Bandits (1987) (18 page)

You want me to neutralize him?

Wally Scales put his hand on Dagoberto
'
s shoulder. Did you hear me say that? No, that would be unacceptable for me to say that. You must '
ve heard somebody else say it.

Clovis, Dick Nichols
'
s driver, walked away from the white stretch limo to where the dude in the dark suit was standing across the street by the edge of the cemetery. The dude had stood by the black Chrysler Fifth Avenue without moving and finally had gone over by the cemetery entrance and stood there without moving, up the street from the restaurant. The dude was good at standing without moving. Clovis said, How you doing?

The dude nodded at him; sort of nodded. Close up he looked like a light-skinned brother with a little Chinese or something in him. Strange-looking dude, Chink with nappy hair.

Gets tiresome, huh?

The dude didn
'
t say if he thought it was tiresome or not, standing here like a cemetery statue. Clovis turned to the restaurant, a big old mansion of a place with striped awnings in front and neon lights up around the roof.

Place look like a boat to you? . . . Oh, is that right? Yeah, it looks like a boat to me, uh-huh.
Clovis turned to the dude and said, My name '
s Clovis. I believe the man you work for, one of those two guys or both that got out of that Chrysler, are with the man I work for.
Clovis waited a moment, looking at the dude standing like death at the iron-grilled entrance to where dead people lay. You speakah English? You don '
t, it '
s cool. But if you speakah English, then I want to know what you have up your ass prevents you from opening your fucking mouth. You understand what I '
m saying to you?

Franklin de Dios smiled.

Clovis said, Well, hey, shit. The man come to life.

Franklin de Dios nodded and said, I learn English from the time I was born, but I don
'
t use it much or hear it until last year. The people I work for don '
t use it.

You from Nicaragua.

Yes, from there. I learn Spanish, but I learn English first, at home and also at the school.

Wait now. You telling me you from down there, but you didn
'
t learn Spanish when you a baby?

No, they make us learn it. I
'
m Miskito. You understand? Indian. The Sandinistas make us learn Spanish, but I learn English first.

No shit, you Indian, huh?

No shit.

Say something in Indian.

N
'
ksaa.

What
'
s that mean?

How you doing?

Yeah.
Clovis grinned. No shit, you a real Indian.

No shit.

Man, why didn
'
t you talk to me when I said hi and all that shit what I said before?

I don
'
t know who you are.

I told you who I was. You bashful, what? Man, I look at you close I thought you were a brother. You know what I
'
m saying? I thought you were black.

Yes, one part of me. The rest Miskito.

How
'
bout the man you work for? He Indian too?

No, he was from Cuba, but now is Nicaraguan. Also the other one is Nicaraguan, the colonel. We both fought against the Sandinistas, but not together. I don '
t know why he don '
t like them. I don '
t like them because they come to my home, Musawas, and kill some people, kill the animals, the cows, with machine guns, and made us leave. They burned all the Miskito villages and made us go to asentamientos you know like they say a concentration camp?

Man, that
'
s bad.

So, some of us go to Honduras, go to a place
you know Rus Rus?

No, I don
'
t believe I do.

But it
'
s not good there. So I join the war. You know the CIA?

Yeah, CIA, sure.

They gave us guns, show us how to fight the Sandinistas. Nice guns, they shoot good. But I don
'
t like it in the war, so I go to Miami, Florida.

Yeah, shit, if you don
'
t like the war. How
'
d you work that?

You fly there by the airline. Tell them you going back, but you don
'
t.

Clovis said, Uh-huh.
Thinking, but how did a Nicaraguan Indian know enough to do that?

But when I go to Miami, I don
'
t like it so much. They have war there too, but a different kind. They arrest me one time, want to deport me.

A car came along the street toward the restaurant and Clovis saw the Indian
'
s face in the headlights. Then it was dark again by the cemetery, but he had seen enough of the man '
s face to know the man was talking to him straight on like he wanted to talk, not to show he was cool.

So they try to deport you.

Yes, but the guy I work for spoke to somebody
I don
'
t know. They said it was okay and then we come here. . . . I like this place. Some of it is like the city in Honduras, where they have the airport. Not like Miami. I could live here. But you need money, what it cost to eat.

You need it anywhere,
Clovis said. I was wondering, you kill anybody in the war?

