Big Trouble

Puggy thought that Niña was beautiful. Just beautiful, like an angel in a blue nightgown, or a woman on the TV. He could not believe that a woman as beautiful as this was in his tree. He knew—he was sure—that she was the reason for the flute music, because that music was as beautiful as this woman was. He had never really loved a woman, or even really talked to one, but he believed that he loved this woman very much.

"You OK?" he said again.

"Si," said Niña. "Yes."

Spanish, thought Puggy. He would die for this woman.

"What happen to me?" she asked, tentatively touching her forehead, discovering a large and tender lump.

"That guy ran into you," said Puggy.

"Señor Herk," said Niña. "He chase me."

Whoever Señor Herk was, Puggy hated him.

"I got the gun," said Puggy.

"Gun?" said Niña. She pronounced it "gon." Puggy thought it was a beautiful way to pronounce it. He wanted this woman to stay in his tree forever, pronouncing things.

"The gun the other guy had," said Puggy. "I got it."

"There was another?" asked Niña.

"There was two guys," said Puggy. "They're gone, though."

Niña looked around her. She was lying on something hard and flat, like wood, but she was outside, with branches all around.

"Where is this?" she asked.

"This is my tree," Puggy said.

 Niña sat up a little bit, and saw that she was in a tree. "Well," said Puggy, "it's not my tree. But I live here."

"How do I come here?" asked Niña.

"I picked you up," said Puggy, remembering how warm her body felt over his shoulder. "I hope I didn't ... I mean, I wasn't ... "

"No, no," said Niña. "Is OK. You help me. Muchas gracias. Thank you." She smiled at him. She had very white teeth.

Puggy had never been happier in his entire life, never, not even the time when he was little and his dad, who was still around then, took him to the volunteer firemen's carnival and let him ride the bumper cars over and over, his dad drinking beers and laughing and handing the bumper-car guy some bills and saying, "Let'm go again!" That was the best time he'd ever had, and this was better, to have this TV-beautiful angel smiling at him.

"Niña!" called a voice through the darkness, from the direction of the house.

"Ay Dios," said Niña. "La señora!"

Niña, thought Puggy.

"I must go," said Niña.

"Niña!" called the voice.

"Niña," said Puggy, trying it out.

Niña liked the way he said it. "What is your name?" she asked.

 "Puggy."

"Puggy," she said. She pronounced it "Pogey." Puggy thought he was going to float out of the tree.

"NINA!" called the voice, sounding a little frantic, and a little closer.

"I must go," Niña said again.

"OK," said Puggy. He was used to people having to go..He held out his hand, and Niña took it, and he pulled her up, and she could feel that he was strong. She hoped her hand did not feel too rough to him. She had working hands.

But Puggy liked the way her hand felt, and he loved the way she gripped his hand, a firm grip, as he eased her down onto a lower branch, and then, following behind, eased her to the ground. He dropped down beside her, and they stood looking at each other. They were exactly the same height.

"NINA!" called the voice, now definitely coming this way.

"I don't think they know I live in their tree," said Puggy.

"OK," said Niña. She would not tell.

"Niña," said Puggy, trying to figure out a way to tell her that he loved her.

"Yes?" she said.

"I'm usually here," he said.

"OK," she said. She touched his arm, leaving her hand there a second. Then she turned and walked, a little unsteadily, toward the calling voice, leaving Puggy watching her, still feeling her hand on his arm.

Henry didn't want to make the call from his cell phone. The first pay phone he found was on Grand Avenue in Coconut Grove. This was not the world's safest place for middle-aged white guys wearing Rolex watches, which Henry was.

Leonard, still woozy and seriously hurting in the head, stayed in the car, lying across the backseat. Henry got out, fed a quarter and a dime into the phone, and dialed a number from a piece of paper. Watching him, from a vacant lot across the four-lane avenue, were three young men.

The phone rang once.

"Tell me," said a voice on the other end.

"There was another shooter," said Henry.

There was a pause, then the voice said: "What do you mean?"

The three young men started walking across Grand Avenue, very casually, toward Henry.

"I mean there was another shooter, is what I mean," said Henry.

"Who?" said the voice.

"I was thinking maybe you would know," said Henry.

Halfway across the avenue, the three young men fanned out, with one moving to Henry's left, one to his right, and one coming directly toward him. They were still moving casually.

The phone voice said: "Whoever it was, it wasn't us." Then: "Did you take care of the job?"

"No," said Henry.

"Did the other shooter take care of it?"

"No."

"So you're saying there's two shooters, and our guy just walks away?"

The three young men had stopped about eight feet from Henry, forming a triangle around him.