Suitcase City. Sterling Watson

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СКАЧАТЬ trip. Teach laughing. “What’re you gonna do, shoot it out with the DEA?”

      Naylor getting sulky, his masculinity damaged. “White man, you never know when that piece might come in handy. Better safe than sorry, I always say.”

      “Right,” Teach had said. “Don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”

      Teach put the pistol in the back of his waistband, under his shirt. He had been thinking white hot since Frank Deeks had gone up in flames, his mind trying for some clear, certain place where he would know what he had to do. He kept seeing things: How the three Guatemalans had stopped talking when he approached them on the stern of the Santa Maria, some evil fog around them of what they knew and he didn’t. Their eyes holding that serenity. It meant, Teach knew, that they had decided. They had made up their minds.

      Teach pushed out of the cab and walked back past Esteban. “Out of cigarettes,” he said.

      “Take one of mine.” Esteban reached into his coat pocket for the cheesy gold cigarette case all three carried.

      Teach waved no and pinched his nose. “Too strong for me, man.”

      Esteban gave an elaborate shrug, shook his head at the weakness of gringo lungs.

      When the truck was closed up and ready, Teach stood in front of Naylor. He looked over at the three Guatemalans standing together by the gangplank. “Last trip, Blood,” he whispered. “Wish me luck.”

      Bloodworth Naylor laughed, then looked at him. “What’s going on, man? Everything cool? You seem a little—”

      Teach slapped him hard on the shoulder to stop his mouth. In a hearty voice he said, “See you tomorrow, man. The bar, just like always. Drinks on me.”

      Teach always pushed the shrimper out along the same route he had taken coming in. Only it couldn’t be the same. Not this time. He knew it now: the Guatemalans wouldn’t do anything until he had taken them back to the Gulf, deep water under the keel. Then, something would happen. If Teach read those satisfied eyes right, there would be another body burning in a boat. The boat would be a Boston Whaler, cut loose from the stern of the Santa Maria. The body would be Jimmy Teach.

      So the route tonight would be different, and Teach had to hope that the three Guatemalans didn’t notice. He had to hope that they trusted him, believed in his seamanship, hadn’t counted the turns he always took in this maze of mangrove canals.

      Teach was approaching the place where he would take the new turn when the wheelhouse door slid open. Carlos. Teach said, “Hey man. Qué paso? Quiet night now, huh?”

      “Sí, mi amigo. Muy quiet.” He looked at Teach. “It is too bad about the man in the boat.” He shrugged. “But it had to be. You understand, don’t you?”

      Teach gave back the same sad smile. Soldiers lamenting the necessities of war. “Sure,” he said, “I understand. It’s tough, but it had to be.”

      Carlos looked ahead into the night and then over at Teach again. “Amigo?” he said, a look of supplication on his face. The Indian licked his lips, smiling.

      “Oh,” Teach said, “sure.” He pulled the Wild Turkey from his hip pocket and passed it to Carlos. The man drank and handed it back. Teach reached to put the bottle away.

      Carlos said, “Have some, drink with me.”

      The turn was just ahead. Teach said, “Sure, buddy.” He drank and returned the bottle to his pocket, drawing his fingers across the pistol butt under his shirt. At the bend, he swung the shrimper right instead of left. It was a tight turn, but so were many of them. He could feel Carlos tensing beside him. Teach didn’t look at the man, just waited. Carlos’s hand was on his shoulder. On the foredeck below, Esteban turned and looked not at Teach but at Carlos.

      Carlos said, “Vamos bien? We going the right way? You sure about this?”

      Teach turned to the man, smiled. “Hey, Carlos, who’s the pilot here? I know what I’m doing.” Teach let go of the wheel, stepped back. Let a little anger come into his voice. “You think you can do better, man, you take over.”

      Carlos looked out at the walls of mangroves. In seconds the Santa Maria would plow into the bank. Fear in his voice, Carlos said, “I am sorry, Señor Piloto. Take the wheel. Take it.”

      As he took the wheel, Teach heard Esteban call out from below. The man shouting in Spanish, pointing at the looming trees. Teach turned the shrimper back into the channel. If it was going to happen, it had to be soon. The place Teach wanted was only a few minutes away, and so was the man he would become.

      Teach felt Carlos relax beside him. Keeping one hand on the wheel, Teach raised the other and stretched, yawned. “Long night,” he said.

      Carlos looked at him, took out a cigarette, and lit it. He offered Teach the gold case.

      “I told you, man, I don’t smoke. No fumo. I drink. We did that together.” Teach lowered his right hand and scratched his back.

      “Then why you tell Esteban you go to the truck for a cigarette?” Carlos dropped the cigarette and reached inside his coat.

      Teach snatched the Smith from his belt, fitted it to Carlos’s skull just below his ear, and pulled the trigger. This time he was ready for the noise and flash in the little wheelhouse. Carlos grunted, “Nuh!” and stiffened, exhaled, went down limp. Teach cut the engine, pocketed the key, and stepped over Carlos’s twitching chest. He pulled aside the sliding door, its little glass pane painted red with blood and brains, slipped out of the wheelhouse, and slid down the ladder to the narrow passage between the deck and the rail. He crouched there, listening. Footsteps came from the stern. Julio called, “Esteban, did you do it? You did it already?”

      Julio thinking it was Teach dead up there. Well, now there would be no more calm, uncurious eyes. There was going to be some serious curiosity. Moving fast, Julio appeared in front of Teach, looking up at the wheelhouse, his pistol low by his thigh. Teach fired from a crouch, his pistol barrel almost touching Julio’s chest.

      Julio dropped the heavy nine-millimeter at Teach’s feet, then sank to his knees, blood pouring black from his mouth. “Madre,” he gasped, his face close, his breath garlic and cigarettes and blood. He clawed at his chest, tore at his tie, fell backward, and pulled his knees up to his chin.

      “She’ll be waiting for you,” Teach muttered.

      In the dark, the quiet, with the engine stopped, the Santa Maria drifted toward the canal bank. Teach could hear only the breeze that rustled the tops of the mangroves, the sluicing of water against the sides of the boat, the buzz of insects, the single cry of a heron, “Scrawwk.”

      Teach had been lucky with the first two, and now it would be grim. He would have to hunt Esteban, find him, and kill him. Still in his crouch, Julio relaxing into his death three feet in front of him, Teach picked up the big nine-millimeter, lowered the hammer, and stuck it in his belt. He reconsidered the matter. He would not hunt Esteban. He knew the boat better, knew the mangroves. What could the man do? What option did he have but to hunt Teach? If Teach left the boat, Esteban would be stuck here until he was discovered in the morning, or he would be lost out there in those miles of swamp.

      Teach slipped through the door of the lazarette beneath the wheelhouse and into the СКАЧАТЬ