Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [126]
“You can’t go by that,” Geronimo said. “They’re horses. All they do is shit.”
“Catapult,” Rev. Jim said, circling the name on the program. “Even his name sounds fast. And he’s down at six to one. I’d say he’s good for a win, place, and show. You want in, or what?”
“You have to have a sense for the horse,” Geronimo said, staring out at the rest of the field. “You need to know how far he’ll go for the win. If his heart has the courage it needs.”
“We’re not askin’ for him to fly, Geronimo. This ain’t a spiritual thing workin’ here. We just want him to go a mile around a fast track, win by a nose, and pay for our lunch.”
“He won’t win unless he wants to win,” Geronimo said. “No matter what we want.”
Rev. Jim rested the program against his thigh and looked over at Geronimo. “Just between you and me,” he said, “are you really serious about this Indian shit you talk or are you just fuckin’ with everybody’s head?”
“I would be dead without that Indian shit,” Geronimo said. “It’s all I had to hold on to all those months in the hospital. There was no hope. There was only dread. If anyone knows that feeling better than me, it’s you.”
“I couldn’t talk for months after the fire,” Rev. Jim told him. “If I could have talked, I would have asked for somebody to put a bullet in my head. There’s a lotta ways a guy could go out and buy it. Having your skin burn away ain’t the best of ’em.”
“I wanted to leave,” Geronimo said. “Take my pension and head for the Southwest, bury myself in the culture.”
“Why didn’t you?” Rev. Jim asked.
“The people I have there see me as this brave cop,” Geronimo said. “To them I am invincible. A warrior who can’t be felled. I couldn’t go back to them in the shape I was in.”
“That why you joined up with Boomer?” Rev. Jim asked. “To go out on your own terms?”
“We choose our way of life,” Geronimo said. “I want to be able to choose the way I die. I don’t mind going down against a device, but not the way it happened to me. Not with a grenade tossed into an open crowd. I always pictured being alone with a bomb and letting my destiny decide.”
“You might get your wish,” Rev. Jim said. “From the looks of it, there ain’t gonna be a shortage of fireworks.”
“I’ll be ready,” Geronimo said.
Rev. Jim pulled out a crushed pack of Marlboros, shook one loose, and put it to his lips. He searched his pockets for matches and came up empty. “You wouldn’t have a light?” he asked.
Geronimo unzipped his flak jacket and reached for a lighter in the front pocket of a checkered hunting shirt. Rev. Jim looked over at the inside flaps of the jacket, each slot packed with sticks of dynamite. “You care to explain that?” he asked in astonishment.
“Ever since I became an Apache,” Geronimo said, smiling, “they’re my American Express card. I never leave home without ’em.”
“You know why you’re part of this team?” Rev. Jim asked, turning his attention back to the track. “You’re just as crazy as the rest of us. That’s why you must have been a great cop. You gotta be crazy to be a great cop.”
“Are we crazy enough to beat back Lucia Carney?” Geronimo asked.
“She’s probably thinking we are,” Rev. Jim said. “She’s got to figure by now we’re not in this for the money. And there ain’t anybody around gonna pin any medals on us if we do bring her to a crash. So what’s our end? She don’t know. And that should give us a little bit of a lead.”
“If she only knew the real reason,” Geronimo said. “That we’re just walking dead men looking for one last battle. To bring peace to our souls.”
“There you go with that Indian shit again,” Rev. Jim said.
Geronimo smiled, looking at the pack of horses race past him toward the finish line. “That Indian shit just saved you a few bucks.”
“How you figure?” Rev. Jim asked, craning his neck to see how the horses finished.
“You’re looking in the wrong direction,” Geronimo said. “There’s Catapult over there, bringing up the rear. Like I said, he just didn’t have the spirit of a warrior.”
“Havin’ a shitty jockey on his back didn’t help any either,” Rev. Jim said.
They walked away