I said, “And you don’t know any more than that.”
Barry said, “No.”
I lit another cigarette and took my time smoking it, staring across the river. When I was done, I got up off the log and stood over Barry.
“I’m going back,” I said.
“You go on,” he said.
“Don’t you have to work this afternoon?”
“I got a four o’clock shift.”
I glanced at my watch. “You better come with me, then.”
“Yeah,” Barry said, smiling weakly. “Don’t want to be late for work.”
I put out my hand and helped him up. We took the trail back into the upland forest and walked across the island under a canopy of trees.
I BOUGHT A CAN of beer at the nearest liquor store and drank it on the way home. In my room, I drew the blinds, undressed, and lay down on my bed. I was sick-hot and tired, and my head was black with bad thoughts. I closed my eyes and tried to make things straight.
I woke up in a sweat, lying naked on top of my sheets. The fading light of dusk lined the spaces in my blinds. I took a shower, made a sandwich and ate it standing up, and changed into jeans and a loose-fitting short-sleeved shirt. I listened to my messages: Lyla and Jack LaDuke had phoned while I was asleep. I left a message with LaDuke’s answering service, and ten minutes later he called me back.
“Nick!”
“LaDuke. Where you been?”
“I went looking for Eddie Colorado.”
“And?”
“I found him.”
I had a sip of water and placed the glass down on the table, within the lines of its own ring. “What’d you do to him, Jack?”
“We talked, that’s all. I put an edge on it, though. I don’t think Eddie’s gonna be hanging around town too much longer.”
“What’d you find out?”
“Roland Lewis is still alive, and still with them. Calvin tried to get out—that’s what got him killed. They’re filming tonight.”
“I know it. I found out a few things, too. The porno’s just a sideshow compared with their drug operation. Calvin and Roland were delivery boys. The cops have been following that angle. I’m not sure if they know anything about the warehouse on Half Street, not yet. We’re one step ahead of them there, but it’s a short step. They’ve got informants, and I imagine they’re working them pretty good. So we don’t have much time.”
“Say it, man.”
“I know we told Samuels we’d wait till tomorrow. But you and me, we’ve got to go in there… tonight. We’ve got to get Roland away from that place before the cops dig deep and bust that operation, put that kid into a system he’ll never get out of. We’ll get Roland out, get him back home, straighten his shit out then. You with me?”
“You know it.”
“You got a gun?”
“The one I held on you that night. And more.”
“Bring whatever you got.”
“I’ll be right over,” he said.
“We’re gonna need a driver,” I said. “I’ll call Darnell.”
LaDuke said, “Right.”
I phoned Darnell at the Spot. I gave him the Roland Lewis story and described the kind of trouble the kid was in.
“You interested?”
“First I got to get to these dishes, man.”
“We’ll pick you up around ten.”
“Bring your boy’s Ford,” Darnell said. “I’ll be standin’ right out front.”
I went into my room and got my Browning Hi-Power and the two loaded magazines from the bottom of my dresser. McGinnes’s benny spansules were on my nightstand, next to my bed; I swept them off the top and dropped them in my pocket. The phone rang. I took the gun and ammunition back out to the living room. I picked up the receiver and heard Lyla’s voice.
“Nick.”
“Hey, Lyla.”
“I’ve been calling you—”
“I know. Listen, Lyla, I’ve been busy. Matter of fact, I’m heading out the door right now.”
“What’s going on with you, Nick?”
“Nothing. I’ve got to go.”
“You can’t talk to me, not for a minute?”
“No.”
“Don’t do this to me, Nick. You’re going to fuck up something really good.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Bye, Nick.”
“Good-bye.”
I hung up the phone, closed my eyes tightly, said something out loud that even I didn’t understand. When I opened my eyes, the red of LaDuke’s taillights glowed through my screen door as the Ford pulled up along the curb. The clock on the wall read 9:40. I slapped a magazine into the butt of the nine, safetied the gun, and holstered it behind my back. LaDuke gave his horn a short blast. I killed the living room light and walked out to the street.
