The Best American Mystery Stories 1998

Pat Jordan Beyond Dog from Playboy

The two waitresses stood in the shade of the service bar waiting for their drink orders. The brunette sneaked a drag of her cigarette and put it back in the ashtray on the bar.

The blonde said, “You gonna tell ’em, or me?”

The brunette glanced over her shoulder. The outdoor tables on the deck of the Mark Hotel’s Chickee Bar were filled mostly with tourists drinking margaritas and rumrunners in the hot Fort Lauderdale sun. Some wore baggy shorts and T-shirts with PARTY NAKED on the front. Others wore cruisewear bathing suits from Bloomingdale’s. They didn’t talk much, except now and then to whisper to one another and point down below at the male and female strippers lying on the sand, wearing only G-string bikinis, their perfectly tanned bodies glistening with coconut oil.

“You mean the mutt?” said the brunette. “With Spike and the hunk?”

“Who else?”

A man and a woman were seated off by themselves at the far corner of the deck. Only their backs were visible to the waitresses. The man looked like a bodybuilder, hugely muscular and tanned, with a bleached-blond ponytail and narrow, dark eyes. The woman was older, muscled, tanned and bleached blonde, too, with close-cropped hair that stood up like spring grass. She wore a G-string bikini and smoked a cigarette, very lady-like, limp-wristed, while with her other hand she stroked the fur of the dog sitting at her feet. The dog had reddish-orange-and-white fur and looked like a cross between a wolf and a fox.

The blonde waitress set down their drinks. Jim Beam, rocks, for him. Vodka, rocks, for her. The man handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change.

“Thank you, sir,” the waitress said. She stood there, hesitating.

The woman ignored her. She sipped her vodka and said to the man, “What time is he supposed to get here?”

“Twenty minutes ago,” said the man.

The waitress hovered. Finally, she said, “Excuse me.” The woman glanced up, still stroking her dog. “I’m terribly sorry,” the waitress said, “but it’s against the rules.” She pointed at the dog. The dog looked up at her with an eerily human expression. “No dogs, I’m afraid.”

The woman took a drag from her cigarette and exhaled. “Really?” she said. She was older than she looked from behind, maybe 45, but attractive. The woman smiled down at the dog. “Did you hear that, Hosh? You’re not welcome.” She poured her glass of water into a tin bowl and put it down for the dog.

The waitress shrugged and returned to the service bar as a bald man with a big belly and a goatee walked toward the table. Sunlight glinted off his gold-framed sunglasses, his gold necklaces, his gold bracelets, his gold Rolex. His buttondown shirt was open to the navel, exposing his chest hair. Three beepers were hooked to his white tennis shorts.

“Hello, Sheila,” he said, leaning down to kiss the woman on the cheek. He sat down across from Bobby.

“Hello, Solly,” she said.

“A day late, Solly,” said Bobby.

“I had things to do.”

The dog raised up on his hind legs and put his paws on Sol’s arm. “The Hosh!” Sol said. “How’s my man?” The dog wagged his tail. When the waitress appeared at Sol’s side, the dog sat down quickly, as if to be unobtrusive.

“I’ll have a rumrunner, honey,” Sol said. “And a hamburger.”

“What are you, a fucking tourist?” Bobby said when the waitress had gone.

“Right,” Sheila said. “With three beepers on his hip.”

Bobby leaned across the table and said, “So, what’s the big hurry, Sol, that you bring us out with all the tourists?”

“I thought I’d toss this one to you, Bobby. Some sandblasted types in Miami. I don’t feature dealing with them.” He grinned. “I figure you and the spies have something in common, you know. Men of color and all.”

Bobby smiled. “What’s the product?”

The bald man looked around at the tourists, studying them.

“Oh, Solly,” Sheila said, “you’re so fucking dramatic.”

The waitress came back with the rumrunner and burger and Sol raised his eyebrows for silence. After she left, he said, “Do you mind if we get back to business?” Bobby nodded. Sol leaned toward him. “The spic needs a few pieces, Bobby, maybe a couple hundred. Small stuff, mostly. CZs. AKs. Uzis. They like that foreign shit. He says that he already got his big stuff — SAMs, Stingers — from some raghead in Boca.”

“So why does he need us?” Bobby said.

“Because, fuckhead, he can’t buy the stuff in Miami. He’s a big-fucking-deal exile, on TV all the time, screaming how him and his compatriots are gonna take back their fucking island paradise by force. Building an army, he says, a lot of fat old spies in camouflage out in the Everglades, huffin’ and puffin’ through the fuckin’ swamp, blasting gators with grenade launchers.”

“So why doesn’t he just come up here to get his product?”

“You know how spies are, Bobby. Like guineas in the Bronx. Hate to leave their stoop. Besides, a sandblasted nigger like him in Lauderdale, sniffing around for product, would draw flies. He needs a buyer. Someone knows his way up here, got contacts. Preferably a white man, he says.” Sol grinned evilly and winked at Sheila. “What they call that, honey?”

Sheila looked startled, then smiled. “I think you mean irony.”

