Mile Zero (10 page)

Handsomemost was all these things plus impatient. He was growing more impatient by the moment waiting on another plane headed for Miami to lift off with a roar from the end of the short runway. The two greyhounds he held on tight leashes were also impatient, frightened and confused, wanting to run the racetrack, waiting for another shot to be fired from Handsomemost’s gun, not knowing the shot would be intended for one of them. Handsomemost kicked the tip of a shiny black alligator-skin loafer at the gravelly limestone which went out under him in all directions between shallow salt ponds into mangrove scrub. Earlier, there had been a kid on a bicycle right when Handsomemost popped the first greyhound. The kid was about twelve and white, he came around a stand of scrub on the gravel path and skidded the bike tires to a quick stop when he saw Handsomemost with his gun pointed at one of the greyhounds tied to the spindled roots of a mangrove. The white kid spun away in a hurry of dust as the groan of a plane lifting off skimmed overhead. What Handsomemost didn’t need now was cops, not that cops bothered him. He knew most of the cops had things to trade, things cops liked to know about other people, people whom Handsomemost was not so interested in seeing stay in business. Some of these other people had good-looking wives, even if they were Cuban. Handsomemost was a white-woman man himself. He liked his women snowy as milk, or in a pinch, like coffee, hot and black. When things really heated up he had milk with his coffee. On the subject of women Handsomemost had his particulars, which included no Cubans. But every day could carry an exception to the rule. Handsomemost wasn’t so stupid as not to figure a boy goes to school to learn the rules so he can break them. Handsomemost
didn’t have much use for Cuban men either, thought they were excitable and had bad taste in music, all those jarring happy notes, pee-pee guitars and upbeat skinny voices, uncool. Far as Handsomemost was concerned Cubans could be kept in a deep-freeze for the rest of their lives and still wouldn’t come out cool, or know anything about music. The Cubans’ toe-tapping sense of rhythm had all the elegance of a kangaroo in heat. Handsomemost considered himself a man of consummate style and innate rhythmic grace, he wouldn’t be caught dead eating pig, uncool. The problem with the Cubans was they liked to eat pig more than chicken. How can someone who does that be taken seriously? A pig is a dirty barnyard grunt, a chicken is a clean-feathered pebble pecker with fat thighs and succulent breasts. It wasn’t that Handsomemost ate chicken, he hated it, reminded him of his childhood. He was a steak and lobster man at all the finest restaurants in town, he was a big spender and a big tipper. If a bartender gave him seven dollars’ change from a ten-dollar bill Handsomemost was insulted, and often as not, even if he was in a fancy restaurant, screamed at the bartender: What am I going to do with this skimpy shit! Can’t even make a phone call with it! You keep it! Handsomemost did not like to be insulted, he made big money, measured his life out in one-hundred-dollar bills. He didn’t like white bartenders who thought he needed chicken feed change, or smartass scammers in tight Hawaiian shirts like Karl Dean. Karl Dean trifled and now he was history.

Handsomemost could hear one of the prop jets warming up out on the runway. The high-pitched engine whine made the dogs even more skittery. He stroked their sleek arched bony bodies to calm them, then walked them across to the third dog, lying where it fell from a bullet in the head. The two greyhounds sniffed their former running mate, their tails arrowed straight and trembling. Handsomemost tied the dogs to a red-bristling root of mangrove, paced ten steps back and took up his position. Maybe he could pop both burnt-out bunny chasers with two quick shots; one per plane was too slow. Handsomemost didn’t have all day for this stuff. It was seven in the morning and he hadn’t been to bed. He had been at the dog races the night before, then racing around town doing his usual business till dawn. A man needs a day’s rest for a night’s work.

Handsomemost raised his gun, steadied it with both hands to take the magnum force of its kickback. The sound of the plane was coming closer faster. He took aim at the greyhound on the right, it stood
poised and alert, about to jump from the gate and race the track, eyes expectant and excited as the groan of the overpassing plane was directly above; the sudden force of a bullet smashed into the long pointed face with a shattering impact, kicking the animal off its feet, snapping the body straight out to the end of the leash before it dropped motionless. The other greyhound jumped, confusing the gunshot with the starting bell of a race, figuring its fallen companion had tripped up its post start. The greyhound lunged against its leash. The chained restraint of its neck collar caused it to rear up and flip over. The overhead plane was pulling away. Handsomemost was swearing under his breath. He couldn’t get a bead on the last greyhound at the end of the leash as it leapt to its feet, not wanting to be left behind by the invisible racing pack. Goddamn, Handsomemost growled, firing two quick shots which kicked up puffs of white limestone gravel around the bouncing greyhound. Bitch!

