“Oh, one of these,” Anita said. She slid a storage case forward on a shelf and blew dust from its top before opening it. The case held two rows of CDs. Light glinted off them, stabbing into Hannibal’s eyes, sparking the pain again. He forced himself to look at the labels.
“Marquita remembers seeing one of these in Rod’s possession. She says it had a white label that said something like formula.”
“Right.” Anita flipped through the discs, all of which bore white labels. She moved slowly through the stack, and then turned to Hannibal with a crooked smile that twisted his heart. It had to hurt her to smile.
“One of the formula set is missing. It’s number 4-9-3.”
“That is exactly what Marquita said. Wow, that writing is so precise. Did you make all the labels yourself?”
“Of course,” Anita said. “Daddy’s writing was atrocious and we never could figure out how to print the labels so they’d come out even.”
Hannibal lowered himself slowly into the desk chair. This was being too easy. “It’s the bait I need. Can you make me a duplicate of the missing disc?”
Anita’s eyes flashed and he could almost hear her pulse quicken. “Will it help you to get Daddy’s real disc back?” When Hannibal nodded, she said, “I will make it exactly like the one he took. We’re going to get my legacy back.”
Five minutes later Hannibal and Anita went upstairs, drawn by the aroma of chicken and the inviting crackle of oil in a deep pan. When they entered the kitchen Mother Washington spoke without turning.
“Child, could you get my pills from my pocketbook? I left it up in the guest room.”
Anita nodded and headed up the stairs. Mother Washington waved Hannibal toward her. He stood beside her, watching the chicken turning golden almost as if she were willing it to do so. She pushed pieces around with a slotted spoon and spoke in a lower tone.
“This man, this Rod Mantooth, you met him?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“He a monster,” she said as if she’d known him all her life.
“Yes ma’am.”
“You take care of him, you hear me? You stop him.”
“What would you have me do?” Hannibal asked, looking at Mother Washington’s matronly face. “Want me to shoot him? Or just drop him down a well?”
Her eyes shot fire at him, and her breathing grew deep and labored. Hannibal could clearly see that she saw nothing funny in this situation. “That child will never be right. That man hurt her in ways only a woman can be hurt. You just make sure he don’t do it no more, you hear? The Lord loves all his children, but sometimes I don’t understand it.”
* * * * *
Hannibal’s street was quiet when he pulled into his traditional parking space, across the street from his building. Not much movement for a Saturday afternoon, not even kids running up and down the street. It was even too hot for troublemakers that day.
Stepping out of the White Tornado he could smell the heat rising from the asphalt. The humidity pasted his clothes to his body, but he paused a moment to listen to an unfamiliar tapping sound. Three doors down, a lone workman was hammering at a windowsill, putting a flower box in place. Wilson had been working on upgrades there for a few weeks. During the week he patrolled the many parks in the District. The park police got little respect but they did get a steady paycheck and on the weekend, pride of ownership pushed him to keep improving his home. Hannibal thought Wilson was a good addition and wondered if he was a sign that the neighborhood was coming back, or just one step in the cycle of gain and loss that had haunted Southeast Washington for the better part of a century.
Inside he wasted no time losing his jacket and tie and rolling up his sleeves. Then he filled the coffee pot basket with the Hawaiian Kona coffee beans that he special ordered from a supplier in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware called The Coffee Mill. He filled the reservoir with filtered water from the refrigerator. He listened to the grinder do its thing and stood by long enough to fill his lungs with the aroma at the start of the brewing process. That done, he grabbed the disc he had gotten from Anita and went upstairs.
His knock at Sarge’s door prompted some physical shuffling on the other side, and what Hannibal would swear sounded like clothes being readjusted. He took a step backward, grinning as he imagined Sarge’s embarrassment. He didn’t have to imagine for long. When Sarge pulled the door open, wearing jeans and an undershirt, Hannibal could see extra color in his mahogany face and his smile was much broader than usual.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
“Oh, you didn’t interrupt anything,” Sarge hastened to say.
“Whatever, man. Want me to come back later?”
“Don’t be silly, brother,” Sarge said, waving his friend inside. “Want some coffee?”
“Not that sludge you make,” Hannibal said, following Sarge into the kitchen. “I got the real stuff brewing downstairs.”
Sarge pulled out two large mugs bearing a globe and anchor and, ignoring Hannibal, poured two cups of coffee. “You know, I been thinking about this plan of yours, Hannibal. I think it’s got one big hole in it.”
“Really?” Hannibal dropped the disc on the table to pick up his cup. “Well I’m always willing to listen, buddy. What did I miss?”
“Your exit strategy’s weak,” Sarge said, leaning back against the sink and taking a big swallow of coffee. “What if you get busted after you’ve scored the prize? You could find yourself cornered and outnumbered, know what I mean?”
“I think I do,” Hannibal said, suppressing a smile.
