by K. W. Jeter
Steaming in the winter air, blood puddled around Curt’s shoes as he looked down at the corpse.
He handed the gun back to Foley. “You sonuvabitch –”
“You had to do it, man.”
“Screw that.” Curt walked back toward the car.
TWELVE
That whole business up in Albany, at Moretti’s place, had weirded me out. So much that when I got back into town, I didn’t head over to the Hilton to hook up again with Falcon and Karsh’s bodyguards.
I had pretty much expected that old Moretti wasn’t going to survive our meeting with him, so I had already gotten my mind wrapped around the notion of seeing him dead. But I had kind of liked Earl – at least he hadn’t given me any crap for being on the crew, the way Foley had. Or tried to get into my pants, like that horny redneck Elton. So I admit it, I got a little upset about seeing Earl get plugged. So sue me, already.
Instead, I headed home. I needed some rest.
Which I wound up not getting. But it was a good thing, anyway, that I went back to the apartment.
Soon as I got upstairs, I heard voices coming from our open front doorway. My spine went rigid as I froze in the hallway, one hand on the stair rail. There’d been some bad things that had happened before, when I’d come home and found I had some unexpected visitors. Maybe it was just about time for me to get my younger brother that gun he’d been asking for.
I listened and heard Donnie’s voice . . . and a woman’s. My heart sank when I recognized it.
“Well, hel-lo, Kim.” A professionally perky blonde looked over at me from the kitchenette table. She was sitting there with Donnie pulled up next to her in his wheelchair. “I’m so glad our schedules matched up.”
“Hello, Miss Thorpe.” I closed the door behind me. “It’s good to see you.”
Already I was lying my head off. I couldn’t stand the woman. Of all the social workers from the Child Protective Services, she was the worst. She had this totally demented way of smiling and twinkling while threatening to take Donnie away from me, as though she were doing us a favor or something.
“Just a little surprise visit, that’s all.” She had a fat leather portfolio, stuffed with papers, sitting on the table in front of her. “You know – just like always.”
“Yeah, that’s cool.” Instead of throwing my backpack on the couch the way I usually did, I carried it over to the closet and carefully set it down. Out in the hallway, I had taken my motorcycle gloves and wrapped the .357 in them, so there wouldn’t be any sign of it that she might spot. “I don’t mind.”
“Of course you don’t, Kim.” She smiled so much, I was always surprised her head didn’t crack open. “You’re always so good about these requirements.”
Now she was the one who was lying. There’d been one visit, a year or so ago, where I’d had to bite my tongue so hard I bled, to keep from flipping out.
“I was just telling her about the letter I got from Coach Gibbs.” Donnie held up the plastic binder sleeve with the paper inside it. “When I wrote him.”
“Honey –” I turned around from hanging up my leather jacket. “It came from the fan club.” The Joe Gibbs Racing Team was Donnie’s big favorite. “I mean, it’s nice and all –”
“He signed it.”
Well, somebody had. I wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it.
“Your brother’s really into NASCAR.” Miss Thorpe made some kind of note on one of the forms on top of her portfolio.
“Sure is.” I headed over to the stove. “Would you like some tea?”
“Thanks. But Donnie already fixed me a cup.”
I could see her giving my jacket the fish eye, as though it had Hells Angels patches stitched all over it. Actually, the only things that made it a motorcycle jacket were the reinforced elbows and the spine protector down the back.
“That’s good he’s developing new interests.” She set her pen down. “But . . . do you think that one’s really appropriate? For a boy his age, I mean.”
“I . . . guess so.” I fussed around with the water kettle. “I mean . . . like you said. He’s a boy. He’s that age. And it’s cars.” I looked over my shoulder at her as I peeled apart a tea bag wrapper. “What’s not appropriate?”
“It seems rather violent. All that crashing and cars flying through the air –”
“Not any more,” said Donnie. “With the new spoilers, you hardly ever see them flip these days.”
He wasn’t helping his case by sounding disappointed about that.
“Plus,” continued Miss Thorpe, “there’s the, um . . . cultural elements.”
“Pardon me?”
“You know, Kim. It’s a sport associated with . . . rural Southern Caucasians.”
Wouldn’t it have been easier to just say crackers? Maybe social workers were trained not to do that. Like a sensitivity thing.
“That’s not exactly,” she said, still smiling, “your background.”
“Well –” My mind was doing its own racing thing, trying to come up with right answer. If there was one. “Some of our foster parents – when we were kids; both of us, I mean – some of them were rural. And in the South. And – you know – white. At least, I’m pretty sure they were.”
“Yes, I do know, Kim. It’s in your file.” She patted her portfolio. “That’s all fine –”
“And they were real nice to us.” I blurted out the words as fast as I could. “There was this one family in Tuscaloosa, they were –”
“It’s okay, Kim.” She cut me off with a little wave of her hand. “But it’s something we need to be aware of. The department has certain guidelines regarding client ethnicity. Guardians – such as yourself, Kim – are required to respect that. And make certain accommodations.”
