by Mike Nappa
Max Roman was a millionaire dozens of times over. Still, in spite of that, no one seemed to question why a man with that much money wanted so badly to get elected to an office that paid an annual salary equal to what a competent dental hygienist might make.
Long-term plan, Bliss had thought. Atlanta is just a stepping-stone for this muck.
From what she could tell, Roman’s ambition held few boundaries. She could see the path as easily as he could. Four years as mayor of Atlanta, followed by eight years as governor of the great state of Georgia, and from there . . . well, pretty much anything was possible from there.
“But I need you, Ms. Mama Bliss,” he was saying. “You are my secret weapon, and so even when I must disappoint you, like tonight, I am always working to make you happy, as well. You believe this about me?”
“Of course, Max,” she’d lied. “Our families, we go way back together.”
“Good,” he said. “My father promised your husband we’d keep Little Five Points clean of gangs, especially the Kipo sets. No guns, no gangs, not in William’s home. That was the deal. And the Romans always keep their promises.”
He’d leaned over then and opened the back door of his Escalade. The pale overhead light had startled the body nearest to her inside the car. It had taken only a second for Bliss to understand the circumstances.
The back seat of Max Roman’s Cadillac was covered, top to floorboards, in a sheet of clear plastic. Easier cleanup for the mess, she’d thought. The boy nearest to her was shirtless, bound hand and feet, arms behind his back. There was plenty of blood.
Across from him was a dumpy Ukrainian guy, hammer in one hand and a leather-bound set of knives sitting close to his thickened thigh.
She’d recognized the Ukrainian as one of Max Roman’s enforcers, a relatively recent émigré from Ukraine, family to Viktor Kostiuk, Max’s right-hand man. Pavlo Kostiuk had been in the States less than a year but had already demonstrated a unique talent for clinical violence.
Under the tiny dome light, the battered teen had blinked frantically, forcing his eyes to adjust to the light, peering into the alley with the look of a cat being shoved into a canvas bag. She’d seen his face glint in recognition and knew what was coming next.
“Mama!” he’d gasped. “Mama Bliss, thank God, thank God. Help me, Mama. Please help me. They broke my arms. Both my arms. I can’t feel my hands.” He was sobbing now. “Please, I need a doctor. Please help me, Mama.”
Pavlo had casually tapped the flat of the hammer against the teenager’s temple. “You don’t speak unless spoken to.”
The Kipo kid closed his mouth then, and his eyes, but he kept whimpering, maybe even praying.
Max had leaned down beside her wheelchair. He was grinning. “He came up to celebrate a birthday with some little girlfriend of his, even though he knew Little Five Points was off-limits to Kipo. My man at the Planet Bombay saw his orange gang colors all the way from across the street.”
Mama remembered this boy’s face. He’d come into the Secret Stash with—what was her name?—well, with Sugar. “Mama, please,” the boy had whispered. Pavlo had looked crossly at him but didn’t strike this time.
He’d known he didn’t belong in her place, not at all, and he’d come sauntering in there anyway. Orange shoes blazing, an offense to her eyes.
“Kipo is what killed my grandson,” Mama said to the car.
The teen in the backseat had groaned. Bliss reached out and slammed shut the door.
Max had stood and stretched lazily. “You see, Mama? I keep Little Five Points safe for you, for the Secret Stash. No Kipo is coming back here for a long time, not after they hear about this little fish. Now, what do you want? Should I have my boys drop this one at a hospital curb? Or someplace where maybe he doesn’t come back ever?”
Bliss had grimaced. He knew the answer to that question already. He was just asking it to rub in the truth, make her feel somehow responsible for it.
“You let that boy see you,” she said, “and fixed it so he’d see me too. You and I both know what that means.”
Max Roman had signaled the driver then, and Bliss pushed her wheelchair back as the Escalade started up and rolled away. Someday, maybe in a month, maybe years from now, someone would find the bones of that Kipo boy swallowed by concrete inside a construction site or in the foundation of a high-rise building. They’d wonder what happened, why one so young had been taken that way, but no one would ever know.
