answering machine.

Hey, it's Remy. I need to talk to you. Want to get some breakfast this morning?

And then, the voice a little more strained:

Me again. I guess you're really busy. How about a beer later? Call me.

But Dixie never got to make the call, because by then he already knew his brother was dead. If only he'd called him on his cell? Why call the house for Christ's sake?

All Remy had wanted was a quiet drink with his brother; maybe ask his advice on something that was bothering him, who knows, but his brother was busy—nothing new there. What are you gonna do? You can't find anybody to talk to about your problems, you might as well make them go away for a while—so he'd had a drink with Charlie instead, because Charlie was always there for you.

The medical examiner said there was no evidence of long-term abuse—it was just one of those things. Apparently you didn't need a history to choke to death on your own vomit. Like that made it easier to accept.

He still saw Remy from time to time. He'd be sitting up at the bar and see a movement out of the corner of his eye. He'd turn to look and there would be Remy turning away, disappearing into the crowd. The first times it happened he'd jump up and chase after him, but he'd be gone, of course. He'd push his way through a crowd of people and then stand there in the middle of the floor, head frantically turning, everybody staring at him, their faces softening as he changed from a rude drunk into an object of pity.

It didn't happen so often now and he never tried to catch him up anymore, but every now and again he'd sense movement . . .

Chapter 6

Evan pushed open the door to Kelly's Tavern and stepped inside. He'd spent a lot of time in different bars over the years and, like anyone else who's a regular bar-goer, it didn't take any longer than that for him to get the feel of the place. There's a difference between a tough, blue-collar bar and a white-trash dive and although he'd never been in the place before, Evan knew he was in the latter. Maybe it was the clientele—men with too much time on their hands and too little money in their pockets who came in to try to forget about what they've lost or never had in the first place. Men who feel comfortable in the knowledge that they're unlikely to come across reminders of all the good things they've been missing, all the things they can never have. Or maybe it was that indefinable smell—a subtle mix of strong beer, sweat and stale cigarettes with an aftertaste of vomit. Whatever it was, you couldn't miss the fact that the place was a dump.

The bartender looked up briefly as Evan came in and went back to watching the TV. They probably got a lot of people come in, take a quick look around and head straight back out again. Evan would normally have been one of them. Coming in from the bright sunlight outside, it took his eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness. It was still early and the place was almost empty. There were three inbred-looking guys at the end of the bar drinking beer, talking and laughing loudly, another two shooting pool in the back and a couple more sitting at a table who somehow didn't look quite so much like losers as the rest of them. Maybe they weren't regulars.

The inbreds stopped talking and laughing and watched Evan as he walked up to the bar. Evan would have liked a few more people in the place, perhaps some loud music to drown out his questions. As it was the whole bar would be able to hear every word he said. Somehow he didn't get the impression that more pairs of ears meant more chance of somebody being able to help him. One thing was for sure—he knew why Ellie hadn't wanted to come to the place herself. Why she wanted to find somebody who chose to come here on a regular basis was a different matter.

The bartender turned his back to get a better look at the TV as Evan sat down on a stool at the bar. Evan was surprised by his sudden interest in world affairs—he looked like the kind of guy who's normal attitude to anything going on in the outside world was who gives a shit? He was heavyset with a crew cut and even though he was in his fifties you could see he still thought he had it in him. Maybe he did.

Use short words, Evan thought.

He gave it a minute and then ordered a beer from the bartender's back. With an exaggerated sigh the guy turned away from the TV and pulled Evan's beer. Then he walked down and started talking to the three guys at the end of the bar. That sort of put an end to Evan's plan of having a quiet word in his ear. He might as well jump up onto the bar, clap his hands and ask for everyone's attention.

