by R. A. McGee
Porter pressed the trigger straight to the rear of the pistol and Dreadlocks collapsed in a heap on the floor, blood squirting out of the front of what was once his face. The revolver was loud and crappy, but it did its job.
“Dios mio,” Hector said as he whipped around, his eyes first going to his friend, dead on the floor. Then he looked up and saw Porter push the bathroom door open and point the pistol at him.
“Who the hell is Mike?” Porter said.
Forty-Two
Hector took one look at Porter and bolted, passing the folding table and went tearing out of the meeting room, only to run headlong into Terrell’s massive chest. Hector fell to the ground. He looked up at Terrell, then back to Porter, and stood, raising his hands.
Jamal was close behind Terrell and came into the room a split second later.
“Oh shit, Porter? What you doin’ in here?”
“Sorry, Jamal, there was a change of plans. I thought this might work better.”
Terrell had a large grin on his face. He wasn’t bothered at seeing Dreadlocks with his face blown off on the floor.
“Damn, it’s a good thing we didn’t get far,” Jamal said. “I was still trying to convince Big T that we should bounce. He wasn’t going for it.”
“Is anyone else from downstairs going to come back up?” Porter said. “I don’t want to fight off any of Hector’s boys if I don’t have to.”
“Hector don’t got any more boys. Your recording took care of that. Well, that and your heater. I told everyone else to bounce. It’s just us,” Jamal said.
“My man,” Porter said. Terrell stood in the doorway again, a silent sentinel with a smirk on his face. Porter motioned for Hector to sit at the table. The man’s eyes darted around the room, but he seemed to realize there was no way out. He lowered his hands and sat with a huff.
Porter pulled a seat and sat across from him. “You’re Hector Quintana?”
Hector said nothing, instead glaring at Porter.
“You aren’t what I expected,” Porter said.
Hector still said nothing.
“Look, dummy, how long this conversation takes is up to you. It may be a while if you don’t start talking.”
Hector slowly nodded his head. “Well, what did you expect?”
“Sorry?” Porter said.
“What did you expect me to look like?”
“I’m not sure. The word on the streets is that you’re a beast. A real monster. I’m not impressed,” Porter said.
“It’s not about the looks, it’s about the presence. People know I’m serious, so they treat me that way.”
“You're serious? I forgot, what with you sitting there like a little bitch. I should treat you like the serious man you are,” Porter said.
He reached and grabbed the index and middle fingers on Hector’s right hand, and jerked them ninety degrees. It was a quick, brutal motion. Hector howled in pain.
“If you’re so serious, I probably need to make sure you can’t shoot anyone. Do you pull triggers or do you just get the guys with the balls to do your dirty work? Were you at my house that night?”
Hector was clutching his hand, uttering a string of obscenities in Spanish. “I wish we would have killed your ass.”
“Well, you tried. Fortunately for me, you guys really suck at the killing thing. Big time. A real crew might have gotten me, but you amateurs had no hope. You’re lucky any of you got away.”
“Maybe next time, I’ll get it right,” Hector said.
Terrell laughed from the doorway, his voice deep as thunder.
Jamal leaned on the wall next to him. “I doubt that, my nigga.”
“You’re probably gonna have to let that idea go,” Porter said. “Let’s switch gears. I’m here to talk about one thing. Do you know what that is?”
“Seems pretty obvious.”
“Well? Are you going to talk about Danny, or am I going to spend more time putting my hands on you?”
Porter watched as Hector considered what he had said. “Why bother? I’m not stupid, I know how this movie ends.”
“It doesn’t have to,” Porter said, resting the pistol in his lap. His arm hurt from jumping the wall in the backyard and it was beginning to throb. “If you tell me the truth, I promise I won’t kill you,” Porter said.
“You won’t kill me?” Hector said.
“I’m a man of my word,” Porter said.
“My brother mentioned something about that.”
“How is Abel?”
“I don’t know,” Hector said. “He showed up at my house, told me he ratted to you about what happened, then took off. I went to his crib the next day and it was empty. Him, his old lady, his kids, all gone.”
“See? I can be reasonable. Now, tell me what happened to Danisha Hill.”
Hector hesitated a beat. He looked at Jamal and Terrell, then back at Porter. “I sold her.”
“To who?” Porter said.
“A guy I know. That’s what he does, he’s like a broker or something.”
“A guy. This is not the quality of info I was hoping to get.” Porter reached over and grabbed Hector’s pinky, dislocating it.
Hector gritted his teeth. “Oh, you… you son of a bitch. Stop touching me.”
“If you want me to stop, all I need is some real information.”
“Go get my phone, he’s in there.”
“No phones in here, remember?” Jamal said. “Where’s yours?”
“In my ride, on the passenger seat.” Hector swore under his breath.
Terrell moved and Jamal slid past him and disappeared from the room.
“Why Danisha?”
“I already told the guys,” Hector said. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Wanna bet?” Porter reached towards Hector, who recoiled.
“Okay, okay. Her deadbeat-ass daddy traded her for drugs and protection. He didn’t care about that girl. When we showed up looking for our money, he offered her up pronto. No questions asked.”