I kill some.

Yeah? Close that you could see
'
em?

Some close.

With a gun?

Yes, of course, with a gun.

I never had that experience.
Clovis looked off at the restaurant. So you just drive for the man?

Franklin de Dios hesitated.

Or you have to do anything around the house. You know what I
'
m saying? Clean the garage, drive the kids, anything like that?

He don
'
t have a garage or any kids. He has women.

I know what you mean. But what it is, you drive and wait, huh? Wait and then drive some more.

Franklin de Dios said, I drive, but I don
'
t wait so much. I go with him. . . . Or sometime I go alone.

There was a silence. Clovis had a question all ready. Go where alone? What
'
d that mean?

But then the Indian said, You like the man you work for?

Clovis said, He
'
s okay. He
'
s full of shit, but he can '
t help it. The man '
s got so much money nobody can say no to him.

And there he was, like coming out on cue, Mr. Nichols waving at him, and that was the end of the visit with the Indian.

The man sat in the front seat most of the time, the rest of the limo stretched out empty behind them, unless he was working, talking on the phone.

Clovis said, That
'
s an Indian drives for one of the gentlemen you were with. A Miskita. I try to talk to him, he don '
t say a word, like he '
s a wooden Indian. But then, see, he does, he becomes friendly. I said to him, '
yHow come you wouldn '
t say nothing before when I '
m talking to you?
'
He said, well, he didn '
t know me, was the reason. No, what he said was, '
yI don '
t know who you are.
'
I said, '
yMan, I told you who I am.
'
You understand what I '
m saying, Mr. Nichols? Why '
d he change his mind like that?

He said he didn
'
t know you.

That
'
s right.
'
yI don '
t know who you are.
'

It sounds to me like he was being polite,
Dick Nichols said. He didn
'
t want you to know who he was.

Yeah, but he told me all about himself.

Like what?

Like being in the war and killing guys. Like he went to Miami . . .

What
'
s he do now?

He drives for one of those Nicaraguan fellas.

What does the Nicaraguan fella do?

He never said.

So what did you really find out?

Clovis kept his mouth shut and held tight to the steering wheel. Pretty soon the man
'
s head would nod and he '
d sleep all the way to Lafayette, dreaming of how smart he was. The man looked at things from way up where he was, on the boss level, too far away to feel things down on earth that didn '
t feel right.

It was quiet for some time, the interstate stretching ahead of them in the high light beams.

Close in the dark of the car the man
'
s voice said, How did the Indian get to Miami?

Clovis grinned. Because the man could surprise you. He said, Mr. Nichols, now you asking a good question.

Chapter
15

ONE IN THE AFTERNOON, Jack and Lucy were in the Quarter walking along Toulouse toward the river, stepping around groups of tourists, Jack trying to explain Jerry Boylan to her. I didn '
t know what to do with him. We had to get out of there, so I took him to Roy '
s bar.

For a second opinion,
Lucy said.

Yesterday was Roy
'
s last day. I was suppose to meet him anyway, after I did the colonel '
s room. . . . I saw Cullen this morning, gave him all the figures.

He said he was going to meet you. Something about checking the bank accounts.

Yeah, make a ten-buck deposit, see if they
'
re still active. Or whatever else he can find out. Cullen was a little nervous, after twenty-seven years. He give you any trouble?

He spends most of his time in the kitchen, with Dolores. He hasn
'
t had a decent meal in all those years.

That isn
'
t the only thing he hasn
'
t had. Tell Dolores, he makes a move, hit him with a skillet.

I like him. I think he
'
s nice.

You like everybody.
He smiled at her.

But she was looking at a stained plaster Mother and Child, Mary with her foot on the snake, the Sacred Heart, statues filmed with dust in a dim store window. Walking past she said, All that made it easier to believe, didn '
t it? They wrapped you in ritual, solemnity.

He said, I
'
ll tell you about it sometime.

And now saw her smile: composed, Sister Lucy this afternoon in a simple blue-cotton blouse and khaki skirt, to meet Jerry Boylan as a nun from Nicaragua and not distract him with another story. He had told Jack he was in Managua last month. Lucy would see.