EIGHTEEN
LADUKE HAD PARKED the Ford under a dead streetlight and was standing with his backside against the car. I went to him, reached into my pocket, and pulled two of the three spansules out. I popped one into my mouth, dry-dumped it, and handed him the other.
“What’s this?”
“Something to notch you up. It came from McGinnes, so it’s got to be good. Eat it.”
“I don’t need it. I’m already wired.”
“I don’t need it, either. But this’ll shoot us all the way through to the other end. Eat it, man.”
The truth was, I did need it. And I wanted LaDuke right there with me. He looked at me curiously but swallowed the spansule.
LaDuke pushed away from the car, went to the trunk, opened it. The light inside the lid beamed across his chest. I walked over and stood next to him and looked inside. An Ithaca twelve-gauge lay on a white blanket, the edge of the blanket folded over the stock. The shotgun had been recently polished and oiled, but I could see it had been well-used; the blueing on the barrel had been rubbed down where the shooter’s hand had slid along with the action of the pump.
“This ain’t no turkey shoot, LaDuke.”
“I know it.”
“Why the Ithaca?”
“Bottom ejection. I don’t need shells flyin’ up in front of my eyes when I’m tryin’ to make a shot.”
“What, you think you got to aim that thing? For Chrissakes, just point it.”
“I got something else if I want to aim.”
“Put everything in the trunk and cover it. We get stopped, we’re fucked.”
LaDuke dropped to one knee, pulled his snub-nosed revolver from an ankle holster. In the light, I could read the words KING COBRA etched into the barrel—a .357 Colt. He dropped it on the blanket, next to the shotgun. I drew my Browning, whipped the barrel of it against the trunk light, shattered the light. We stood in darkness.
“What the hell did you do that for?” LaDuke said.
“I’ll buy you a new bulb. That light was like wearing a bill-board. When we get down to Southeast, it’s gonna be stone-dark. We don’t need the attention.”
I put the Browning and the extra clip on the blanket, covered the guns, and shut the lid of the trunk.
“You coulda just unscrewed the bulb,” LaDuke said.
“I wanted to break something. Come on.”
WE PICKED UP DARNELL outside the Spot. He got behind the wheel, and LaDuke slid across the bench to the passenger side. I got out and climbed into the back. Darnell looked at me in the rearview and adjusted the leather kufi that sat snugly on his head.
“Where to?”
“Half Street at Potomac,” I said.
“Back in there by the Navy Yard?”
“Right.” I caught a silvery reflection in my side vision, a flash, or a trail. Fingers danced through my hair and something tickled behind my eyes—the familiar kick-in of the speed. Darnell pulled out from the curb.
“This Ford’s got a little juice,” Darnell said. “I noticed it the other day.”
“A little,” LaDuke said, tight-jawed now from the drug.
I lit a cigarette and drew on it deepl
y. “We’re gonna go in like we’re knocking the place over. You got that, Jack?”
“Why?”
“I’m thinking we’re going to make like we’re taking the kid hostage, so they think he’s got nothing to do with us. They’ll probably come after us. But I want to make sure they leave the kid alone.”
“How’re we going to get in?”
“I’m Bobby, remember? The aspiring actor. I called earlier in the day, spoke to the man in charge… like that. Assuming I get that far, you step around the corner, show your shotgun to whoever it is we’re talking to, let him know what it means. After that, we’ll improvise.”
“Improvise?”
“You’ll get into it. And… LaDuke?”
“What?”
“We get in there, don’t call me by my name.”
Darnell pushed the Ford down M, made a right onto Half. Off the thoroughfare, the street darkened almost immediately.
“I’m thirsty,” LaDuke said quickly. “I need something to drink.”
“We’ll have a drink,” I said. “Let’s just get this done now. Then we’ll drink.”
“Up around there?” Darnell said.
