Lucas Davenport Collection: Books 11-15

by John Sandford

  He’d driven a crimson Jaguar for a while in L.A.—a short while, before both the car and L.A. got too hot—and carefully called it a “Jag-u-war,” a pronunciation he picked up from a radio advertisement. Randy thought he was a black pimp, though he was, in fact, a white boy from the suburbs of Minneapolis. His background didn’t keep him from talking ghetto-black and laying down lines of hip-hop when he had a little crack rolling through his veins.

  Randy was twenty-two but looked forty-two, with lines in his forehead, at his eyes, slashing down his cheeks. Cocaine, speed, PCP, all that shit will make you old. Randy sold dope, ran an occasional whore, and was James Qatar’s fence.

  Through some process that Qatar didn’t totally understand, Randy would exchange jewelry and other high-value stolen goods—handguns, mostly—for dope out of Chicago. He would peddle some of the dope and eat the rest.

  The stolen jewelry sold in Chicago for half of what it was worth, Randy said, and the Chicago people gave Randy only half of what they could get for it. So Randy could only give Qatar half of what he could get from the Chicago people—an eighth of the real value. But that was crime, Qatar thought. That’s the way things worked.

  “You get me guns instead of this other shit, I get you real money,” he said. “None of this half-and-half-and-half shit with a good nine-millimeter.” But Qatar wouldn’t touch handguns: Handguns could be traced with minute precision.

  Qatar had met Randy through an improbable accident: A hip marketing professor who did a little cocaine had put them together on the back porch of his house during a Fourth of July barbecue, dropping a broad hint that Randy was a criminal friend. Then Randy and Qatar had embarked on a complicated, circumspect conversation, which ended with Qatar asking about underground jewelry sales.

  “I can do that,” Randy said. “I got the connection down to Chicago.”

  “Chicago.”

  “That’s where the boys are,” Randy said.

  “Okay. . . . Do you have a card?”

  Randy’s forehead furrowed, and Qatar thought he might have blushed. “You think I should?”

  “Well, I’d like to get in touch with you, maybe,” Qatar said. “Nothing stolen, but I would like to get rid of it quietly.”

  “If it ain’t stolen, you’d be stupid to sell it to me. You could just take it to a jewel store. Get a lot more for it.”

  “I need to keep it very quiet. If a jeweler up here ever put it in an estate sale, and my in-laws ever saw it, I’d be in real trouble.”

  Randy saw through it—the stuff was stolen—but if Qatar wanted to bullshit, that was his problem. “I give you my cell phone number,” he said. “By the by . . . where would I go to get a card?”

  The next time they met, Randy had business cards, and Qatar had gotten $1,500 for what he supposed was ten or twelve thousand dollars’ worth of mediocre jewelry he’d taken off a woman from Iowa.

  What Qatar didn’t know was that Randy really didn’t have a fencing connection in Chicago; he sold it on the street in Minneapolis, to whoever would take it. What Qatar didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, Randy thought. Besides, why should he give a shit about Qatar?

  QATAR HAD CALLED Randy’s beeper in the afternoon and had gotten an address in St. Paul, on Selby. He wouldn’t be home until late, Randy said. After midnight.

  Qatar looked at his watch when he arrived outside Randy’s. Ten past twelve. Randy lived in a yuppie-looking town house, gray and white, in a long line of town houses that looked like they’d had government design input. The place was not what Qatar expected.

  But Randy answered the door. He was wearing a red silk dressing robe and had a brown-tinted joint stuck in an onyx cigarette holder. His mouth was an angry slash. “Who d’fuck are you?” he asked.

  “Uh, Randy, I called . . .” Qatar stepped back, half turned.

  “Shit you called. What’d you call about?” Randy’s eyes seemed fogged; he was wrong, and it was more than a little hash. Qatar backed away another step.

  Randy took a step after him, and Qatar looked quickly up and down the street. He didn’t need this. “This afternoon I called. I’ve got some jewelry.”

  The fog seemed to lift an inch. “Jim,” he said. “You’re Jim.”

  “I better go. . . . You look like you need some sleep.”

  Randy suddenly laughed, a long, deep rolling peal, as though he were an aged blues singer doing a cameo in a white movie. “Don’t need no sleep. I don’t need no sleep.” He turned angry. “You sayin’ I need sleep?”

