The Famous and the Dead

3



Hood drove to the Monterey Restaurant in El Centro, just under an hour from Buenavista. The sun-blasted sign had faded from yellow to a kind of opaque cream and the lettering from black to pale gray, but "BEST BURRITOS IN THE WORLD" was still visible. He used the drive-through and parked in the shade facing the Monterey, the windows of his Charger down. Hood was a muscle-car guy and he liked it that ATF had a deal with Chrysler. The Charger had civie plates and black paint and plenty of get-up-and-go, though the Imperial County sun had no trouble finding it.

In the rearview he checked his diamonds. Five. They shined wicked cool and perfect for an arms dealer. Two months ago when they were installed, Hood was surprised by how different he felt: piratical, subversive, and an odd combination of marked and free. For those first two weeks his tongue had found the hard little chips every waking minute, reminding him of his new self. They were of course removable by a dentist.

He had also gotten on loan from ATF a diamond-studded Rolex. And grown his hair long, which added to his sense of separation and newness. He wore suits in pale shades, tailored to obscure the holster and weapon at the small of his back and his ankle gun. He wore striking shoes, often two-tone. Over the weeks it had become easier and easier to be Charlie Hooper—one dapper, unmistakable, and certainly unorthodox businessman. Hood was warming up to the tooth bling and the hair, which was almost to his shirt collar.

Using the rearview mirror again, Hood tilted his chin down and ran his hand under his forelock and lifted the hair. He studied the slender knife scar. It was nearly six inches long and nearly perfectly aligned with his hairline. Because it had been treated promptly by good doctors and sutured from the inside, the scar remained low profile, understated. His new long hair easily covered it. It still itched occasionally. When the cut was first made, it had bled terrifically, just as it was intended to, allowing a bad man to get away. Veracruz, Mexico, M. Doblado street. Four months ago. I’ll get back to you on this one, Mike, thought Hood. I will get back to you.

Hood enjoyed his lunch. He didn’t find the Missourians at the Monterey, but the burrito rocked.

• • •

He went down the street to Buster’s Last Stand and talked to Buster about purchasing twenty-thousand rounds of .40 caliber. He balked at the price and wondered out loud why .40 caliber had gotten so popular lately.

“Latest answer to the same old question, Hooper,” boomed Buster. “Stopping power and how many cartridges you can fit in a magazine.”

Hood gave him a dismissive look. “Buster, you know I buy and sell. I’ve got a collector back in Virginia, licensed for automatics. Wants old machine guns like his great-granddaddy might have used in a war—full size, not the subs. Operational, not replicas. Something with the smell of history still in the barrel.”

“We don’t do much full-auto here. I’ll keep my eyes open, though. Try Crossroads of the West. It’s in Texas this month.”

“Sure. Good show.”

“Always a big ’un.”

Hood gave the man a card with “Charles Hooper/Firearms/New and Collectible/Ammo/Reloading/Accessories/Licensed” embossed on it and a phone number and website address handwritten on the back. No federal firearms license number was on it. “This is just in case you lost the last one. Let me know if you find some good old machine guns.”

“Hooper. I can come off that price a little on the ammo. Five percent. Best and final. You pick it up here you’ll save a fortune in shipping.”

Hood gave the man a disappointed smile and walked out.

• • •

Three more gun stores, no Skull. He went to Walmart and bought Beth a bottle of her favorite wine, the best box of chocolates he could find, and a flagrantly sentimental card. He had been trying extra hard to please her these last few months yet he’d come to feel obvious and exposed, like a magician who’d revealed a trick and the trick would no longer work. He knew she felt the same. Walking back to his car he saw the sun setting on this late winter day and felt a deeper chill settling in.

Hood took a seat at the Palomino Club, well drinks half price. He was apparently the first customer of the evening. He set his hat crown-side down on the stool beside him and gave the bartender a brief smile. She was a hard-faced Latina in a black-sequined Palomino Club tank top, a brief skirt, ankle-high boots. “Suzy,” with a z and a y, said her nameplate.

Hood nursed a beer and talked to Suzy about the economy. El Centro had been hard hit and had one of the highest unemployment rates in the nation. Six years ago she’d been selling real estate, she told him. Those were the days, no credit/no problem, she was too busy selling homes to even take a vacation. Then all of a sudden those days were gone. There were tracts of new homes not getting sold, other tracts not even getting finished. Now they were nothing but brand-new ghost towns, tumbleweeds blowing down the dirt streets, security guards trying to keep out the vandals, coyotes running through in packs like wolves.

