Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [52]
“Hansen, you there?” Terry’s voice was dazed and happy. “This is the Puma. Jesus, what a day. Where to begin? Morphine is not overrated. Anyway, I’m in the hospital. The Falcon tried to kill me. Puma out.”
After a potent brownie and a disappointing Pet Medium, Betty walked out to her mailbox on the gravel shoulder of the road. Along with the usual bills was an unstamped envelope. She opened it on the way back to her house. As she unfolded the single sheet of paper, a handful of mini-marshmallows fell out. The letter’s two sentences were typed:
Tell Lacy to let sleeping ducks lie.
Or she’s next.
NOTES:
Lisa,
Okay, I played it as straight as I could. As for Terry’s comeback, please don’t take it the wrong way. I think it had to be done for the reader’s sake. I hope you’ll agree. Next time you feel the need to kill someone off, how about, say, Deputy Doug?
Add Sleeping Ducks to the list of potential titles.
Dave
Dave,
I suppose I should have been more specific when I suggested that Paul do some investigating of his own. I meant he should investigate Hart’s murder. But it’s my own fault for not spelling it out. If you are going to delve into the suspicious death of the Hansen parents, I’m actually fine with it, but it needs to lead somewhere. And if you don’t know what that means, ask.
I guess I never realized the extent of your love for Terry. Hmm, what to do? Well, at least we’re back to work. I’m going to take the Epictetus approach: “Make the best use of what is in your power, and take the rest as it happens.”
In response to your previous note, please forgive me for forgetting about your 1996 publication of that great poem “Davy Cricket” in Harper’s. I don’t know how I could have forgotten that. I now present a very special Lutz’s Index:
Number of times Dave has mentioned being published in Harper’s: 90
Number of times Dave was published in Harper’s: 1
Sorry, I couldn’t resist.
Lisa
CHAPTER 17
Lacey and Paul stood beside Terry’s hospital bed. Terry’s face and body were mottled with bruises. He was hooked up to an assortment of monitors, tubes, and receptacles. His right leg, broken in four different places, hung in traction. His left arm, from shoulder to wrist, was also set in a cast that was so far unblemished by any friendly signatures. Paul was the first to get his hand on a Sharpie: To the Puma, until the end, your friend, Paul.
“I really thought you were dead,” Lacey said.
“You and me both,” Terry replied.
“No. I mean, like, I really, really, thought you were dead. In fact, there was no doubt in my mind that you were dead. Like totally and completely, never coming back, dead.”
“Miracles can happen,” Terry said in his blithely morphined state.
“Uh-huh,” Lacey replied. “Only they usually don’t.”
“Just be happy for the man,” Paul said, elbowing his sister, knocking her off balance.
“I’m happy for you,” Lacey said.
When visiting hours ended, Terry’s nurses ushered Lacey and Paul out of the room. The man needed his rest.
That night Lacey and Paul both dreamed about houses. In Lacey’s dream, their rambler crumbled on top of them. In Paul’s, he was trying to get out of the house, but the doors were locked and he didn’t have the key. The morning following an unusually vivid dream, the siblings would often compare notes. But that morning, they were mostly silent over coffee and cereal. Lacey was the one to break the silence.
“So, I read an interesting article about Los Chungos the other day.”
“Really?” asked Paul.
“Yeah. Seems they all moved to Florida in the late nineties. They haven’t had a West Coast presence since then.”
“Interesting,” said Paul. “I guess that’s the official story they want us to believe.”
“ ‘They’?”
“El Consorcio,” Paul said solemnly.
No response.
“La Mano Invisible.”
“Of course. The Invisible Hand,” Lacey said, holding up a trembling hand and staring at it in mock terror.
Paul didn’t have much fight in him that morning. He poured himself another bowl of cornflakes.
“Got any plans today?” Lacey asked.
“The usual,” Paul