He heard the rattle of ice cubes in a glass beside him and turned his head. One of the guys from the table behind him had come up to the bar and stood a couple of feet away, swirling the last of his drink before tipping it down his neck. The bartender came back down and started serving him and Evan took the opportunity to get a better look at him. He was tall and obviously Hispanic, and Evan knew his first impressions were right; he definitely wasn't one of the regulars—one, he wasn't a loser and two; this place was strictly white trash. You could feel he was confident walking into a dive like this knowing there was nothing in here that he couldn't deal with. If the guy had bottled it, Evan would have bought some. The guy looked across and gave him a small nod, then carried his drinks back to his table.

The bartender was about to rejoin the guys at the end when Evan called him back. Automatically he picked up Evan's glass, then saw it was still half full. He looked at Evan with an aha look on his face: now we'll get to the real reason . . .

'I'm looking for somebody,' Evan said.

'Uh huh.' He cocked his head like he didn’t understand what that information had to do with him. 'Isn't everybody?'

'I think he comes in here.'

The bartender gave what he probably thought was a smile, his bright, mean eyes crinkling at the corners. 'I suppose there's more chance of me knowing him than if he'd never set foot in here in his life.'

The inbreds at the end had stopped talking again and were paying close attention to the conversation. The bartender looked down at them and winked. They grinned back. They looked to Evan like they'd have trouble spelling gum and chewing it at the same time.

'His name's Richard LaBarre.'

The bartender creased his forehead and tugged his chin as if he was giving it some serious thought; his eyes flicking sideways to the inbreds, then shook his head. 'Never heard of him.'

There was a titter of laughter from the end of the bar. The bartender gave Evan a big up-yours smile.

'Everybody calls him Dixie,' Evan said, feeling stupid as he said the name.

The bartender gave a half-hearted nod. 'That's nice. Still never heard of him.' He started to move away.

'I've got a photo of him.'

The bartender made a big fuss of stopping in his tracks and turning around. He came back and stood in front of Evan and spread his hands on the bar. He wore a couple of heavy rings on each hand, the knuckles criss-crossed with faded, and not-so-faded, scars. Evan assumed the display was for his benefit and felt like pointing out that the liver spots that were starting to appear spoiled the effect somewhat. He got a powerful draft of stale cigarettes. It made him think, between the guy's fists and his breath, he'd go for the fists every time.

'I've got you,' the bartender said. 'His name's Richard something, everybody calls him Dixie but I'—he jabbed his thumb at his chest—'might know him as Bill or George?' He looked at the inbreds at the end of the bar and got a bunch of you-tell-him head nods.

Evan wanted to come back with some equally smart ass reply but it wouldn't get him very far. Not that being nice as pie was getting him anywhere, either. The bartender was just one of those guys who wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire.

'Just take a look, will you?' he said wearily, pulling the photo out of his pocket.

The three guys at the end were really paying attention now. Evan couldn't blame them—in a place like this, when somebody puts their hand into their pocket it normally comes out with a switchblade.

Evan put the photo on the bar top. The bartender looked at it as if Evan had placed a steaming dog turd on his nice clean bar, but then his curiosity got the better of him.

'It's been cut in half.'

Evan slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. 'I was wondering what happened to it.'

The bartender looked up from the photo and gave Evan a withering look. 'No need to be a smartass.' Clearly that was his job.

'Do you recognize him?'

The bartender took another quick look and pushed the photo towards Evan. 'Sorry.' Evan didn't think he looked sorry at all. 'Why do you want to find him anyway? You don't look like a cop.'

'No, I don't suppose I do,' Evan said. All your customers would be long gone if I did. 'I'm a private investigator.'

The bartender nodded as if that explained a lot. 'You working for his wife?'

'No, just someone who wants to find him.' Evan got out his wallet and pulled out one of his cards. 'Can I leave this with you?'

Evan could see him thinking it looked a bit small and inflexible to wipe his ass with but he didn't say it.

'What? In case a guy I've never heard of or seen in my life just happens to pop in one day?'

Evan looked around the bar and smiled. 'Who knows? Even if he doesn't, one of your customers might want to hire me.'

The bartender walked away and laughed over his shoulder. 'I think you'll find the people who come in here have their own way of dealing with problems.'