Suzy had a smoky voice, like another Suzanne whom Hood had once known. And high cheekbones and dark eyes, like hers. In the dusky light of the nightclub Suzanne Jones wasn’t hard to imagine. Hood let his memory drift across time. It glided easily, a skiff on a glassy bay. Five years ago, he thought. Then all of a sudden those days were gone.

Suzy went quiet and looked hard at him. “What do you do?”

“I buy and sell vintage cars, mostly American made. And other things that people want.”

“Such as?”

“I do some firearms. Licensed stuff, all legit. Nothing goes south. It started as a hobby, actually.”

“Hmmm.” She lifted a tumbler of what looked like sparkling water, and looked over the top of the glass at him. “I’ve got a colorful little three-eighty. County wouldn’t give me a permit to carry, but it’s in my purse and I don’t care who knows. I walk out of here at night with tip money, it makes me feel better.”

“Let’s hope you never have to use it.”

“You don’t sound like a gun dealer.”

“What’s a gun dealer sound like?”

“Well, he’d be curious what make and model I chose.”

“Suzy, colorful was kind of a giveaway. How about a Sig P two-thirty-eight? With the rainbow titanium finish. That’s the one the Gun Bin puts in their front window, with the purses and boots and accessories. Chances are, you bought it there.”

She smiled again and this softened her face and seemed to bring light into it. “Okay. So you’re a dealer. Another beer?”

“Next time.”

She swept away his empty glass and dunked it into the rinse water. Hood stood and counted out his money, then pulled his phone off his belt and leaned closer to her. “These three gentlemen should be here in El Centro right about now. I’d appreciate a call.”

Hood handed her the phone and she scrolled through the six shots. He set a Charlie Hooper card on the bar.

She looked past the phone at him. “I thought you were a cop. I shouldn’t have told you about my gun.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Suzy. If and when you’d like to purchase another sidearm, let me help. You might want real stopping power someday.”

She gave back the phone and glanced at the card. “I’ve got real stopping power when I’m not slinging drinks and wearing whore’s clothes.”

“I can see that.”

“If they come in, I’ll call. Charlie Hooper. It doesn’t say anything on your card about vintage cars.”

Hood put a finger to his lips, then set the gambler on his head.

She gave him a minor smile, then walked away, waving over one shoulder. Suzanne Jones, he thought, walking across the dining room of her ranch house, Valley Center, California, August 2008.

• • •

Hood was made pensive with this, but the Fuzzy Dice was loud and cheerful with a younger clientele, a mix of Anglo and Latino and even a group of Asians in a booth. Some jocks from San Diego State stood at the bar in their Aztec clothing. There was gangsta rap and banda on the jukebox and a small dance floor crowded with intimate couples. Hood smelled the perfumes and colognes and the hair products and the high-pitched smell of alcohol. He ordered a beer and sat at the far end of the bar, near the bins of cocktail garnishes and napkins.

Just after eight o’clock the three men from Russell County walked in, the beefy Peltz in the lead, followed by thin Clint Wampler. Next came Skull, head shiny and held high, eyes hard. Last came El Centro businessman Israel Castro, a man well-known to Hood.

There was a mirror behind the bar. In it Hood watched as two young couples stood in unison when the Castro party approached their table, swiftly gathering up their drinks to abandon ship. Israel smiled and shook hands with one of the men.

The last time Hood had seen Castro was four years ago, in the dead of night, the rain pouring down on a little border town called Jacumba. Hood had caught a bullet in his back that night. He remembered the cold mule kick of it knocking him into the mud as it went through him. He’d lost consciousness believing he was dying.

But I’m alive, he thought. I am not dead. Neither is the past: It’s swarming all around me.

When Castro went into the restroom, Hood walked out of the Fuzzy Dice and got into his car. He set his hat on the passenger seat, then rolled down the windows and called Yorth. An hour later the four men came out. Castro got into a silver Ford Flex with dealer tags and the three others boarded a red Jeep Commander with Missouri plates. Wampler drove. Hood followed them three cars back to the Pueblo Lodge on the east side of town. It was an older motel with freestanding concrete-block casitas painted pumpkin orange and a sign out front with an arrow that lit up one bulb at a time, drawing customers in. The Commander swung in beside a white F-150, raised with big tires. Hood continued past the entrance and headed for home.