The Hemingway Thief by Shaun Harris

Author:Shaun Harris
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781633881761
Publisher: Prometheus Books
Published: 2016-06-23T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

We ate the last of Digby’s sandwiches a half mile off the road, under a copse of juniper trees. The ice in the cooler had melted and the beer was warm, but the plastic wrap had held firm and the sandwiches were not soggy. I was grateful for that small miracle. I went with the ham on rye. Digby had cut the crusts off.

“I want to get it on the record that I am not comfortable with the number of dead bodies I’ve come in contact with recently,” I said over the wad of pork and dairy in my mouth. “For that matter, I’m not entirely on board with the method in which the bodies are being produced.”

“The fuck you talking about?” Milch said. He was finishing his second can of warm beer. I hadn’t seen him eat a sandwich.

“It’s new to him,” Grady translated. “What did you expect, Coop?”

“I wasn’t expecting this,” I said. I wadded up my plastic wrap and threw it into the empty cooler, where it joined the rest of the garbage.

“Yeah, no shit,” Milch said. He had finished his beer and tossed it in the dirt next to the junipers. His back was against the RV, pressed into the slim sliver of shade it provided. He leaned against it with his hands in his pockets, like a punk staring down a patrol car as it cruised by. “Why didn’t you tell us you had a contract out on you, Digby?”

“I didn’t think it would come up,” Digby said. He was sitting on the bottom step of the RV, his arms resting on his knees. He had a strange, nervous look that seemed wrong on him, like formal wear on a hobo. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah, you know the cartels,” Milch said. “They usually let things slide over time.”

“Not the cartels,” Digby said. “Just a woman.”

“Apparently, though,” I said, “she’s some kind of super-assassin. Best in the world.”

“Come again?” Grady said.

“Second-best, sorry,” I said. “There’s talk of a guy in Ireland who may or may not be better. This is all from Levi, mind you.” I shook my finger at the humped-over shape of Digby. “Your friend, whom I only just met, but he seemed to know what he was talking about. Of course, he also completely fucked us over.”

“I already explained that,” Digby said. He had. Over the several-hour drive from Tequilero, Digby had tried to explain the various coteries, confederacies, and connections to which Levi was beholden and that motivated his apparent betrayal. The Sierra Madres’ underworld network was a byzantine system of alliances and blood oaths that reminded me of Europe circa 1914, and just like the Industrial Age empires it could erupt in war at any given moment.

A hitter, such as La Dónde, needs clients. Levi’s job was to arrange the meeting with the client for a percentage of the hitter’s fee. La Dónde was one of his clients, and a profitable one at that. Once the meeting was made and the percentage taken, however, the casamentero was under no obligation to see the job done.

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