Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [31]
Hypothesis: They have cleared out the bar, chosen not to call in any other cops, and have Leo displayed here to communicate some message. What message? Well, one assumes it concerns funding their early retirement.
How do they know I have four million? They may very well not. But they know I have money, and I’m sure they want all of it.
THE GUN in Rolf’s waistband is a revolver, a .32 or a .38, carrying five or six rounds. I’m guessing the pockets of his shorts aren’t crammed with extra ammo, so if this turns into a shoot-out we’re gonna be pretty well fucked.
Me, I’m all for bargaining. But first Rolf shoves me to the floor, yanks the gun from his shorts, and squeezes off two quick shots before he dives behind a table.
One of the bullets smashes into the bottles behind the bar and the other one smashes the bone in Morales’s right thigh. I know this because I can see shards of it sticking out through his shredded uniform pants.
Rolf is huddled behind a table made out of an old tequila barrel. It looks sturdy and might actually stop or deflect some bullets. I knock over a card table with a thin sheet metal top emblazoned with a Sol advertisement, and hope nobody shoots any spitballs at me. I can hear Morales screaming high and shrill and Candito trying to quiet him.
—Tranquilo. Tranquilo. Tranquilo. Tranquilo.
The screams soften until there is just a constant, strangled keening coming from deep in Morales’s throat. I peek out from behind my useless barricade. Candito, kneeling next to Morales, has taken off his belt and turned it into a tourniquet much like the one the macheted Cuban had. I look over at Rolf and see that he is starting to edge around his barrel, gun first.
—Rolf!
He ignores me, positioning himself to take a shot, but at the sound of my voice Candito stands, pulls his service piece, points it at Leo, and yells something in our direction. Rolf ducks back down.
—Fuck!
Candito yells again, but I still don’t catch all of it. Rolf yells something back.
—What does he want?
—He wants me to throw out my gun, dude, what the fuck do you think he wants? Keep quiet next time, I almost had him.
Candito yells again.
—So throw your gun out.
—No fucking way.
—He’s gonna kill Leo.
—Bullshit. That hick cop has never shot anyone in his life. He’s pissing his pants right now. Besides, dude knows that if he kills Leo I’ll fucking blast him.
—How does he know that?
—Because I told him.
Candito yells again and this time I get the word dinero. Bingo. Rolf looks over at me.
—He says he just wants the money.
—Yeah, that figures.
I open my shirt, lift my tank top up, rip the Velcro seal, and tug the money belt from around my waist. I take five grand and the John Carlyle ID and stuff them in my pockets.
—Tell him I’m gonna stand up.
—Dude, don’t do that.
—Rolf, I’m hiding behind a beer can, I might as well stand up.
—No, dude, I mean don’t give him your fucking money.
—Just tell him I’m standing up and not to shoot.
—OK, but I’m telling you we can get out of this, no problem.
He shouts at Candito and Candito shouts back.
—He says do it slowly. Hands up and all that.
—Right.
I hang the money belt over my shoulder, put my hands on my head, and slowly stand up. Morales is sprawled in a large pool of his own blood, still making that hurt animal noise, his right hand clutching the tourniquet, his left clawing and scratching at the floor. Candito is standing, blood stains on the knees of his pants, pointing his gun at Leo’s head. Leo is still crumpled and motionless, unconscious for all I can tell. I take my right hand from my head and lift the money belt from my shoulder. Candito yells and I freeze.
—Rolf?
—Yeah?
—What was that?
—Just the usual. Don’t fuck around with him or he’ll fucking kill Leo and then you. That kind of stuff.
—OK.
I hold the money belt out in Candito’s direction, nodding my head.
—Tranquilo, amigo.
The gun pointed at Leo’s head is shaking, sweat is pouring down Candito’s twitching face, and I realize that Rolf is right. This guy