City of Heretics

by Heath Lowrance

  “I’m a moderate. What route are they taking, Radnovian?”

  He huffed and puffed, but in the end he spilled.

  Crowe said, “One other thing. There’s this Sheriff’s dick named Wills. Eddie Wills. You know him?”

  “Ah, Christ, don’t tell me you’re gonna involve yourself with Wills, man.” Crowe could hear him shifting around; his bedsprings creaking. “Crowe, I won’t lie to you, man, you really stress me out.”

  “I don’t have any immediate plans involving Wills. But what’s his story?”

  “His story is one that’s seriously screwed up. You probably already know he’s targeted Marco Vitower. Wants him to go down in a big way. His job, basically, is to keep tabs on Vitower’s org, you know, watchful eye and all that. The D.A.’s been trying to build a case against Vitower for a couple years now. They don’t wanna take any chances until they know they’ve got him on something big.”

  “But this Wills guy isn’t the patient sort, I take it.”

  Rad said, “Wills thinks Vitower killed the Old Man.”

  “Why should he care?”

  “That, Crowe, is a source of never-ending speculation. Maybe Wills had some kind of arrangement with the Old Man. Maybe they were old drinking buddies, who knows? The point is, Wills has been dangerously close to losing his badge over this. At this point, there’s no telling what the crazy bastard will do. I’d advise you to steer clear of him.”

  “Noted,” Crowe said.

  He was standing by the window while talking to Rad, and happened to glance out just then. A kid was standing in the parking lot, not far from Faith’s car. He looked somewhere in his mid-twenties, wore a hoodie that Crowe recognized.

  Rad was saying, “Hey. Assuming you survive whatever crazy shit you’re about to pull, you should swing by and have a few beers. Catch up, yeah?”

  His brief flare-up of anger at being compromised yet again had dissipated. Even what Crowe had told him the day before about their new status quo didn’t seem to sink in. That’s the way of the heroin user, Crowe thought. After a while, they lose their sense of outrage.

  The kid in the parking lot glanced up at the window, and Crowe saw the strong jaw and glittering eyes in a smooth brown face. It was the kid from Jimmy the Hink’s neighborhood, the one he’d kidney-punched and head-butted yesterday. Garay, his name was Garay.

  Rad was still talking. Crowe hung up.

  He was leaning against Faith’s Honda but stood up straight when he saw Crowe coming across the parking lot. He looked confused for a half-second, but gathered his wits quickly.

  “You,” he said. “I thought it was you. Sonofabitch.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was gonna ask you the same question. Motherfucker, you are just about the last fucker I expected to see today.”

  Both his eyes were puffy and he had a bandage across the bridge of his nose. Anger simmered in his eyes and he jammed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and did an agitated little shuffle. He shook his head, kept shaking his head, as if he couldn’t think of quite what to say and could only marvel at it. “Motherfucker,” he kept saying.

  Crowe said, “Remember, Garay, how I told you yesterday. If I saw you again, I’d slice you open.”

  “Naw, man. You said if you saw me in that neighborhood. You didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout no place else.”

  He looked happy with that, like he’d gotten Crowe on a technicality. Crowe almost had to laugh. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll ask you one more time. What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I was gonna ask you the same—“

  “I’m asking you, Garay.”

  He looked sullen, took a deep breath and spat out, “What the fuck you doin’ with my sister?”

  “What?”

  “My sister. You were up in her apartment. What the fuck are you doing up there?”

  “Your sister. Faith is your sister?”

  “Ever since I was born, motherfucker. What are you doing with her?”

  That time Crowe did laugh, and Garay said, “Ain’t no laughing matter. That’s my big sissy you fuckin’ around with.”

  “Okay,” Crowe said. “Well, you answered your own question. You know what I’m doing here.”

  “You using her to get to me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, kid. As far as I’m concerned, any business you and I had was finished with yesterday.”