“Irony, Bobby! You and him become asshole buddies, talk politics, maybe he can loan you some Stingers so’s you can recapture the fucking Indian reservation. Dinner at his hacienda. Him and his wife, you and Sheila.” Sol took a bite of his hamburger. “Know any Spanish?”

Sheila stubbed out her cigarette and looked for the waitress, to order another drink. When she turned back, Sol was sneaking a piece of hamburger to Hoshi.

“Solly! I told you not to feed him that shit.”

“He’s a dog, for Christ’s sake. He eats meat.”

“Yeah, well, not that stuff. It fucks up his stomach, so please, Sol? And another thing: Don’t call him a dog.”

“Jesus. He is a dog.”

“No he’s not. He’s beyond dog.”

“All right, all right.” But the hamburger had already disappeared and Sol turned back to Bobby. “The spic expects you at his house tonight for dinner. Midnight. Them spies eat late. It’s in the Gables.” Sol slid a folded piece of paper across the table. Bobby unfolded it and looked at it.

The waitress appeared. “Another round,” Sheila said. Then, smiling at Sol, she added, “And don’t forget to put the little umbrella in his rumrunner. OK, honey?”

Sol ignored her and went on. “There’s no number on the front gate. But you can’t miss it. Big fucking concrete wall, razor wire on top. You know how they are. Makes ’em feel important. I told him to expect a Mr. Bobby Squared. Just announce yourself at the gate. They got this little box you talk into, they let you in.”

Sol lowered his voice and leaned closer to Bobby. “One other thing. Don’t pack. He’s fuckin’ paranoid.” He smiled at Sheila. “Very good, Sol.”

“Par-a-noid, Bobby. Drives one of them ten-ton Bentleys that fucking bazookas bounce off. Guats patrolling the grounds with Macios and guard dogs, big fucking mutts like in the movies.”

“Rottweilers,” Sheila said.

“Whatever. Dog shit everywhere. Wear your cowboy boots, Bobby. And don’t pack. They’ll pat you down at the front door, and you don’t want to piss these guys off.”

Bobby nodded. “What’s my end?”

“All of it. It’s a present. You always stood up for me.” Sol’s tone changed for an instant, not the wise guy now, but genuine. Then he went on talking, all business again. “The product will costya, maybe 75 large. The spic will give you a hundred. You keep the change.” He leaned closer to Bobby and said softly, “Bobby, you know there’s only one guy deals in so much product.”

“I know.”

“You ever met him?”

Bobby shook his head.

“He’s fucking wacko. Old bastard thinks he’s God. From the Old Testament — you know what I mean. Watch yourself.” Absentmindedly, Sol broke off another piece of his hamburger and handed it to Hoshi. The dog wolfed it down.

“Jesus, Sol. What did I tell you? You’re a fucking mule!” Sheila stood up. “Come on, Hosh.” She walked off the deck onto the sand and headed toward the ocean.

“What’d I do?” Sol said.

“You pissed her off,” Bobby said. He followed Sheila with his eyes as she walked in the sand in that distinctive way of hers that always turned him on. She twisted the balls of her feet so that her small, high ass swiveled left and right. Bobby watched as she turned at the water’s edge and began walking away. Hoshi trotted beside her, well away from the water. The only time he ever pissed and moaned was when they gave him a bath.

Sheila stared silently through the blacked-out windows of Bobby’s black SHO as they drove south on I-95. Finally, Bobby said, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing!” she snapped, not looking at him. Then, turning to him, she said, “I’m sorry, baby. It’s not your fault.” She looked down at herself dressed in a beige silk pleated jumpsuit. She was wearing a matronly wig, brown flecked with gray, twisted into a bun at her nape. “It’s this fucking girdle. Reminds me of my age.”

Bobby reached a hand across the seat and placed it on her thigh. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“That’s all right, Bobby.” She smiled at him as they passed the Miami skyline, the glass skyscrapers illuminated eerily by pastel lights, pink and green and blue. “I’m curious, though. Why do I have to wear a girdle?”

“You got your Seecamp?”

Sheila rummaged through her handbag and pulled out her chrome-plated Seecamp .32, six shots, double action only. He’d given it to her two years ago. “It’s so pretty,” she’d said when he handed it to her. “So tiny. It doesn’t seem real.”

“Now, stick the gun inside your girdle. The spic isn’t going to pat you down… I hope.”

She unbuttoned the jumpsuit to her navel and stuck the little gun into the front of it. “It’s cold,” she said. She moved her hips seductively. “Feels good, though.”

When they reached Coral Gables they turned left, toward the ocean. Bobby slowed the car, pulled out Sol’s piece of paper and squinted at the numbers on it, then glanced at the numbers on the houses. Mansions. Spanish Mediterranean, most of them. Some looked like English Tudors. The Anglos, Sheila thought. She looked up. An insistent breeze from the ocean rustled the leaves of the big royal palms lining the street, reflecting the white moonlight.

“We’re getting close,” Bobby said. Sheila appreciated the tall, wrought-iron gates and fences, the big circular driveways, the Rolls Royces, Benzes, Ferraris and BMWs, all illuminated by landscape lights. Another world, she thought.

