Stempke was done. “Got a pen?” he asked.
“No.”
“You never have a pen. Get yourself some pens.” Stempke handed his pen to Ralph. An ordinary sixty-cent ballpoint. He was wearing gloves, was always careful that his touch never shared anything with Ralph’s. Except for the money. “Keep it,” he told Ralph and in practically the same breath rapidly read aloud from his notes the names and addresses of the registered owners he’d gotten from accessing the Department of Motor Vehicles information terminal.
Ralph got only most of them. He asked Stempke to repeat them so he could fill in, and not until he was sure he had them right did he go into his pocket for Stempke’s juice. He counted off six hundreds. “By now I ought to be eligible for a complimentary,” Ralph remarked lightheartedly but with a degree of serious suggestion.
“Against my principles,” Stempke told him.
Ralph drove home. He sat in his usual kitchen chair and phoned the Brooklyn number. He knew it so well that his finger almost performed it involuntarily.
A female voice answered, not one he recognized.
“Who’s this?” he asked.
“Who’s this wants to know who’s this?”
She didn’t sound black, Ralph thought. He disliked the idea of the swifts in his crew fucking around with white women. Not even street whites or pros. He didn’t like the way he’d overheard the swifts talking about doing white women. He’d never said anything to them about it but that was how he felt.
“Floyd there?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
“Put Floyd on.”
“You haven’t told me who’s this.”
“Fuck you, put Floyd on.”
Next thing Ralph heard was dial tone. He redialed. This time Floyd picked up.
“Who’s the cunt?” Ralph asked, irked.
“Nobody,” Floyd told him.
“She hung up on me.”
“Man, what do you give a shit?”
“You let a nobody cunt answer your phone on a Saturday night.”
“She was just closest to it.”
“Dumb thing,” Ralph grumbled. He took a couple of deep, calming breaths. “Who you got there?”
“Tracy and me and her.”
“Where’s Ronnie?”
“He cut out.”
“When’ll he be back?”
“I don’t know, man. From the way the brother went he’s gone.”
“It’s Saturday night. His head must be up his ass. Did he take the car?”
“We don’t want to work tonight,” Floyd said, as though that was all he had to say.
“Oh?” It wasn’t an unusual problem. “What you got to do that’s more important?” Ralph asked patiently.
“Nothing. Just hang out.”
Ralph handled it by going right through it. “Who can you get to drive?” The absent Ronnie was usually the driver.
Floyd didn’t reply.
Ralph let the silence continue. It was now a matter of whichever spoke the next word. Finally, Floyd said: “I suppose I could get Dexter. He may be around.”
“I know Dexter?”
“He worked a couple of times.”
“When was that?”
“Two years ago.”
“I don’t remember any Dexter. What’s he been doing since?”
“Time.”
“Who else can you get?”
Floyd took a moment. “Corky maybe. He’ll want a guarantee.”
“How much?”
“Five.”
“Corky’s a fucking cowboy. Anyway, last time he worked he held out.”
“What did he hold out?”
“Two nice blues, a four carat and a six. The next afternoon the cocksucker was moving around Forty-seventh with them. He ended up taking shit.”
“How you know that?”
“I know Forty-seventh, Forty-seventh knows me.” Something Ralph said to influence certain situations. He enjoyed the cryptic quality of it. He believed the pause in their conversation was those words sinking in.
“We don’t want to work tonight,” Floyd said.
Back to that. Ralph told him: “Just don’t work Corky.”
“Not unless I have to, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“If I have to you’ll come up with his guarantee?”
“Fuck no.”
“I ain’t taking it out of my end.”
“Floyd, your end will be so big you won’t even feel it.”
Chapter 2
Later that same night the white stretch Lincoln was headed for home on Interstate 78. Doing an easy eighty-five and sometimes ninety. The driver kept to the left lane, bullied any car that got in the way by coming up too close behind and blinking the brights.