So I took Boylan to the International
you know it
'
s a nude showbar. Exotic dancers from around the world, Shreveport and East Texas. We walked in, Roy was with Jimmy Linahan, the guy that owns the place. Roy '
s drinking, Jimmy '
s pouring, trying to get him to stay. He '
s offering him more money, a cut of the bar business. . . . We came over to the table, Jimmy '
s telling Roy he was made in heaven for this kind of work. He said God had given him a special gift to deal with tourists and drunks.

When am I going to meet him?

Later on, probably this evening. So we sit down. You could see Boylan and Jimmy Linahan were gonna get along. Linahan is kind of a professional Irishman anyway, you know, and here was the real thing. He hung on every word Boylan said, ate it up. Boylan started telling about the world-famous pubs of Dublin and Roy would interrupt him.
'
yFamous for what? The drunks?
'
Here '
s Roy half in the bag, mean look in his eyes. Boylan says, '
yWhat else you go there for but to get fluthered.
'
He mentioned Mulligan '
s, I remember, and the Bailey, pubs he said were world-famous because of Joyce. Roy might know who James Joyce is, I '
m not sure, but it wouldn '
t matter. You mention books to Roy and he thinks you '
re trying to act superior. As soon as Boylan started talking you could see Roy was gonna go after him. Roy looks at me, he says, '
yI '
m getting out of here before I catch that new kind of AIDS.
'
Boylan says, '
yWhat kind is that?
'
Roy says, '
yHearing AIDS. You get it from listening to assholes.
'

Lucy said, Right in front of him?

Right to him. Then he looks at me.
'
yWhere
'
d you find this guy?
'
I said, '
yRoy, you won '
t believe it when I tell you.
'
Roy goes, '
yI don '
t believe anything about him now, including that bullshit brogue he '
s putting on for us.
'

What did Boylan say?

Boylan rolls with stuff like that. He tells you about pubs in Dublin, believe it. But anything else, I don
'
t know, maybe you can cut in half. Except when he tells you he '
s done time. I knew that as soon as I looked at him.

How?

It
'
s something you know if you
'
ve been there.
They were approaching the entrance to Ralph & Kacoo '
s. Jack paused, taking Lucy '
s arm. He doesn '
t know what we '
re doing, but he '
ll slip around on you trying to find out.

I
'
ll be sweet and innocent,
Lucy said.

The question is, can we use him? See what you think.

Jerry Boylan ate his oysters with lemon; he
'
d loosen the meat, then raise the shell to his mouth, let the oyster slide in, and as he began to chew, shove a hushpuppie into his mouth and take a sip of beer. Jack and Lucy watched, finished with oysters and crab cakes, Lucy stirring her iced tea, both of them fascinated by the man '
s ritual: through two dozen oysters, chewing, sipping, talking, tongue moving around in his mouth. . . . He said to Lucy, Sister, you '
re testing me, aren '
t you? Wanting to know why I went to Nicaragua but timid to ask. There was a cousin of mine entered the nunnery and took the name Virginella. I said to her Boylan frowning '
yWhy on earth would you want to be known as a little virgin? Girl, '
I said, '
yif you '
re going to be a virgin think of yourself as a big one, a world-class virgin.
'
But do you see the paradox, Sister? One vow is an impediment to the other. Humility prevents her proclaiming her virginity.
French bread with a pat of butter resting on it disappeared into his mouth.

Jack said, Can I ask you a question?

Please.

What were you doing in Managua?

Come right to it, uh, Jack? Sure, I
'
ll tell you.
Boylan sat back with his glass mug of beer. It was on Easter Sunday, barely a month past, I was at Milltown Cemetery. On the Falls Road out of Belfast toward Antrim, is where it is.
He looked from Jack to Lucy. I '
m there for the seventieth anniversary observance of the 1916 Rising. There in the biting cold and rain to honor our dead. . . .

Jack said, And that
'
s what you were doing in Managua?

Ask what you like, you don
'
t have a pistol in your hand this time,
Boylan said, and smiled. Oh, you '
re a cute hoor, Jack, but ridden with flaws and impatience, if I judge you right. Don '
t know what to make of me or the present turn of events, so you bring this lovely sister to have a look, uh? But then your insecurity causes you to interrupt, just as I '
m about to tell how I met the Nicaraguans.
He turned to Lucy again. It may appear, Sister, I '
m coming round about, fond of rhetoric, which is often the mark of a revolutionary; but I '
ll spare you catchphrases. What you '
re waiting to learn is what Sandinistas were doing in Ireland on a cold Easter Sunday.

