She didn’t react.
The man sat back in his chair and decided to change the subject. “Staying at your brother’s vacation place?”
“I’m not going near there. He’s probably got the house watched.”
The man rubbed his chin hard and looked at Anna in a different way. “You actually did come down here to kill him.”
Anna took off her sunglasses again and answered with her eyes.
“At first I thought it was the money,” said the man. “But you really don’t know about that, do you?”
“What money?”
“Your brother squirreled it away. A bunch, I hear. He was pretty smart about that.”
“I don’t know about any money.”
“Everyone else does. They say it’s in the millions, but that could just be talk. When I first heard you were coming down here, that’s what I thought it was about. Get the money for a fresh start.”
“Where is it?”
“Nobody knew but your brother.”
“I don’t care about money.”
“You will.”
“Sure you won’t change your mind?” asked Anna.
The man stood. “Sure you won’t change yours?”
She shook her head.
“Remember, you can always call.”
“I know.”
The man walked away from the table, past an involved story-telling circle at the bar.
“…He builds these intricate model ships from scratch,” said Rebel. “Old eighteenth-century wooden frigates and stuff. An insane perfectionist, painstaking detail. Some take as long as a year. Then he goes over them with a magnifying glass and if there’s the tiniest flaw, he’ll smash whole masts and riggings in an insane rage and spend weeks redoing them. When he’s finally satisfied the model is absolutely perfect, he gets out a giant survival knife and carves his name in the base.”
“What name?” asked Coleman.
“Okay,” said Rebel. “I’ll tell you his original name, but I don’t want to say what they call him now because of the curse—”
“Since when is there a fuckin’ curse?” said Sop Choppy. “This story gets more ridiculous every time I hear it!”
“Fernandez,” said Rebel. “Doug Fernandez.”
“That’s not a scary name,” said Coleman.
“That’s why he changed it,” said Rebel. “Fernandez has this way of looking at you. Very intimidating. Strong men have been known to throw up. There’s this famous test he gives. Nobody is ever allowed to see him. Unless you’re in his smuggling organization and about to be promoted into the highest ranks. Then you get to meet one-on-one. But only that single time; you’ll never see him again. And if, during that meeting, you can look him in the eye and pass the test, you get your promotion.”
“Ooooo, that’s pretty spooky,” said Sop Choppy. “They have a staring contest.”
“No,” said Rebel. “It’s not a staring contest. There’s conversation, too. The point is it’s a mental test. They don’t kung fu fight or some shit.” He turned to Coleman. “Don’t listen to him. This is all true. There was this one lieutenant of his, young but rising fast. He’s up for the big promotion. They drive him out to No Name Key, all these limos kicking up dust down the no-trespassing road. The kid is led upstairs to Fernandez’s personal office. All the goons assemble outside the door — they’ve all passed the test, but they’re not allowed to see Fernandez again. They stare at the doorknob. The new guy gulps and grabs it. He goes in and finds himself standing all by himself in this huge room, looking across an empty, gleaming oak floor. On the other side of the office is an antique Louis-the-whatever desk with a stunning scale model of a British schooner. Behind the desk is a giant wicker butterfly chair, facing the other way. The kid isn’t even sure if there’s anyone else in the room. Then, the butterfly chair slowly begins rotating, and there… is… Fernandez!”
“Butterfly chairs can’t rotate,” said Sop Choppy. “They’re stationary.”
“Whatever the fuck,” said Rebel. “It’s a chair with a very high back and casters or wheels or a swivel base. You happy?”
Sop Choppy looked at the ceiling. “… Hmmm-hmmm-hmmm… Bullshit story… Hmmm-hmmm…”
Rebel ignored him. “…Fernandez leans forward in the chair and bears down on the young man with that glare of his. The lieutenant tries to maintain eye contact, but he can’t. Fernandez sits back and folds his hands in his lap. He doesn’t say anything. The young guy’s really shaking now. Fernandez finally opens a drawer in his desk. He takes out a stopwatch and a gun. The new guy doesn’t know what’s going on. Fernandez braces his shooting arm on the edge of the desk and says in an unnervingly calm voice: ‘You have one minute to make me angry. Or you die.’ He clicks the stopwatch. This is the test. The kid is stupid with fear. Fernandez looks at his stopwatch. ‘You now have fifty seconds.’ The guy figures he better do something. He starts swearing at Fernandez, but he’s stuttering. Fernandez laughs. ‘I’ve been called worse. Forty seconds.’ The guy insults Fernandez’s mother. Fernandez laughs again. ‘I never liked her myself. Thirty seconds.’ The guy’s in a complete panic, sweat pouring down his face. Fernandez flicks the safety off the gun. ‘Twenty-five seconds.’ The guy’s head jerks around the room. ‘Twenty seconds.’ Fernandez cocks the hammer. ‘Fifteen seconds.’ The guy runs up to the desk. ‘Ten seconds.’ He picks up the model ship, races across the room and throws it out the fuckin’ window!”
“No!” said Coleman.
“Yes!” said Rebel. “Fernandez loses it. Starts screaming at the kid: ‘Out! Out! Out!!!’ I heard the guy literally jumped down the whole last flight of steps. Took Fernandez a whole ’nother year to build a replacement ship.”
“The guy get his promotion?” asked Coleman.
“Yeah, he got his promotion all right,” said Rebel. “Fernandez prides himself on his word. Then right after, they cut him in half with a table saw.”
“A table saw?”
Rebel nodded. “Lengthwise.”
“I’m telling you he doesn’t exist!” said Sop Choppy.
“Does too,” said Rebel.
“Then how come nobody’s seen him coming or going?”
“He drives this big white Mercedes, but the windows are tinted.”
14
A BIG WHITE Mercedes with tinted windows drove past the No Name Pub. Air conditioning on 65. The suspension made it feel like the sedan was standing still. It was the S600 class with the massive V-12 engine, liquid-display global navigation system and a manufacturer’s suggested retail price of $122,800.
There were four men in the Mercedes. Actually five. The last one was in the trunk, pounding with fists.
Bang, bang, bang.
The driver tooted from a cocaine bullet and looked in the rearview. “He better not be fucking up the lining.”
All the men in the car wore bright tropical shirts. The one sitting across the front seat from the driver cracked open a Heineken. “Why didn’t we just shoot him back on the mainland? That way he couldn’t mess up your car.”
The driver whipped out a giant nickel .45 automatic and stuck it between the man’s eyes. “I told you! Because this is just like the beginning of Goodfellas. I love that scene! Goodfellas is the second-best movie ever made!”
Not those stupid movies again. All the other men in the car knew what the Number One film was, and it was also how they finally realized that the driver had gone completely insane. The movie was what started the whole nickname business. Fernandez demanded you call him that or else.
It had been hard to tell for a while about the insanity thing. Between Fernandez’s original personality and the cocaine, he’d always been a nervous experience, even when he was working his way up as a deckhand unloading pot. Now that he was at the top of the organization and had more coke than he needed, it was beyond intolerable. There was never any conversation in the Mercedes that Fernandez didn’t start himself. Many trips were silent the whole way down the Keys, except for the near-constant tooting up that made them all tremble. One toot closer to pulling that big gun again.