by Robert Greer
“Nope,” said Celeste, disappointment apparent in her tone. If her rifle had been outfitted with a scope the previous evening, she would have had the time to sight in properly on Floyd. Instead, she had mistakenly killed Floyd’s bald-headed assailant, and although she felt no remorse over that killing, the missed opportunity had upset her.
Moving in a slow, arthritic horseman’s hobble across the width of the store, the clerk said, “Follow me.”
Her agitation mounted as she followed the man. She was glad she’d brought down the man who’d been after Floyd. Now, if Floyd analyzed that killing the way she suspected he would, he’d have time to think about the fact that someone was out to kill him. He’d have time to contemplate dying the same way Bobby had—cooped up in a prison cell for two years for no more than driving a truckload of illegal fireworks and stolen guns across state lines, then tossed out on the Denver streets, a helpless, nervous wreck without her there to protect or fend for him. When the drugs came calling for Bobby again, tempting and torturing him, there was nothing she could do from a prison cell to save him. Six months before her release, Bobby had died from an overdose of heroin in a squalid, rat-infested Airstream trailer on the outskirts of Denver. “You hear what I said?” grunted the man in the bolo.
“What?”
“Said, I got a darn good generic scope on sale. Fits any 30.06 made. Heck of a deal at ninety-nine bucks.”
“Got anything better?” asked Celeste, trying to erase the image of Bobby’s Airstream deathtrap from her mind.
“Got a high-end Remington. It’ll match that rifle of yours. But it sells for one ninety-five.”
Celeste frowned, wondering why the man was so intent on saving her money. She knew she looked dumpy and used up, and she also knew that six years earlier the man would very likely have looked at her, licked his lips, and asked to sniff her panties. “Is there much difference in the image accuracy?” she asked, her voice suddenly sultry.
“Yep. With the Remington you can practically double the distance from your target and still take Roosevelt’s head off a dime.”
“That accurate?” Celeste arched her back, showing off the outline of her still firm breasts before reaching for the scope. “I’ll take it.” She scanned the print on the side of the scope’s box, eyelashes fluttering, before looking up at the man to see if he’d taken the bait.
“Anything else?” the man said matter-of-factly.
“No.”
“I’ll ring you out up front.”
“Sure thing,” Celeste said dejectedly as he turned away.
As the man packaged her purchases, she thought about all she’d lost in the past six years: her future, her brother, her beauty, and her youth, and all because of CJ Floyd. There’d be a reckoning, she told herself, hefting her purchases.
“You going after elk or deer?” asked the man, surprising her as she turned to leave.
“Deer.”
“I hear they’re thick as rabbits this year. Easy money with that scope,” said the clerk, lowering his gaze and trying his best not to get caught in the act of ogling Celeste’s breasts.
Aware that he was staring, Celeste squeezed her package tightly to one breast before seductively rolling it across the opposite breast and into her right arm. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing,” said the man, smiling as he took in the maneuver.
Halfway across the store’s parking lot, a few feet from her pickup, Celeste looked back to see the man still watching her from the front of the store. Maybe she hadn’t lost everything, she thought as she licked her lips sensuously, slipped into the truck, and flipped down the sun visor. Eyeing her reflection in the visor’s mirror, she slipped the key into the ignition, glanced out into the noonday sun, and smiled, thinking maybe one day she’d be a knockout again.
Lincoln Cortez, his withered leg still tingling from Margolin’s earlier assault, stood outside a west Denver 7–11 talking on his cell phone to a contact that Peter Margolin had no idea about. Rubbing his leg, he growled, “Margolin’s still an asshole.”
“Nothing new under the sun,” came the static-riddled reply.
“Whatta you want me to do?” asked Cortez.
“Lay low and read the obituaries. You never know when Margolin’s name might turn up.”
“If I don’t beat you to it,” said Cortez. He wiggled his foot, hoping to get some feeling in his toes. “And what about Blue?”
“It’s handled. Get yourself a place to stay. You’ll hear from me.”
