“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.”