All the Lucky Ones Are Dead

by Gar Anthony Haywood

  “That girl Sparkle Johnson? The one on the radio you almost worked for a couple days ago? Somebody tried to kill her this afternoon. Put a bomb in her car and tried to blow her ass up.”

  “Lucky thing you quit on her, huh?” Joe Worthy asked, grinning.

  Like it was something to be proud of.

  Six days earlier, when he had first approached Gunner about investigating the death threats Sparkle Johnson had allegedly been receiving, Wally Browne had given the investigator every phone number he owned: home, office, cellular, pager—even one for faxes. He’d been desperate for Gunner’s help then, and wanted to make himself readily available. But not tonight. Calling Browne’s home and office lines now only connected Gunner with disparate versions of voice mail, his cellular number was constantly busy, and three attempts to page him went totally unrewarded.

  It seemed Gunner had made himself yet another well-deserved enemy.

  And then the phone next to his bed rang well after eight p.m., and an exhausted-sounding Browne said, “Well, I guess you’re happy now, huh, Mr. Gunner?”

  “Never mind the sarcasm. How is she?”

  “What, you don’t think a little sarcasm’s warranted here?”

  “It’s warranted. How’s she doing?”

  “Why don’t you come see for yourself? She’s staying here with me for the night.”

  Gunner took the address down and said he’d be right over.

  According to all the news reports, Sparkle Johnson had escaped with only minor injuries the explosion that had killed her unfortunate lunch date, but it wasn’t until he’d seen her for himself that Gunner would allow himself to believe it.

  She was sitting on Wally Browne’s living room couch when Browne showed him into his Bel Air home, wearing what had to be Browne’s bathrobe and slippers, sipping something hot and steaming from a bright yellow cup. Her left hand was heavily bandaged, and a large square of blood-spattered medical gauze was taped over her right cheek, just below the eye. Her listless gaze barely moved from the floor when Gunner sat down in the chair beside her.

  Gunner thought back to their first meeting four days ago, found the contrast between that Sparkle Johnson and this one more than a little unnerving.

  “Doctors say she’s gonna be okay,” Browne said as he sat down beside her on the couch, patting her gently on the knee. “She’s got a few facial lacerations from shattered glass, and a flying piece of something almost took her left thumb off, but … all in all, I’d have to say she got off pretty easy. Damn easy, in fact.”

  “The bastard murdered Kyle,” Johnson said, still staring blankly at the floor. Tears were flowing freely down both of her cheeks.

  “Bastard?” Gunner asked, questioning her use of the singular.

  “Jarrett. Jarrett Nance.” She finally looked up at him. “We were engaged once.”

  “You’re saying you know who did this?”

  Johnson nodded solemnly. “It had to be him. Who else would it be?”

  Browne was mortified. “But I thought—”

  “I’m sorry, Wally. I thought he was harmless. If I’d known he was capable of something like this …”

  “He’s the Mr. M who’s been writing the letters?” Gunner asked. “And making the phone calls?”

  Johnson nodded again. “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know because he’s the only one who ever called me that before. Topsy. It’s what he started calling me after our breakup, just to hurt me.”

  As Browne had explained to Gunner at their first meeting, Johnson’s “anonymous” Mr. M had referred to her as Topsy on more than one occasion, and though the investigator had never actually read Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, he knew enough about the infamous Civil War–era novel to know that this had been the name of the doomed Little Eva’s most beloved and headstrong slave girl.

  “So where does the M come in?” Gunner asked. “That a middle initial, or …”

  Johnson shook her head, said, “I don’t know where he got the M. Jarrett’s middle name is Charles—the M must’ve just been something he used to try and throw me off.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Browne said, angry now. “An old boyfriend? That’s what this has all been about?”

  Johnson started crying, said, “Wally, I said I’m sorry! What more do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to tell me why you weren’t straight with me from the beginning! Jesus, Sparkle, a man is dead now!”

