by K. M. Hodge
“People are starting to talk.” Billy let go of her and stepped away. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “The boy thinks he’s too good for this town. He needs to learn his place.”
Sally backed up, trying to put some space between them while still keeping herself between him and Zane. The rumor, started by her idiot cousin Oswald no doubt, must be resurfacing. Everyone in town called her a whore and more than once had asserted that Zane might not be Billy’s. Especially when it turned out the boy was smart. He started reading at three and could do basic arithmetic before he’d even started kindergarten. Billy had dropped out in the eighth grade to work at the chop shop. He could strip a stolen car in no time, but he couldn’t read anything more complicated than Dick and Jane stories.
She’d heard rumors about how he had been taking on more responsibility with the group, but she didn’t know the details. Didn’t know that she wanted to neither. All she knew was that he had started taking longer trips for work.
Billy hitched his pants up and pulled another beer out of the ice box in the back of the shop. “I was boosting cars when I wasn’t much older than him. A boy should follow in his old man’s footsteps. Half the boys in the neighborhood are working the streets. He ain’t special, Sally.”
She sucked in a nervous breath. The boys in the neighborhood did more than just boost cars these days and she would die before she let Zane get pulled into the business. No, she wanted him to follow in his real father’s footsteps. She knew from Jude’s paperwork that Alex had grown up in a poor and violent home too, but he’d gotten out. And so would Zane. She let out the breath she’d been holding and smiled at Billy like she approved of his plan.
The bastard relaxed his shoulders and pointed to the security cam. A handsome middle-aged man in a suit stood in the doorway of the shop with a briefcase in his hand. Over the years she’d managed to stay far away from any of his business dealings outside of the shop. This was the first time she’d seen one of his associates. A rush of fear ran through her. She sure as hell didn’t want the man to see her.
Billy shooed her with his hand. “I’ve got work. Go home. Take the boy with you.”
Sally didn’t need to be told twice. She grabbed Zane and pulled him out the back door of the shop and far away from the craziness inside. They charged hand-in-hand through the darkness towards their trailer on top of the hill. “Mama, my legs hurt. Slow down.”
Sally stopped long enough to sweep her boy up into her arms and carry him the rest of the way. As soon as they got to the trailer, she grabbed a butter knife from the sink. Zane paid her no mind as he slouched down at the dinette and turned on the TV. She didn’t even want to know what bullshit Billy had fed her boy about her or about being a real man. Her breath stuck in her throat and she let her eyes slip closed. The loud thump of her heart in her chest sounded like a kick drum—surely the whole park could hear it. She crept into Zane’s shoebox-sized room with the butter knife in hand. Once inside, she went to the far corner and stabbed the knife into the crack of the paneling, pulling it forward to reveal her secret hiding hole. They didn’t have a telephone in the trailer—couldn’t afford it—but Jude got her burner phones just for emergencies. She never took it out unless Billy was out of town or at least out of the house. She reached into the secret compartment in the wall and pulled out the phone then popped the paneling back into place. Her hands trembled as she sent Jude a text.
“I’m in.”
***
Mac’s Auto Center
Ocean City, Maryland
November 1, 2005
6:45 PM
~~~
Billy wiped the grease off his hands with the Lava soap they kept in the shop. No matter how much he scrubbed his hands, they stayed stained. The smooth, clean hands of the lawyer and the other Virginian men enraged Billy. They wouldn’t dare get dirty. Whenever they needed a body tossed in the river, they’d call on Ocean City.
The lawyer glanced around him. The prick didn’t usually act this nervous, and it left Billy feeling uneasy.
“You’ve done good work in the past, but I gotta ask: Can I count on you to take care of this problem? Make it look like a mugging or something?”
“Yeah, sure. The usual fee.”
“Perfect.”
“Mind my asking what the girl done?”
The lawyer narrowed his eyes and wet his lips. “No, you may not ask.”
Billy dried off his hands and tossed the towel into the shop’s laundry pile. “When?”
“She works tonight at the Starlite Room.”
Billy leaned against the Craftsman tool cabinet. “A bit last minute, but I can get it done.”
“Good.” The lawyer handed him a card. “Call me when it’s done.”
“Yeah, I’ll call you from the payphone. I’ve another deal Friday, so ya won’t get a hold of me for a few weeks.”
“If you do your job, I can’t imagine why I would need to,” the lawyer said.
The man’s scowl made Billy want to shove his fist down the asshole’s throat, but that would be bad for business. Instead, he clenched and unclenched his fist. He would take out all his pent-up rage on the girl. “I’ll get the job done. I always do.”
***
Church Hill Neighborhood
Richmond, Virginia
November 1, 2005
6:45 PM
~~~
Alex zipped up his pants and smiled down at the hot blonde between his legs. Doc had said no more girls, but Sara didn’t count. “I needed that. It’s good to have you back stateside.”
“It’s good to be back.”
The door to his room swung open and Chris walked in. He’d been crashing at his friend’s house for the last few weeks.
“Alex…oh, hey. Sorry. Um…I didn’t know you had company.”
Alex chuckled. “It’s all right, Chris. Sara was just leaving.”
“I was?”