“Now what you need,” Sarge said, completely serious, “is some backup. I figure if I follow you down there and hang back, outside…”
Hannibal sipped, and fought screwing up his face at the bitter taste. “Damn, that coffee is awful…” When Sarge raised his eyebrows, Hannibal added, “Good. Awful good. But man, I have a sneaking suspicion that all you really want is to get close enough to get your hands on Rod Mantooth. I don’t know if I want to put you in that…”
“Mon Dieu!” Marquita, having just stepped into the kitchen, stood with one hand raised to her mouth. Hannibal and Sarge turned toward her, not sure what had caused her reaction until they followed her eyes down to the table.
“It is the disc,” she said. “That is the one Rod had on the boat.”
Hannibal smiled, scooping up the CD-Rom. “That’s what I needed to hear, Marquita. This is the duplicate I had Anita make and it sounds like she got it just about right.”
Hannibal’s smile faded in the face of Marquita’s reaction. The golden disc pulled her eyes like a magnet, and as she stared her lower lip began to quiver. Although it was just a copy, the object in his hand was, for her, a physical object with a direct connection to the depraved and demeaning treatment Rod gave his willing followers. He quickly pushed it behind his back.
“Well, listen, thanks for all your help,” he said on his way toward the door. “I’m going to go downstairs and get myself together for tomorrow. And get myself a decent cup of coffee. See you guys.”
* * * * *
Hannibal watched his car clock tick over to six pm before he turned the key from ACC to off to save the battery. Some merciful clouds had blown into place and his daylong headache had faded at last. Parked down the block from Cindy’s Alexandria townhouse he watched the river darken by slow degrees as the sun dropped behind the city in his rearview mirror. People were slowly filtering into Oronoco Park in anticipation of the cooler temperatures that come with sunset. He sipped hot, strong coffee from his travel cup. His friends at The Coffee Mill had convinced him to try a Costa Rican coffee they imported and it was a winner. These beans had been darker with a fierce aroma. The nutty flavor of the brew blunted his irritation at waiting. After all, a guy should not have to stake out his girlfriend’s house.
He had called Cindy a couple more times before deciding that the woman had to go home some time, and he would meet her there. He pulled out his cell phone, planning to try the three num
bers one more time. As he did he remembered another call he should be making. Checking the slip of paper in his pocket, he punched in the numbers Mariah had given him. After just two rings, a low husky voice answered.
“This is her? Who’s this?’ “Smoke, baby,” Hannibal said. “What up with your beautiful self?”
Pause. “Oh, hey, I can probably get that for you. Let me call you back in a minute, okay?”
Hannibal muttered agreement into an already dead phone. He figured he must have called at a bad time. Shrugging, he tried Cindy’s cell phone again, and again found it turned off. As soon as he hung up, his phone rang.
“Smoke honey, is that you?” Mariah’s voice was more breathy this time, dripping with exaggerated sexiness. There was also a faint echo, as if she had moved to a smaller room. Maybe she had slipped into the bathroom for this conversation. Hannibal pulled on his street voice, like an uncomfortable shirt that was nonetheless right in style.
“Yeah, baby. Just wanted to know what was going on with that party tomorrow. Your boy don’t play none of that redneck shit, do he? I’m ready to get crunk.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, panting as if in anticipation. “I’ll make sure you get your party on. And Rod will have the dance tracks booming, loud and heavy.”
“Good deal,” Hannibal said. “Between you and Sheryl this ought to be a hell of a party.” He needed to know what kind of story Sheryl and Derek had come up with.
“Yeah, she told me you were all that,” Mariah said. “From what she said, I want to make sure I get my turn. And we won’t have to worry about her getting in the way.”
“What, you beat her down or something?”
“No, silly,” Mariah giggled, surprising him by sounding very young for a moment. “You must have turned her out, cause Derek was scared of losing her. He collared her last night. Replaced that braided leather piece of shit choker with a real nice silver band. So now she does what he says, and I know one thing he won’t say she can do is you.”
Hannibal’s mind snapped back to the hidden collars he had found in the last few days and the looks on Anita’s and Marquita’s faces when confronted with them. Now Mariah sounded quite casual as she dropped this news into his ear. Was that funny? Should he laugh? Should he care? What was the right response? Before Hannibal had time to gather his answer, Mariah rushed into his silence.
“Hey, don’t you worry about that. I’m twice as good as Sheryl. I know stuff she never thought about, and do stuff she’s afraid of. And I can take a hell of a lot more.”
He knew the right answer now. “Like to walk right up to the edge, eh? Well all right then. But dig, I don’t want to get in no pissing contest with the big dog. If Rod and me rumble, I’ll have to put him down hard.”
“Rod will be busy with the newbie,” Mariah said, with an edge in her voice. “While he’s training her, we can be upstairs. He won’t even care.”
Right, Hannibal thought. That was why she was hiding in the bathroom. Well, whatever the punishment was for straying off the preserve, she probably enjoyed that too. Aloud he said, “All right, Shorty. I’ll slide in around, what, eight o’clock? Then we’ll see how well the big dog trained you.”
Mariah whispered, “Yes Sir,” and her words surprised him as much as the soft tone in which she said them.
By the end of that conversation Hannibal felt tired. The sun had disappeared while they talked, and he leaned back in his seat to consider the next night in more detail. With his eyes closed he could picture Rod’s summerhouse and imagine all the players and where they would be.
