The Juror (42 page)

At the far end of that celebration, on a wooden bench under a tree of feathers, sits a gringo. Balding kind of dreamy-looking
guy, swirling a pint bottle of clear liquid.

Eddie stops and stares. “Oh shit! No,
can’t
be. Sure-Knack? You’re dead!”

“What,” says the guy, in a slow cracker drawl. “I’m dead? You sure? Anybody tell my mother?”

“Ah, forget it,” says Eddie. “You look just like this asshole I used to know. You don’t got a brother who’s a private dick?
I mean in Tarrytown? I mean used to be?”

The Cracker takes a swig out of the bottle he’s holding. He says, “I got a brother in Nahunta, Georgia. I think he sells aluminum
siding. Before that he worked at some place where they made baseball caps. He used to put the cardboard or whatnot in the
visors? Before that he was in the—”

Annie stops him. “Listen, we’re on our way to T’ui Cuch. But this—whatever
this is
…”

“All Saints’ Eve. Hallowe’en. It’s a big deal in this neck of the woods.”

“Is there any way around it?”

“You mean in a car?”

“In a car.”

“Oh, well sure,” says the Cracker. “Go on back to the Pan-American Highway, take a right—”

She says, “The big highway?” She looks to Eddie. “Where we got gas? That was, that was an
hour
ago.”

Says the Cracker, “Yeah, about. Why, you in a hurry? You in a hurry, you got the wrong country, babe.”

“Can’t they move for us? Just for a minute, can’t they—”

“Depends on what you’re driving. You driving a tank?”

Says Eddie, “What are you driving, friend?”

The Cracker laughs. “I don’t got a car,” he says.

Says Eddie, “Are there any cars in this town?”

“Was. One taxi. I expect he took it, though.”

“Who’s
he?
”

“Guy I just had this same silly-ass conversation with. What’s all this rush to get to T’ui Cuch? Take you all night. And when
you get there, what’re they doin? I tell you what they doin. They gettin drunk. They bangin they damn marimbas. It’s the same
fuckin fiesta, children.”

Annie leans close to the man. She speaks slow and loud, as though he were deaf. “Aren’t there
any
other cars?”

“You all right, babe?”

“Any?”

“Nah. Well, one, yeah, the Chino’s got one. The Chino’s got an old Plymouth. He won’t let you use it, and it wouldn’t make
it that far anyway—”

“Where is it?”

“Up the street. Take your right at the
tiendacita
. Then your first left, kind of a dogleg left? But now you got to picture kind of a
cripply
dog—”

Says Eddie, “You want to make some money?”

“No.”

“A hundred dollars if you take us to the Chino’s.”

“You mean
walk
with you?”

“A hundred dollars.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’d rather party. Havin a good time, don’t it look it?”

“Five hundred.”

“But money I don’t need. I’d do it for a Big Mac, though, if you could get me one.”

“Do it,” says Annie, “because that man that was here before us, he wants to kill my child, and my child is in T’ui Cuch—”

Eddie stops her. “No. Annie. He’s not going to help us. Let’s go.”

He takes her elbow.

“
Please
. It’s my child, he’s going to kill my
child
,” she pleads as Eddie pulls her away.

They start up into the shadows. Behind them, the Cracker belches.

Then he says, “Hold up.”

The dark street, full of cedar-smoke. Lined with drunks: black moaning heaps.

Says the Cracker, “Why does he want to kill your kid?”

“I don’t know,” says Annie.

Light from a doorway, a cantina, more hammering and howling.

Says the Cracker, “He’s crazy?”

“Yes.”

“But why does he want to kill your kid?”

She turns to him and says, “Faster? Can you walk faster?”

“Walk as fast as I like,” says the Cracker.

“Are you old, is that it?”

“Younger than you, babe.”

“But you seem old. You seem tired, it’s like you’re very old and—”

“
Damn
you don’t let up, do you?”

He starts to trot. Leaps over a sleeping drunk. Eddie and Annie run beside him, Eddie holding his heart with one hand. He
asks the Cracker, “Hey, my friend, what do you do here?”

“I give guided tours in the middle of the night. Like see that stain on the wall there? That’s a piss stain. You havin fun?”

“I’m just trying to figure it,” says Eddie. “You don’t look Peace Corps. You don’t look hippie. You don’t look tourist.”

“Yeah? So what do I look?” says the Cracker.