Alex tried to ignore her duck-faced pout. It made his stomach churn. “Yeah. Ya are.”
Sara slipped back into her shirt—without her bra—and his mind clouded with lust once again. “You owe me, Agent Bailey.”
“I’m good for it.”
Chris held open the door for Sara and watched her backside as she walked out. “Damn, Alex. Ellie’s gonna kill you.”
From downstairs, Alex could hear a rumble of voices. Shit. Doc’s home. A rush of fear washed over him. The front door slammed and Alex’s heart raced.
Chris winced. “I’m outta here. Good luck with that.”
He’d only been in the U.S. a few weeks and already he knew he’d outstayed his welcome at the Forester house. What happened in Iraq followed him back to the states and the homecoming he imagined didn’t match with the reality that confronted him upon his return. His control wasn’t just slipping, he was caught up in a landslide of his own scattered emotions and uncontrollable desires.
The creak of heavy footfalls on the stairs let him know he would be getting kicked out. The small frame of his best friend, Elliana, or Doc as he called her, stood in the hall outside his room. She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. A part of him expected steam to come shooting from her ears. “Doc—”
“Save it. You’ve got a week to find your own place. I’m transferring your care to my art therapist friend. I need a break from you, Alex. Maybe you’ll listen to someone else, since you certainly aren’t taking my treatment plan seriously.”
“Doc, wait.”
He stood and went to her, but she held up her hand to stop him. “You’ve got a week.”
His chest tightened as he watched her walk away, leaving him alone.
Without her, I’ll never get well.
***
Red Light District
West Ocean City, Maryland
November 2, 2005
1:45 AM
~~~
Billy sat down on his haunches and tried to catch his breath. The darkened alley two blocks from the strip club had turned out to be the be
st place to off the whore. He’d sat all night watching her tease the men at the bar. He’d even paid for a lap dance. The girl couldn’t have been more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, so he’d thought it would be an easy kill. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Beads of sweat rolled down his cheeks. He’d nabbed her while she walked home. The girl had fought like an alley cat, scratching and clawing at him. His face still stung, but in the end, he’d put her in her place. And then he’d taken out his nail clippers and clipped and cleaned her nails to remove his DNA evidence.
He surveyed the scene for any evidence he might have left behind. The knife from the homeless man he’d hired still stuck out of her bloody abdomen.
Her lifeless eyes stared back at him and he wanted to kick her face until she stopped looking at him like that. But he needed to get the fuck out of there before the cops came. He dumped out the contents of her purse and took all of her cash and credit cards so it would look like a mugging gone wrong. He could hear the police sirens starting in the distance.
“Shit.”
He left the knife in her belly, took off his gloves and shoved them into his backpack with the money and cards. Then he hopped over the alley fence and walked several city blocks to a convenience store’s payphone where he dialed the number the lawyer had given him.
“Speak.”
“It’s all good.”
“Good. No problems?”
“Nope. When you bringin’ your car in so I can get paid?”
The line went dead. What the fuck! The asshole owed him another grand. He better pay up or he’d be the one on the wrong end of Billy’s knife next time instead of some bitch.
Chapter 3
Ocean City Police Department
Ocean City, Maryland
November 18, 2005
5:00 PM
~~~
Detective Cook tossed the wrapper for her cheeseburger into the trash and worked her way through the pit to her desk. Her paperwork stack seemed to have multiplied while she was out.
Her desk mate, Sergeant Frank Lawley, greeted her with a slip of pink memo paper. “Detective, your dead stripper’s brother called again. That’s the third time this week.”
“This guy sure doesn’t let up none. He thinks his sister’s murder wasn’t just a mugging.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Someone a few blocks over heard screaming and called it in, but no one saw anything.”
Frank chuckled and rested his hands on his belly. “That sounds about right for that neighborhood. No one sees or hears a damn thing.”
“The perp left the knife on the scene and ransacked the girl’s purse. The knife isn’t anything special. I’ve gone to a few pawn shops in the area, but no one claims to have seen it before.”
“Did you try the People’s Pawn on Racine? They do a lot of business with the local thugs.”
“No, I’ll check it out. Thanks.” Detective Cook sank down into her chair. “Her brother thinks it has to do with some guy she was supposedly dating. Some big shot lawyer with ties to the mob.”
Frank’s expression darkened and he leaned in closer. “Lizzy, don’t ever repeat that. Not unless you want to be in adjoining slabs with that whore at the morgue.”
***
Bag and Grab Grocers
Ocean City, Maryland
November 18, 2005
5:00 PM
~~~
Gary’s hands shook as he walked through the automatic doors of the bustling grocery store. He glanced around until he saw a young black man stocking shelves in the back. He only had a grainy black and white photo to go on, but he was sure that was the guy he needed to talk to. He waited a moment until the aisle was empty and then made his way over to the man.
The young man looked up at him as he got closer. “Can I help you, sir?”
Gary cleared his throat and looked over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone. “Yeah, Slim told me I should come talk to you.”
The young man stiffened. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you have the wrong person.”
Gary wiped his damp palms on his pant legs and spoke in a hushed tone. “He said to tell you MDNA.”