No one will ever know.
Bliss had felt both sad and angry. She’d started the electric motor on her wheelchair and headed back to the loading docks. Max Roman walked silently beside her. Before they reentered the warehouse, Mama Bliss had stopped and turned her face up toward Max. He’d grinned, like he was expecting a compliment or some trite expression of gratitude. The grin froze when he saw her eyes.
“Remember, Maksym, no matter what you do for me, you need me more than I need you.” The muscle in his jaw had tightened. “I can bring you down in a heartbeat. I don’t even have to be alive to do it. I can take from you everything you’ve ever taken from anybody else, everything you worked for. It’s all handwritten in a logbook, updated as needed, hidden, ready to appear any time, any place, for any reason. You understand what I’m saying, Max?”
“If you’ve got so much power to ruin me, Ms. Mama Bliss, why don’t you use it? Are you worried that maybe I own too many dirty cops? That maybe my money spread between the cracks of our American legal system might be too much for your flimsy little logbook? That maybe I even have my hands in the pockets of influential media outlets?” She’d seen his anger rising then, but she didn’t flinch. “Why don’t you bring me down,” he’d hissed at her, “if you really think you can do that? You wouldn’t be the first to try.”
It’s too good for you, she’d thought. Financial ruin, public humiliation, even a life spent in a jail cell, all that is better than you deserve. But out loud she’d said, “Maybe I like having a friend in high places.”
She’d forced herself to smile.
Max Roman had stared at her, assessing her. For the first time that night, she’d seen a flicker of worry crease his face. He knew she wasn’t bluffing.
“I think we understand each other,” Maksym Romanenko had exhaled at last. When he turned to enter the warehouse, he wasn’t smiling anymore.
Now Mama Bliss sat on the sidewalk outside her store, remembering the events of the night before. Max Roman had his guns, and that was that. He was going to deliver them to his Kipo lieutenants down in Riverdale, only nineteen miles away, but that couldn’t be helped. Maybe, in the big picture, it wouldn’t matter anyway.
She reached inside her shirt pocket and pulled out the worn picture of Davis. She flipped it over and read the writing on the back. It was the same as it had been for years. She put the picture back in her pocket and instead produced a business card from one of the pouches on her wheelchair.
“Maybe,” she said quietly to herself, “it’s time to give Samuel Hill a call.”
13
Trudi
Atlanta, GA
West Midtown
Friday, March 24, 9:50 a.m.
21 days to Nevermore
“Trudi,” The Raven said, “I was wondering if you might like to have dinner with me tonight. Someplace nice?”
She tried not to roll her eyes.
“I know a great Spanish tapas restaurant in Buckhead. They have live entertainment on Friday nights,” he said. “Could be fun.”
“How old are you, Raven?”
He looked a little taken aback by that. Before he could answer, Eulalie appeared in the doorway, holding a bottle of Perrier water with a napkin around the glass.
“Excuse me,” she said, twisting off the cap, “I thought Mr. Deasy might like something to drink.” She transferred the water to The Raven but kept the napkin and bottle cap. “Sorry to interrupt.” She dimpled and left as quickly as she had appeared.
“Thank you, Eulalie
,” Trudi said.
Inwardly, she smiled. She knew there was a reason she kept Eulalie around the office, and it wasn’t just because she needed a sparring partner at the gym.
“Thanks,” The Raven called out after the assistant. He took a quick sip of the water, then set the bottle on the floor next to his chair. He turned back to Trudi. “It’s just dinner,” he said. “And you might like it. Eclipse di Luna was voted the Best Place to Take a Date by Atlanta magazine.”
And you’re avoiding the question, Trudi thought. She asked it again. “How old are you?”
He shifted in his seat, and she decided she liked his eyes when they weren’t all bruised and blackened around the edges.
