Shoot the Woman First

by Wallace Stroby

  “He wasn’t local,” Rico said. “I’m betting the one in the house wasn’t, either.”

  “I’d bet you’re right. Name on the rental?”

  “Louis Brown. At least that’s what his license said.”

  “Good one. Lawrence Black. Louis Brown.” Knowing then he’d been right all along, out-of-state pros, here to hit it and git.

  “All kinds of coincidences today,” Rico said.

  “Haney know all this?”

  “No, and if he did, he wouldn’t care. Homicide’s working the bodies. He wouldn’t want anything to do with that mess.”

  “Can’t blame him.” Burke looked at the photo, thinking, Tough break, Mr. Lawrence Vernon Black. A heavyweight like you, ending up shot dead in the middle of nowhere. Came all the way to Detroit and never even got a chance to spend that money you stole.

  “You want to take a look in that garage?” Rico said.

  “No. Got what I need right here.”

  “I do you right?”

  “You did. Anyone else know you printed these out?”

  “Nah. It’s just between you and me, brother.”

  “Let’s keep it that way.” Burke folded the papers, slipped them in his coat pocket.

  Freeman had said it was a four-man crew, and now two of them were dead. Crossed the wrong partner, or fell out over the split. Any number of ways it could have gone bad. So at least two were left, one of them a woman. And if one of them was from Florida, another might be, too.

  He flicked the cigarette at the blood on the stone wall. It sparked and died.

  “Now you’re contaminating a crime scene,” Rico said.

  “This whole city is a crime scene.”

  “Why we love it,” Rico said.

  * * *

  Heading home on Eight Mile, he noticed the dark SUV about five car lengths back. It had been with him the last six miles, stayed in the same lane while other vehicles passed.

  There was a plaza up ahead on the right, with a pawnshop and liquor store. Burke slowed, put on his turn signal. The SUV moved into the left lane, sped up. It was a black Dodge Durango, Michigan plates, two brothers up front, both in sunglasses and dreads. The passenger turned to look at him as they drove past.

  Burke pulled into the lot, waited with the engine running, let the Durango get far ahead. If they were following him, they’d have to double back, make two U-turns to come up behind him again. There was no way to do that without giving themselves away.

  His cell phone began to buzz. He got it out, didn’t recognize the number. “Yeah?”

  “You know who this is?” Willie Freeman’s voice.

  “I think so. How’s the shoulder?”

  “How much money we talking about?”

  “For what?”

  “For a name.”

  “You calling from the hospital?”

  “No. How much money?”

  “Depends. A name’s just a name. If I get somewhere with it, that’s different.”

  “I want ten grand.”

  “What?”

  “Ten thousand for the name I give you.”

  “You better go easy on that Demerol, Willie. No name you can give me is worth ten grand. I probably know it already anyway.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. After you left, I made some calls, found out some shit.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ten grand, and I give the name to you, and nobody else.”

  “Ten’s high.”

  “It’s what I need.”

  “What got you so motivated all of the sudden? Damien come back to see you?”

  No answer.

  “He’s keeping an eye on you, though, right? See if you run?”

  “You want that name?”

  “How do I know, five minutes after I hand over the cash, you’re not on the phone to Damien?”

  “Fuck him.”

  “Sounds like you’re scared, Willie. But that’s a smart way to be right now. You did the right thing, calling me. This could work out for both of us.”

  “Ten grand for the name, then we done.”

  “Five up front. Another five if it pans out. Best I can do.”

  Breathing on the line. “When can you get the five?”

  “Couple hours. Give it to you tonight, if you want.”

  “You know Brush Park? The old Presbyterian church on Woodward?”

  “I know it.”

  “Midnight tonight. You be there with the five.”

  “No way. I pick the place.”

  “This ain’t no discussion. You want the name, you be there.”

  Payback, Burke thought, for what he’d done at the hospital, Freeman wanting to take him over the hurdles.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  “No thinking. Yes or no. Yesterday you were telling me what the deal was. Today I’m telling you.”