The stocker set down the cans in his hands and glanced behind him. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”
Gary’s cheeks got hot and his whole body tightened. “Look—”
Before he could say another word, the other man slipped a card into his hand and stared him straight in the eye. “You got the wrong man. I’m a’ have ’ta ask you to leave.”
Gary put the card into his pocket and nodded. “Yes, sorry. I’ll be going now.”
“Good.”
Gary turned on his heel and walked quickly out of the store. As soon as he got outside, he went straight to his car so he could read the card.
The glossy black card had “MDNA” printed on it in silver ink with a phone number listed below. He took out his cell and dialed the number right away. The voice that answered sounded like the same voice as the kid inside the market.
“Call back in a couple hours.”
Gary hung up the phone and let out a sigh of relief. Finally, someone who might listen to him and help him catch the men that had killed his sister. Not like those half-witted cops who sat around twiddling their fingers while his sister’s killer ran loose.
Now’s the time to take matters into my own hands—fuck the police.
***
Sally & Billy’s Trailer
Ocean City, Maryland
November 18, 2005
5:00 PM
~~~
Sally gathered up the clothes that lay scattered all over the trailer. She needed to get a load in at the laundromat that afternoon before Billy left town. He would be gone for a week or more and let her know, in no uncertain terms, that she needed to get him ready. With her basket overflowing, she made her way through the park to the small pink building with big bubbles painted on the side. The door jiggled as she walked inside. She staked out a washer in the back. The owner Rachel—some old crackhead with yellow teeth and greying hair—sat on a stool watching soaps and smoking a pack of menthol cigarettes.
“Did you get your tickets, Sally? The Powerball is at eighty million this week.”
Sally started to stuff the clothes into the washer, checking the pockets of Billy’s and Zane’s pants first. The boy always stuffed rocks and sticks in his jeans’ pockets. This time they were empty, but Billy’s pocket had a lawyer’s business card in it. The edges of the card had what looked like blood on it. She stuffed it into her own pants pocket and started the machine.
“No, not this week.” Sally walked over to Rachel and leaned against the wall. “Can I bum a smoke?” Rachel handed her the pack and a lighter. She lit up, took a quick puff and watched the TV, trying not to think about the mysterious piece of paper in her pocket.
***
Maryland Maximum Security Prison
Annapolis, Maryland
November 18, 2005
5:00 PM
~~~
Michael David Esq. III slipped a crisp hundred-dollar bill into the hands of the guard at the Maryland maximum security facility and then followed the man to the room set aside for prisoner meetings with counsel. It didn’t cost much to get the guards to look the other way and avoid getting searched. And that meant he could bring his clients anything they needed to keep their businesses up and running. Usually these “businesses” involved illegal drugs, hit jobs, and any other number of unsavory things that people liked to pretend didn’t really go on outside of their television screens.
The click of his expensive full-grain leather shoes connecting with the stained concrete of the jail echoed down the hall as they walked. He cringed. The prison smelled of urine, sweat, and body odor. He tried his hardest never to touch anything and kept a kerchief and hand sanitizer on him just in case. He hated these visits, but it came with the job. The guard unlocked the r
oom and let him inside. “I’ll be right out here.”
As the door clicked shut, Michael turned, and walked over to his client, a young Irishman dressed in a bright orange jump suit. As part of the prison rules, the young man was chained to the metal table in the center of the room—for Michael’s safety, or so he was told. He handed the prisoner a burner phone. His client, Bobby “The Killer” Stephens, worked for a local drug cartel and had continued to work while incarcerated by killing inmates his boss wanted gone and by getting drugs into the hands of inmates. In return, the cartel took care of Bobby’s wife and kid. Michael acted as the conduit for the drugs and information that went in and out of the prison. All for a nice, tidy sum.
“How’s my baby girl?” Bobby asked. “Her mama didn’t come for visitation on Thursday.”
Michael sat down across from him. “She and your daughter have been ill, as I understand it. They should be able to make the next visitation. I’ll make sure of it.”
Bobby thumbed the buttons on the phone, sending text messages to his people on the outside. “Good. They pay you enough.”
Michael drew in an unsteady breath. The cartel didn’t pay him as well as his other clients, but you don’t say no to drug lords when they come looking for representation. Over the years he had begun to skim some of the drugs that he was supposed to be bringing to them. He hid his theft with baby laxatives. He looked at it as a tip, or bonus, for all his hard work and no one was the wiser. He also got creative with his billing, but not with the mob. Over the years, he’d managed to squirrel away a good chunk of change. The thugs—even the smart ones—never saw his duplicitousness.
“Oh, before I forget.” Michael pulled an envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Bobby.
Bobby stopped texting and looked inside the package, which contained a couple thousand dollars’ worth of coke, before stuffing the envelope down his pants and handing Michael the phone. “Good deal, man. You make sure my girl makes it next week, a’ight?”
Michael stood and walked to the door where the guard stood watch. “She’ll be here. Even if I have to drive her myself.”
Michael deleted the text messages that Bobby had sent just in case some nosey guard, not on the payroll, stopped him. Then he knocked on the glass window. “See you next week, Bobby.”
