He watched Bobby backing away now, almost to the edge of the patio. Louis turned to face him, seeing maybe fifty feet between them now. He moved toward Bobby saying, “Man, you too far away.”
Bobby backed up some more saying, “Stay there,” and Louis stopped.
He said, “Man, this far you have to be a dead shot,” brushed the sport coat open with his hand and put it on the grip of the Browning. When he brought his hand away, the coat’s skirt fell back in place. “What’re you gonna do, count to three?”
“You don’t count,” Bobby said, “you feel when the guy is gonna draw his gun and you go for your gun.”
“Watch each other’s eyes,” Louis said, “I think is what you do.” He stood in a slouch, hip-cocked, arms hanging loose at his sides. He watched Bobby getting ready. “Hey, I spoke to my man in Freeport. He’s coming Saturday.”
“I don’t want to talk now,” Bobby said. “Okay, you ready?”
“Ready for Freddy,” Louis said, watching Bobby shift around to get comfortable in his pose. “He ask me how many was he picking up,” Louis said.
“Man, quit talking, all right? You ready?”
“I’m ready,” Louis said.
He saw Bobby’s left hand pull up the front of his fiesta shirt, right hand digging for his gun. Louis whipped the skirt of the blazer aside, took hold of the Browning and pulled it free as he saw Bobby’s gun rising toward him, Bobby with his legs apart in kind of a crouch, the Puerto Rican gunfighter, putting that black muzzle-hole on him.
“You’re dead!” Bobby yelled.
Louis raised the Browning, cupped his left hand beneath the grip the way they did in the movies and fired. Shot Bobby square in the middle. Fired again and put another one in him, Bobby stumbling back now, arms in the air, tripping on the edge of the tiled patio and falling to land flat on his back.
Louis walked over to him. Saw blood covering the man’s good fiesta shirt. Saw his chest rising, working hard to suck in air. Saw his eyes open. Louis said, “Mr. Walker ask me how many people was he picking up. I told him three. You understand what I’m saying, Bobby? You ain’t going, nigga.”
It was like watching a movie. Not a feature film or even a made-for-TV movie. More like a low-budget flick shot on video-way too bright, the sun high above the two guys pointing guns at each other. But very familiar, a scene out of every cowboy flick ever made. Chip smoked his weed thinking, Shit, I’ve seen this one:
Louis with his back to the camera, a three-quarters rear view-Chip could see the gun Louis was holding-and Bobby facing the camera, his back to the swimming pool. Chip thinking, They’re like kids. Nothing else to do, nobody to shoot… He used to do this with his buddies. Want to play guns? They’d get out their cap pistols and shoot each other and stumble around taking forever to fall.
When Louis fired, Chip saw the gun jump in his hand and saw Bobby drop his and throw his arms in the air as he was hit and hit again and it knocked him down, Bobby caving in and blown off his feet at the same time, without any stumbling around.
Hey, shit-it brought Chip straight up on the sofa.
He heard the gunfire, faint pops coming from outside, like a cap pistol firing, but Bobby was down, lying there with real bullets in him, and Louis was walking over, looking down at him now and saying something. Louis turned then to look at the camera, held the muzzle of the gun to his mouth and seemed to blow into it. Another familiar bit, Louis mugging for the camera. Now he was dragging Bobby by his feet to the deep end of the pool. He tried to push Bobby in with his foot, but had to get down and shove with both hands before Bobby rolled over the side, gone.
Was Bobby still alive? Chip wasn’t sure, but it looked like Bobby tried to grab hold of Louis as he went in the pool.
Louis stood with his hands on his knees looking down at the scummy water. Now he came over to the patio table, laid it on its side and wheeled it by its round edge to the pool, to the spot where he’d dumped Bobby in. Louis let the table fall in the water, jumping back as it splashed up at him. He turned to look at the camera again. With a big smile-Jesus, like a kid-proud of himself and wanting to be acknowledged.
Chip said out loud, “Nice going, man,” thinking, Yeah, great; but beginning to have doubts. That took care of a serious problem-Bobby. Or did it?
Coming into the study Louis checked the TV screen, the patio still on big. “Saw me blow him away, huh? That was the famous Puerto Rican gunfighter, wanted to High Noon it and met his match.”
“You planned that?” Chip said.
“No, it just came to me. When I was talking to Mr. Walker.”
“You said something to Bobby.”
“I told him he wasn’t going to Freeport.”
“He was still alive?”
“Just hanging on. I didn’t see a reason to shoot him again. The scum on top the pool like opened up? But the water in there’s so putrid, brown like a sewer, what it smells like, too, you stir it up? But you can’t see him down there, man’s in nine feet of deep shit.”
Chip said, “Louis, what about Bobby’s money? He had quite a bit, didn’t he? What he got for Harry’s car?”
He could tell Louis hadn’t thought of that.
“Was a wad on the dresser this morning.”
“Is it still there?”
He was thinking of it now, you bet.
Louis said, “Lemme look,” and was gone.
Chip eased back in the sofa telling himself, Great, no more Bobby Deo, Chip picturing the scene again and wishing he could play it back. He felt a sense of relief, no more Bobby, a big mistake corrected before his eyes… Except that the bottom of a swimming pool wasn’t the bottom of the ocean. Not seeing him didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Someone, sometime or other, would find him. They couldn’t say, oh, he must’ve fallen in; not with two bullet holes in him. Chip didn’t want to think about it, but the fact remained, Bobby was still with them.
Louis believed there had to be a couple thousand in the wad Bobby carried around and left on the dresser sometimes, like daring Louis to touch it. The money wasn’t there; it wasn’t in any of the drawers or anyplace Bobby kept the clothes he’d brought. Looking around, Louis thought of Bobby’s lizard shoes; he should’ve tried them on before pushing the man in. He still had on the black silk sport coat, a gun in each pocket-the Sig and a Browning-he took out and laid on the dresser. The Browning he’d used he’d bury somewhere in the yard; so he left it stuck in his waist when he went downstairs and said to Chip:
“It wasn’t there.”
Chip had a blank look on his face from doing weed, like he had to think hard of what to say.
“You sure?”
“I looked every place it could be. He must have it on him.”
“You’ll have to get it,” Chip said.
“I have to get it. You crazy? Dive in the pool in all that scummy shit?”
“You put him there,” Chip said.
Like that was supposed to make sense.
“You the one wants the money, you dive in. Just don’t breathe, you in there.”
“We want the money,” Chip said, “to pay Dawn. Christ… we have to get rid of the body anyway.”
“I did get rid of it. Go on out and look at the pool, you can’t see him. He ain’t gonna gas up and float, neither, not with that table on him. The man’s the same as gone.”
Chip said, “Louis, you know we can’t leave him there. He’ll smell.”
“It already smells; I told you that.”
The man had his mind made up, thinking how to do it, saying, “We’ll have to get a pump and drain the pool.”
Louis stared at him, not agreeing, not angry, not anything, just staring, thinking what he should do was put the man in the pool with Bobby, something heavy like the TV set he was sick of looking at tied around the man’s neck. If he didn’t owe the man nothing, what was he putting up with the man’s shit for?