  “I know that! Don’t you think I know that?” She tried to set her cup down on an end table beside her, dropped it over the edge onto the floor instead. Black coffee spattered across the tan carpet at her feet, almost certainly ruining it, and she cursed once, then broke down completely, burying her face in the palms of her hands.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God, kid, I’m sorry,” Browne said, instantly remorseful. He edged closer to her on the couch, tried to drape an arm around her heaving shoulders, but she shrugged it off, moved as far out of his reach as she could.

  Unlike Browne, Gunner let her cry without interference, kept his silence for a good minute before attempting to speak to her again. “You tell the police what you just told us? That this Jarrett Nance is the man they should be looking for?”

  Johnson shook her head, avoiding his gaze. “No. I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I couldn’t believe he’d really do such a thing! I still don’t. And yet … I know that’s just my heart talking, not my head. It had to be Jarrett.”

  “Then the authorities have to be notified. Right away.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Of course.”

  “I can call them if you like,” Browne said, looking for some way to make amends for having been so hard on her earlier. “I’ll just say you remembered something you’d forgotten to mention earlier, and you’d like to talk to one of their detectives again, if you could.”

  “I think that would be a good idea,” Gunner said. “And in the meantime, she and I can keep talking, go over a few questions I’d like to ask.”

  From the look on her face, Johnson didn’t like the sound of that, but Browne nodded and left the room before she could register a complaint.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make this brief,” Gunner said, smiling to reassure her.

  Johnson made a halfhearted attempt to smile back.

  “This Jarrett Nance. Proper motivation aside—would he actually know how to build an explosive? Does he have any experience in that area that you know of?”

  “That I know of? No.” Johnson shook her head. “He’s an ad buyer. He buys commercial time on television for advertisers. But …”

  Gunner waited for her to go on.

  “He’s also a gun nut. Reads all the magazines, visits all the web sites. If he wanted to build a bomb, I’m sure he could learn how to very easily.”

  “Was the device timed, or tied to the ignition? That is, did it go off before the driver tried to start the car, or not until?”

  “It was timed,” Johnson said. “Kyle was just getting in the car when … when it went off.”

  “This was in the restaurant parking lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you weren’t in the car yourself.”

  “No.” Johnson shook her head, “Kyle had opened the door for me, but I hadn’t gotten in. I was putting on an earring that had fallen off inside the restaurant. If it hadn’t been for that …”

  “Cops have any idea yet what kind of device it was?”

  “What kind?”

  “Yes. Was it a sophisticated piece of work, or a crude one?”

  “Someone said it looked like a pipe bomb, but that it was too early to be sure. Look. What are you asking me all these questions for? I already told you who’s responsible, didn’t I?”

  “You told us who you think is responsible, yes. But only five minutes ago, you weren’t so sure.”

  “Well, I’m sure now. It was Jarrett. It had to be.” />
  “He hates you that much?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said you two were engaged once. I take it you were the one who broke it off?”

  Johnson nodded, said, “I all but left him standing at the altar. I thought I was in love with him, but I wasn’t.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last January. I walked away as much for his sake as mine, but of course …”

  “He didn’t quite see it that way.”

  “No. Would you?”

  Gunner let the barbed remark slip by, asked, “So that brings us back to the question Browne asked earlier. Why wait until now to tell us he was the one harassing you? Even if you thought he was harmless—”

  “I did think he was harmless.”

  “Then why didn’t you shut him down yourself before now? Or let me do it for you with Browne’s blessings?”

  “I did. I did try to shut him down myself.”

  “And?”

  “He wouldn’t listen. He just pretended not to know what I was talking about. And I knew if I pushed him, he—”

  She stopped herself cold, like someone who’d nearly tumbled over the jagged edge of a high precipice.

  “He’d what?” Gunner asked calmly.

  “He’d do something crazy,” Johnson said, after much deliberation. Improvising.

