'You let her take the money?'
'We didn't want to waste time moving the bag between cars. Ricardo might have come back out any second.'
Jackson shook his head in an irritating way. 'Still risky.'
Wait until I finish the story, Dixie thought, knowing some wise-after-the-event wisdom would be coming his way.
'I'd rented a self-storage unit. She was meant to take the money there until we could meet up.'
The first hint of a told-you-so smile appeared on Jackson's lips.
'Meant to? As in, she didn't?'
Dixie shook his head, his jaw clenched like he was having trouble getting the words out. 'She took it there, no problem. I went there this morning.'
'And?'
'And the bag's there. Unfortunately, it's—'
'Empty.'
'As a politician's promise.'
Jackson finished his beer and called the bartender over for another one. Dixie looked in the mirror behind the bar and saw the guy in the M-65 field jacket staring back at him, except the curious look seemed to have morphed into a belligerent stare now. Perhaps he'd sent him to prison at some time in the past. A lot of Vietnam veterans had come home with post-traumatic stress disorder and had ended up in trouble as a result. Despite that, he knew it wouldn't take much for him to get into it with him after the morning he'd had. The catharsis of mindless violence. The guy looked like he'd be up for it despite his age. He opened his mouth and gave a slow beery-nacho-popcorn burp, his eyes never leaving Dixie's. An obvious up-yours insult . . .
'Hey,' Jackson said, prodding him in the ribs.
Dixie broke eye contact with the guy (meaning of course that he'd lost, he was the pussy, the one who sucked other men's cocks) and looked at Jackson as he took another long swallow.
'God, I could do with one of those,' he said, determined not to let the guy get to him. He could feel his stare on the side of his face. 'I feel like I've got three million reasons to start drinking again.'
'Three million? Wow.' Jackson gave a low whistle.
Dixie nodded. 'Three million.'
'And you've no idea where she might have gone with it?'
'Uh uh. I wouldn't be sitting here watching you enjoy a beer if I did.' His eyes flicked to the mirror. 'Not to mention getting eyeballed by some asshole who's looking to get his ticket punched,' he added in a loud voice, the emphasis firmly on the asshole.
The guy looked momentarily shocked. Something wasn't right here. The pussy was calling him out. Jackson spun round on his stool to look at the guy, see what was eating Dixie. The guy mumbled something.
'Did this asshole just call me a Gook?' Dixie said incredulously.
'I didn't catch it,' Jackson said, trying to suppress a grin.
There was a shout from the far end of the bar as the bartender came around and trotted up.
'Hey, that's enough Earl,' he said, putting a hand on his arm and steering him away. 'Time to go.'
Earl looked back at Dixie like he wanted to make sure he remembered his face. He made a gun with his finger and thumb and pointed it. The bartender slapped it down and Earl walked off.
'Sorry about that,' the bartender said. 'He's not all there.' He made a twirling motion at his temple with his finger.
'What's wrong with him?' Jackson said.
The bartender shrugged. 'He was in Vietnam. Got captured by the Viet Cong. He wasn't released until years after it was all over.' He gave a small hardly-surprising-when-you-think-about-it smile. 'He was one of those guys they forced to write letters bad-mouthing the U.S. and praising the North Vietnamese for how well they treated them. It kind of confused him. He's never been right since, although the owner says he wasn't right before he went. He comes in most mornings and does a bit of cleaning.'
Dixie and Jackson both nodded sympathetically.
'He can't talk properly,' the bartender continued. 'I think they might have cut part of his tongue out.'
'How's he order a beer?' Dixie said flippantly.
The bartender looked at him as if he’d just told a dirty joke about his mother.
'He doesn't have to. The owner said just serve him a couple of beers on the house when he comes in and then send him on his way.'
Dixie raised an eyebrow. 'Every cloud has a silver lining, eh?'
The bartender turned to go.
'What was he calling me a Gook for? Does he do that to everybody?'
The bartender smiled. 'No, as far as I know, you're the first one. Looks like you really pissed him off,' he said as he walked away.
Just what I need, Dixie thought, some crazy with a hard-on for me.
'Asshole,' Jackson said under his breath, turning back towards Dixie. 'What's the matter with you?'
Dixie wasn't sure if the asshole was directed at him, the bartender or Earl. He gave a dismissive shake of his head and the two of them sat in silence for a while thinking about Vietnam, losing half your tongue and what you could do with three million dollars.
'Why did you do it?' Jackson asked. 'Rip off Chico I mean, not pick on poor ol' Earl.'
'I was hoping you wouldn't ask me that.'
Jackson's face was a picture of confusion. 'Why?'
Dixie cleared his throat and looked down at the bar top. He took hold of his glass and swirled it around in the water that had pooled underneath it.
'For you. Well, for us.' He cleared his throat again. 'I've had enough of this life too.'
Jackson had spun on his chair so that he was directly facing his brother. He leaned in a little. 'What do you mean for me?'
Dixie did a bit more swirling with his glass, staring at the pattern he was making, a big, looping figure-of-eight. 'After what happened last time. I wanted to do something to try to make amends.'
Jackson's bark of a laugh made him jump.
'That wasn't your fault.'
'I know, but I could have made one call and you'd never have gone to prison.' He gave an aggravated sigh. He felt like picking up the glass and throwing it into all the bottles stacked behind the bar.
Jackson sat back in his chair and shook his head in exasperation. He let out a loud breath through his nose. 'We went through all this at the time.'
'I know, I know. Doesn't mean I haven't questioned the decision every day for two years,' he said to the bar top.
'Jesus Christ. If you'd done anything, they'd have known it was you. They're not completely stupid. They might have asked themselves what sort of a person can click his fingers and get his brother out of the shit?' He pretended to think and then looked up like he'd just had an aha moment. 'A cop, that's who, they say to themselves. Where would that have left you?' His eyes drilled into the side of Dixie's head. 'In some alley somewhere with your throat cut, that's where.'
Dixie knew he was right; they'd been through it all at the time. Jackson had been adamant and his time in jail hadn't changed his view.
'Anyway,' Dixie said, 'when Ellie came to me with her proposition it just felt right. The timing was right with you coming out and, as I said, I'm sick of it all.'
'But—'
Dixie put a hand on Jackson's forearm. 'That's not all—I think Chico's getting suspicious. I'm getting out while I still can.'
'What's Chico doing about the missing three million?'
Dixie laughed and eyed Jackson's beer longingly. He wanted to snatch it and pour it down his neck before Jackson could stop him.
'What?'
'He sent me after her and the money.'
Jackson stared at him for a second before roaring with laughter. Dixie couldn't help joining in, despite the mood he was in.
'That is just beautiful,' Jackson said as soon as he got his breath back. 'Surely that means he doesn't suspect you.'
Dixie shrugged. 'There've been a few things recently but the last few days clinched it for me.'