Purity.”
“Where’s she?”
“Oceanside.”
Wilmer squeezed out the back door to the patio. Nobody there, but he could see Purity with her blond pigtails sitting down near where the waves were breaking. So he made tracks—big tracks—down the beach.
“Purity?”
She turned, a bottle of tequila at her side and Prada ankle-strap thongs behind her in the sand. She was in cutoff jeans and a sleeveless man’s oxford shirt, open in front and exposing a yellow bikini top.
“Purity, it’s time to go home, sweetheart. I’ll get a driver for you.”
“Yeah. I have to get up tomorrow. Have to be in court in Manhattan.”
“Not for that joyride the other night.”
“No, another joyride, through Central Park, on a borrowed horse. Wilmer?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Come here.”
He stepped up next to her.
“Sit down, Wilmer.”
“No games tonight, Purity. We got to close up. I’ll carry you if you want.”
“Wilmer, what would you do if you wanted to kill someone?”
He shrugged and held out his hands. “I’d just kill them with these.”
“No. I mean kill them and not get caught, make it look like an accident.”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Who do you want to kill, Purity?”
“I’m just like saying. Nobody.”
“Depends. Can’t kill nobody in a car wreck if they don’t drive. Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you off to bed.”
“So you’re saying that it, like, depends. Like, if they drive a car?” She staggered to her feet.
“That’s right.” Wilmer picked up her shoes, then picked up Purity. She sat in the crook of his arm, reclining against his chest, and they started back to El Rolo.
“Would you hire a hit man?”
“Nah. Do not do that, Purity. Do not even talk about it. People who try that route always end up in jail. You want bad enough to kill somebody you do it yourself. That’s the rules.”
“There are rules?”
“There are always rules.”
“I don’t like rules.”
“Just the same. You’re a smart girl. You want to kill someone you do it yourself. But listen to me. I’m your friend, right? Your friend Wilmer is telling you not to kill anybody tonight. Go home, sleep, have some breakfast, take a swim, you’ll feel better.”
The lights in El Rolo began to go off, and Wilmer stepped sideways through the patio doorway into the darkened bar.
“You’re a good friend, Wilmer.”
“That’s what they pay me for.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
A NEON SIGN SIZZLES: ACE PAWNBROKER—OPEN 24/7. That’s what our camera sees before drifting down into the confines of a narrow hallway encased in bulletproof thick-as-your-wrist Lucite. This seemingly glass hallway separated the customers from the used merchandise, which included almost anything you could think of that was of any value: guitars, drum sets, barbecue grills, fishing poles, hockey sticks, microwaves, taxidermy, silver sets, jewelry … and guns. Ceiling fans turned lazily under fluorescent tubes.
The pawnshop smelled of Lysol. Perhaps scratch-and-sniff cards could be given to the audience in the lobby before the movie. There could be a cross-promotion with Lysol.
While Purity was drinking rum on the beach, Paco was arriving in Memphis by Greyhound, and it probably would not surprise anybody to learn that the bus station in Memphis is not too far from some unsavory neighborhoods. The kind that have pawnshops.
Behind the Lucite, at the counter, was a compact Bangladeshi man. He had sideburns that went all the way to his chin, and a cutoff T-shirt bearing the Rebel flag. He didn’t seem to like the looks of Paco even though he had not yet met him.
“Can I help you with something?” The southern lilt of the Bangladeshi’s voice echoed from the other side of the Lucite barrier.
Paco spotted the gun case and stood before it, looking.
“You think I’m going to sell a gun to a greaser in the middle of the night you’re crazy, Sanchez.”
Paco wasn’t entirely sure what the clerk had
“Where’s she?”
“Oceanside.”
Wilmer squeezed out the back door to the patio. Nobody there, but he could see Purity with her blond pigtails sitting down near where the waves were breaking. So he made tracks—big tracks—down the beach.
“Purity?”
She turned, a bottle of tequila at her side and Prada ankle-strap thongs behind her in the sand. She was in cutoff jeans and a sleeveless man’s oxford shirt, open in front and exposing a yellow bikini top.
“Purity, it’s time to go home, sweetheart. I’ll get a driver for you.”
“Yeah. I have to get up tomorrow. Have to be in court in Manhattan.”
“Not for that joyride the other night.”
“No, another joyride, through Central Park, on a borrowed horse. Wilmer?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Come here.”
He stepped up next to her.
“Sit down, Wilmer.”
“No games tonight, Purity. We got to close up. I’ll carry you if you want.”
“Wilmer, what would you do if you wanted to kill someone?”
He shrugged and held out his hands. “I’d just kill them with these.”
“No. I mean kill them and not get caught, make it look like an accident.”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Who do you want to kill, Purity?”
“I’m just like saying. Nobody.”
“Depends. Can’t kill nobody in a car wreck if they don’t drive. Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you off to bed.”
“So you’re saying that it, like, depends. Like, if they drive a car?” She staggered to her feet.
“That’s right.” Wilmer picked up her shoes, then picked up Purity. She sat in the crook of his arm, reclining against his chest, and they started back to El Rolo.
“Would you hire a hit man?”
“Nah. Do not do that, Purity. Do not even talk about it. People who try that route always end up in jail. You want bad enough to kill somebody you do it yourself. That’s the rules.”
“There are rules?”
“There are always rules.”
“I don’t like rules.”
“Just the same. You’re a smart girl. You want to kill someone you do it yourself. But listen to me. I’m your friend, right? Your friend Wilmer is telling you not to kill anybody tonight. Go home, sleep, have some breakfast, take a swim, you’ll feel better.”
The lights in El Rolo began to go off, and Wilmer stepped sideways through the patio doorway into the darkened bar.
“You’re a good friend, Wilmer.”
“That’s what they pay me for.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
A NEON SIGN SIZZLES: ACE PAWNBROKER—OPEN 24/7. That’s what our camera sees before drifting down into the confines of a narrow hallway encased in bulletproof thick-as-your-wrist Lucite. This seemingly glass hallway separated the customers from the used merchandise, which included almost anything you could think of that was of any value: guitars, drum sets, barbecue grills, fishing poles, hockey sticks, microwaves, taxidermy, silver sets, jewelry … and guns. Ceiling fans turned lazily under fluorescent tubes.
The pawnshop smelled of Lysol. Perhaps scratch-and-sniff cards could be given to the audience in the lobby before the movie. There could be a cross-promotion with Lysol.
While Purity was drinking rum on the beach, Paco was arriving in Memphis by Greyhound, and it probably would not surprise anybody to learn that the bus station in Memphis is not too far from some unsavory neighborhoods. The kind that have pawnshops.
Behind the Lucite, at the counter, was a compact Bangladeshi man. He had sideburns that went all the way to his chin, and a cutoff T-shirt bearing the Rebel flag. He didn’t seem to like the looks of Paco even though he had not yet met him.
“Can I help you with something?” The southern lilt of the Bangladeshi’s voice echoed from the other side of the Lucite barrier.
Paco spotted the gun case and stood before it, looking.
“You think I’m going to sell a gun to a greaser in the middle of the night you’re crazy, Sanchez.”
Paco wasn’t entirely sure what the clerk had
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