  “Midnight’s too late.”

  “You be there twelve sharp. Five past and I’m gone.”

  After a moment, Burke said, “Okay. Midnight. I’ll be there.”

  “With the cash.”

  “Of course. Willie, wait a minute. Don’t hang up.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to know something. What happened at the hospital. That was just business. It wasn’t personal.”

  “Man, you got nerve to say that to me.”

  “But if you try to fuck with me tonight? Or don’t show up? That’ll be personal. And you won’t need to worry about Marquis anymore, or Damien. I’ll punch your clock myself, drop you in the river with a tow chain around your ankles. You feel me?”

  “Just be there,” Freeman said, and ended the call.

  * * *

  At eleven thirty, Burke pulled up outside the church. It loomed over the block like a medieval castle, high turrets and stained-glass windows. Granite steps led up to a red door. No lights inside, and no other cars on the block. He’d kept an eye on the rearview on the drive out, but there’d been no sign of the Durango.

  He got out, went up the steps, saw the door was ajar. He pushed it open with a gloved hand, looked into the darkness of a vestibule.

  “Walk straight ahead,” a female voice said. “No need to look at me.”

  He turned to his left. A black woman came out of the shadows. She was heavy, wore jeans and a puffy coat. Her hair was long on one side, shaved close on the other. A dark automatic was pointed at his chest.

  “I said straight ahead.”

  “All right.” He raised his hands. “Take it easy with that thing.”

  “You early.”

  “So are you.”

  “Walk.”

  He went through the vestibule into the church, felt the woman fall in behind him. Streetlight came through the big front windows, faintly illuminated row after row of empty pews. They were laid out in a semicircle, fanning back from where the altar had once been, only a bare stretch of floor there now. The center aisle was carpeted with pigeon droppings and plaster dust. The domed ceiling was lost in shadow.

  As he started down the aisle, a light flashed from an alcove. The beam moved up the aisle, climbed Burke’s legs and settled on his face.

  “There’s good,” Freeman said.

  Burke stopped, raised a hand to shade his eyes. “You need to turn that thing off, Willie. Or shine it somewhere else.”

  The light stayed on him for another moment, then fell away, settled on the floor at his feet. Beyond the light, Freeman was only a silhouette in the darkness.

  “He’s alone,” the woman said behind him. Burke lowered his hands.

  “You got my money?” Freeman said.

  “Not the way this works. You need to show yourself, Willie. I don’t talk to shadows.”

  Freeman moved out of the alcove, into the space where the altar had been. The flashlight beam moved up again, centered on Burke’s chest.

  “Search him,” Freeman said. “See if he got that money.”

  “No chance,” Burke said. “In three seconds
I’m going to turn around and walk out of here. Shoot me if you want. You can deal with Marquis on your own.”

  “You ain’t doing nothing ’less I tell you to,” the woman said. She came around in front of him, the gun pointed at his chest.

  Burke looked past her. “That the way you’re going to play this, Willie?”

  “Neesa,” Freeman said. “Chill.”

  “I don’t trust this motherfucker,” she said.

  “Let’s not make this more complicated than it is,” Burke said. He reached into his right coat pocket, drew out the thick white envelope. “Your money.”

  The flashlight beam played across it.

  “Bring it here,” Freeman said.

  “You want it, come get it.”

  Neesa came forward, the gun still on him, took the envelope, and backed away. Freeman came slow up the aisle, his breathing labored.

  He wore a green field jacket draped over his shoulders, his right arm in a sling. His forehead glistened with sweat.

  “You don’t look so good,” Burke said. “You walk out of the hospital like that?”

  Freeman took the envelope from Neesa, gave her the flashlight. She shone the light on him while he opened the envelope, looked through the bills. The gun was steady in her other hand.

  “You better spend some of that money on a doctor,” Burke said. “You might have an infection there.”