“At dinner, baby,” Bobby was saying, “you make sure to sit by me. Things start to go bad, you’ll know. You get up, go to the ladies’ room to powder your nose. Take the Seecamp out, put it in your purse, come back, put the purse under the table, at your feet. A few minutes later, you drop your napkin, something, reach under the table, drop the Seecamp into my boot.”

She smiled at him.

A few minutes later, Bobby muttered “Jesus” and stopped in front of a 12-foot-high concrete wall topped with razor wire. “You think this is it?”

Bobby announced himself at the call box and the big wrought-iron gate opened electronically. They drove slowly up the long driveway, past the palms and hibiscuses and frangipani. Two men, cradling Uzis, stood guard at the front, one of them leashed to an enormous rottweiler. The one with the dog hurried to Sheila’s door and opened it, but when she reached out her hand he ignored it and reached for her handbag. On his opposite side, the dog strained at its collar. Sheila stepped out of the car and stared directly into the dog’s eyes with her own cool blue eyes. It looked away and whimpered. Sheila reached down to stroke the fur behind its ears. “Nice boy,” she said. The dog pulled away from her touch.

The other man gestured with his Uzi and Bobby got out and raised his hands over his head. The man patted him down as the big, hand-carved door opened. A pudgy little man in a white linen suit stood outlined in the light of the doorway. His tiny feet were in black patent leather Guccis and his long, black hair, flecked with silver, was greased and combed straight back from a soft, pouty face. His eyes were big and dark, like a child’s.

“Señor Esquared,” the man said, smiling. “Señor Rogers has told me much about you.”

“Señor Rogers?” Bobby asked.

The man looked confused. “Señor Esol Rogers, your associate.”

“Oh, yes. Señor Rogers. He has told me great things about you, too, Señor Medina.”

The man grinned and nodded with satisfaction.

Smugglers, Bobby thought. They crave recognition.

The man who had searched Sheila’s bag was now patting her down, running his hands down her back. Señor Medina frowned and snapped something in Spanish. The man yanked his hand away.

“Please excuse the precautions, señorita,” Medina said to Sheila. “A man in my position…” He shrugged.

“You’re too kind, señor. But, of course, it’s señora. Señora Sheila Doyle.” She reached out a hand.

He shook the tips of her fingers. Then he stared at her for a moment, this tall Anglo woman. He said something in Spanish to his two men and barely perceptible smiles crossed their lips.

“Gracias, Señor Medina,” Sheila said. “Porlos complimientos.”

Medina looked startled. Then he smiled. “You speak my tongue, señora?”

“Unpoquito.” Sheila wiggled her fingers a bit.

“Come in, come in,” the man said. “Welcome to my humble campesino house.” He turned and walked inside.

Right, Bobby thought. A poor man’s shack. Maybe five, six mil, not counting the half mil in electronic security.

Bobby followed Sheila through the door. She glanced back and whispered, “That’s the only Spanish sentence I know.”

Yeah, Bobby thought, but now the little bastard thinks we understand Spanish. Which couldn’t hurt.

Medina led them into the living room, his tiny Gucci heels clicking against the white tile floor. The living room looked like the set for one of those born-again-Christian TV programs. Overstuffed lavender sofa. Two pink armchairs shaded with gilt. China figurines. Hummels. Expensive kitsch bought by people with no taste. Bobby looked for the big cross, but saw only a huge color photo over the marble fireplace.

“Ah, you noticed,” said Medina, gesturing toward the photograph. “My wife, Lucinda.”

“Beautiful,” said Bobby. The woman looked about 35, heavily made-up, a puff of pinkish blonde hair like a halo surrounding her pretty, small-featured face, which wouldn’t age well. She’d get fat, Bobby thought, and look like a plump pigeon.

Medina stepped through sliding glass doors to an outdoor bar alongside a heart-shaped swimming pool. His wife, sitting at the bar nursing a drink, looked up with a small jerk, as if frightened. She was maybe 20 years older than her picture, 20 pounds heavier. Just like a pigeon, Bobby thought, a plump pigeon in a flowing pink caftan.

Medina introduced them. Sheila flashed Lucinda her patented 8 X lo-glossy smile. Lucinda returned a quick, nervous little smile. A Nicaraguan bartender in white served drinks. Another servant appeared with a tray of caviar and toast. Medina snapped something in Spanish and one of the white-clad servants hovering in the darkness hustled inside. He returned with a long box, which Medina opened, showing it to Bobby and Sheila. Nestled on tissue paper was a replica of an Uzi machine gun, except that it was carved out of ivory.

“My good friends from the estate of Israel gave me this,” he said. “In gratitude for my assistance. A little matter of a Hamas terrorist. He turned up in Miami trying to buy Cemtex. He was very foolish. Made the wrong connections. Poof!” Medina wiped the palms of his hands as if to clean them of blood. “It is lovely, no?”

“Lovely!” said Sheila.

“But at times, a patriot needs more than artifacts, eh, señora?”

Sheila smiled and nodded.

“Come, Señor Esquared. Let the women talk while I show you the grounds.”

Bobby and Medina walked into the warm, humid darkness, leaving the two women at the bar. Bobby glanced back to see Sheila, smiling, trying to make conversation. The plump woman nodded nervously, like a toy bird dipping its head for water.