“That’s the place,” I said. “Drive slow by it, then drive around the block.”
The perimeter was lighted by floods. Three cars, including the Le Sabre, were parked in the surrounding lot. A heavy chain connected the gate to the main fence. As we passed, I could see a padlock dangling open on one end.
Darnell drove slowly around the block and stopped the Ford along the fence of the warehouse across the street, where the white LIGHTING AND EQUIPMENT vans were parked. I took the last spansule from my pocket and broke it open. I leaned over the front seat.
“Make a fist, LaDuke, and turn it.”
He did it, his eyes pinballing in their sockets. I poured half the spansule out on the crook of his hand, then poured the other half, a tiny mound of shiny crystal, on mine. I snorted the powder off my hand and up into my nose, feeling the burn and then the drip back in my throat. LaDuke did the same. His eyes teared up right away.
“Goddamn,” LaDuke said.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Darnell gave me one last look, and then we were out of the car. LaDuke popped the trunk, reached inside, pulled back the blanket. He holstered the revolver on his ankle, picked up the shotgun, cradled it, dropped extra shells in his pocket. I found the Browning, switched off the safety, and put one in the chamber. I slid the gun, barrel down, behind the waistband of my jeans, covered it with the tail of my shirt. We crossed the street.
The gate was a slider. I pulled the chain through the links. LaDuke pushed the gate along a couple of feet and the two of us slipped inside.
We moved quickly across the lot, over to the side of the building, where there was a steel door behind a flatbed trailer. Above the door, a floodlight blew a triangle of white light onto a two-step concrete stoop. LaDuke and I flattened ourselves against the brick side of the building, outside the area of the light. LaDuke rested the butt of the Ithaca on his knee.
“I’m all right,” he said, though I hadn’t asked him.
“Good,” I said. “I’m going to go up on that stoop now, ring the bell.”
“I wanna move, man.”
“That’s good, too. LaDuke?”
“Yeah.”
“This goes off right, you won’t have to use that shotgun. Hear?”
“Let’s do this thing,” he said.
I stepped up onto the stoop, rang a flat yellow buzzer mounted to the right of the door. I rang it once, then again, and waited. Moths fluttered around my head. My bottom teeth were welded to my top and it felt as if someone were peeling back the top of my head. A lock turned from behind the door and then the door opened.
A wiry white man stood before me, his long brown hair tied back, knife-in-skull tattoos on thin forearms, the veins throbbing on the arms like live blue rope. He had a slight mustache and a billy-goat beard, and almond-shaped, vaguely inbred eyes.
He looked me over and said, “What?”
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Bobby.”
And then LaDuke, wild-eyed and chalk white, jumped into the light, a frightening howl emanating from his mouth. I stepped aside and the man stepped back, reaching beneath the tail of his shirt. The almond eyes opened wide and he made a small choking sound; he knew it was too late. LaDuke swung the shotgun like he was aiming for the left-field bleachers. He hit it solid, the stock connecting high on the wiry man’s cheek. The man went down on his side, all deadweight hitting the floor, no echo, no movement. When he found his breath, he began to moan.
LaDuke pumped the shotgun, pointed it one inch from the man’s face.
“Don’t talk unless I tell you to talk,” LaDuke said. The man closed his eyes slowly, then opened them. He stared blankly ahead.
We were in a long hall that had thin metal shelving running along either side. Paints and hardware sat on the shelves. I found a rag and dampened it with turpentine. Then I went to an area where there appeared to be several varieties of rope and cord. I took a spool of the strongest-looking rope and walked back to LaDuke, picking up a cutting tool—a retractable straight-edged razor used by stock boys and artists—along the way.
“What now?” LaDuke said. He was sweating and his knuckles were white on the pump.
“Go ahead and ask the man some questions.” The man’s face had swelled quickly; I wondered if LaDuke had caved his cheekbone.
“What’s your name?” LaDuke said.
“Sweet,” the man said.
