Chapter 17
Hebert sat in his apartment looking out the window. It was close to sunset. The sunlight was getting richer, redder on the already parched earth. The remains of his dinner were strewn in front of him. He picked up his revolver and examined it in the late-afternoon light. There was nothing exceptional about it, save for the years of wear that showed on its handle and tarnished barrel. It had served him well. Six shots were plenty. He didn't have any use for something with thirty shots. If everything went right, he would only need one. That's how things used to be. Herbert sighed. This was different. This wasn't a snatch and grab or a fast and sloppy hit. This was nasty business. Politics in action.
He wondered how many bodyguards there would be. How many bodyguards does an executive hire when he's fearing for his life? Herbert imagined an army of soldiers patrolling the suburban household in full tactical gear. He looked down at his gun and felt foolish.
Then there was Ruiz. That drunk maniac. There was no plan, only impulse. Herbert knew what that was like, to live underneath a waterfall of booze. There was mad genius to it. Things shaped up in a different way, risks yielded huge payoffs. Trotman trusted him, but all the lawyer had to do was sit behind his desk. It was different when your neck was on the line, too.
Herbert remembered Roland's body. There was no sign of struggle at all. Whatever Ruiz had done, it had gone off without a hitch. Poison, he remembered Ruiz saying. Herbert sniffed. They weren't going to be using poison tonight.
Herbert stood from the table and put his dishes in the sink. Then he went over to his bed and stooped to grab something from underneath it. He brought a worn shoebox back over to the table and sat down again. His chest ached as he took off the lid and looked at the yellowed photographs inside.
It had been a long time since he had looked at the pictures of his wife and son. He strained to remember them, but could only snatch handfuls of memories, the sound of his son's laugh, the smell of his wife's perfume. It was a stream of sensory experiences with no cohesion because at the time he was incapable of cohesive memory.
Herbert's chest sank. He had wasted all the time he had with them. For what? To get drunk with his buddies? To celebrate a score? To forget the faces of those he had beaten and killed? The ultimate insult was the tenacity of the claim that he was doing it all for them. It was not a lie, but it was also not the truth. Herbert knew there was darkness inside of him, now sealed away behind a wall of aridity. He told himself that it was the liquor, but this, too, was only a half-truth. The liquor gave it agency. He closed the lid on the box and rubbed his eyes.
Even now, he felt something stirring inside him. Anticipation. Excitement. It was crazy and dangerous, but there was a rush to that uncertainty. It was that urge to self-destruct that lived in the deepest reaches of his being, pushing him on his path. There was no stopping it now, Herbert knew. His love affair with death was reaching its tipping point. At least, he reasoned with himself, there was going to be something good coming from it. Darius would walk free. If Trotman could be believed, it would be good for the whole city. Herbert badly wanted a drink.
Instead, he gathered his gun and a few spare bullets. He left the box of photographs on the table and walked toward the door. Herbert paused in the doorway and looked back on his meager possessions, the remnants of a sad and lonely life. A life of violence and thirst. A life he was willing to trade up for the freedom of a bright young soul. He knew he'd been living the last decade on borrowed time and did not feel any bitterness as he looked behind him. Rather, there was a sense of peace that came with this duty. Herbert left his apartment, clicking the door shut behind him.
X
The van's engine clicked to a stop in front of the warehouse. Herbert sat in the passenger's seat, staring at the back of the business card Trotman had given him. He squinted down at the crooked script and looked up at the number on the side of the building. Unconvinced he was in the right place, Herbert got out of the van to investigate.
It was a square building made of concrete. Herbert's gun was stuffed in the pocket of his jumpsuit, which he hadn't bothered changing out of. Loose bullets were scattered in his other pockets. He looked over his shoulder at the setting sun then turned and knocked on the metal door.
A man with a boney face answered, staring down at Herbert with narrowed eyes.
Herbert stood in front of him, waiting for some kind of greeting. When it became clear that this man was not going to say anything, he spoke. “I'm here for Rico.”
The man turned and looked behind him as a familiar voice called out. He stepped aside to make way for Ruiz, who leaned against the doorjamb. His bald head was gray and glossy with sweat.
Ruiz stared at Herbert with bloodshot eyes. “What do you want?”
“Trotman sent me.”
“Oh yeah,” Ruiz grinned his skeleton grin. “You're the carpet guy.”
“That's the one.”
“Blanco's replacement...” He said with some derision.
“I guess.” Herbert shrugged.
“All right, come on in.” Ruiz moved aside to allow Herbert passage.
The air inside the warehouse was musty. Harsh florescent light buzzed down from above. Rows of massive metal shelves filled the floorspace. Stacked on the shelves were shrink-wrapped piles of boxes neatly organized on pallets. Herbert entered, his work boots squeaking slightly on the sullied floor.
“This way.” Ruiz started down one of the aisles.
Herbert followed, inspecting the boxes as he walked. “What're you guys storing here?”
Ruiz ignored the question as he led the way to a loading dock. Situated next to the two sealed doors was a small office, a hastily constructed set of walls without a ceiling meant to partition off the foreman from the workers. Voices bounced around the warehouse, echoing until they became unrecognizable chatter, the hoots of monkeys and the shrieks of demons. Ruiz paused in the doorway of the office. “The carpet guy's here.” Ruiz stepped aside to allow Herbert entry.
Three men turned their eyes to Herbert. They were an ugly bunch, each with lumpy mismatched features, wholly unique in their respective ugliness. The man closest to the door had a swollen red nose and beady rat eyes. He introduced himself as Sully. Next to him was a man with translucent skin stretched tight over his cheeks, which were crusted with scabs and sores. His name was Pete. Finally, slumped in the corner, was a tan-skinned man with a mask of ink framing the left side of his face. He called himself Guapo.
“I'm Herbie.” Herbert said, trying not to stare at one face for too long. “The carpet guy, I guess.”
“This is the guy you bring in?” Sully said as he squinted in Herbert's direction. “He's like a million years old.”
“Heh, yeah,” Guapo said, “what good is this abeulo gonna be?”
“Hey, you don't know about the old ones. Some of them are bad motherfuckers. I swear to Christ I saw the sweetest little old lady open up some guy's neck in broad daylight one time.” Pete perked up, his eyes bright and wild.
“Bullshit, you didn't see shit, Petey, you were fuckin' trippin' out on that shit like always.”
“You wanna bet? She just put one of her knitting needles right through his neck. Went straight through to the other side.”
Herbert crossed his arms and watched the men argue. He felt a mixture of nostalgia and concern. It was nice to be back in a crew, busting balls and joking around. But at the same time, these were the men he was supposed to trust his life with? Herbert thought of Trotman and wondered what he would think of this assembly. Then his thoughts turned to the absurdity of his own presence, an old fart hanging around with a bunch of derelicts. He smiled.