Or at any time,
Lucy said.

If you hear we deal with terrorists, it
'
s a lie. This group from Nicaragua are musicians that go by the name Heroes and Martyrs: revolutionaries who '
d fought their battles and won and came to tell us about it in song, in their ballads. Well, a man fighting for his own cause is going to be moved, inspired. I wanted to know more. So I arranged to travel back with the Heroes and Martyrs to Nicaragua. It would give me the chance, also, to visit an older brother I hadn '
t laid eyes on in nearly ten years. A humble Jesuit priest who serves his flock in the village of Le+|n.

Jack stared at Boylan sipping his beer, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. There was no way to stay ahead of this guy. He could come at you from any direction. First with a cousin who was a nun, now a brother who was a priest.

But then Lucy said, I wouldn
'
t exactly call Le+|n a village.

Jack jumped in. And I
'
ve never met a Jesuit who was especially humble.

It was brief satisfaction. Boylan, unmoved, said, Everything is relative. Towns, the clergy, even revolutionaries, depending from where you view them. Now the contras are the rebels and I think to myself, Isn '
t that a lovely name for the gougers, bloody killers of innocent people? Then I learn that people who live in comfort are paying for their atrocities.

He was wearing the same shapeless herringbone jacket, the same red-and-gray patterned tie, probably the same shirt . . . looking at Jack now, his slicked-back hair shining in the restaurant '
s overhead lights.

Have you seen innocent people murdered, Jack, as the sister and I have? Do you know what it
'
s like?
Boylan eased back again as he turned to Lucy. The first time, Sister, it will be twelve years ago next month. I was sitting in Mulligan '
s having a pint when I heard the bomb explode, that hard terrible irredeemable bang. . . . I remember it today as I remember, too vividly, what I saw in Talbot Street as I turned the corner and heard the screams in the smoke that hung like a bloody fog.

Jack
'
s gaze edged past Boylan
'
s grave expression. His eyes returned as the man continued, then moved off again . . . and held.

There was something else, too, the smell of it, now implanted in my nostrils forever. Not the smell of death you hear spoken of, but the stench of people '
s insides lying on the pavement. I saw a woman sitting against a lamppost staring at me, or at nothing, both her legs blown off.

Jack got up from the table.

Haven
'
t the stomach for it, uh, Jack?

I
'
ll be right back.

You have to see it. Like me and the sister here. . . . Isn
'
t that right, Sister?

Jack followed an aisle toward the rear of this big roomful of people busy with lunch, nodding to waiters he knew as he came to a table against the far wall.

Helene sat with a cup of coffee, dishes cleared, her head bent over an open book, frizz-permed red hair jutting out to both sides.

What
'
re you reading?

Her brown eyes came up reflecting light and there was the nose that fascinated him, the tender, delicate nostrils. Helene closed the book with one finger in it and glanced at the cover before looking up again, now with a different expression, almost sly, a girl with a secret.

Self-Love and Sexuality.

Is it any good?

Not bad. It says if you don
'
t like yourself you won
'
t have fun in bed. Or you have to like yourself first, before you can love anybody else.

If you don
'
t like yourself . . . Why wouldn
'
t you? I mean since you '
re all you have.

I don
'
t know, Jack. There must be some people who don
'
t.

You think people that are assholes realize it? No, they think they
'
re fine. But even if it '
s possible not to like yourself, you go to bed with somebody what '
re you doing in there, analyzing yourself?

I
'
m glad you straightened me out on that,
Helene said. What '
re you up to?

I
'
m not working at the funeral home anymore.
Helene waited and he said, I '
ll find something.

Her eyes held on him, still waiting. In the open top of her blouse he could see freckles he used to trace with a finger, making up constellations, getting down to her twin suns and from there to the center of her universe. Something between two people who liked themselves and maybe had loved each other and were remembering it now both of them, if he could believe her eyes.

That
'
s a pretty girl you
'
re with.

I didn
'
t think you saw us.

When I came in.

She used to be a nun.

Really? What is she now?

She
'
s looking.