The phone went dead. Cortez rubbed his leg, thought about the risk associated with playing both ends against the middle, and figured that his chances of a big payday were a hundred percent either way. Grimacing, he flipped off his cell phone and limped toward his car.
Chapter 6
Except for new flatware, recently purchased waxed checkerboard tablecloths still creased from packing, and central air conditioning, Mae’s Louisiana Kitchen, Denver’s premiere soul food restaurant, looked much as it had for more than sixty years. Only the Rossonian Club, half a block down the street, famous for its jazz and night life during the 1930s, ’40s, and ’50s, rivaled Mae’s, originally established by Willis Sundee, as the most recognizable landmark in Denver’s historic Five Points neighborhood.
The Points, the core of Denver’s black community since early in the twentieth century, was a neighborhood in transition. Urban gentrification and increasing ethnic diversity were becoming more obvious every day. Longtime shades of black were making way for every color in the rainbow.
Catty-corner from the now empty Rossonian, a Bank One had set up shop in a meticulously restored building complete with a sandblasted brick facade that made it look more appropriate for Williamsburg than the Points. With a satchel of black patronage votes in their back pockets and white establishment votes in their front ones, Queen City pols pushing an Up with People–style new business agenda had managed to stamp a “times are a-changing” footprint on Five Points that included a light-rail system that served to cut the community in half, several apartment and condo complexes that longtime Five Points residents would never be able to afford, and a city government annex that included a rarely used driver’s license bureau that most Five Points natives, including Willis Sundee, claimed had been opened to house community-destroying back-stabbers and political spies.
The best thing to land in Five Points in the last ten years had been the Five Points Media Center, home to three local radio stations, including the city’s nationally acclaimed jazz oasis, KUVO. The nondescript, block-like, three-story media center rose above the neighborhood’s aging Victorians and squat little bungalows like an overprotective sentry guarding Five Points’s eastern edge. But Mae’s Louisiana Kitchen remained the long, narrow, New Orleans–style shotgun house it had always been, still tucked in the center of the community between Ajack Prillerman’s Trophy and Badge, and Rufus Benson’s House of Musical Soul.
CJ, who had arrived at Mae’s twenty-five minutes earlier in a failed attempt to beat the noon-hour rush, was seated at the closest table to the kitchen in the far back corner of the restaurant, flanked by Mavis, Carmen Nguyen, and Ket Tran, Carmen’s aunt, who was talking. Ket had hastily flown into Denver that morning from her home on Colorado’s Western Slope.
Next to Carmen and Ket, Mavis stood out. Her sharp facial features, flawless deep, rich cocoa-brown skin, and naturally curly, closely cropped jet-black hair screamed Ethiopian queen. Carmen was fairer, her skin closer to a cinnamon tone. Her hair, straight black and silky, accented exotic Asian features that mirrored those of her aunt. But her bold, pouty lips and noticeably larger facial features and frame told the more than casual onlooker that something in her lineage reached far beyond the borders of Vietnam.
The women were all fashionably dressed, in sharp contrast to CJ’s wrinkled jeans, faded chambray shirt, and oiled work boots with run-over heels. Sensing that he looked out of place, CJ cleared his throat and looked at Ket. “So what you’re saying is that L
angston Blue wasn’t quite as quick upstairs as everyone else.”
Ket paused momentarily before answering. “Yes and no. He wasn’t slow when it came to understanding mechanical things or tuning in on someone else’s feelings, but when it came down to everyday things like counting out change or remembering a phone number or a street address, Langston sometimes had trouble. And more times than he should have, he let other people do his thinking for him.”
“And that’s why you think he deserted? Other people told him to?”
“Now that I’ve had all these years to think about it, I’m sure of it. He never would’ve left his unit or my sister unless someone either forced or tricked him into it. And I’d place my money on that someone being his captain, Peter Margolin.”
“The guy running for the U.S. Senate?”
“The very same one.”
CJ glanced at Carmen. “Sounds like somewhere along the way, whether he knew it or not, your father was connected.” CJ stroked his chin thoughtfully, anticipating a response from Ket that never came. “He never knew your sister was pregnant?” he asked finally.
