Franklin’s eyes didn’t move from the gun barrel. He gave Lucy the keys without looking at her, letting her take them out of his hand. Jack didn’t look at her either, paying close attention to the man’s eyes, his solemn expression, until he saw Lucy beyond Franklin at the car’s rear deck. Lucy was looking at the ring of keys, selecting one.
Franklin said to him, “If she opens it…”
“What?”
“She’s going to be dead.”
Jack said, “So will you if you move.”
Lucy’s voice said, “He has enough keys.”
“She won’t be dead from me,” Franklin said, “but she’ll be dead.”
They stared eye to eye, Jack trying to hold the pistol steady. “I mean it. Don’t move.”
But Franklin was turning as Jack said it and now he yelled at him, “Franklin, goddamn it!” Aiming the automatic at the man’s back and seeing Lucy, bent over, looking up, straightening as Franklin reached her, Franklin saying something to her and taking her by the arm. Jack saw her eyes, her startled look. He moved past the side of the car to the rear deck. Franklin was taking the keys from her. She was giving him the keys, glancing at Jack now as he reached the back end of the car and saw Franklin slipping a key into the lock.
She said, “Jack. Don’t touch him.”
Franklin, on his knees, placed the palm of his hand on the down-curve of the trunk lid, turned the key with the other hand, and let the trunk come open gradually, a few inches. He hunched in close to look in.
Lucy said, barely above a whisper, “It could be wired to explode.”
“How does he know?”
“He thinks it is,” Lucy said. “They’ve done it before. There was a priest in Jinotega, he opened his trunk and was blown to bits.”
“He was gonna let you open it.”
“But he didn’t.”
They watched Franklin raise the lid slowly, holding it, letting it come up a little more, feeling the tension of the mechanism. With the trunk open about eight inches he put his arm in to the shoulder, his face in profile against the cream-colored sheet metal, composed, feeling without seeing, his fingers working in there. He began to straighten then, getting his feet under him, raising the trunk lid with his shoulder as he stood up and turned to show them what he was holding, a hand-grenade, with one end of a straightened coat hanger hooked to its ring.
“MK-two,” Franklin said, “they call a pineapple.” He looked at Jack, offering him the grenade, and grinned. “You don’t want it? Okay.” He slipped it into his coat pocket.
Jack said, “You’re a kidder, aren’t you, Franklin?” He didn’t know what else to say to him: the guy standing there with a grenade in his pocket; the guy could’ve let Lucy blow herself up. She was saying that to him now…
“Why did you stop me?”
Franklin, still grinning a little, a trace of it left, shook his head, Jack watching him. The guy didn’t know what to say either, turning to the open trunk to raise the lid all the way up. Lucy looked in. She said, “Jack?” He moved closer and saw two full-size aluminum suitcases inside lying flat, side by side.
ROY GOT OFF THE ELEVATOR and stood looking at 501 in the alcove. He stared hard, but the door wouldn’t tell him a goddamn thing. So he followed the open hallway around to the other side of the courtyard, came to 509, and heard the phone ringing inside. Then he couldn’t get the goddamn key to turn. The phone kept ringing in there. Roy hit the door with the heel of his hand, kicked it, yanked the knob toward him as he turned the key, and the door gave up and clicked open. He left it like that, got to the bedside table, and picked up the phone.
“Who’s this?”
Cullen’s voice said, “Roy? It’s me. You all are still there, huh?”
“I think so,” Roy said. “Lemme look. Yeah, we’re still here.” He brought the phone away from the table, as far as the cord would let him-just enough-so he could look out the door toward the elevator.
“Nothing doing yet?”
“Naw, we’re just sitting here fucking the dog, Cully. I expect same as you, huh? How’s adorable Darla?”
“She’s fine as can be.”
“You wash yourself good after, you hear?”
“I was thinking,” Cullen’s voice said, “if I asked a doctor what he thought…”
Roy watched the maid appear with her cartload of towels and stuff, over there on the other side.
“You know, if I should take part in any kind of activity where I’m liable to become too excited or you get that ass-clutching feeling, man, you don’t know what’s gonna happen…”
The maid was creeping along toward the elevator, like she was sneaking up on it. Her head turned now, looking into the alcove at 501. The maid standing there, waiting.
“You know what I mean, Roy? I’m pretty sure he’d tell me I shouldn’t ought to do it, with my history. Considering, you know, the old ticker isn’t what it used to be. See, but I don’t want to let you all down… Roy?”
That maid wasn’t moving from 501.
Roy said, “If you’re gonna die, Cully, you may as well do it right there.” He put the receiver on the phone, still watching the maid, laid it on the foot of the bed and left the room.
One of the aluminum cases lay flat on the bar in Lucy’s mother’s sun parlor. Jack touched the polished metal. He picked up his drink, his third vodka since arriving with Lucy, the first two finished off while she counted the money and they had the stand-up talk, argued, and finally reached an understanding. Now he was alone in the room. Very likely for the last time.
He’d left his car in the hotel garage for Roy. Later told himself it was the wrong time to be thoughtful; but now realized it didn’t matter. Roy would be here soon, whether he drove or took the streetcar.
They had opened both aluminum cases still lying in the trunk of the colonel’s new car. In each one a white T-shirt covered the stacks of currency: sleeveless T-shirts made of a thick, layered material Franklin believed was called soft body armor, bulletproof, that some of the contra officers wore. Jack remembered wanting to get out of there. The feeling, waiting for the colonel to appear. Wanting to know why they were standing there talking and then realizing, as Franklin pulled out one of the cases and handed it to Lucy, it was their deal. It was between the two of them and no one else; half to the Miskitos and half to the lepers. Jack wondering if it made sense. Still wondering, after all this, who were the good guys and who were the bad guys.
He heard Lucy’s steps on the hardwood floor of the hall before she appeared in the doorway.
“Roy’s here.”
She turned and he heard her steps again, fading.
The house was quiet. He stood listening. She wasn’t coming right back with him. As Roy walked in he probably asked what happened and she was telling him. Or as they came along the hall, Roy listening, stopping… Jack poured a scotch and moved toward the door with it. Hand it to Roy as soon as he came in. Take off his edge-if he had that dead look in his eyes. It was one of those situations, if Jack didn’t know what was going to happen, he’d better locate something to use. His gun was lying on the bar. Roy would think it was funny if he tried to threaten him with it. There was a brass candlestick on the phone table that looked pretty good… He heard them in the hall, their steps, and then heard Roy’s voice. “What?” That one word. No doubt about it, Lucy was telling him… talking to him as they came in the room. Jack tried to hand him the scotch.
Roy pushed it away. “You let that nigger Indin have half the dough?” With the dead look in his eyes.