“Okay, Mr. Sweet,” LaDuke said, “this is a robbery. We know about the business you’re running here. We’d like all the cash money you have on hand. First we want to talk to your associates. Where are they?”
The man closed his eyes. “Straight down the hall”—he winced at the movement in his own jaw—“Straight down the hall, then right. To the end, last door on the right. Metal door.”
“How many in the room?”
“Four.”
“How many guns?”
“One.”
I cut a long length of rope, then a shorter one. I tied Sweet’s hands to his feet, behind his back. Then I stuffed the rag into his mouth and wrapped the short length of rope around his face. I tied it off behind his head and slipped the razor in the seat pocket of my jeans.
LaDuke sniffed the air. “What’s that, paint thinner?”
“It won’t kill him,” I said. “It’ll make him too dizzy to move much, though. Come on.”
LaDuke took the barrel away from the man’s face, rested it across his own forearm. I pulled my Browning, picked up the spool of rope, and gave LaDuke’s shirt a tug.
We walked quickly down the hall, our steps quiet on the concrete floor. At the end, we made a right and went down a hall no different from the first. I had to jog a few steps to keep pace with LaDuke.
“I could run right through a fucking wall,” he said.
“You’re doing fine,” I said. Just as I said it, we reached the last metal door on the right.
We stood there, listening to male voices behind the door; under the voices, the buzz of a caged lightbulb suspended above our heads. I looked at LaDuke and placed the spool of rope at my feet. LaDuke managed a tight smile.
I stood straight, knocked two times on the door.
Footsteps. Then: “Yes?”
“Sweet,” I said with an edge.
The knob turned. When the door opened a crack, I put my instep to it and screamed. Something popped, and the man behind the door went down. LaDuke and I stepped inside.
“This is a robbery,” LaDuke said.
I made a quick coverage. The man on the floor: heavy, bald, and soft, holding his mouth, blood seeping through his fingers, repeating, “Oh, oh, oh…” A black man, mid-thirties, sat on a worktable set against a cinder-block wall. He watched us with amusement and made no movement at all. Two shirtless actors stood in front of a tripoded camera, in the center of a triangular light
arrangement, a spot and a couple of fills. The first actor, who wore a tool belt around his bare waist, could have been the star of any soap, some housewife’s idea of a stud, all show muscles, his plump mouth open wide. The second actor, the only one of them with the nerve or the stupidity to scowl, was a young black man, thin and long-featured—Roland Lewis, no question.
LaDuke motioned the barrel of the shotgun at the pretty actor. “First, you get down, lie flat, facedown. Don’t hurt yourself, now.”
“Better do it, Pretty Man,” the black man said.
“This isn’t what you think,” Pretty Man said. “This is just a job. You think I’m some kind of faggot? I have a girlfriend….”
The black man laughed. I kept my gun dead on him.
“Get down,” LaDuke said, “and put your face right on the concrete.” Pretty Man got down.
“You have a gun,” I said to the black man. “Pull it slow, by the barrel, and slide it to the end of the table.”
“Now what makes you think that I have a gun?” the black man said.
“I talked to your friend Sweet. He talked back.”
“Sweet?” The black man smiled. “I thought you were Sweet. You said you were Sweet, just before you came in.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not Sweet.”
“Then where’s Sweet?” said the black man.
“We put him to sleep,” said LaDuke.
“He ain’t gonna like that, when he wakes up.”
“Pull it,” LaDuke said. He had his shotgun on the black man now, too. I had an eye on Roland, who had not yet spoken but who stared at us hatefully.
“You know,” the black man said to LaDuke, “you kinda pretty, too. Maybe you and Pretty Man here ought to get together and—”
“You shut your mouth,” said LaDuke.
“Relax,” I said, looking at the black man but speaking to LaDuke.
“You boys are higher than a motherfucker,” the black man said, studying us with a hard glint in his eye. “You ought to cool out some. Maybe we can talk.”
Down by the River Where the Dead Men Go Page 16