“I have lived in your country 30 years,” said Medina as they walked across the huge expanse of lawn toward what looked like a garage. “But I am still a Cuban. My wife is a Cuban. My children. We will die only Cubans. Do you understand?” Bobby nodded. Medina went on. “Even here in exile I go to Mass every morning as I did in Havana, years ago, before that bandit destroyed my country.”

He stepped into a dark mound in the grass and screamed, “Aiee! Fucking dogs!” He danced aside and wiped his shoe furiously on the grass.

When they came to the garage, Medina pushed a button to open the doors. The doors rolled up, a light went on and Bobby was staring at a beautifully restored, lipstick red 1957 Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible with white leather upholstery.

“Is beautiful, no?” Medina said, smiling at the car.

“Very beautiful,” Bobby said.

The little man went over to the gleaming car, ran his hands lovingly along its fender. “It is the same model I used to ride through the streets of Havana,” he said. “I found this one and restored it myself. A hobby of mine, mechanical things. It took me five years but that did not matter.” He looked at Bobby. “Do you know what sustained me, Señor Esquared?” Bobby shook his head no. Medina said, “The knowledge that one day Lucinda and I will drive this car again through the streets of Havana, past cheering crowds welcoming me home from exile. I come here at night to stare at this beautiful thing. I see myself in it back in Cuba.” He looked at Bobby. “I’d give it all up, you know. This house, the life, to return.”

Sure you would, Bobby thought. A humble patriot. Not a fucking ruthless butcher. Not a guy who once, Sol claimed, blew a Cuban airliner out of the sky. Two hundred eighty-eight innocent people, some of them exiles from Miami, because he wanted to make a point. “You know what they call him?” Sol had said. “El-Loco. The Crazy One.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Señor Esquared,” Medina was saying. “I am grateful to America. It’s been very good to me. And it’s made me rich. But a patriot needs something more. His roots. My roots are in Havana. My father is buried there. He was a great patriot. He fought that butcher, Castro, until my father was captured. I was only a boy. My mother and I were called to the prison to watch. We had to stand in the hot sun while they brought my father out in front of Castro. Castro made him kneel at his feet. He told him to bow his head, but my father refused. He looked up into that butcher’s eyes and defied him to kill him man-to-man. And that coward, that bastard…” Medina’s fingers jabbed the night air, saliva forming in his cheeks, spittle on his lips, as he raged on. “That pig bastard didn’t have the courage. He turned to one of his henchmen, an American, a hired assassin, this big fucking gringo, and he handed him his pistola, a P-38, a Nazi gun, of course, and said, ‘Here, gringo, you do it. He is not worth my time.’ And the gringo shot my father between the eyes.”

Medina stopped talking. Finally, he said, “Excuse me, Señor Esquared; I am a man of passion. You understand. For my people, passion is everything. Passion is the food that keeps me alive. Makes me remember my enemies.” He smiled. “And my friends. Will you be my friend, Señor Esquared?”

Bobby dipped his head slightly, as if to bow, and stretched out his hand. “It would be an honor to be your friend, Señor Medina.”

The little man nodded, took the tips of Bobby’s fingers in his and held them a moment. In the moonlight, Bobby could see that his face was still dark from his outburst.

“Good, señor. That is good. I know I can trust you.”

Yeah, Bobby thought. But can I trust you?

During dinner Medina hardly spoke, except to snap at his servants and once to whisper a few words to one of his bodyguards. The man backed off slowly, bowing slightly, turned and disappeared through the sliding glass doors.

Sheila looked quizzically at Bobby, but he shook his head and put a firm hand on her arm to prevent her from going to the bathroom. No sense taking chances. Señor Medina’s mood had soured. The little bastard’s mind was still back in Havana and he seemed to be tasting revenge with every morsel of food he jabbed into his mouth. His wife ate with her head down, the good Cuban wife. She must be terrified out of her wits, Bobby thought, the things she knows. Jesus, the poor old broad!

Bobby tried to make small talk with Señora Medina, but the woman just flashed her tiny, terrified smile and looked down again at her food.

When the silent dinner was over, Medina snapped his fingers and a servant appeared with a leather briefcase. Medina handed it to Bobby. “My grocery list, Señor Esquared. Do you think you can fill it?”

“No problem,” said Bobby.

“It is a very extensive list, Señor Esquared.”

“I can fill it.”

“I have heard of only one man in your city who can supply such items. Difficult to contact.”

“I have my sources.”

“Yes, that’s what I am told.” The man was silent for a moment.

Then he said, “You know, of course, this man, this man with the guns, is not sympathetic to my cause.”

“No?”

“I have heard this.” He smiled. “I, too, have my sources. They tell me it is necessary you exercise, how do you say, discretion as to your buyer with this man.”

“It is understood, Señor Medina.”

“Good. Then how long will it take you?”

“Maybe a few weeks.”

“A few weeks is no problem. More than that…” Medina shrugged. “So let us agree, two weeks it is.”

Bobby reached his hand toward Medina. The little man took his fingertips. His fingers were cold.

“Agreed,” Bobby said.

“A telephone number and a name are on the list. My associate Raoul. You will contact only him from now on. He will explain the details of the transfer of the groceries.”