* * * * *
Hannibal jerked upright at the tapping on his window. Cindy stood on the other side of the glass in a green velvet sweat suit that fit like it was painted on. Her smile implied total ignorance of his frustration at trying to contact her. He pushed a button, rolling the window down.
“How long have you been sitting out here?” Cindy asked. Hannibal’s stern expression pushed her face back a few inches. “What are you doing out here?”
“Waiting for you to come home,” Hannibal said. “I couldn’t imagine where you were.”
“Oh honey, I was in the office all day. This IPO is really taking off and if I do this right…”
“I called the office. No answer, no response to my message. No answer at the house, no answer on your cell.”
“Oh, babe.” Cindy pulled the car door open, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry. I never checked for messages at the office all day. And I thought I told you I don’t carry that cell anymore. Why didn’t you ‘berry me?”
Hannibal powered his window closed and stepped out of the car, stretching. “Bury you?”
“My Blackberry, silly,” she said, trying a tentative hug. “That’s the only place I check for messages anymore. You could leave a voicemail, or you can text me or drop an e-mail. I know I gave you the number.”
Of course she had, but he had never entered it into his cell phone. Standing there under the streetlamp, feeling her arms around him made all his irritation drain off into the ground. Her cologne reminded him how much he had missed her.
“I just wanted to spend some time with you.”
“Well, it’s not too late,” she said. “I’ve got a pork roast upstairs and I was thinking of making that mojo pork you like.”
“With the Papaya Mango Salsa?”
“Well sure, if you’ll help me chop up all the stuff.” Their embrace tightened and, for a moment, their mutual obsessions with their professions faded into the warm night breeze. He pressed his mouth to her ear, delivered a soft kiss, and whispered.
“I have an idea how to spend the time while the roast cooks.”
“Ooooh, stop.” But as they moved toward the door with his arm around her, they both knew she meant just the opposite.
-20-
SUNDAY
“Damn, you know how to make a girl work up a sweat.”
Hannibal sat up in the bed, elbows propped on raised knees. “Back at you, beautiful. Just wanted you to know I miss you when I’m away.”
“Well, I like the way you show it.” Cindy rolled toward him onto her left side, resting a hand on his. “And I love your eyes in this light.”
Cindy’s bedroom was filled with the first light of day, casting a glowing sheen on her golden skin. Her hair, moist from their activity, hung free around her neck and shoulders in the natural curls that he loved and she fought to control most days. Hannibal had nudged her awake before six, and they had made love through the sunrise. Now, as their breathing and heart rates returned to normal, he worked at recording the damp glow of her skin, her animal scent, and the sensuous sound of her afterglow breathing. He held that multi-sense image in his heart, like a hologram, to get him through the times when they were apart.
At moments like this he felt that God had designed her just for him, and that he could never be worthy of this special gift. She deserved the finest wine, gourmet meals, cruises to the islands, and so much more.
“I should have at least brought flowers,” he said, his thought leaking out through his mouth.
“Ever the romantic,” Cindy said, leaning to kiss his arm. “You could always read me some poetry.”
“Ha! You know I don’t get poetry. And besides, as much as I’d like to lie here with you for a week, I got to get my ass in gear. I have a very long day ahead of me.”
“We all do, baby,” she said, pulling open a drawer in her side table. “It’s the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. Did you know?”
“Not one of the dates I mark on my calendar.”
“Well, lie back and listen,” Cindy said, retrieving a small book from the drawer.
Hannibal lay back, lowering his eyes to half-mast. Cindy sat cross-legged on the bed, the sheet pooled around her waist. She held the book the way parishioners do on Sunday when they are about to launch into a hymn. Hannibal listened while his eyes traced the curve of her full breasts and the inverted “V” of her rib cage.
“Too hot for spring,
But summer’s yet to peak.
By counting, it’s half over.
But sixty-one days later,
The heat smells like
Eternity.”
Afterward she lowered the book, establishing eye contact with Hannibal even as she blocked his view of her breasts. He could see by the movements of her eyebrows that she expected some reaction from him. He was sure that the short poem held some deep meaning, but for the life of him he could not imagine what that might be, so he said what he always said when someone read him poetry.
“Pretty.”
“Pretty?” Cindy said, dropping the book back into the drawer. “You’re hopeless. Didn’t you feel the desolation, the sense of resignation in those words? It’s never been so hot, and it feels like it might never end. The longest day is a metaphor for, oh, never mind.”
“Hey, I think I started this conversation with saying that I don’t get poetry.”
“You don’t want to get poetry,” Cindy said, standing, “which is why you’ll never get it.”
Hannibal swung his feet to the carpet. “Well regardless of how the stars are aligned it’s going to be a long day for me, but at the end of it I should be at the end of this case and collecting a fat payoff.”
“Yeah, long day for me too,” Cindy said. Hannibal thought he saw stars in her eyes as she stared through him. “A long day of anticipation. Tomorrow morning when trading starts I’ll know just how successful our offering has been. Tomorrow’s the pivotal day. All my work and planning has led up to this. I just don’t know how I’m going to get through this day.”
Hannibal Jones - 04 - Damaged Goods Page 22