“Well, look, I can see you’re worried that maybe there’s an age difference between us,” he said, “but why worry about that now? How about if we just put that off until you decide whether or not you like our first date enough to want a second date?”
She half-smiled in spite of herself. “I turned thirty-two this last January,” she said.
“See?” he said. “We’re not that far apart. I turn twenty-three next month. A few years is nothing.”
“Ha,” she said. “I was already married and halfway through my college degree before your voice changed.”
He nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t concede. “And yet, you are neither married nor in college now,” he countered, “and I have since become a full-grown man.” He gave a mock bow. “Come on, give me a chance. I’m more than that guy you found handcuffed to a chair last week. I’d just like a chance to show you that. To show you a little bit of who I really am. One date, that’s all. If you’re not crazy about me by midnight tonight, you never have to see me again.”
She took a moment to think. She had no intention of “dating” this kid or anybody else, but why not have a nice meal at one of Atlanta’s best restaurants? She might even pick up some valuable information. He was a street guy, after all.
The Raven reached down and took another sip of his Perrier. She noticed there was no condensation on the outside of the bottle, meaning the water had not been refrigerated. She congratulated herself again on choosing Eulalie Marie Jefferson for her assistant.
“You want some ice to go with that?” she offered.
“You’re changing the subject,” he said.
“Look, Raven, you seem like a nice guy. A little mixed up, but nice. You had a traumatic experience, and since I helped you get out of it, that causes you to fixate on me. My assistant is studying psychology, and she’d call what you’re feeling ‘affection-transference’ or whatever head-shrink majors call that kind of thing.”
When he didn’t say anything in response, she continued. “Why don’t you go out there and chat up Eulalie? She’s pretty and very smart. She’s earning her master’s degree in night school right now. Dedicated. Plus, she’s a lot of fun. And she’s just about your age. Match made in heaven, if you ask me.”
He stood but didn’t make an exit. Instead, he let his eyes wander over the room, first taking in the bookshelves behind her, then the contents scattered around the top of her desk. He nodded, then nodded again. Trudi wasn’t sure if she was supposed to stand as well or just wait it out. Finally, he smiled at her.
“Well, Trudi,” he said, “you’re saying a lot of things at me. But the one thing you haven’t said yet is no. I think that means you’re trying to talk yourself out of going on this date as much as you’re trying to talk me out of it.”
“Okay, then. No.”
“I notice you were reading about me,” he said. He gestured toward the book on her desk, The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe, still opened to “The Raven” from when she and Samuel had been looking at it.
“Oh, that, no,” she said. “I was looking something up for my ex-husband. Background for a case he’s—”
“No need to explain.” The Raven cut her off. “I’m flattered, but I didn’t take my stage name from Poe.”
“Really?” Now she was curious.
“Nope, though a lot of people think that. When I was starting out, I spent some time in Baltimore. Didn’t take me long to figure out that a street magician in a football town could benefit from being associated with the sports team there, so I tried to get a job as Poe, the bird mascot for the Baltimore Ravens.”
“That would’ve been something to see.”
“Hey, I was great at it, for your information. But they already had a Poe they’d contracted for the foreseeable future. Still, the human resources lady liked me. She said that if I wanted to perform magic outside the stadium on game days, they wouldn’t stop me, and maybe someday if the other mascot quit, then I’d be around when there was an opening.”
“So that’s when you became The Raven?”
“Well, technically, I was The Amazing Raven at first. But I shortened it to The Raven when I came to Atlanta. But that’s how it started, yeah, and that’s why I wear a purple cape and black eye mask. Just trying to match the colors of the home team up in Baltimore.”
“So if you’d started out in Denver you’d be The Amazing Bronco?”
“Well, no, not that.” He wrinkled his nose. “Guy’s got to draw the line somewhere.”
“Right.” Trudi nodded. “So why’d you leave Baltimore?”
“My father—” He stopped himself. “You know, maybe that’s a conversation to save for our second date.”
“I haven’t agreed to any date.”