  “Listen . . .”

  “C’mon. In.” Randy had stepped close, and he caught Qatar’s arm just above the elbow. His hand felt like a mechanical claw. “Got the slick crib. Wait’ll you see inside. You’re Jim, Jim.”

  Qatar was dragged along, afraid to protest, into the town house and up a flight of stairs. “Mostly garage down there,” Randy said. At the top of the stairs, he said, “Check it out.”

  Qatar whistled, genuinely amazed.

  Scarlet flocked-wallpapered walls were punctuated by three faux-antique mirrors with foam-plastic frames painted to resemble gilded wood. A fifty-two-inch widescreen TV was pushed against one wall, sitting on a black furry rug in front of a white furry couch. On the wall to the left of the TV was a fireplace with a steel surround. Erté graphics hung everywhere.

  Randy must have found a frame shop, Qatar thought. One that was big with faux everything. “Pretty amazing, Randy.”

  Randy backed up to the railing next to the stairs, steadied himself, and studied the room as if suddenly puzzled. Something missing? He took it in for another few seconds, then shouted, “Hey, bitch, get out here.”

  A minute later, a too-thin blond girl padded out of a back hallway. She might have been sixteen, Qatar thought. She was round-shouldered with defeat, and barefoot, and said apologetically, “I just had to pee, Randy.”

  “Yeah, well, get me and my friend a beer. Make it fuckin’ quick. And wash your hands first.”

  “You want it in glasses?” The question came out as a whine.

  “Of course we want it in fuckin’ glasses. And they best be clean.” He said to Qatar, “I ain’t got her fully broke yet.”

  Qatar nodded and tried not to look embarrassed; and in fact, he wasn’t much. “I’ve got some stuff for you.”

  “Let’s see it . . . Jim.” Qatar handed him the little bag of jewelry, and Randy shook it out into his hand; the hand was suddenly steady. “What’s it worth?”

  “I’ve been checking the jewelry stores. I should get three thousand. You should get six from Chicago. Both the diamond and the emerald are real.”

  “Okay. I got no cash right now. I get it to you day after tomorrow.” He put the jewelry back in the bag, slipped the bag into his pocket, and said, “Hey, look at this.” He picked up a T-shaped remote control and pointed it at the fireplace. A fire sprang up. “Just like TV: real fire. Even looks like real logs in there, but it’s gas. But it looks like real logs. You can get some shit that you sprinkle in there, and it smells like burning wood.”

  The woman came out of the kitchen with two glasses of beer and two bottles balanced on a round tray. She did it well enough that Qatar thought she must’ve worked as a waitress somewhere, though she looked too young.

  “Beers,” she said.

  “Look at this,” Randy said. He turned one of the bottles. “ ‘Special Export.’ ”

  “You’re doing well, my friend,” Qatar said.

  “I am doin’ well.” Randy looked at the woman and said, “Sit on the floor.” She sat, and Randy and Qatar both had a sip of beer, and then Randy said, “You got any cash on you?”

  Qatar’s eyebrows went up. “A little, not much.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty dollars, maybe.”

  “Got a cash card?”

  “Well . . .”

  “What’s your limit?”

  “Four hundred,” Qatar said, mentally kicking himself the moment the words were out of his mout
h.

  Randy looked at him for a moment, then said, “I tell you what happened. I started partying at six o’clock and I run out of cash. So I went to a cash machine and I partied some more and then I run out of cash again, and I was at my daily limit. So then I borrowed some, and pretty soon I ran out of that, and then nobody would give me no more even though I just gotta wait until tomorrow before my cash card works again.”

  “Hmm,” Qatar said. He thought about asking for the jewelry back, but Randy was pretty coked and had a tendency to get excited.

  “So . . . I ain’t asking for a loan. I want to sell you something,” Randy said.

  “What? I mean, I really don’t need—”

  “Her,” Randy said, nodding at the woman on the floor. She looked at Qatar but said nothing.

  Qatar said, “I don’t fool around with prostitutes. I mean, I’ve got nothing against it, but I worry about AIDS and syphilis and gonorrhea and herpes.”

  Randy put a hand to his chest, offended. “Randy ain’t gonna give you the clap, man. Randy ain’t gonna give you the clap. You ain’t gonna get the clap sticking your dick down her throat. No way you’re gonna get the clap from doing that.”

