"Why would anybody plant so many trees? I mean, who has that kind of time? I can't even find time to get my laundry done."
Angel stood with his back to me, staring out at the trees at the edge of my property. He wore a Timberland fleece top, a pair of brown corduroy pants and tan work boots. At his feet was a hard plastic suitcase which was so pitted and battered that it looked like it had been dropped from an airplane. A piece of blue climbing rope and the whim of fortune held it closed.
Angel breathed in deeply then bent over as his body was racked by a fit of coughing. He spat something large and unpleasant on to the ground before him.
"That's the clean air getting the shit out of your lungs," said a deep, drawling voice. From behind the raised trunk door of the car Louis appeared holding a matching Delsey case and suit carrier. He wore a black Boss overcoat beneath which a gray double-breasted suit shimmered. A black shirt was buttoned to the neck and his shaved head gleamed. In the open trunk, I could see a long, metal storage case. Louis never went anywhere without his toys.
"I think that was my lung," said Angel, using the tip of his boot to poke with interest at whatever piece of matter had expelled itself from his body. As I looked at them both, my spirits lifted. I wasn't sure why they were here instead of back in New York, but, whatever the reason, I was glad. Louis glanced at me and nodded, which was usually as close as Louis ever came to looking pleased about anything.
"You know, Angel," I said, "you make nature look untidy just by standing there."
Angel turned and raised an arm in a sweeping gesture.
"Trees," he said, shaking his head in bafflement and smiling. "So many trees. I ain't seen this many trees since I got thrown out of the Indian Scouts."
"You know, I don't think I even want to know why," I said.
Angel picked up his case. "Bastards. And I was just about to get my explorer's badge too."
"Didn't think they had badges for the shit you was exploring," said Louis, from behind. "Badge like that could get a man thrown in jail in Georgia."
"Funny," barked Angel. "It's just a myth that you can't be gay and do macho things."
"Uh-huh. Just like it's a myth that all homosexuals wear nice clothes and take care of their skin."
"That better not be aimed at me."
It was nice to see that some things hadn't changed.
"How you doin' today?" said Angel, as he pushed past me. "And lose the gun. We're staying, like it or not. You look like shit, by the way."
"Nice suit," I remarked to Louis, as he followed Angel.
"Thanks," he replied. "Never forget: no such thing as a brother with no taste, just a brother with no money."
I stood on the porch for a moment, feeling a little stupid holding the towel-wrapped gun. Then, figuring that the matter had obviously been decided long before they got to Maine, I followed them into the house.
I showed them to the spare bedroom, where the furniture consisted only of a mattress on the floor and an old closet.
"Jesus," said Angel. "It's the Hanoi Hilton. If we knock on the pipes, someone better answer."
"You gonna supply sheets, or we have to roll some drunks and steal their coats?" asked Louis.
"I can't sleep here," said Angel, with an air of finality. "If the rats want to feed on me, fuckers should at least have to go to the trouble of climbing up a bedframe."
He brushed past me again, and seconds later, I heard his voice calclass="underline"
"Hey, this one's much nicer. We'll take this."
There came the unmistakable sound of someone bouncing up and down on my bed. Louis looked at me.
"Might need that gun after all," he said. Then he shrugged and followed the sound of the springs.
When I eventually got them out of my bedroom and had arranged to have some extra furniture, including a bed, taken out of the Kraft Mini-Storage on Gorham Road and delivered to the house, we sat around the kitchen table and I waited for them to tell me why they were here. It had begun to rain: hard, cold drops that spoke of the coming of snow.
"We're your guardian angels," said Angel.
"Why doesn't that fill me with a sense of blessing?" I replied.
"Or maybe we just heard that this is the place to be," continued Angel. "Anybody who's anybody is here right now. You got your Tony Celli, you got your feds, you got your local shit-kickers, you got your dead Asians. Shit, this place is like the UN with guns."
"What do you know?" I asked.
"We know that you've been pissing people off already," he replied. "What happened to your face?"
"Guy with a harelip tried to educate me with a cattle prod, then rearranged my hairline with his shoe."
"That's Mifflin," said Louis. "He have another guy with him, looked like someone dropped a safe on his head and the safe lost?"
"Yeah," I said. "He didn't kick me, though."
"That's 'cause the message probably got halfway from his brain to his foot then forgot where it was going. His name's Berendt. He's so dumb he makes dodos look smart. Tony Clean was with them?" While he spoke, he balanced one of my carving knives on the tip of his index finger and amused himself by tossing it in the air and catching it by the handle. It was a pretty neat trick. If the circus came to town, he was a shoo-in.
"They were staying at the Regency," I said. "I got to visit Tony's room."
"Was it nice?" asked Angel, pointedly running a hand along the underside of the table and examining the accumulated dust on the tips of his fingers.
"Yeah, pretty nice, apart from the kicks in the head and the electric shocks."
"Fuck him. We should make him stay here. The squalor would put him back in touch with his roots."
"You criticize my house again, you can sleep in the yard."
"Probably be cleaner," he muttered. "And warmer."
Louis tapped a long, slim finger gently on the tabletop. "Hear there's a lot of money got misdirected around these parts. A lot of money."
"Yeah, so I gather."
"Any idea where it is?"
"Maybe. I think it's with a guy called Billy Purdue."
"That's what I hear too."
"From Tony Celli's end?"
"Disaffected employees. They figure this Billy Purdue's so dead, someone should name a cemetery after him."
I told them about the deaths of Rita and Donald. I noticed Angel and Louis exchange a glance and I knew that there was more to come.
"Billy Purdue take out Tony's men?" asked Angel.
"Two of them, at least. Assuming he's the one who took the money, and that's what Tony Celli and the law have assumed."
Louis stood and carefully washed his mug. "Tony's in trouble," he said at last. "Got involved in some deal on Wall Street that fell through." I had heard stories that the Italians had moved into Wall Street, establishing paper companies and getting crooked brokers to float them and rip off investors. There was a lot of money to be made if it was done right.
"Tony screwed up," continued Louis, "and now you got a guy whose days are numbered in single figures."
"How bad is it?"
Louis placed the mug upside down to drain, then leaned against the sink. "You know what PERLS is?"
"PERLS are," I corrected him, incorrectly as it turned out. "Something found in an oyster?"
"Easy to know you never had no money to invest," said Louis. "PERLS stands for Principal Exchange Rate Linked Security. It's a structured note, a kind of bond sold by investment banks. It's packaged to look safe, except it's risky as sex with a shark. Basically, the buyer bets a certain amount of money and the return is based on the changes in the exchange rate of a number of different currencies. It's a formula, and if things go right, you can make a killing."
I always found it fascinating that Louis could drop the monosyllabic black gunman shtick if the subject required it, but I didn't point it out to him.