Sherman, which was what the people in the back had chosen to call him, enjoyed driving. It was one of the things he’d missed when he was inside. He’d done seven of a five to ten and it wasn’t until he was out and behind a steering wheel that he realized what a longing he’d had for it. Now, after two years of doing plenty of it, he still didn’t feel he’d gotten even.
These people in the back. He glanced in the rearview mirror. As usual the glass partition was up. The man always insisted that it be up. As though that permitted him to be breathing a better kind of air. Also, as usual, the man was way over on the right, the woman way over on the left. A lot of seat between them and no talk. Sherman wondered why they hadn’t wanted to call him by his real name. What was wrong with Donnell? It sounded as good as Sherman. It couldn’t have been that they knew when he’d been born in San Juan his mother had intended that his birth certificate read Donald but she hadn’t known how to spell it.
These people knew practically nothing about him. During long waits at the airport or anywhere, with one or the other waiting with him, it seemed there should have been some personal exchange. But nothing, not even once. To pass that kind of time he usually read some magazine, while they, if they looked his way at all, were satisfied with the back of his size twenty-two neck.
Didn’t matter. The same disinterest right back at them. About all he knew about them was what he’d surmised from overhearing. They had money, they were Iranian, they’d been in this country since the early eighties. Their last name was Kalali. Mr. Abbas and Mrs. Roudabeth. Kal and Rhoda to some.
They paid him seven-fifty a week off the books. No benefits, no medical coverage or Social Security credit or anything like that. It was made clear that he wasn’t to expect any meals; however, the housekeeper slipped him a sandwich now and then.
For the seven-fifty he was to drive wherever they wanted whenever they wanted. And to get between them and any trouble. Up to now, he’d had to use only his heft a couple of times to discourage overly aggressive panhandlers.
Sherman had given thought to what he might do if someone made a serious move on them, tried to kidnap or hold them up. There was no question in his mind about how he’d react. Not for a second would he put himself on the line.
Not for these assholes.
The white stretch passed a sign that said Millburn. It told Sherman he had eighteen miles to go to his third-hand Honda Civic and the beginning of his day off. He had a place reserved on one of the fishing boats out of Elizabeth Port, scheduled to leave the pier at five-thirty. By the time he got to his apartment in Irvington and got his gear together it would be three. He’d stay up.
“Sherman.”
Mr. Kalali on the intercom.
What you want dickhead? Sherman thought. What came out was “Yes, sir?”
“Lower the air conditioning. Mrs. Kalali is cold.”
Actually Mrs. Kalali hadn’t said a word since the restaurant. It was Mr. Kalali who’d been uncomfortable with the temperature. To admit that, he believed, would be to disclose a weakness in his endurance. No matter how minor and commonplace such admissions might be, they were like demerits. They added up to the man.
Mrs. Kalali did a derisive little scoff. She knew all
too well how his male mind worked. She turned to the side window so none of him would be in her sight.
Still, he was in her mind, steadfast there like some tenacious decal that would require scraping off.
Him, Abbas, him and his insolent complacence. Now slouched and stretched out, his bony rump on the edge of the seat, ankles and arms crossed. Tie unknotted, shirt unbuttoned three down exposing a veritable tuft of black chest hair. To think she’d once admired his hair, each crop of it. His beard especially, the virility it had represented.
Could she ever have been so emotionally bound to him? That didn’t say much for her, she thought, not unless he’d changed greatly for the worse and she didn’t believe he had.
He had always been the man over there beyond reach. His breaths were bellowing this limited space, reeking it. Because of the courses of crab and lamb and garlic and chocolate and the espresso, wine and brandy he’d consumed. As well as the tuberose-based eau de toilette with which he’d doused himself, splashed his armpits. He kept a flacon of it in a compartment of the limousine.
To think.
To think of the years she’d followed along behind his dinner conversations, an accomplice to his opinions and desires. It was as though all that while she’d been in a spell, cast by his patriarchal presence. She’d been lucky to get a feeling in edgewise.