“Just like that?” Porter said.
“Exactly like that. He didn’t want that baby; she was nothing to him. Life’s cheap,” Hector said.
“Don’t remind me,” Porter said, his hand tightening on the pistol’s grip.
“If it makes you feel any better, we cooked the spike we gave him. That’s why he overdosed.”
“It doesn’t make me feel any better,” Porter said. “You were just trying to cover your tracks.”
“Yeah, well, he’s still dead.”
“Lucky him,” Porter said. “Tell me what happened after you snatched her.”
“Tied her up, took her to a motel. Sat on her until my guy could come pick her up.”
“Your guy makes house calls?” Porter said.
“Full service,” Hector said with a smirk.
Porter grabbed the front of Hector’s shirt and pulled him close. His arm protested in pain, but he blocked it away. He slammed the butt of his pistol into Hector’s face twice. He raised the pistol a third time, but Jamal reentered the room with a phone in hand. He handed it to Porter, who lowered his hand and let go of Hector’s shirt. “This yours?”
Hector didn’t answer, his mouth full of blood and his hands holding his injured face.
“What’s his name?” Porter said as he scrolled through the cheap burner phone.
Hector groaned, nothing understandable coming out of his mouth.
“I swear to God, I’ll bash your skull in if you can’t tell me.” Porter raised the pistol.
“Candy Man,” Hector said through a mouthful of blood. He spat a blob on the ground.
Porter scrolled through the contacts until he saw the name. For some reason, it churned his stomach. “What happens if you tell him you have another kid for him?”
“He’d be suspicious. I haven’t talked to him in months.”
“Will he meet with you or not?” Porter said
“I don’t know if—”
Porter raised the pi
stol. “Yes or no?”
“Yes,” Hector said, his hands reflexively going to his face.
“Do it,” Porter said.
Hector fumbled the phone in his injured fingers, then placed it down flat on the table and typed with his thumbs.
Jamal had moved away from Hector, and was pacing the room behind Porter.
Porter watched as Hector texted the message and hit send. The thought of someone who dealt in children the way kids traded baseball cards unsettled him. The world was a screwed-up place.
“I texted him.”
“Good. Now, what do I need to know about your texts? Special code words, or names for things or places?” Porter said.
“It’s simple. Tell him you have something sweet and he knows you mean girl. Something sour means boy. He got back to me with an address. Just me and him, one-on-one, no boys or anything. We worked out all the rest of the deal in person.”
“What does Candy Man do with the kids?” Porter said.
“I got no clue. I never bought one before.”
“You just sell them, huh?” Porter said.
Hector sat quietly in the chair, holding his wounded hands in his lap, blood dripping from his face.
“How long does it take for him to get back to—”
Hector’s phone made a small noise.
Didn’t expect to hear from you again. Can’t make this a regular thing. I’ll let you know.
“See? That’s it. He’ll text back sometime later with an address.”
“Almost like ordering a pizza. Tell me about Candy Man, what does he look like?”
“White dude. Glasses. Tall. Dresses like a professor or something.”
“Good. Now I’ll know him when I see him.”
“What do you mean, see him? He doesn't know you, he won’t meet with you. You need me, you need me to do the talking.”
Porter knew Hector was trying to make sure he was still useful. A gambit to stay alive.
“I don’t need you, just your phone. I think I can handle it from here,” Porter said.
“He’ll never tell you anything,” Hector said, eyes wide in fear.
“Never is a long time. I think I can be persuasive when I need to be. Don’t you think?” Porter said.
“You don’t need me anymore. I knew you were gonna kill me.”
“I told you I won’t kill you. I’m a man of my word,” Porter said.
Hector had a small glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“I want your phone and your wallet. Got one of those?”
Hector motioned to his front pocket. “No wallet, but my knot is up there. It’s yours. Take it all.”
Hector Quintana adjusted as Porter reached into his pocket, pulling out a large stack of money, bound with two thick rubber bands. It was as tall as a Coke can.
“How much is this?” Porter said, tossing it in his hand, feeling the weight of it.
“Should be twenty stacks. Take it. Have it. I don’t need it. Hell, I have more at my crib.”
“Oh, really?” Porter said, turning to look at Jamal, still pacing behind him.
Porter stood up and stuffed the money into his pocket. He could feel the wad bouncing into his leg as he took a couple steps. He looked Hector in the eyes. “I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, but I won’t lie to you. You’re a shitty human being and I hope you rot in hell.”
“But you aren’t going to kill me?”
Porter picked up the gun he’d shot Mike with and put it in his shirt-cupped hand, wiping off any fingerprints that were on it. He offered it up to Jamal, who took it in his own t-shirt.
“Nope, I won’t kill you. But those guys? I can’t speak for them.” Porter pointed at the other men in the room.
Terrell had a smirk on his face and Jamal nodded his head. “Don’t worry, we’re real good at speaking for ourselves. Porter, man, why don’t you take off? We got this.”
“My man,” Porter said.
As Porter left the room, Terrell moved to let him by, holding a fist out as he did. Porter smashed it with his own and kept walking. He would never see Hector Quintana again. No one would.