Bobby nodded.

“The dollars, of course, are there too.”

“Of course.”

“Would you like to count them?”

“It’s not necessary.”

“Good.”

Later, as they drove back to Fort Lauderdale, Bobby told Sheila what had happened in the campesino hut, and, for the first time, he told her about Sol’s warnings.

Sheila shuddered. “What a scary little man!”

Two weeks later, during spring break, a college student — a wrestler from the University of Pennsylvania — was strolling on Fort Lauderdale beach, taking in all the girls glistening in the sun a few yards from the Mark Hotel’s Chickee Bar. His eye fell on a gorgeous one lying close to the water, on her stomach. A small red-and-white dog lay on the blanket beside her, sunning itself too. She had a perfect tan, a beautiful ass and short blonde hair like a crew cut. He paused a moment, looked down at his own winter-white body, then made up his mind.

“Excuse me,” he said. The dog sat up, alert. “Excuse me!” he said more loudly. She rolled over onto her back, shading her eyes with the flat of her hand. He felt foolish. This woman was in her late thirties. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just wondering what kind of dog you have.” He smiled.

She looked at him with cold blue eyes and rolled back onto her stomach. The boy hesitated uncertainly, and then retreated.

It had been funny at first, Sheila thought. College boys hitting on her. Now it was a pain. She shaded her eyes again and looked up at the Chickee Bar, where Bobby was conducting business with a character called Machine Gun Bob. They sat at a table close to the sand. Bobby was in his bikini, all tan and muscles, and Machine Gun was in his camouflage cutoffs and SS thunderbolt necklace, with swastika tattoos on his reddish-burnt skin. Fucking poster boy for Hitler youth, Sheila thought. She did not like Machine Gun.

She saw Bobby stand up and shake Machine Gun’s hand. He came toward her now, his big body shaded by the sun at his back. Hoshi scrambled up to greet him and Bobby bent to ruffle the fur at the base of his neck. Sheila looked into Bobby’s shadowed face, her eyebrows raised.

“It’s all settled, baby,” he said. “Tomorrow at midnight.”

“I can’t stand that guy,” she said. “Just look at him.”

Bobby laughed. “Yeah, they’re all into that shit, those gun freaks. You should see his van. Nazi helmets, uniforms, medals.”

“Yeah, well, it’s spooky.”

“Don’t worry, baby. Machine Gun’s OK. Just your average stoned Nazi surfer dude who deals in guns.”

“He’s a pig.”

Bobby was losing patience. “Listen, baby. I need him. Nobody gets to the man with the guns without Machine Gun. And Machine Gun is coming through for us. For $25,000, what’s not to like?”

The next evening as they drove west on State Road 84, Hoshi sat on the briefcase beside Bobby. Sheila sat by the passenger window, staring out at the gas stations, the ramshackle barbecue joints, the seedy country-and-western bars, their parking lots filled with trucks owned by rednecks who fancied themselves to be cowboys.

“Keep your eyes peeled for the diner, baby,” Bobby said. “It looks like one of those old-fashioned Airstream trailers. That’s where Medina’s man will be with the van.” He had already told her the plan. They would park at the diner, drive the van out to the ranch where the guns were, load them, return the van to Medina’s man at the diner and drive back home with their cut. Twenty-five thousand.

Sheila absentmindedly began stroking the fur behind Hoshi’s left ear. “Bobby,” she said. “I still don’t know why we had to bring Hosh. It could be dangerous.”

“Hoshi’s the burglar alarm.” He glanced at her. “He’s gotta earn his keep, too. Ain’t that right, Hosh?” The dog looked at him and then out the front window. No dog’s as smart as a Shibu Inu, Bobby thought.

Sheila reached into her leather satchel, felt the cool, chrome-plated Seecamp, found her cigarettes. She lit one and inhaled.

“Here, baby. Take the wheel.”

She held the steering wheel while Bobby reached behind his back. He withdrew a black CZ-75, racked the slide to put a round in the chamber and stuck the gun in his belt.

“I thought you trusted that Nazi surfer,” Sheila said.

He glanced at her. “The only person I trust, baby, is you.”

They drove awhile in the darkness, then Bobby said, “The gun guy’s some kind of Aryan Nation guy, you know, those racists. Lives out in the woods with his pit bull and enough guns to start his own revolution. The Reverend Tom of the Aryan Mountain Kirk, whatever the fuck that means. Has all these skinheads and Nazis out to his ranch for midnight cross burnings, then a nice church supper prepared by the ladies.” Bobby laughed. “The reverend hates niggers but hates spies even more.”

“There it is.” Sheila pointed ahead to a shiny aluminum diner set back off the road. Bobby turned into the deserted parking lot and reminded himself that the lot would probably be full of trucks when they returned with the guns. He drove around the brightly lit diner to the dark back parking lot and pulled in next to a white van.

“You wait here,” he said, and got out.

Hoshi leaped up and followed Bobby with his eyes. “Good boy, Hosh,” Sheila said, stroking his neck. A man got out of the van. She couldn’t make out his face in the darkened lot, but he seemed tiny next to Bobby’s bulk. He handed Bobby something and walked around to the front of the diner. Bobby waved for Sheila.