“Truth? You look poppies.”

“Oh yeah? You know the Spanish for poppies?”

“No. What’s the Spanish for poppies?”

“It’s shut-the-fuck-up.”

They take the dogleg left.

Says Eddie, “But I still can’t figure what end of the business. Not management, you know? You’re no fuckin chemist, you’re
not refining the stuff, so what—”

Says the Cracker, “You know the Spanish for refining?”

“Yeah,” says Eddie. “OK.”

“And I mean it,” says the Cracker.

“OK. OK. But I was just thinkin, maybe you’re in the
transportation
end—”

“Bullshit.”

Eddie puts his arm on the Cracker’s shoulder and stops him. He squeezes that shoulder. “I’m just thinkin, we’re in a
real
hurry here, we got to get to T’ui Cuch
fast
, and maybe you can help us out. Or you know someone who can.”

The Cracker shrugs. “I don’t know nobody except the Chino. What are you talkin about?”

“I’m just thinkin—”

“You’re dreamin,” says the Cracker. “T’ui Cuch—it’s a little tiny piece a nothin. There’s no level place. Nothin but mountains
all around. And it’s the middle of the night. Can’t get nothin in there but a car, I mean it. Anything else, any fancy ideas
you got? You’re dreamin. I
promise
you, motherfucker.”

“Eddie,” says Annie. “Come on, there’s no
time
. Hurry!”

But Eddie keeps staring into the Cracker’s eyes.

“Help us,” he says, “and I’ll make you fuckin rich.”

“I
promise
you, you’re dreaming,” says the Cracker. “This is all the help I can give. Now do you want it? You want me to take you to
the Chino? Or you want to talk to him yourself?”

“Ah, bite my crank,” says Eddie, and he lets the Cracker go, walks on.

Halfway up the next block they come to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Chinese-Latino-Mayan. The old Chino rises from his table
by the cooler. The Cracker addresses him in a burst of rapid Spanish, which Annie can’t follow. But she does hear the Chino’s
reply. “Esta
noche?
”

“
Sí
,” says the Cracker. “You bet
esta noche
.”

“Dónde?”

“T’ui Cuch.”

The Chino laughs and shakes his head, turns away.

“Thousand dollars,” says Eddie.

The Chino turns back, makes a face.

Takes two minutes, and he’s settled on three thousand dollars for the use of his car for one night. He hands the keys to Annie.
He points with his thumb to the rear of the restaurant. They hurry through the sordid kitchen, push a dozen dogs out of their
way, step into the alley that runs behind the restaurant.

There sits the ancient bomb.

Cracker lingers in the doorway. He says, “Little troll hanging under the rearview mirror there? His name is Pepe. The transmission
gives you trouble, you talk to Pepe about it. Have a pleasant ride, guys. See you tomorrow night.”

Annie heads for the driver’s door but Eddie stops her. “Wait a minute, let me drive.”

“No.”

“I’m telling you, you’d kill us. If you’re drivin I’m not goin.”

“Then stay here. I’m better alone—”

Some movement in the dark Plymouth.

The driver’s door swings open.

The Teacher slips out from the shadows.

“I’m afraid you can’t go anywhere in this car. It seems the distributor cap is missing. But why don’t you come with me, Annie?”

She will not look at him. She turns, and looks at Eddie.

Says the Teacher, “I have a taxi parked just around the corner. I could give you a lift all the way to T’ui Cuch, it would
be my pleasure. And as for you, Eddie, oldest friend, dear Judas, why don’t you take another route? Why don’t you take yourself
down to the realm of those smoky
lokas
that you worship, and wander awhile, and when your soul has been harrowed and cleansed and hallowed by ten thousand reincarnations,
then rejoin us, OK, Eddie?”

He fires one shot into Eddie’s chest.

“NO!” Annie cries.

Eddie on the ground, and she’s bending over him, and all the restaurant dogs and all the dogs in this town are braying.

“But, Annie, we need to hurry,” says the Teacher. “Leave him. He has his own journey to make.”

Her face is down close to Eddie’s. A hoarse rumbling in his chest, no other sign of life. “Eddie,” she says.

Then she slips her hand under his jacket. Looking for his gun.

Behind her, the Teacher commands, “Stand up, leave Eddie’s pistol alone, leave this foolishness. You know, my love, that I
could kill you in a heartbeat.”

But you won’t, thinks Annie.

