“I don’t remember.”
“That ain’t a reason.”
“Wasn’t much of a reason, whatever it was. Maybe that’s why I don’t remember it.”
“I never done one damn thing to you.”
“That’s right, you didn’t. Maybe something in you, or in that song you sang, rubbed me wrong. A lot of things in this world rub me wrong.”
“And you punch ’em all out, do you?”
“I punch out some.”
“Some of ’em punch back, I expect.”
“You did.”
“You can’t say why you give me a sucker punch.”
“I was pissed off. I don’t know at what. You were a handy way of letting off steam.”
“If that ain’t crazy.”
“Not the first time that’s been said. You got all the gun you need? I got two.38s I got in France. You can have either one. Test ’em out if you want. Each one has a single bullet in the chamber now. But my man’s got extra bullets.”
“I don’t need no French guns. I got a Smith and Wesson.”
He motioned to the seconds and one of the men stepped forward with a paper bag and took out Cooney’s weapon of choice, a.38 six-shooter with a four-inch barrel. The second cracked the gun and put one cartridge into a chamber of the cylinder. He snapped the barrel into place and handed the gun to Cooney. Juan opened the green velvet box with Hemingway’s matching.38s, both with pearl handles and two-inch barrels, and offered them to the author, who took one, confirmed it had a single bullet in the chamber and showed it to Cooney.
Quinn stepped between the two men. “This doesn’t have to go forward, you can solve this with words,” he said. “Nobody needs to get shot here. The event that started it is long gone and you’ve both talked it out. I suggest you shake hands and get on with life.”
“I didn’t come here to shake hands,” Cooney said.
“Well put,” said Hemingway. “Start the count, Mr. Quinn.”
Hemingway turned his back to Cooney and Cooney did the same.
“All right,” Quinn said. “It’s ten paces, then you turn and face each other. One shot is all that’s allowed.”
“Start the count,” Hemingway said.
“One,” said Quinn and the duelists stepped off and Hemingway turned and in an underhanded arc he tossed his pistol to Quinn.
“Two,” said Quinn as he caught it, “hold it, you don’t have a weapon.”
“Three, don’t need it,” Hemingway said, stepping out, “carry on counting.”
Four, and Cooney turned to see what had happened but kept moving forward, his gun in his right hand, his arm cocked.
“Five,” said Hemingway.
“He don’t have a weapon,” Cooney’s second said. “It’s a trick.”
“Six,” said Hemingway. “No trick.”
“Seven,” said Quinn, looking to see if the pistol had a safety.
“Eight,” said Quinn and Hemingway together.
“Nine,” said Quinn. “Ten.”
Hemingway turned to face Cooney and stood with his hands at his side, palms outward. Everybody had a gun in hand: Quinn holding Hemingway’s.38, Juan with Hemingway’s other.38, Cooney’s second and his other friend each with pistols, and Cooney with his. Only Hemingway was unarmed.
“Shoot,” said Hemingway.
“Shoot an unarmed man,” Cooney said, his arm at his side.
“I’ve got arms. I choose not to use them.”
“So you ain’t got the guts to shoot at me.”
“I got the guts. I would prefer not to.”
“Don’t shoot him, Cooney,” his second said. “It’s a trick.”
“Trick is I shoot an unarmed man it’s murder one,” Cooney said.
“Maybe you’ll miss,” Hemingway said.
Cooney thought about that. He lifted his arm and pointed his pistol at a metal vase with a metal flower sitting atop a grave thirty feet away. He fired and the vase flew off the grave.
“Nice,” Hemingway said.
“All right, a shot’s been fired, it’s over,” Quinn said. He moved between Cooney and Hemingway and gave the pistol to Juan who was breathing heavily, and who kept his pistol in hand as he accepted Hemingway’s discard. Cooney talked with his seconds and handed off his weapon. They all kept an eye on Juan. Cooney picked up his sport coat and put it on.
“So you have received satisfaction for your challenge,” Quinn said to Cooney.
“Is that what you call it? I don’t think so. He weaseled.”
“You could have shot him. You had your chance. He told you to shoot. What else do you want?”
“He’s a smart one.”
“He is.”
“Fuck you, Mr. Hemingway.”
“Same to you, Mr. Cooney,” Hemingway said.
Then they drove out of the cemetery, past the winged hourglass.
When Quinn stepped out of the elevator on the first floor of the Times Union, destination Cody’s concert, Renata and Max loomed. They’ll be there, but then again she could be anyplace. She goes where she wants to go, and finds her way back home, oddly, and I never stop wondering why. But I’m there when she returns, and I never stop wondering why. Max is her comfort tonight, the old cuñado and savior. The blasé fugitive comes to Albany to see his old school chum, the Mayor, who has been plowing his daughter, and also to court his ex-sister-in-law, whom he once plowed, yes, just once, she insisted. But you can’t believe her. Yet even if that once was true it was enough to bring him up here for seconds, dope entrepreneur on the run, a new career listing for him — Max the fugitive, if that’s what he is. I should have checked Florida about him. So call somebody at the Herald.
He summoned the elevator, went back up to the third floor and to his desk. He called the Herald’s city room, identified himself to the night city editor, and asked for three old friends, none of them there. What about Charlie Sawyer? Yes, Charlie, a Quinn drinking buddy before the Cuban stint, was around. And yes, indeed, Charlie knew all about Alfie. Quinn told him, I knew Alfie in Cuba and when I heard his news I thought I might do a piece on him, and I’m looking for an update. Charlie said he’d get the clips and Quinn held the line and then Charlie read Quinn the Herald’s story on the bust. And there was Max, a key player who’d made a fateful career decision about showbiz that brought Alfie down.
A courier for a major dope importer, who was plea bargaining, gave up Max to the prosecutor, having seen him in Up Against two weeks back and remembered him from their meetings in the Drake Hotel in Chicago, and the Plaza in New York. The courier would arrive, call Max’s number and Max would turn up with money — seventeen million delivered over four months in twelve installments, to pay for the thirteen or so tons of dope his bosses had sold to Alfie Rivero for Miami delivery. So Max carried a million plus in every briefcase he handed over to the courier. They talked about more than dope and money, listened to the Palm Court’s harpist, drank dark Puerto Rican rum, which Max said was the closest to Cuban rum, which is the best, but you can’t buy it in this stupid country. Max confessed he’d wanted to be an actor since high school, he knew some movie stars, Bing Crosby, and was trying, without success so far, to convince Bing to let him develop a documentary on Bing’s career. Then last week, the courier said, I go to the movies and there’s Max on the big screen playing a Chicago detective, first time I ever knew his name. Max wasn’t hard to trace: apartment on Miami Beach, close to Alfie Rivero, a heavy duty dealer the Feds had been trying to bring down for a year. They raided Alfie’s apartment and his loft, found a little dope, not much, also raided his town house in Brooklyn Heights. Alfie lived high, art works on his walls, tailored suits in the closet. But the Feds didn’t find the man himself. What we hear, Charlie said, is that he got asylum in Havana, we’re checking it out.