  “But if you didn’t think he was dangerous …”

  “Look. I felt I owed the man, all right? I was just trying to give him every possible chance to go away on his own before siccing somebody like you or the police on him. I can see now that was a mistake, of course, but—”

  “Forget it. You’re bullshitting me. Let’s do this some other time,” Gunner said tersely.

  The comment caught Johnson off guard. She opened her mouth to offer some retort, but Browne rejoined them before she could speak, and Gunner stood to leave.

  “It’s all set,” Browne said. “They’re sending a couple of detectives over now.”

  “Good,” Gunner said. He looked down at Johnson, added, “Maybe you’ll feel a little more comfortable talking to them.”

  “I don’t—” she started to protest.

  But Gunner turned to Browne again, said, “You might want to talk to her about the importance of being honest with your friendly neighborhood policeman before the two you just called for show up. Cops can smell a half-truth a mile away, and they aren’t nearly as tolerant of them as I.”

  Browne didn’t understand. “What’s he talking about?” he asked Johnson.

  “I expect you’ll want somebody to watch her for a while,” Gunner said. “At least until her friend Nance is in custody?”

  “Yes. Of course. But—”

  Johnson leapt to her feet, said, “Wally, that isn’t—”

  “Save your breath, Sparkle. Mr.Gunner’s watchin’ you, and that’s that.”

  “Actually, it won’t be me,” Gunner said. “But I’ve got a good man I can probably put in place by tomorrow morning, if that’d be acceptable to you. I’ll give you a call around ten, let you know who, where, and when.”

  “Wait a minute. A ‘good man’? You don’t think you oughta handle this yourself?”

  “Much as I’d love to, I can’t. Previous obligation. If you don’t want my man …”

  “We don’t,” Johnson said.

  “Right. That’s what you said last time,” Browne reminded her. He rolled his eyes at Gunner, said simply, “We’ll take him.”

  e l e v e n

  “BUT I DON’T KNOW NOTHIN’ ’BOUT ‘SURVEILLANCE,’” Jolly Mokes said early the next morning, not surprising Gunner in the least.

  “Sure you do. Surveillance is just another word for reconnaissance. And you know how to do recon, don’t you?”

  “That was a long time ago, Gunner.”

  “I know it was. But some things you never forget. Big as your ass is, Jolly, I never saw a man hide in some bush like you could. You can do this job with your eyes closed—I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think you could.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Look. Two days ago you said the Lord told you I’d have some kind of work for you, right? Well, the Lord’s paid off. What the hell are you balking now for?”

  Jolly got up off his bed, walked around the oversized birdcage that was his one-room downtown apartment, bare feet clearing a path through all the newspaper and candy wrappers on the floor as he paced. “I ain’t balkin’,” he said, wearing only a pair of striped boxer shorts and a stained white cotton T-shirt. “It’s just … I guess I was hopin’ you’d give me somethin’ a little easier to do, that’s all. Somethin’ I can’t mess up.”

  “You aren’t gonna mess this up. I told you.”

  “Somebody already tried to kill this lady once, right? What if they try again, and I don’t stop ’em? Who’s gonna be responsible then?”

  “I will. I’m the one the client hired to protect her, not you. If something goes wrong, the heat’s all mine.”

  Jolly just shook his head and went right on pacing.

  Finally irked, Gunner pulled the wooden chair he’d been sitting on backward out from under himself, shoved it back over near the small dinette table where he’d found it. “For Chrissake, Jolly, I’m a private investigator! What kind of work did you think I could give you, polishing the chrome on the Bentley?”

  “No, but—”

  “The situation is this. The lady needs somebody to watch her back, and I can’t do it. I’ve got other obligations. Do you want the job or not?”

  Jolly stopped pacing, said, “Hell yes, I want the job.”

  “Excellent. You have a car?”

  “A car? Three weeks outa lockdown?”

  “Shit, that’s right. I forgot you just got out.”

  “I gotta have a car?”

  “Yeah. You don’t think you could maybe borrow one somewhere?”

