Free Nobody Move by Denis Johnson

“is revenge.”
“Yeah. I’ve fantasized about revenge. Do you want to hear how sick it gets?”
“No.”
“The judge has the money. Or half of it at least.”
“What about Hank?”
“I’ll take care of Hank.”
Luntz said, “You don’t hide two million in a shoe. They’ve got it in some offshore account.”
“The judge is a sick old man. When we put two guns in his face, he’ll come up with it. We’ll make him transfer it.”
“Must be eleven felonies in that scenario.”
“Unreported felonies. You can’t steal stolen money. If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, did it really make a sound? Fuck, no!”
Luntz said, “You’re the sure shot. In my whole life, I’ve fired exactly one bullet.”
Anita said, “I can knock bottles off a fence all day. But I’m not the guy who shot a guy.”

    Blondie sat on the ottoman, helping him with leg lifts.
“What’s your name again?”
“Mary.”
“How much more of this shit?”
“Till I say. Or else you’ll lose muscle mass, and you’ll gimp around for months.”
“It looks good. I mean the sutures and all, a very professional job. Were you in a war?”
“I was on a hospital ship off Panama during that thing, and at the Army hospital in Frankfurt during the first Gulf. And I did six months in Iraq in oh-three.”
“No shit. Where’d you get all the equipment?”
“Stole it. I work as a temp sometimes, in different clinics. And the hospital.”
“You sell it out of your garage, or what?”
“Nope. I just like to steal things.”
She helped him lie on his belly on the couch and started an alcohol rub between his shoulder blades. He told her, “Baby, don’t ever stop.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“I’m sorry if your car’s ruined.”
“No, man, I know gunshot wounds are bloody. I had the whole back seat and floor covered in plastic sheets all ready for you.”
As he spoke, lying there under her pleasant hands, he felt his chin lifting his head up and down. “I guess this whole business is pretty fucked, huh? Guy with a hole in his leg just shows up and moves in.”
“I don’t mind. It’s got some reality to it. Like war.”
“So how did our boy talk you into this?”
“He sends me money every month.”
“Why?”
“Because my attorney said so.”
“You were married to Juarez?”
“I know what you think—I got fat and middle-aged and he dumped me. But no, he dumped me way before that. Then I joined the service.”
She helped him ease over onto his back, and she began on his shoulders and chest.
“Are you a natural blonde?”
“None of your business,” she said, “but yes, I sure am.”
“How’d you get mixed up with a Mexican?”
“Hey. Mexicans are human too.”
“I’m just curious. Wait,” he said as she moved her hands to his legs, “you’re skipping the important part.”
“How well do you know Juarez?”
“We go way back.”
“Not as far as me,” she said. “Ever wonder why Juarez doesn’t have any Mexican friends? Why he’s not in with a totally Chicano gang with headbands and tattoos and all that? I mean, where’s his Mexican buddies? It’s because he’s not Mexican. He’s Jordanian. And partly Greek, I think.”
“You mean Juarez is an Arab?”
“Arab, yeah. His name is Mohammed Kwa-something.”
“He’s a fucking Muslim?”
“What? I don’t know.” She put her hands lightly on his groin.
Gambol pushed her hands away, gripped the back of the couch, and hauled himself to a sitting position. “I could’ve called any one of a thousand guys on the phone to get my ass out of that culvert. And not one of them would’ve done it. Only Juarez.”
She tried to close the robe for him, gave up, moved to the end of the couch, wide-eyed. “Sorry.”
“Juarez is not a fucking Muslim.”
“I didn’t say he was. Sorry.”
“Come here. I’m going to come in your face.”
“Lie back down and keep the leg elevated.” She stood up and gave him the finger. “You’re not ready for target