“Right. I know that.” Right then, I could’ve used a spoiler on my brain, to keep it from crashing and bursting into flames. “You left that pamphlet last time.” Think, I commanded myself. “And . . . that’s why my brother watches a lot of Korean music videos. On YouTube.”
“Those girls are hot.”
“Donnie.” I gave him one of my looks. “Please.”
“No, really –” He pushed himself up in the wheelchair. “I didn’t even know there were so many blondes and redheads in Korea until I started watching those videos.”
The look in Miss Thorpe’s eyes read something like, There – you see.
“I’ll get some books,” I told her. “From the library. About Korea.”
“That might help.”
I watched her make some more notes on the forms. My stomach felt like it was diving toward my feet. What was the radiation these people gave off, that always made me feel like ten pounds of mandrill crap? Inadequate mandrill crap, at that.
“Donnie –” She put her pen back down and looked over at him. “I need to talk to your sister about a few things. Just her and me. Is that okay?”
“Sure.” It was obvious he’d realized that between the two of us, we were screwing things up. “I got some stuff to take care of, anyway.”
Miss Thorpe and I watched Donnie roll himself back to his bedroom, then close the door behind himself. I turned to her immediately.
“I’m really sorry. Things have been a little crazy around here lately, And I –”
“It’s really not good, Kim.” She wasn’t smiling now. “In fact, it’s very disappointing. I’m not sure you’re providing him with an appropriate environment. An authentic one.”
“Yeah, but . . . if you took him away . . .” That was the big threat. That she and the other social workers were always hanging over my head. “I’m his sister. I’m the only Korean-type person he even knows. How would taking him away from me make him more Korean?”
“It’s not enough,” said Miss Thorpe. “The mere accident of your genetics doesn’t fulfill the requirements.”
Dig it – somebody with an MSW from Kansas State University was going off on how my butt wasn’t Asian enough to meet her standards.
&
nbsp; And on the other hand, I couldn’t argue with her. She’d probably eaten more Korean food just while she’d been in Topeka than I had in my entire life. Our foster parents had all been nice people – mostly – but none of them had exactly known bulgogi from baloney. I remembered talking to Cole’s girlfriend Monica, back before he’d gotten killed, about how I didn’t even think of myself as Korean-American. Somebody like me was really just Feral-American – like an abandoned dog or cat. I didn’t know any of this Korean stuff. I didn’t know anything – I was just trying to make it up as I went along.
But that’s the way everybody was now. I didn’t know anybody who was any different. Nobody knows anything about how they’re supposed to be. So why was this social worker person ragging on my ass? Just unfair, far as I was concerned.
“But that’s not really the issue?”
“What?” I pulled myself up from my bleak meditations. “I’m sorry – I didn’t –”
“We can do a reassessment on the cultural issues later, if we need to.” Miss Thorpe pulled some other papers out of her portfolio. “That’s not why I came out here to see you, though.”
“Okay. Is there some other problem?”
“Yes, there is, Kim. I have some concerns about your financial situation. In terms of providing a stable home for your brother.”
“Oh.”
“For you to retain custody of Donnie, you need to provide evidence of a steady income, sufficient to meet the expenses that we’ve determined for the household you share with him.”
“Well . . .” I looked around the apartment, then back to her. “We’re getting by.”
“That’s not sufficient. The department was willing to overlook some irregularities in your finances, as long as we could see that you were working steadily for . . .” She checked the name on one of the papers. “Mr. McIntyre – is that right?”
I nodded. “I was his accountant.”
“But . . .” She looked up at me. “I understand he died.”
“Yes. He did.” Like I was going to tell her how that came about.
“So you weren’t able to keep that position?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I wasn’t.”
“Have you been able to find another one?”
“Actually – I have. I have a job.”
“Really?” One of Miss Thorpe’s overly plucked eyebrows raised. “What sort of work is it?”
“Uh . . . it’s . . . kind of in the human relations field.”
“I see. That’s good, Kim. I’m very glad to hear it. If you could just let me see a recent pay stub, or some other proof of employment, I’ll take it with me to the office and make a copy. I’ll be sure to get it back to you right away.”
“Well . . . that’s a little difficult.” I sounded as apologetic as I could. “It’s not a regular-type position. I mean . . . they’re sort of paying me under the table. So they don’t have to do all the government deductions. Same as when I was working for McIntyre.”
“Hm. That part’s not good, Kim.” Her voice went stern. “We overlooked that aspect of your finances once before. I’m not sure we can do it again.” She tilted her head to one side, peering into my eyes. “Do you understand?”
The way she was looking at me made the room go swimmy and vague around me. Kind of like the way I’d felt before, when the whole world seemed to go all two-dimensional and fake, and I had to hold on as tight as I could to make it become real again. From far away, I could hear my pulse pounding in my chest, but the blood didn’t seem to reach my head.
A crazy thought came in there instead.
My backpack was in the closet. And the .357 was in the backpack.
This stupid bitch didn’t know who she was screwing around with.
I’d already seen two people get blown away, just a few hours ago. Maybe it was her turn.