  “Borrow one?” The big man thought about it, shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. This brother down in Pedro I know got some extra wheels, he might lend ’em to me for a couple days if I asked.”

  “How about some decent clothes?”

  “Clothes?”

  “You’re gonna have to do some of this surveillance on foot, indoors, and our girl likes to go places where you could feel like a hobo wearing Calvin Klein. You at least have a dress shirt, some slacks …”

  Jolly shook his head.

  “No. Okay.” Gunner reached into his pocket, fished out the last of Benny Elbridge’s cash retainer, and peeled off five twenties. Hoping instruments of the Lord like himself were reimbursed for all expenses, somewhere down the road.

  He had told Raymont Trevor his work for Benny Elbridge was done until he knew exactly where the fee Elbridge was paying him was coming from, and he was prepared to make good on that promise if necessary, but privately, Gunner wasn’t looking forward to doing so.

  By now, he’d been on the Carlton Elbridge suicide case for three days, going on four, and in that time he’d come across enough duplicity, jealousy, and unyielding secrecy to more than hold his interest for days to come. None of it had convinced him yet that C.E. Digga Jones had been murdered, but it certainly had him wondering. Wondering enough that he wasn’t ready to walk away. There was a threshold beyond which an investigation became more about his own hunger for the truth than his client’s, and somewhere over the last forty-eight hours, Gunner had stepped across it.

  Still, only an idiot did a puppet’s bidding without knowing who was pulling its strings. Gunner had to know who the money man—or woman—behind Benny Elbridge was, or he’d be forced to quit his employ, the restless soul of Carlton Elbridge—not to mention Ray Crumley—be damned.

  Having decided this question would never be answered by phone, however, as calls to Benny Elbridge’s number were going as unheeded today as they had been yesterday, Gunner left Jolly Mokes only a few minutes after nine a.m. to try and visit Elbridge personally. The address his client had given him three days ago led the investigator to a tiny s
hack in the rear yard of an almost equally tiny house in Willowbrook, where dry, uncut grass and one weather-beaten coat of cheap white latex seemed to be the architectural dress code of the day. The roofs of both structures were shedding shingles like corpses shedding skin, and neither seemed to be standing at anything approaching a right angle; the smaller one, especially, resembled something a child might have drawn freehand.

  “Yo, big man.”

  Gunner had almost reached the porch of the quiet little shack when the voice came, caused him to spin around with obvious surprise. Two young black men wearing business attire and Gargoyle sunglasses had apparently followed him up the driveway of the front house without him hearing, and now stood there side by side like hip-hop FBI men.

  “Mr. El ain’t home.”

  The smaller of the two was the one talking. And smiling. Both men were dark-skinned and big, but not gargantuan; more like linebackers than defensive ends. The silent one had a black Kangol hat on his head and attitude to spare; the other one just had all the white teeth he was flashing.

  “Mr. L?” Gunner asked, pretending not to understand.

  “Mr. Elbridge.” He widened the smile, appreciating the investigator’s attempt at ignorance. “Ain’t that who you came to see, Mr. Gunner?”

  So they knew him. Did that just make a bad situation worse, or better?

  “You brothers know me?”

  “Uh-huh. But you don’t know us. You don’t need to know us.”

  Gunner was looking for a way past or around the pair, hadn’t found one yet that wouldn’t in all probability land him in the morgue. Each man had some hardware wrinkling the inner fabric of his coat, and the one with the hat, at least, seemed to have the temperament to use it.

  “Okay, boys,” Gunner said, showing the two men the palms of his hands to inform them of his pacifist nature. “Clue me in. What the fuck’s about to go down here?”

  “Ain’t nothin’ goin’ down. We just gonna take you for a ride, that’s all. Come on, let’s go.” He gestured with one hand for Gunner to start moving down the driveway, out toward the street.

  “A ride?” Despite the risks, Gunner couldn’t help but laugh. “Shit. I’m not going for any ride!”