  “Well, I . . .” Qatar looked at the woman again and shook his head. She was his type, he couldn’t deny that—although a little dirty-looking, like she should use some cleanser on her feet. The thing was, Barstad was wearing him out. He hadn’t had a random sexual thought in days.

  “She’ll do anything you want, Dick.” When Qatar turned to look at Randy, Randy nodded and said, “Anything.”

  “Man, I appreciate it. . . .”

  Randy couldn’t believe he was being turned down. He turned to the woman and said, “Stand up, bitch. Take off the clothes and show the man what you got.”

  The woman stood up and started shedding her clothes. Pulled her sweatshirt over her head, pulled off her jeans, popped off her bra, peeled off her underpants, and then stood in front of Randy, looking at his face. Said nothing. All her pubic hair had been shaved off, and Qatar noticed that she was developing a rash. Ingrown hair, he thought, almost sympathetically. Something about that part—the rash—stirred him. She seemed so helpless. Unformed.

  “She do anything,” Randy said again.

  Qatar noticed that Randy now had a sheen of sweat on his face. His physical condition seemed to change from minute to minute, and when he picked up his beer again, he picked it up with both hands. “I’ll make you a deal,” Qatar said. “You may not like it.”

  “What is it?” Randy asked.

  “If you give me give five thousand for the jewelry, plus my four hundred dollars back—five thousand, four hundred dollars total, next week—I’ll get the money out of the machine right now.”

  “You fuckin’ kike,” Randy shouted. He laughed, excited, and jumped up. “You got it, Dick. You got it.”

  “But you gotta get me the money, Randy,” Qatar said. “Honest to God, it’d really hurt me if I didn’t get it. I’m in a jam, too.”

  “You’ll get it, baby,” Randy brayed. Spit flew out of his mouth. “I never let you down. You a fuckin’ client. Five thousand, four hundred dollars. You get it in two days, soon as the delivery boy comes from St. Louis.”

  St. Louis? They looked at each other for a moment, then Qatar shrugged. “All right.”

  “Yes,” Randy shouted, pumping a fist. He didn’t seem to notice that he was shouting.

  “Can I come with you?” the woman asked.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Randy screamed. He pointed a trembling finger at her. “You can’t go outside until you gots a name, bitch, and you ain’t got one.” To Qatar: “I ain’t figured her name out yet.”

  “Okay. . . . So . . .”

  “So let’s go, Dick. Let’s get the fuck outa here.”

  Qatar was now Dick—because Randy had used “dick” in a sentence? He wasn’t sure, but looking at Randy leaning against the passenger-side window blubbering to himself, he was very sure that Randy had gone over some unseen edge.

  They went to a cash machine at a branch bank on Grand Avenue. Qatar took out four hundred dollars in twenties, and as he pulled it out of the machine, Randy snatched it away from him and then backed away, said, “Get the fuck away from me. Get the fuck away.”

  “Randy, Randy . . .”

  Randy jammed the money into his pants and asked, “You know who you’re fuckin’ with, motherfucker? I’ll hunt you down like a dirty dog, you fuck with me.”

  “Okay, okay . . .” Qatar held up his hands. He was leaving. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  Then Randy came back: “Ain’t you gonna drop me?”

  “I thought, uh . . .”

  “You can’t leave me out here on the fuckin’ street, man. Where’s my money?”

  “In your pocket.”

  Randy dug in his pocket, found it. “Sonofabitch. I had it all the time. Let’s go.”

  On the way, Randy pressed his hands to his temples, looked at Qatar, and blurted, “I made a garland for her head and bracelets too and fragrant zone. She looked at me as she did love and made sweet moan.”

  “What?”

  “I made a garland for her head . . .”

  Randy’s brain was missing a few links, Qatar thought. Even so, he knew where he was going. He would point at corners and say, “There,” and “There, that way.” He said, “Over there, Richard. . . . Can I call you Richard?”

  In five minutes they were idling in front of an apartment on Como Boulevard. Randy hopped out and said, perfectly rationally, “You can come in if you like, but they mostly brothers. They don’t like white boys that good.”

  “That’s okay. I gotta get home anyway.”