“Never. If he had, he wouldn’t have taken off like he did.” Ket reached over and patted Carmen’s hand. “About a month ago, I found a letter Mimm never sent to him. She told Langston she was pregnant. I always thought he knew. But the letter was dated the day before he disappeared.”
“What happened to your sister?” CJ asked softly.
“She was killed by a sniper during the war,” said Ket, her voice laden with sorrow.
The words and their tone dredged up a rush of memories from a dark corner of CJ’s mind—horrific memories of personal loss, violence, and pain. He had been a machine gunner on a 125-foot navy patrol boat during Vietnam, a swabbie instead of a grunt, and a much younger man than Langston Blue. But in a sense, like everyone who’d served there, they’d been the very same man. Sometimes when the mental shadows in his mind were bent just right, he still cursed the navy for stealing that part of his life. But deep down he knew that Vietnam had also transformed him from a naive, smart-talking Denver street tough into a man.
Aware that the conversation was headed for places that could turn CJ into a shell of himself for the rest of the week, Mavis spoke up. “And if your father’s still alive, how do you expect CJ to find him?”
“By first talking to Congressman Margolin,” said Carmen. “He was in charge of the eight-man killing unit my father belonged to. He has to know something.”
CJ’s eyes widened and the muscles in his face stiffened as if suddenly he’d recalled something long forgotten. “Go on,” he said, his eyes darting expectantly around the room.
“During the war Margolin was in charge of a special team whose mission was to disrupt the North Vietnamese and Vietcong organizational structure through low-level grassroots infiltration, assassination, and even fraternization.”
“Fraternization? Come on.”
Ket nodded in agreement. “Carmen’s right, Mr. Floyd. Langston’s team was designed to be both politically and militarily effective.”
“CIA, then?” said CJ, as if coaching Ket with the correct answer.
“No. They were all regular U.S. Army soldiers.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. My sister Mimm said Langston told her so himself.”
CJ eased back in his chair and frowned, aware that the rules of engagement had prohibited grunts like Langston Blue or even his commanders from carrying out political assignments or fraternizing with the enemy. “Sounds far-fetched.”
“Maybe, but it’s the truth, and it’s the reason Langston deserted the army, his wife, and an unborn child.” Ket looked reassuringly at Carmen. “I’ve never told anyone this before, not even Carmen, but the day before Langston deserted he told Mimm that he had orders for a mission. Langston wasn’t the kind of man who scared easily, but Mimm told me he sounded uncharacteristically nervous. He also told Mimm that none of the men in his team wanted to go except their captain.”
“Did they go?”
“Yes. And as far as I know, only two of the eight came back: Margolin and a sergeant named Cortez who was badly wounded. Mimm had to beg for months to learn even that much. Margolin claimed the rest of his men were killed in a firefight and that Langston deserted. There was one strange thing, though. A few hours after they returned to their base camp outside our village, a medevac helicopter appeared out of nowhere, and within minutes Margolin and Cortez were gone. The next time I saw Peter Margolin’s face was on a political poster announcing his first bid for Congress.”
“When was that?”
“Nineteen ninety-two,” said Ket.
CJ eased forward in his chair and stroked his chin again. “Guess twelve years of swimming with minnows in the House gave Margolin a taste for the big fish in the Senate.”
Ket nodded. “And it looks like he’ll make it. All the polls say he is way out in front.”
“Anything else I should know about Margolin?”
Ket’s tone turned steely. “Only that he’s charming, conniving, and ruthless. Once I saw him shoot a motorcycle out from under an old man in our village. When the man, a petty black marketeer who specialized in fencing stolen U.S. contraband, got up to run, Margolin shot him in the back of the neck and watched him bleed to death next to a ditch along the side of the road. When he was sure the man was dead, he rolled his body down into a rice paddy and set fire to the motorcycle and the cache of cigarettes the man had been smuggling.”
“Sounds like a prince. What about the conniving part?”
“He convinced everyone but my sister, including me and the U.S. Army, that Langston was a deserter. And he’s on his way to becoming a U.S. senator. Need any more proof than that?”