“Put the gun down!” The words bellowed above the roaring engine thrust of the departing plane.

Handsomemost did not lower his gun. He turned his body slowly toward the words behind him. He did not like to be told what to do, he did not like to be messed with, especially when he had a loaded gun.

“I’m not going to repeat it! Put the gun down!”

Handsomemost continued to turn his head slowly, until a figure in the bend of the path behind him came clearly into view. Handsomemost stopped turning. The gun held outstretched in both hands before him pointed directly at the figure.

“Target practice is over!”

Handsomemost hated cops, they were bad for business. Especially smart cops who knew the value of accommodation, the cops who would let you run ahead of the pack and not try to trip your pace, figuring sooner or later you would go too fast and throw your stride, trip up. No, Handsomemost didn’t like cute cops who liked to mess with minds. He liked cops who either wanted to bust your face wide open or throw a bribe. That was easier and better for business. White cops were predictable, he always knew which card to pull out of his sleeve with them. Cuban cops were unpredictable, like mad dogs. Cuban cops won’t let go until they get the bone, especially the one Handsomemost had an unobstructed view of not more than thirty yards away. He could see the bump of the cop’s automatic tucked beneath the waistband of his pants, poking the front of his loose
guayabera
. Handsomemost couldn’t figure this guy out, half African, half Cuban. He knew this guy all his life and still didn’t know if he could trust his African half. Flip a coin, any fool’s guess which side this guy was going to come down on. Handsomemost felt his finger on the trigger of the gun he had aimed at this guy he didn’t trust. Damn kid on the bike must have called the cops. One thing Handsomemost didn’t like was to gamble against the house, he was a short-odds man. Still, there was an undeniable urge to blow the Cuban part of this guy away, splatter his black beans and yellow rice across the mangroves, whatever was left could be trusted. Ah, for the simple life. Handsomemost lowered his gun and shouted, “These here be run-out dogs! Got no gas left to chase the metal bunny round the track! These here old puppies be more better off bein sand-flea butter!”

Justo walked toward Handsomemost, the force of his heavy body digging the soles of his shoes into gravel. “Give me the gun.”

Handsomemost did not move. A smile wrinkled his top lip, which had a sprocket of black hairs on it that he kept combed and pasted in a sporty mustache. “Ain’t done nothin illegal.” He couldn’t stop a quick laugh coming through the lips of his smile. He wanted to say: I never did anything legal in my life, you old Tom, but instead he did his arguing dance. “These here be my dogs. Got a right to shoot em. Man don’t need no license to shoot his own dogs. Why should I take em to some white vet what’s goin to gas em, then charge me enough to buy a new convertible with? Answer me that, huh? Why would a smart black boy like me do a thing like that, huh?”

“Give me the gun.”

“Lighten up. You be practicin a mean act for Hollywood or somethin?”

“I won’t ask you again.”

Handsomemost looked into Justo’s brown eyes. Nope, no mercy there. Coptime mentality. Nevertheless he figured he could deal with Justo. Justo knew the accommodation, understood which side his bread was buttered on, knew the Saints had to be fed. Handsomemost relaxed his grip on the gun, let it twirl over his trigger finger, which was studded with diamonds of a fat gold ring. Handsomemost offered the gun with a wink. “Heard any good music lately?”

“No, but you will.” Justo took the gun. “I’m booking you.”

“Hey! I said lighten up. What it is? We be bubbas. What be wrong with shootin your own dog? These doggies got run out bad and ugly.
Can’t win no more races for papa. Best they be put out of their miseries. Their hound-dog days be over. Best you be lucky enough to have somebody be shootin you when your hound-dog days be over and misery time comes callin. Who wants to drag around life losin races all the time? Not me. When my misery time comes goin to be takin this here same gun, send me a telegram through my head from ear to ear. Return to sender. You be understandin, bubba?”

“Let’s take a walk out to my car.”