Forty-Three
Porter made his way down the stairs and through the lower level of the clubhouse. Pausing in the doorway, he looked left and right to see if anyone was waiting for him outside.
There was no one.
Hector had no more allies and Jamal’s boys had long since cleared out. There was nothing outside but the SUV Hector Quintana had arrived in and the car that Jamal and Terrell had driven to the meeting. Porter hustled through the backyard and to the big cinderblock wall. This time he didn’t stop and listen, instead taking several long strides and then hitting the wall, pulling himself up to the top and over in one fluid movement.
He landed, a stream of obscenities pouring from his mouth at the pain in his arm. He was starting to think he should have listened to Trisha and gone to the hospital.
As he shook his arm out, he looked up and saw Ross, waiting in the Honda.
“I thought you were gonna wait for me to call?”
“I thought maybe something would go wrong and you would need to get out of there quick. Like you might need a getaway car,” Ross said.
“That’s so sweet. You were worried about me.”
“Shut up, Porter. I’m a nervous wreck. I’ve been sitting out here for a half hour. Every time a car drove by, I thought it was someone coming to get me. I kept ducking down and trying to stay low.” Ross floored the sedan. “Tell me what happened.”
“I have to make a call first.” Porter pulled his phone out and called Rivera’s cell. She answered after several rings.
“Porter?”
“No, I’m Porter. You’re—”
“If you say it, I swear the next time I see you, I’ll punch you in the throat. Is that what you want?”
“I was only going to say Detective Rivera, give me a little credit.”
“Nice try. What do you want?”
“You at the office?” Porter said.
“Yes, and you can’t come here, if that’s what you’re asking. There are too many people here right now.”
“Meet me at the deli off Kennedy? Thirty minutes?” Porter said.
“This better be good.” Rivera hung up the phone.
“I know where that is,” Ross said, turning on his blinker. “I’ll head that way.”
“We have a stop to make first,” Porter said, flexing his left arm. The jostling up and over the wall two times hadn’t done the wound in his arm any favors. It hurt like hell, and it was feverish to the touch. “Go to that pharmacy by my house. Trisha was supposed to call me in a prescription.”
Ross turned the car toward the new destination. Porter told Ross the entire story, leaving nothing out. By the time they got to the pharmacy he’d finished and he and Ross were sitting in the parking lot.
“Did you have to shoot Dreadlocks?”
“He was about to find me in the bathroom. What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know, something else.”
“Like what? Tell the cops he was one of the guys who broke into my house? You’re right, that’s a great idea. Then I’d call the cops and turn over the pile of evidence that proves Mike and Hector took Danny while I’m at it,” Porter said. “Slam dunk case.”
“Okay, smartass. But now Jamal and Terrell know you killed him. Aren’t you worried they could dime you out?”
“No. Why do you think I didn’t shoot Hector myself?”
“Sudden development of conscience?” Ross said.
Porter laughed and got out of the car, heading to the pharmacy. He came back minutes later with a big bag. He opened the car door and got in.
“Conscience. That’s a good one,” Porter said with a mock laugh. He tore into the bag from the pharmacy. He looked over the two pill bottles, then decided on one and took two pills from it, washing them down with Ross’s half-empty bottle of water.
“That’s my water,” Ross said
.
“If you wait a couple hours I’ll give it back,” Porter said. He took a deep breath and turned to Ross. “I didn’t kill Hector because if those two kill him, now they’re involved. On top of that, they’re disposing of the bodies, so they’re in it as deep as I am. And their criminal records suggest they’re fairly good at keeping hidden things hidden.”
Porter rolled his shirt sleeve up, exposing the bandages on his arm. Blood had soaked through them. “They won't tell a soul. The other reason I’m not worried is because that no one can prove it was me. There’s no evidence I was even there. I didn’t use one of my own guns to shoot Dreadlocks. It was that crappy little throwaway I took off that Tattoo guy a few days ago.”
“It’s almost like you thought things out first,” Ross muttered as he started the car.
Porter unwrapped his gauzed wounds and cleaned them out with a solution he had bought. Ross drove to the deli as Porter finished dressing his arm, sat back, and exhaled.
“What do you think’s up with this guy Candy Man?” Ross said.
“I’m not sure how a guy like this operates. Is he a delivery service? Is he a collector? I couldn’t tell you, but you can be sure of one thing.”
“What?” Ross said.
“He’s gonna tell me what he did with Danisha. I promise you that.”
Forty-Four
The deli was an old Tampa landmark. Porter wasn’t a fan of the place. He never understood the appeal of a sandwich where the meat overtook everything else. A ten-inch stack of roast beef and then some cursory attempt at a bun. It was too much. He needed balance.
As the men pulled up, Porter saw an unmarked police sedan in the parking lot behind the building.
“Park up front. We don’t want to be close to her car,” Porter said.
The pair walked across the parking lot and into the deli. Ross turned to head to the dining room, but Porter stopped him.
“I’m starving.”
Porter and Ross both ordered big sandwiches; Porter asked for extra bread. He figured if the deli couldn’t be trusted to make a respectably sized sandwich, he could deconstruct his and reassemble it.