Sheila took the briefcase and her bag and got out. Hoshi jumped out after her. When she slid into the van’s passenger seat, Hoshi stood outside. He began to bark and back up nervously.

“Come on, Hosh,” Sheila said. But the dog kept barking and backing up, then lunging at Sheila. He took her jeans cuff in his teeth.

“What the hell’s the matter with him?” Bobby snapped. “Get him into the fucking van.”

Sheila grabbed Hoshi’s collar and pulled him onto her lap. He squirmed. “What’s the matter, baby?” she said.

“Hoshi, cut it out for Christ’s sake!” Bobby snapped again. The dog stopped squirming but began to whimper, staring at Bobby. Bobby ignored him and held up the keys the man had given him. “One’s to arm the engine burglar alarm,” Bobby said. “The other’s to arm the rear doors so they can’t be opened.” Bobby found the remote transmitter with a strip of white tape on it. He pressed the button and all the doors locked with a click, the front lights blinked and the alarm armed itself with a chirp. Bobby started the engine.

“What about the rear doors?” Sheila asked.

Bobby showed her the remote with the red tape on it. “Red for the rear. The back-door remote operates only with a full load in back. The little spic was very specific. Muy importante we arm the rear doors the minute the van is loaded with the guns. No sooner, no later. Fucking paranoid Medina.” Bobby backed the van out of the space and drove around the diner. Through the diner’s windows, he saw the little man seated alone at the counter, sipping coffee. “We come back with the guns,” Bobby said, “we just hand the little spic the keys and we’re home free.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were bouncing over a rutted dirt road so narrow that scrub bushes and small pines brushed against their windows. Off to the left, tiny green lights flickered and disappeared.

“Deer,” Bobby said.

Soon they arrived at a clearing, then a small rise, more like a bump in the road, and then a hand-painted sign that said ARYAN MOUNTAIN KIRK, PASTER TOM MILLER. A small, dilapidated, wood-frame cracker house was up ahead and beside it sat a Quonset hut-like barn of corrugated aluminum painted in green and brown camouflage patches.

Bobby parked the van a few yards from the front door and waited. A light came on over the door, and a huge, older man filled the doorway. He must have been 6′6″, 300 pounds. “Jesus H. Christ,” Bobby said. The man was mythic-looking, with a John Brown spade beard and combat boots and bib overalls that strained against his belly and chest.

“Wait here,” Bobby said. “I don’t come out in ten minutes, you start the engine and drive the fuck out of here.”

She showed him her Seecamp. “You don’t come out, I’m going in after you.”

“Christ, Sheila. That little thing will only piss him off. A couple of shots from that would be like mosquito bites.”

Sheila shrugged. “Whatever, Bobby. Sure.”

Bobby got out of the van and the huge man approached, followed by a muscular white pit bull, about Hoshi’s size. Hoshi flattened his ears and began to growl low in his throat.

A few words were exchanged, the men shook hands and then the huge man seemed to embrace Bobby. He picked the pistol out of Bobby’s belt with thumb and forefinger, as if it were something rancid, and tossed it into the bushes. Then he put one of his massive arms around Bobby’s shoulders and walked him toward the Quonset hut. It was the first time Bobby had ever looked small to Sheila.

The fur on Hoshi’s back bristled, and he growled again. Sheila scratched his ears, but he paid no attention. “Everything’s going to be all right, Hosh,” she said as the two men and the pit bull disappeared into the hut.

Inside the hut, the Reverend Miller introduced his dog. “I call him Dog-Dog,” he said, and reached down to pat his head. “He’s a loyal guy. An Aryan, too.” He winked at Bobby and smiled. “White race got to stick together, Bobby.” He laughed. “You can go ahead and pet him. He won’t bite. Not unless I tell him to.”

Bobby stroked the pit bull’s back, which was covered with scars. His ears were clipped for fighting and his eyes were mean and yellow.

“Bobby Squared, huh?” the reverend said. “What kind of a name is that?”

Bobby thought for a moment, decided to chance it, looked up into the huge man’s eyes and said, “It used to be Robert Redfeather, when I was on the reservation.”

“It did, huh? You should have kept it. Indians are a noble race. They should never have let us in. Ruined the whole damn neighborhood.” He threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Come on. Let’s see what I got for you.”

The Quonset hut was hot and smelled of mildew and hay and horseshit and, strangely, gun oil. A card table was stacked high with pamphlets and books: Letters from the Mountain Kirk. The Turner Diaries. The Brotherhood. The Order. The reverend palmed a copy of The Holy Book of Adolf Hitler. “What a great man, eh, Bobby?”

“If you say so, Reverend.”

The man winked again and then, with a vast gesture of his meaty arm, motioned toward the far end of the hut, where Bobby saw a barren altar with a wooden pulpit and behind it not a cross but an enormous Nazi flag pinned to the wall.

“The faithful love that shit,” said the reverend. “Hitler, swastikas, burning crosses. Keeps ’em happy.” He shook his head mournfully. “But so what? If that’s what they want, fine, I’ll give it to ’em.”

“Where were you ordained, Reverend?” Bobby said.