“Ain’t gettin in no cop’s car. You be one crazy Cuban bean, you think that. Sides, ain’t been home all night. Needs my beauty rest. You can dig that, bein a family man and all.”

There were times Justo enjoyed being a cop, when the heavens opened up and showed him the way, how there was good and evil in the world and one couldn’t exist without the other. This was such a time. He wanted to blow the creature before him to kingdom come. Of course Handsomemost hadn’t had any sleep, he had done so much cocaine his flared nostrils appeared to be pinned to his earlobes, plus he suffered a bad case of snorter’s shoulder, an uncontrollable muscle spasm twitching his right shoulder like a baseball pitcher about to fire off a nervous spitball. Handsomemost didn’t have enough moral fiber to make a hatband with. Justo had less than no respect for him. No respect for losers who thought they were the last bastion of romance, hotshot pirates. Justo had more respect for the poor bastard who shovels snow out of his driveway every morning so he can go to work to meet the mortgage. He took perverse delight at being the counterbalance to a corrupt world. To be an honest man was to be the last true outlaw. But Justo knew he couldn’t exist without Handsomemost. The pie of life had been divided up between the keepers of the law and the breakers of it, nothing would ever change that, without each other they were out of a job. It’s a hot dog–eat–hot dog world. Justo’s knee jerked up in a cocked instinctive reaction, straight into Handsomemost’s groin. “Don’t ever mention my family to me.”

Handsomemost rolled over in the white gravel, hugging his knees to his chest, trying to bend the pain at the central junction of his body into nothingness. Handsomemost feared his nuts were cracked. His mouth was dry and he cried his words out. “What’s with you! Got your heart in your asshole or somethin!”

Justo pointed the gun at the man in black clothes scraping around in a cloud of white coral dust. One less hot dog in town to supply the street sniffers, sunday snorters, bathroom spoon boppers and backroom
needle pumpers. He hated hot dogs, especially the kind cruising around looking for somebody’s teenage daughter to needle high, light up some simple girl’s life. That was the narrow part where Justo’s own teenage daughters came through the door and tainted the entire way he looked at hot dogs. He had recently become intolerant and irrational when it came to hot dogs, forgetting the accommodation. Not more than a week had gone by since he busted a hot dog out in a boulevard motel, smashed through the door on a tip from a dirt bag who had flipped. The hot dog raced into the bathroom, bolted the door and Justo broke it down just as the hot dog swallowed a knotted condom filled with cheap heroin brown. Justo delivered three punches guaranteed to bring up anything in a man’s stomach, the hot dog threw up the evidence before losing consciousness, thudding to the tile floor. The hot dog’s girl in the bedroom was younger than Justo’s youngest daughter, thirteen, pink hair and black fingernails. “You cunt,” she screamed, too dumb to have run while Justo had persuaded her boyfriend in the bathroom to cough up his stash. Justo slapped her across the face, knocking her against the bedroom wall. “You lousy nigger cop!” He slapped her again, then did something still following him around in a troublesome way. He grabbed the front of her blouse, tearing it off, her young breasts exposed. She became silent, staring wide-eyed at him. He didn’t know what he thought, how long he looked at her, one moment or ten minutes. He ripped a sheet off the bed and threw it at her with a snarl. “Cover yourself up and beat it before I bust you too.” No, Justo did not like hot dogs talking about his family.

“Jesus Christ, bubba! I be a respectable businessman. I have rights to shoot my own dogs.” Handsomemost wobbled to his feet, hands crisscrossed over his groin in anticipation of another kick. “Ain’t gettin ready to blow me away, are you, bubba?”

“I’m busting you for illegal discharge of a firearm within the city limits.”

“Oh cooome-ooon, man!” Handsomemost howled. “Don’t be givin me the riot act. What it be you want from me?” He hobbled across to the two dead dogs sprawled in a blanket of blood. “How much be two dead puppies worth anyway?” He looked back at Justo. “I know it’s not money you be wantin. Out with it. What’s the accommodation?”

“Some weird stuff going down in town.”

“Always is. George Washington be first president of the United States and there be penguins in Alaska. So what else be new?”

“Don’t mean the usual stuff.”

“Like dead chickens nailed to doors and goat heads in the cemetery kind of stuff?”

“Yeah. Ever since the last boatload of Haitian refugees came in it’s been getting weirder.”

“I be hearin that. Yackity here, yackity there, you know how people yack.”