  He sneered, huffed air out through his bandaged nose, and then winced. Crowe gave him a moment to get used to things. Finally, Garay said, “You telling me that, just by coincidence, you hooked up with my sissy?”

  “We’ve known each other a long time.”

  “She didn’t mention no old white dude.”

  “She didn’t mention a thug younger brother, either.”

  “Shit, motherfucker, you know you’re old enough to be her daddy.”

  He was right about that—Crowe was more than twenty years older than her—but he said, “Jesus, kid, how old do you think I am?”

  He smiled unpleasantly. “Old enough,” he said. “Old enough to know better.”

  He couldn’t argue with that one either, so he let it go. Instead, he said, “You don’t have to like it, kid, but that’s the way it is. Did you have something you wanted to say to Faith?”

  “Whatever I have to say to her I can say without you around.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He shook his head again and reached into his pants pocket for car keys. He started toward a pimped-out silver Grand Prix parked a couple slots away from the Honda, said, “This ain’t over, man. This ain’t fuckin’ over.”

  He got in his car, pulled out and drove away. Crowe watched him until he turned off onto the street.

  He didn’t mention anything to Faith about her brother. He wanted to mull it over for a while first. And besides, he had things to do.

  He bought four suits, European cut, all in muted conservative colors, one a pearl gray number similar to the one Vitower had on the previous night. He liked that suit. He waited while they were being tailored, and in the meantime bought four expensive white shirts and some silver cufflinks. Underwear, tee’s, the whole nine. Faith picked out five neckties for him, three of which he put back because they had patterns on them. He only ever wore solid colors, especially in neckties. Finally, he spent a wad on a warm Burberry overcoat in gray wool, and two pairs of comfortable black Italian shoes.

  They found so many dresses and blouses and sexy underwear for her that it actually required a clerk to take it all to the car. They split up for about an hour and when they met up again she smelled like booze. He was spending money like a fiend.

  And the whole time, he was working it out in the back of his head; not a fool-proof plan, exactly, but a plan anyway. What would he need? Guns. A heavy, durable vehicle. Two men with him, Chester and one other, someone who could double as a driver/gunman. Two other men as back-up, in a separate vehicle, driving about ten minutes behind them. What could they expect? The driver and four Sheriff’s Deputies, all armed, according to Rad.

  What else? No killing the deputies. That would bring down entirely too much heat. Not that the rest of it would be forgiven with a wink and a nod, but shooting down cops, well. No thanks.

  So the guns would be just for show—and just for Murke—and they’d need some non-lethal gear. Tasers? Too unreliable. Tranq guns. Vitower could probably get his hands on two or three of those. Duct tape, the all-purpose crime product. Rope, or handcuffs or something. Yeah, that would do the trick pretty well.

  The situation with Faith and her gangster brother took up some space at the periphery of his thoughts, but only a little. He knew he’d have to deal with it more directly before too long, but for the moment he had bigger things.

  He was a regular four-star general. Had it all worked out, no worries. He’d pull this job for Vitower, collect a massive amount of money, and then, well… then he would pay himself. Chester and Vitower, and then whoever the
hell got in the way.

  They had dinner at a Japanese place in Germantown. It was dark when they got back to her flat, both of them pleasantly exhausted. He lay on the sofa and she modeled her new wardrobe for him until he couldn’t take it anymore and threw her on the floor, ignoring the sweet tang of rum sweat that came off her body, peeling off all her new things one by one.

  They had some fun. He never even bothered to find out her last name. She’d be dead before the month was over.

  The front steps of the courthouse swarmed with reporters, people carrying signs of protest, and curious onlookers, just waiting for Peter Murke to be escorted out and into the waiting transport vehicle. At exactly 10:30, they burst through the doors, ten armed men with the prisoner buried in their midst. Flashes went off. Reporters started yelling questions, shoving microphones and TV cameras in various faces, trying to bulldoze their way closer to Murke. On the periphery, the protestors shouted things like, “Die, Murke!” and “Remember Patricia!” and “Give ‘em the chair!” As far as Crowe could recall, there wasn’t even a death penalty in Tennessee, but that didn’t stop them from wishing.