“Where?” The man glared. “Where? Right fucking here. I came out here one night and ordained myself.” He crossed the room and unlocked a door to the right of his pulpit. “I’m my own fucking god, Bobby. After you.”

Bobby stepped into a smaller room filled floor to ceiling with cardboard boxes. They were stamped in black letters: BRNO. PRODUCT OF CZECHOSLOVAKIA; ISRAELI MILITARY INDUSTRIES; LLAMA GABILANDO. PRODUCT OF SPAIN; NORINCO. PRODUCT OF THE PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA; BERETTA. PRODUCT OF ITALY. The reverend opened a box stamped NORINCO and held up an AK-17. “I believe this is what you’re looking for?” He racked the side, aimed the AK at Bobby’s forehead and pulled the trigger. Click. He threw back his head and roared again, his booming laughter echoing off the aluminum walls. He tossed the AK to Bobby and began to open other boxes, producing CZ-75 pistols, Uzis, a Llama 45.

Bobby handed back the AK. “Everything but the Llama,” he said. “My man doesn’t like those spic guns.”

“A man after my own heart. Here, let me show you something.” He went over to a closet and opened the door. Ten big tins labeled SURVIVAL CRACKERS were stacked on the floor. The clothes rack was lined with satin Ku Klux Klan robes in several colors. “I got red, I got green, I got yellow.” The reverend touched them. “Robes for every occasion. Formal, casual, beachwear. They love it. But this” — he pulled a box from one of the upper shelves and held it out to Bobby — “is what I wanted to show you.” He opened the lid and gently parted the layers of tissue paper.

It was a Cuban flag. Three blue stripes, two white stripes, a white star in a red triangle. The flag was soiled and ripped in places, blackened with gunpowder, stained with dried blood. The reverend watched Bobby as he looked at the flag, then he, too, looked at it.

“I fought for this flag,” he said, tapping Bobby’s arm for emphasis. “I believed in it. It was the only thing I ever believed in. I carried it into battle in the Sierra Maestra, and into Havana after we routed Batista. I was mobbed, like a god. The people shouted, “Gringo! Gringo!” I could have had anything I wanted. Anything! But I only wanted the revolution to work. They were good people. I became an outlaw in my own country for them.”

He spat on the floor. “And how did that bastard Castro repay me? He waited until we cleaned the Batista forces out, then he came in two days later, the conquering hero. He pinned a medal on my chest in the middle of Havana, with a couple hundred thousand people screaming, “Gringo! Gringo!” Fidel bent over and whispered in my ear, ‘You think you’re bigger than me, gringo?’ So he put me in charge of the execution squads. The dirtiest fucking job, to humiliate me. I told him the Batistas had fought bravely, that we should let them into the revolution now. But he wouldn’t listen. I went around the countryside with a firing squad. A shit detail.”

The reverend shook his head. “But I only once pulled the trigger myself. Fidel was going to shoot this poor little bastard himself, with the guy’s wife and little kid watching, the worst thing you can think of. They made the guy kneel in front of Fidel, but the bastard had heart. He looked right into Fidel’s eyes and told him to pull the trigger. Fucking Fidel tossed me his gun and told me to do it. I’ll never forget it. A chromed P-38, a Nazi gun. Fidel was never a Communist. He was a Nazi.” The reverend’s eyes went blank. “So I shot him, poor guy Two weeks later, Fidel put out a warrant for my arrest. Treason.” He slammed the lid on the box and shoved it back into the closet. “I took a slow boat to Miami.”

When he turned back, Bobby saw with surprise that there were tears in his eyes. “After that, I didn’t give a shit. Fuck ’em all. I’ll arm everyone. The Jews, Hamas, the IRA, the Ulster Defense Force, both sides. Let ’em kill each other off. God can sort ’em out.” He smiled. “So you see, Bobby. I don’t give a shit who these guns are for, as long as they’re not for spies. Spies like to kill their own. They enjoy it.”

When Bobby and the huge man came out of the Quonset hut, pushing a dolly loaded with boxes, Sheila sighed with relief. Bobby signaled for her to back the van up to the hut. She did, and heard the van’s back doors open and the thud of boxes dropping. As she lit a cigarette, she saw the pit bull sitting outside her door, staring up. Hoshi climbed onto her lap, put his paws against the window and growled. “It’s all right, Hosh,” she said. “It’s all right.”

When the van was loaded with the boxes, the doors slammed and Sheila opened the window to hand Bobby the briefcase. Bobby counted out a wad of bills and handed it back to Sheila. He shook the man’s hand.

“Good to do business with you, Reverend.”

The reverend nodded. “You, too, Robert Redfeather.”

Bobby opened the driver’s side door and Hoshi leaped out. “Get back here,” Bobby yelled, but the dogs had already squared off. Before he could reach them, they sprang, snapping and snarling, their teeth flashing. The pit bull, less agile, lunged at Hoshi like a clumsy boxer, but Hoshi pranced sideways, avoiding the lunge and snapping at the pit bull’s rear haunch, drawing blood. The pit bull reared back, faked to the left and caught Hoshi by the scruff of his neck, also drawing blood. Three quick shots rang out, kicking up dirt at the dogs’ feet, and they separated, startled and whimpering. Both eyed Sheila, who now held her Seecamp steady at the pit bull. Bobby scooped Hoshi into his arms, while the reverend fell to his knees and hugged his scarred warrior, crying, “Dog-Dog, Dog-Dog, are you all right?”