  “Shut up,” Neesa said.

  “You need to remind your girlfriend that’s only half the money,” Burke said. “She shoots me, you don’t get the rest.”

  “Neesa,” Freeman said. She lowered the gun. Freeman closed the envelope, put it inside his sling.

  “The name,” Burke said.

  Freeman leaned back against a pew. Burke could see his chest rise and fall.

  “That list Marquis give you,” Freeman said. “Boy named Cordell King on it?”

  “He’s one of them, yeah. Why?”

  “Day of that stickup, he booked. No one seen him since.”

  “He ran?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything. He’s probably running for the same reason you are.”

  Freeman shook his head. “He’s new. Only been working for Marquis a few months. College boy. Always fronting tough, but he ain’t shit.”

  “That’s not worth five thousand.”

  “I ain’t finished. Those other boys, ones that were in the Armada with me, they hiding, but they ain’t far. Couple calls turned them up. Not Cordell, though. He gone.”

  “Marquis know that?”

  “Not from me. Sooner or later, though, he will.”

  “Willie, you’re jerking me off here.”

  “There’s more.”

  “There better be.”

  “Back when he started with Marquis, Cordell told some boys he had a cousin was a heavy hitter. A stickup boy.”

  “He say his name?”

  “Nah. But said his cousin worked all over. Banks, armored cars. Big scores. Said he was going to bring Cordell in on some.”

  “Sounds like more fronting to me.”

  “Few weeks back, though, he shut up about it. One of the boys that roll with me asked him about his OG cousin. Fucking with him, you know? Cordell wouldn’t say shit this time.”

  “You think the cousin’s crew shot you up, took that money?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And you think Cordell was with them?”

  “Could be.”

  “But you didn’t see him?”

  “Like I said, they had masks.” He shifted, winced, rested his hip on the pew.

  “You look like you’re about done,” Burke said.

  “Don’t worry about me. I told you I’d give you a name. That’s the name. You check it out, see. You get me that other five thousand. Maybe I have something else for you then, too.”

  “Fair enough. But if all this turns out to be bullshit, I’ll come back looking for my money. You know that, right?”

  “I know it.”

  “You know where this Cordell lives?”

  Freeman shook his head, looked at Neesa.

  “You need to start walking,” she said to Burke. “We done.”

  He looked at her, then at Freeman, said, “I’ll be in touch,” and started back up the aisle. He stopped halfway, turned. “One other thing.”

  “What?” Freeman said.

  Burke reached under his coat, back to where the Browning .380 was tucked into his belt. He drew it out in a fluid motion, the gun coming up smoothly, not snagging on anything. Neesa saw it, started to raise her gun, and he shot her twice in the chest.

  The shots sounded almost as one, echoed through the church. Pigeons burst from the balcony, flew off, and disappeared into darkness. The flashlight hit the floor, rolled against a pew. Burke pointed the Browning at Freeman. “Stay right there, sport.”

  Neesa lay on her back, not moving. Burke kicked her gun away, then bent and picked up the flashlight, turned its beam on Freeman. He was frozen.

  “You think you’re smarter than me, Willie.” He settled the beam on Freeman’s chest. “But you’re not.” He aimed the Browning at the circle of light, squeezed the trigger.

  The shot knocked Freeman off the pew. Burke tracked him with the flashlight as he fell, fired twice more, the echoes chasing themselves. Brass clinked on marble.

  Behind Burke, the woman groaned. He shone the light on her. She was blinking, her eyes unfocused, blood on her lips. He knelt, fit the muzzle of the Browning up under her jaw and fired once.

  He used the flashlight to find all the casings, dropped them into a pocket. Then he turned Freeman’s body over, took the envelope from his sling, careful to avoid the blood.

  He put the envelope away, turned off the flashlight and tossed it into the shadows, heard it break. Then he walked up the aisle in the pale light from the stained glass, through the vestibule, and back out into the night.