  It was a circus, but only a one or two ringer. Peter Murke’s days of inspiring a full-on three ring act were two years gone. There were bigger stories these days. The guards shoved their way through, stone-faced and stoic. The prisoner was shackled with chains on his legs and arms. His head was hidden in the hood of a heavy ski coat. He kept his face down.

  From up the block, they watched the circus. Crowe had the back seat of the Hummer to himself, and had to peek between Chester and D-Lux to get a good view.

  When the procession was a few steps from the transport van, Crowe said, “Okay then. Head around to the back of the building. That’s not Murke.”

  “How you know that?” D-Lux said. He was a big, wicked-looking guy with a shaved head and a neck as thick as Crowe’s torso. His heavy fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel.

  “Head around the back,” Crowe said again.

  Grumbling, he put the Hummer in gear, flipped on the radio, and in the best tradition of the sort of people who drive Hummers, did an illegal U on Main Street. Rap came blaring out of the car’s rear speakers, thumping too hard and rattling the windows and seats.

  Chester irritably stabbed the off button with his finger. “Turn that shit off, man. We got work.”

  D said, “Motherfucker, you don’t touch a black man’s radio. If I turn the fucking thing on—“

  “D, shut the fuck up,” Chester said.

  D shut up, but he didn’t look happy about it.

  They turned left onto the next street, just in time to see the real transport van nosing out of the alley behind the courthouse and hooking left, toward the river. Tricky boys, those Sheriff’s Department cops.

  “There it is,” Chester said. “The fuck, man, don’t you see the goddamn thing? Stay on it.”

  D scowled. “You wanna watch yourself, Paine. I ain’t having it. I ain’t having you disrespecting me.”

  Crowe said, “Both of you, shut up.”

  D timed the traffic flow nicely, swung the Hummer into the next lane without getting them killed. One guy in a VW van had to slow down two or three miles per hour because of them. He honked his horn uselessly, and D flipped him off.

  They were about four vehicles behind the transport van. Crowe said, “Good. Don’t get any closer, we aren’t exactly unobtrusive in this monstrosity. Concentrate on the road. Chester, call the other guys. And keep your eyes on the van, you’re navigating.”

  Chester said, “No shit. In the meantime, why don’t you just chill back there, huh?”

  Crowe said, “Good idea,” leaned back in his seat, and bit into the apple he’d brought with him. He didn’t get fresh fruit in prison, and in the few days he’d been free he’d developed a real taste for it.

  Chester snapped open his cell phone and barked at the person on the other end. There were two of them, a couple of Vitowers lower-ranking goons, ordered to follow them and do exactly what Chester told them to do.

  The weight of a revolver pulled the pocket of Crowe’s new overcoat out of shape. It was a Colt .38, with a three inch barrel. In his other pocket were a handful of speed re-loaders. A good reliable caliber, nothing fancy. If he had to shoot it he knew it wouldn’t let him down.

  The transport van got on 51 from Riverside, by the DeSoto Bridge, headed east. The monstrous glass Pyramid reflected the churning Mississippi to their left. D did a good job staying a few car lengths behind.

  There wasn’t much traffic on the freeway, so Crowe said, “Fall back a little, D,” and miracle of miracles D did what he was told without complaint. The weather had warmed up a little that morning, and all the clinging ice was gone, but the sky looked washed-out and tired, as if it had had quite enough.

  The transport van took 14 up to the 40 connection, passing the exits for North Parkway, Jackson, Chelsea. Where 40 headed east, the freeway opened up and very quickly they left the city behind them.

  For a long time, they rode in silence. The deputies had chosen 10:30 in the morning to avoid any remnants of rush hour, and it had paid off, especially heading away from the city. They kept a steady clip, about seventy miles per, not having to do too much weaving or changing lanes. Crowe, Chester and D followed in their giant gas waster/status symbol.