Dog-Dog writhed in his grip, straining to get at Hoshi, but Bobby already had him in the van with the door closed, snarling at the open window. Sheila pulled Hoshi onto her lap and hugged him while Bobby started the engine and drove off.

“Is he all right?” Bobby said.

Sheila pressed a handkerchief against his neck. “I think so. It’s just the skin.”

Bobby glanced in his sideview mirror at the reverend, still on his knees and hugging his dog. “That poor old bastard.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes until they were back on State Road 84, heading east. Sheila inspected the bites on Hoshi’s neck. “The bleeding’s stopped. You’re OK, aren’t you, Hosh?” The dog licked her face.

“Tough guy, eh, Hosh?” Bobby smiled. “Bit off more than you could chew this time. Why didn’t you kill him, Sheila? The dog, I mean.”

“He’s a dog, Bobby. Only people deserve their own executions.”

“Yeah, well, a couple more minutes, maybe Hoshi would have had his own execution.”

“Then I would have killed the dog.”

At two A.M., they pulled into the diner parking lot, now crowded with cars. Cowboys filled the tables at the windows, having breakfast. Bobby drove around to the back and parked the van next to his SHO.

“The spic’s inside, Raoul,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’m going in, too. I want to clean Hoshi in the ladies’ room.” Sheila looked down at her own shirt, soaked with blood. “And myself.”

Bobby grabbed the briefcase and Sheila hoisted Hoshi into her arms.

Inside the noisy diner, she brushed through the crowd back toward the ladies’ room. A waitress stopped her. “You can’t bring a dog in here, honey,” the waitress said.

“Watch me.”

Meanwhile, Bobby looked for the spic. I’ll never find that bastard with all these rednecks, he thought. They were all dressed up like cowboys, talking loud, letting out rebel yells and eating with their hats on. Some of the rednecks glanced at him, a big muscular guy with a briefcase and a ponytail. “Faggot,” one of them muttered.

“Honey,” Bobby said to one of the waitresses. She balanced a tray of eggs and grits on her arm. “Did you see a little Latin guy in here?”

The waitress blew a wisp of hair off her eyes. “I got time to look for spies?” She brushed past him.

Another waitress told him, “Baby, I ain’t seen or heard nothing since 1967. I thought I was deaf and blind till I seen you standing there.”

The third waitress remembered him. “A couple hours ago. Nervous little guy. Had a quick coffee, made a phone call and split.”

Bobby wondered if maybe the rednecks had scared him off. He decided to check for messages. “Where’s the phone, hon?” he said to the waitress.

She pointed to the end of the diner. “By the little boys’ room.”

The telephone was next to an open window that faced the back parking lot. He dialed his own number, and it began to ring. Through the window, Bobby saw his SHO, then the white van, the white van with all those guns in it, the white van with nobody watching it, no alarm turned on. “Shit,” he muttered. He dug the keys from his pocket while the phone still rang, found the remote with the red tape on it, held it out the window and pressed the button.

The van’s rear lights blinked twice, the alarm chirped and then the whole thing exploded. The rear doors blew off, the side panels blew off, the guns blew out of the van in pieces, engulfed by flames and black smoke, and scattered all over the lot. The van was in flames, twisted grotesquely out of shape, and the whole left side of his SHO was caved in. Glass was everywhere, metal gun parts, van doors and the bumper.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Bobby.

He dropped the phone, rushed out and almost bumped into Sheila, wide-eyed and scared, still holding Hoshi. “Bobby! What happened? Are you all right?”

He grabbed her hard by the arm and half-dragged her out of the diner. The cowboys and waitresses were already outside. Bobby led Sheila through the crowd toward the highway and started walking very fast along the side of the road. In the distance, he could already hear the sirens of police cars and fire engines. They walked in the darkness until Sheila jerked him to a stop. “Enough! What happened?” She put Hoshi down.

Bobby looked back at the smoke billowing above the diner. “It was a setup,” he said. He told her about the reverend’s story. “I should have figured it out. Medina knew who I was getting the guns from. He set us up. Medina didn’t give a shit about the guns. It was revenge he wanted. ‘Be my friend, Señor Esquared,’ yeah. Friends or enemies, it made no difference to him. The reverend was right. They kill their own.”

They started walking again, with Hoshi trotting at their feet. When they came to a pay phone, Bobby called a taxi. They waited, Bobby, Sheila and the dog. Bobby reached down and stroked the fur behind Hoshi’s ears. “I should have listened to you, Hosh,” he said. The dog’s tail wagged.

When the taxi arrived, Sheila got in first and Hoshi jumped in beside her. When Bobby got in and shut the door, the cabbie, a Pakistani, turned and said, “No dogs.”

Bobby looked at Sheila. “You see a dog in here, baby?” he said. “Nope.” She smiled and shook her head.

Bobby smiled at the cabbie in the rearview mirror. “We don’t see any dog, Mr. 7-Eleven. Just drive.”