  Randy slapped the car roof in reply, then darted into the apartment’s dark front entry, never looking back.

  QATAR ROLLED AWAY from the apartment. Instead of cutting back onto I-94 to Minneapolis, the car seemed all by itself to roll back across the interstate to Randy’s place. He’d been thinking about the woman since they left the apartment—not the possibility of sex, but the other possibility.

  He sat outside for ten minutes, unable to make up his mind. He was sure that Randy had no idea who he was; he might never get the money from the jewelry, but he ought to get something. He could feel an artery in his neck, beating harder, a thick, ropy pounding. He wanted her; he could feel her. He fished the starter rope out from under the front seat of the car and tucked it into his hip pocket.

  Randy’s brain was fried. He wouldn’t remember this. . . . Did he really know who Qatar was, anyway? And Qatar was suffused with courage. He was competent, hard, athletic. He went to the door and rang.

  The blonde had gotten dressed again, though her feet were still bare. At the door, Qatar said, “Randy talked me into giving him five hundred. But he said I get you, any way I want.”

  The blonde looked past him, unsure, and then asked, “Where’s Randy?”

  “He’s back at the apartment, partying. When we’re done, I’m supposed to take you over there.”

  A misstep: Now she was suspicious. “I can’t go outside ’til I got a name.”

  “He thought of the name,” Qatar improvised. “You’ve got a name.”

  “I do? What is it?”

  “Tiffany. Like the jewelry store.”

  “Tiffany,” she said aloud. She tasted it. “That’s pretty good. Tiffany.” She looked him over again, then said, “Okay. Come on in.”

  She was a hooker, and it didn’t take long: He got her on her hands and knees, in front of the couch, waiting for him to enter her. He’d rolled the condom down, positioned himself behind her. His pants had been tossed on the couch, and he fished the rope out of the back pocket. Touched her back with it; trailed it her down her spine.

  She asked, “What’s that?” and turned her head.

  “Nothing, nothing . . . keep going.”

  Formed his loop; touched her neck again. Held the loop open, smiled, dropped it around her neck and . . .


  Snap! He tightened it like a hangman’s noose, and her hands went to her throat and she tried to turn, flailing like a caught crow, but he pressed her down with his weight. He didn’t want to see her eyes; he used the power of the rope to bend her sideways and down, and she continued to flop and twist and struggle, her feet banging against the couch, smashing the back legs of an EZ-Boy, and then he half stood, and lifted her, held her suspended above the floor like a billfish on the deck of a big-game boat. Held her and shook her and watched her hands flailing, watched them weaken, felt the power surging through his arms into his heart. . . .

  As her struggles slowed and weakened, he straddled her and lowered her to the floor, her hands scratching along the furry carpet. He knelt over her, then sat on her buttocks, keeping the pressure on, his teeth showing now in a slashing grimace, squeezing, squeezing. At the end, she arched her back and her hands fluttered in a terminal dog-paddle, and she died.

  God, that felt good.

  When she stopped moving, stopped the shuddering that came with brain death, Qatar released his grip, sat back on her hips. He was sweating, just a bit, and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve, then rolled her over. Her eyes were open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, her mouth touched with blood; and a puddle of blood pooled on the rug beneath her neck. She’d bitten her tongue, he thought. He rolled her. “Tits not bad. Soft and warm,” he said.

  No response. After a minute with her, he sighed and stood up. “Gotta get going,” he said. “The clock is running. Gotta go.” He didn’t feel rushed; if anything, he felt languid.

  And his lip hurt, he realized. He wandered into the bathroom to look at it in the mirror. He had a full underlip, usually pink, now bruised. Sometime during the struggle, she must have hit him, but he didn’t remember it. Hit him hard, judging from the split lip. There was no swelling yet, but he could taste the blood in his mouth. “That was completely fucking unnecessary,” he said. He probed the cut with his tongue, winced at the pain. The lip would get big if he didn’t get some ice on it, but the swelling would be disguised by his thin beard. “Unfucking-necessary.”

  He had to stay focused. He got dressed, flushed the condom—surprised to find it full of semen; he didn’t remember that part—straightened his shirt, tucked it back in his trousers, got himself neat. Got a chunk of toilet paper and walked through the apartment, wiping everything he could remember touching. Another flush, and he was done.