  The tension had been rising steadily in their vehicle. Chester kept fingering the revolver he carried in a shoulder rig, tapping his foot rhythmically on the floorboard and grimacing. D-Lux drove stiffly, huffing and sighing every few seconds. Finally, D-Lux said, “Sure would make this drive a little nicer if a man could listen to his rhymes.”

  Chester glared at him. “You want a rhyme, D? Try this one: Roses are red, violets are blue, shut the fuck up. You like that one?”

  D gritted his teeth. “Once more. Talk to me like that just once more.”

  Chester said, “Your job, D, is to keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told.”

  “Aw, hell no. My job, motherfucker, is to drive you two lily-white asses and look good doing it.”

  Chester said, “Well, you’re halfway there.”

  D huffed again. “Just my goddamn luck,” he said. “Stuck in a goddamn moving vehicle with two goddamn crackers.”

  Chester said, “Crackers? Did you just say crackers?”

  D said, “Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

  “No, but it just reminded me I haven’t had breakfast. Some crackers sound pretty good right now.”

  They eyed each other for a moment and then Chester grinned and D grinned and they started cooling off. D shook his head and said, “I changed my mind. Our man Crowe back there is the cracker. You, Paine, are the cheese.”

  That got both of them laughing. Crowe leaned back again and gazed out the window. They were giving him a headache.

  Twenty minutes later, well and truly out in the boonies, the transport van left the freeway.

  “There,” Crowe said. “They’re taking the scenic route.”

  As the deputies got further into the rural areas between Memphis and Jackson, the possibility of ambush became greater, so they had chosen this particular exit onto a state road that didn’t see much traffic. It was one of about ten choices as a route to Jackson, and not a very direct one, either—it wound and twisted through heavily forested areas, simple two-lane blacktop that would add another hour, at least, to the trip.

  Not a bad plan, unless the ambushers happened to know in advance which road the deputies had chosen.

  They followed them off the exit. Crowe said, “Fall back a little more, D. We know where they’re going, we’re not gonna lose them. Chester, call the boys in the other car and make sure they know which exit to take.”

  “They know which exit.”

  “Remind them.”

  Grumbling, he pulled out his cell phone again and punched them in. He spat the exit number at them and snapped the phone shut again. “Happy?” he said.

  Crow
e wasn’t, not really, but he didn’t say anything. The closer they got to doing this, the less secure he felt about it. He wasn’t scared, exactly—if getting killed is the worst thing that can happen to you, well, big deal, right?—but he didn’t want the plan to fall apart. He didn’t want to get taken out before he’d finished what he’d come back to Memphis to do.

  They slowed down, deliberately losing sight of the transport van. The road was a lonely stretch of black, weaving through dense icy woods. They weren’t far from the state park, deemed a wildlife sanctuary, but Crowe didn’t see any wildlife other than the small mammal variety littered along the sides of the road. There’s not much sanctuary against a ton of speeding metal on wheels.

  No one in the Hummer said anything for a long time. They drove on through the woods, always just out of sight of the transport van. Crowe kept checking his watch.

  When they’d been on the state road for exactly ten minutes, he said, “Okay. It’s time. Chester—“

  “Yeah,” he said. “Calling.” He dialed again, said, “Move it,” and tossed the cell phone on the seat next to him.

  “D,” Crowe said, “Give this ugly thing some speed.”

  D slammed his foot down hard on the gas and they rocketed forward hard enough to push Crowe back in his seat. He handed a tranq gun to Chester, who took it with a sneer. They loaded them up.

  Crowe could see the speedometer over D’s massive shoulder. They hit ninety miles an hour, just coming around a wide curve, and the transport van was suddenly in front of them, doing about forty.

  “Do it,” Crowe said to D. “Just like you see on the cop shows.”