CJ smiled. He liked Ket Tran’s straightforwardness. “Guess not. He’s the place to start.” CJ glanced at Mavis for a hint of approval. Her face was expressionless. Turning to Carmen, he said, “Can I get that West Virginia address you had for your father?”
Carmen handed CJ a yellowed half sheet of paper with a general delivery address printed across the top in pencil. CJ recognized the paper as the kind of delicate rice paper he’d once purchased during R&R in Saigon and sent home to a long-forgotten girlfriend. The aging paper triggered memories of a week of drunken camaraderie and sex, a seven-day respite from hell. Looking at the address as if it were a coded secret message, CJ said, “Bluefield. Wonder what part of West Virginia that’s in?”
“The southern part, near the Virginia border. I’ve done a little homework.”
“Can I keep it?” asked CJ, fingering the limp piece of paper.
“Sure.”
CJ folded the paper in half and slipped it into his shirt pocket before looking again at Mavis. Realizing finally that no support would be forthcoming, he said, “I charge two fifty a day plus expenses, one week’s charges up front. Flora Jean gets the same. We’ll stay on the case until we find out what happened to your father.”
“Or find him,” said Carmen.
“Yeah.” CJ’s tone was noticeably hollow.
The table turned silent until a tubby, mahogany-skinned waitress balancing a serving tray stacked high with food suddenly appeared. “Jambalaya, biscuits, a side of rice, iced tea, and honey for the two ladies,” said the waitress, placing identical entrees and sides on the table in front of Ket and Carmen.
In near perfect unison, Ket and Carmen said, “Thanks.”
The waitress nodded, smiled, and looked at CJ. “Your usual,” she said, placing a plate of fried catfish, coleslaw, piping-hot biscuits, and red beans and rice in front of him. CJ eyed the steaming meal. “Looks great,” he said halfheartedly, glancing at Mavis.
Sensing that something was out of kilter, the waitress asked, “Anything wrong?”
“Nope.”
The waitress shrugged and turned her attention to Mavis. “Sure you don’t want nothin’, Ms. M.?”
“No.”
“Okay.” The waitress hea
ded back toward the kitchen, leaving Ket and Carmen smiling and Mavis and CJ looking somber.
Except for CJ and Mavis, the lunch crowd at Mae’s had dwindled to just one other table with two people. Carmen and Ket had been gone for close to twenty minutes when CJ finally eased his chair back from the table to leave. He and Mavis had spent most of that time talking quietly as they skirted the same issue that always strained their often rocky relationship: CJ’s always dangerous, too often life-threatening line of work. Work that included not simply the relatively mundane paperwork dance of bonding society’s bottom-feeders and lowlifes out of jail but also mandated hunting down the 10 percent or so who routinely skipped their bond, refused to pay, threatened her, her father, or their business, or, like Newab Sha, tried to kill CJ.
“This isn’t a bounty-hunting job, Mavis,” said CJ, defending his decision to find out what had happened to Langston Blue. “I’m just gonna find out what happened to Carmen’s father.”
“Just like you were going to drag that dead Haitian back to justice. And like you were going to track down that lunatic Pinkie Duncan three months back, and like you were going to find that bond-skipping, whacked-out Indian kid, Bobby Two Shirts, a few years back. Face it, you’re getting too old for the kind of life you insist on living.”
“That’s why I have Flora Jean. She’s a lot younger, and don’t forget, she’s an ex-marine.”
“Don’t start that song and dance again, CJ. Flora Jean does what you tell her to. We both know that. I didn’t see Newab Sha chasing her across Five Points trying to blow her head off.”
“Mavis, you’re exaggerating.”
“Sure I am, CJ. Just like I’m exaggerating about Wendall Newburn coming in here first thing this morning flashing his badge and peppering me with a half hour’s worth of questions.”
CJ’s eyebrows arched a split second before his face froze into a chiseled frown. “Why would that prima donna with a pistol be in here bothering you?”
“I’m not sure, but he had plenty of questions.”