She thinks, All I have to do is turn around and kill you. I know that you won’t stop me.

Hunched over Eddie, so the Teacher can’t see what she’s doing, Annie reaches under Eddie’s jacket and slides the gun out of
its holster.

Gets her finger into the trigger guard.

The Teacher’s voice: “Make the right choice now, Annie. Think. Your child’s life is at stake, you can’t afford any flashy
heroics. Isn’t that evident? You have to come with me. We have to work together. What chance do you have of stopping me if
I’m in T’ui Cuch and you’re—”

She wheels and fires blindly.

Darkness. No one near the car. Across the alley from the car is a square stone archway, leading to a passage from which she
hears the echo of his footsteps.

She runs after him. “Wait!” she cries. She stops, she listens. No more footsteps. Only the yowling dogs. Then she hears a
car engine start up, and she runs toward that sound. “Wait, I’ll come! Wait!
I’m sorry! Please!
” Flying down a long patio, under another arch, into another solemn dark street.

His taxi, roaring away from her.

“WAIT!”

But it’s already gone.

She’s trapped here.

He’s gone.

Soon he’ll be in T’ui Cuch, and there’s nothing she can do, she was a fool, nothing—

She hears someone behind her, and she turns: it’s the Cracker.

“Please,” she says. “Please. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t—”

“I saw it,” he said. “Shit, I didn’t believe you, but you wasn’t fuckin, was you?
That fucker wants to kill your kid
.”

“Please,” she says.

“We gotta get outta here.”

“Where’s—?”

“Your friend. He’s dead. Come on.”

“Where?”

“T’ui Cuch. Come on.”

She shakes her head. “Does the car run?”

“The Plymouth? Forget the Plymouth. Let’s go. We gotta hurry.”

“But there’s no
car
.”

“We don’t need a car. You don’t get it? Your friend, he got it. You’re in luck, ma’am. Me, I’m heading into a shitstorm, but
you’re in real luck.”

She’s weeping. She’s trying to understand, but it’s all a swirling confusion. She says again, “
We don’t have a car
.”

“Yeah, yeah, but we don’t need a car,” says the Cracker. “’Cause I got an airplane.”

B
UDDY BAUMGARTNER
figures he has about as much worry in his head as his head can fit. He’s worried about finding T’ui Cuch in the dark. He’s
worried about how he’s going to land this plane, since T’ui Cuch is nestled in the mountains and there’s nothing around that
even approaches an airstrip. He’s worried about the engine on the left wing, which has a funny sort of shudder whenever he
climbs. He’s worried about random patrols of the Guatemalan Air Force—the Few the Proud the Psychotic. He’s worried about
the story that this Annie woman just told him, he’s worried about all of Louie Boffano’s surviving brothers and cousins and
nephews and nieces and grandnieces. And he’s worried about that Teacher guy, somewhere on the road below.

And of course there’s a fat load of the standard worries as well: the temper of his bloodthirsty boss, the six kilos of heroin
that he ought to be taking to Biloxi this very moment, the warrants for his arrest that are still outstanding in the states
of Georgia, Alabama and Rhode Island, I mean here’s one sorry asshole who has to worry about Rhode fuckin
Island
.

Still and all, he feels wonderful.

Despite the stream of silent interior wisecracks that his brain keeps cranking out, he feels better than he has in years.

This woman, this Annie Laird, she brings out some kind of feeling in him. It’s not love exactly, but something like love,
some deep tenderness. He’s even worked up some feeling for this Oliver kid. This woman tells him her story, and every time
she mentions the kid Buddy thinks, But if we get there in time, I can save this kid’s
life
. His life. God
damn
.

And every time he thinks this thought, it gives him a charge so deep that he forgets all about his worries and all about what
a fuckup he is, and for a split second he forgets all about Miss Kellie O’Keefe from Folkston, Ga., who dumped him for some
pasty-faced veterinarian who specializes in
ducks
for Christ sake, I mean the man is a goddamn
quack
of
quacks
, Kellie, is that what you really want?

But if I can find somewhere to land? If I can save the life of this Oliver kid?

Why, he thinks, that ought to wash an awful lot of crap out of these old brain-pipes. That ought to wash Kellie and her quack-man
out of my head
for good
.

In the meantime, this Annie woman is done with her story and she’s fallen silent, and he wishes she hadn’t. It’s only when
the woman is talking that he can keep the worry in rein.