“Tell you what,” he said, and he reached down to pick up The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe off the desk. “Are you the gambling type?”
“Depends,” she said.
He turned a few pages, then fanned through the rest once or twice, pausing every now and then as if he were shuffling a deck. Finally, he clapped the covers shut, leaned over the desk, and held the book out to her. After she’d taken it, he crossed his arms and grinned.
“I’m betting you want to go to dinner with me. And the reason I know that is because I can read your mind.”
“What? Be serious.”
“I am serious. Enough to bet on it. Are you willing to gamble that I can’t read your mind?”
“What are the stakes?”
“I’ll read your mind and tell you what you’re thinking. If I’m right, you meet me tonight, at seven-thirty, at Eclipse di Luna for dinner, a little music, and at least one dance. My mom always told me I was a great dancer, and she never lied to me.”
“And if you’re wrong? If you can’t read my mind?”
“Well, then my fate will be in your hands.”
Trudi was starting to enjoy this guy in spite of herself.
“All right,” she said. “How do you suggest we go about reading my mind?”
14
Bliss
Atlanta, GA
Little Five Points
Friday, March 24, 10:04 a.m.
21 days to Nevermore
Somewhere in this city, Bliss thought, someone is falling in love.
She wheeled her chair over the wood floor of the Secret Stash, past the book displays and the stacks of old hardcovers that had been die-cut into the shapes of numbers and letters in the alphabet. A recent customer had arranged a few of the die-cut tomes so that the counter now proclaimed “MN + AW” in book art.
Right now, someone is laughing and holding hands with a lover, she thought. Someone is welcoming a child into her arms. Sharing a Coke with a teenager. Dreaming about the future.
She nodded to Darrent as she passed the cash wrap.
And according to Samuel Hill, here in this city, in my home neighborhood of Little Five Points, someone is making plans to kill those innocent people.
She frowned, paused, and turned back to her manager. “Darrent,” she said, “no interruptions this morning, okay?”
“Sure thing, Mama.”
She turned and completed the little journey back to her office. She closed the door behind her but didn’t bother with the lock. It was time to chan
ge the site of her insulin pump, and that was never terribly pleasant. Still, it was better than the alternative. She’d suffered some nasty bouts of diabetic shock in the past, and that was enough to make her diligent in managing her insulin levels from day to day. The pump certainly helped.
Bliss had been using a pump to regulate her blood sugar levels for years now. It was a small black box that had a narrow, flexible tube and needle attached. Bliss would use the needle to implant the flexible catheter just under her skin. Then the pump would deliver a steady drip of insulin into her bloodstream, helping to keep her blood sugar from getting too high or too low. Using the pump, she’d been able to eliminate most of the severe symptoms of hypoglycemia that were common to diabetics: dizziness, shaking, confusion, and sometimes seizures and fainting. The only problem was that the site for the insulin pump had to be changed about every three days.
It was never a thrill to wad up a roll of fat between her fingers and insert the needle under her skin to start a new three-day cycle. But she’d grown used to the ritual, and she liked being able to function almost normally when the pump was on.
Today she completed the procedure without incident, but before clipping the pager-sized box inside the waistband of her rayon pants, she paused to examine the life-giving little contraption.
Between meals and at night, the pump constantly delivered a small amount of insulin to keep her blood sugar levels in a healthy range. Before each meal, though, she had to input the number of carbohydrate grams she was about to eat into the pump display. Then it would increase the amount of insulin it delivered to her body to accommodate her food consumption.
Once, some years ago, she’d typed in the number of grams for a bowl of macaroni and cheese along with some sliced apples and a brownie—a quick lunch on a busy day. Only she’d been interrupted before she got the mac and cheese out of the microwave. Some minor emergency on the sales floor that needed her attention. Then she forgot to eat. By the time she got back to her stale lunch, the pump had already begun flooding her bloodstream with insulin. Since there was no food in her system, the result was insulin overload. Diabetic shock hit, and she’d fainted in the hallway.