That won’t help – now I was arguing with myself. Won’t help at all. If I took out Miss Thorpe, CPS would just send out another social worker. There were armies of them – must be a growth industry or something. I probably wouldn’t even have time to drag this one’s body away. There would be some other officious little person sitting here in my apartment, pulling more papers out of his briefcase. And we’d be having this exact same conversation, with the Thorpe woman lying on the floor between us, a bullet hole drilled between her eyes. I’d probably get a demerit on one of their checklists for my sloppy housekeeping standards: Miss Oh leaves corpses around the residential premises in an unsanitary condition, plus the carton of milk in the refrigerator was past its sell-by date. If these people wanted me to keep the place immaculate, they should’ve sent over a housekeeper, not more social workers.
So just blowing away Miss Thorpe wasn’t really on the table as a viable option. I’d have to come up with another plan.
Which made my mood even more pissed off. What was the point of being able to kill people, if you never could? At least not the right ones.
“All right.” I nodded. “I’ll get it straightened out.”
She didn’t say anything. Just gave me one of those looks – must be part of the training at social worker academy – that are supposed to be all sympathetic and stuff. Even reached over and patted me on the hand, for Christ’s sake. You bet, bitch – first you come into my home and threaten to take away my little brother, then you want me to know that you’re really on my side.
I was already reconsidering the decision I’d made just a few seconds earlier. The one about not blowing her away.
Fortunately for her, she scraped all her papers and forms back into portfolio, then left before I could change my mind.
I was still sitting at the kitchenette table when I heard Donnie come rolling out of the bedroom.
“That didn’t go too well, did it?”
I looked over at him. “You think?”
“What are we going to do?”
“Well . . .” I shrugged. “I guess I’ll come up something. Some kind of a plan.”
“What if . . .” He seemed genuinely worried. “What if it doesn’t work? Then what?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just don’t know.”
THIRTEEN
I found out later, that while I was having my little conference with the social worker, the other members of the crew were also talking away.
Which really wasn’t surprising. A lot had happened, that gave them a lot to think about.
The neon sign over the door of the Diamondhead Lounge was switched off by the time Curt came back from dumping off the stolen car. Mae had closed the place up early, due to lack of customers. For a long time now, nights during the week had been getting slower and slower.
The door was still unlocked, though. Curt pushed it open and went on in. That was the sort of thing somebody could do when they had regulars’ privileges, the way he and the crew did.
Elton and Foley were waiting for him in one of the booths. The chairs were all stacked upside-down on the tables. From the back room came the sounds of Mae washing up the beer glasses.
“There –” Curt slid into the booth. “That’s taken care of.”
Foley glanced over at him. “How far away did you leave it?”
“Over by the wharves.”
“Christ, that’s miles. No wonder we been waiting for you so long.”
“I needed the walk,” said Curt. “Feel like I’ve been cooped up all day.”
“Yeah . . .” Elton nodded. “I think we all kinda feel that way.”
They were all quiet for a while. Elton took his empty glass over to the bar, leaned over and refilled it from the beer tap. He brought another one back and set it down in front of Curt.
“Thanks.” Curt barely sipped at it. “Look, uh, why don’t you guys take the rest of the night off? I got some things to take care of.”
Elton looked straight back at him. “What kinda things?”
“I gotta get ready.” Curt had hesitated before replying. “To go talk to Mr. Falcon.”
“Yeah, well – I’m coming with you.”
Curt shook his head. “You don’t have to do that. This is pretty much my business with him.”
“Actually . . .” Elton spoke quietly. “It’s mine, too.”
Curt regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.”
“What about you?” Elton looked over at Foley. “You in?”
Foley looked back at both men, then rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling. “All right – I’m in.” He heaved a sigh. “Might as well . . .”
From his overcoat pocket, Curt took out his gun and laid it on the table. He brought out a small, beat-up tin box as well. From it, he took out a black-smeared rag and his cleaning tools. He got to work, disassembling the gun with easy, practiced efficiency.
The others started on their pieces as well. It was the sort of thing guys like them did, when they were getting ready for something. Sort of Zen, maybe. Quieting the mind and all that.
Still working on his piece, Foley spoke up.
“So what’re we gonna do about her?”
Wiping his gun with one of the soft rags, Elton glanced over at him. “Who you talking about?”
“Whaddaya mean, who? That Kim broad. Who else?”
Elton set his gun down on the table. “What about her?”
“What about her?” Foley looked straight back at him. “Am I the only one who does any thinking around here anymore? She got roped in on this deal, too, ya know.”
“I don’t get it. Roped in how?”
“Come on, pal – think. Falcon obviously brought her on the crew ’cause he was figuring she’d screw up the way she did before. Back when she was working for Moretti. With her working with us, Falcon must’ve thought that would give Johnny Dodd an even easier time picking us off.”
Keeping silent, Curt watched the other two men kick it back and forth.
“Actually –” An ugly smile twisted the corner of Foley’s mouth. “I think it’s pretty funny that Dodd got nailed by her instead. Just ’cause she was able to get off a lucky shot. Serves the bastard right.”