  FIFTEEN

  Driving back from the mall, Crissa let the little girl have her silence. She was looking out the window, the breeze in her hair. In her lap was the new iPod Crissa had bought her, still in its packaging. It was a children’s model, with a Mickey Mouse design on the case. At the electronics store, Crissa had asked the clerk to load it with songs a six-year-old might like. When he asked her for suggestions, she had none.

  Haley hadn’t talked much on the ride there, had never asked where they were going. When Crissa bought pizza slices and orange drinks at the food court, Haley had eaten in silence but left nothing on her plate. When they were done, Crissa took her to a children’s store, let her pick out two new sets of clothes, including a Mickey Mouse T-shirt to match the iPod, Crissa guessing her size. Realizing she had no idea what a six-year-old might wear, what she might listen to or watch on TV.

  She’d let Crissa take her hand as they were leaving the store. Toys “R” Us was next, and they’d left with a new Barbie doll, a stuffed squirrel, and a pink vinyl backpack. She had to be coaxed to pick out things. The doll had been Crissa’s idea, remembering the broken one on the floor of the empty house. Haley had thanked her as they’d left the mall but had never smiled.

  Now, in the car, the bags at her feet, Haley was tapping one foot on the floorboard, swinging the other. Humming to herself.

  “Hey,” Crissa said. When she didn’t answer, Crissa touched her on the shoulder. Haley looked at her.

  “How you doin’ there?” Crissa said.

  “Thank you for all the presents.”

  “You said that already. You’re welcome.” Crissa reached out, brushed hair from her eyes. “Next time, maybe we can go somewhere, do something about this mop.”

  “What’s that on your arm?”

  “What?”

  Haley pointed at her left wrist, the Chinese character there. “That.”

  Crissa looked at the tattoo, the faint burn scar that ran across it.

  “That’s there to remind me of someone who was very close to me. He
has one, too, just like it.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “It’s the Chinese word for ‘perseverance.’ Do you know what that means?”

  Haley shook her head.

  “It means to keep going when there’s something you want, or something you need. Not giving up, even when things get rough and it feels like you can’t go on anymore.”

  “It’s pretty.” She looked out the window again.

  “So you like Mickey and Minnie, huh?” Crissa said. “They your favorites?”

  “And Donald and Goofy. Pluto, too.”

  “Have you ever been to Disney World?”

  “No. Mom says it’s too far away.”

  “It’s not that far. Closer than you think. Maybe we’ll go there someday.”

  “Who?”

  “Me and you. How’s that sound?” Regretting it as soon as she said it.

  Haley nodded again but didn’t smile, looked back out the window. She doesn’t believe me, Crissa thought. And why should she?

  The sky was a hard blue, the clouds gone. They passed a horse farm, the horses loose in a big pasture. Haley craned her head to see them, put her hand out the window and waved.

  What are you doing here? Crissa thought. This isn’t your daughter, your family. You need to do what you came to do and move on.

  She felt a touch on her arm, turned. Haley was looking at her. “Are you sad?”

  “What?”

  “You’re crying.”

  “No,” Crissa said. “It’s just the sun down here. I’m not used to it.”

  Haley pointed at the sunglasses hanging from the rearview.

  “Right,” Crissa said. “That’s a good idea, isn’t it?” She took them down, wiped her eyes with her wrist.

  “It’s okay to be sad,” Haley said.

  “Is that right?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Are you sad?”

  “Not now.”

  “That’s good,” Crissa said, and turned away, not wanting her to see the tears. She put on the sunglasses.

  * * *

  When they pulled into the motel lot, Haley grew quiet. Crissa saw where she was looking. There were two motorcycles parked at the edge of the lot, near the far stairs. Flat-black Harleys with chrome pipes.

  She parked, turned the engine off. The door to 216 was ajar. “Haley, wait here, all right?”

  Crissa got out of the car. She started for the far stairs, heard the car door open and close behind her, turned to see Haley following.