He’d always taken her passion for granted, had never considered it part of his responsibility. He assumed she was so libidinal that it took very little for her to peak and finish. Was that not so with all women? Didn’t they need to be kept in check from their erotic nature? If he ever gave thought to the reason she often got up directly afterwards and went into her private dressing room, ever suspected it was for the purpose of some self-administered frictions, he attributed it to her female greediness for another orgasm.
He’d been a spigot and she nothing more than his receptacle. For all those years. More emphatically so for the last three, although he hadn’t demanded sex from her as frequently. Once a month on average. That was about the length of time it took for his need to humiliate and fester. When he skipped a month she presumed he’d taken it out on another woman.
He would have her sit on the floor in a corner, trapped-like, or on the toilet commode. No need for her to undress. He would stand fully clothed before her and require that she take his cock out, grope in eagerly and find it as though compulsed. He’d have her include the softness of it with her mouth and remain perfectly still while it hardened. Then, grasping her hair with both hands, he would hold her head in place. Her head an object, a receptacle, that he’d jam himself into thrust after thrust.
She was tempted to bite into it, through it. Each time she vowed she would next time. He must have sensed that, for he hadn’t demanded it of her for the past several months.
Last Christmas season was when Roudabeth’s self-worth stopped draining. She remembered the exact day, in fact, the very instant when it started being replenished.
She was gift-shopping in the city, had gone into Saks to buy Kal some evening socks. The young male clerk who waited on her showed her the best, black silk. He inserted his hand into one of a pair to have her see the fine weave. To that point he’d been nothing more than a helpful, informing voice. Her attention went from the sock with his nice hand in it up to his face, and for a long moment, a moment communicative because of its length, she remained eyes to eyes with him.
Young, fair-haired man who had lived at least two decades less than she. Clean-shaven young man with a straight, narrow nose and healthy, even teeth within what appeared to be a gentle mouth. Not a pretty young man but nearly. What must he think of her staring? she thought.
She found out later when he got off work for an hour.
His name was Roger Addison.
Next he told her, or perhaps not next but what had registered with early indelible impact, was how stunning he thought she was. How lovely, how aristocratic were her hands. How mellifluent her voice. That was the very word he used, mellifluent.
She believed him. She was empty, famished for such beliefs. She adored his fairness, his hair and complexion such a contrast to that which she’d been accustomed. His name sounded well-off, but he wasn’t. He’d completed four semesters at Columbia, would go back when he’d saved up.
They usually met at his apartment, an everything room that fronted on Second Avenue above a fruit and vegetable market. Every so often she’d treat their lovemaking to an afternoon in a high room of the Plaza: vintage wine and delicious nibbles.
Now in the limousine being transported through the damp New Jersey night, she recalled the most recent afternoon she’d spent with Roger, certain joys of it: him kissing her thighs so lightly, his blue-green eyes glancing up to verify her pleasure.
On the opposite side of the limousine husband Kal stirred, as though disturbed by her thoughts. He now had his tasseled loafers off. He re-crossed his ankles. Eyes closed to remain within his self, he lowered his chin to his chest and rotated his head tensely to cause a little unctuous, realigning snap.
He had one of his many strings of prayer beads in hand, these of sapphire. Roudabeth watched his fingers work the beads and wondered if he was supplicating or hoping to pay off delinquent dues. He’d never catch up, she thought, and returned her attention to outside. They had reached and taken the Martinsville turn-off. Then came Liberty Corner and Far Hills and the familiar winding way where large homes self-consciously hid behind high walls or tall impenetrable hedges.
A swing to the right.
A short distance to the steel gate.
The gate responded obediently, slid aside so the stretch could continue up the paved drive. The appropriate door of the four-car garage was equally obedient, completed its opening by the time the limousine got to it. Sherman drove in and cut the engine.
Mrs. Kalali was quickly out and bound for the house via the connecting breezeway.
Mr. Kalali waited for Sherman to open the limousine door for him. He stepped out with his shoes in hand. For the last mile or so he’d tried to put them on but his feet were swollen.
He had Sherman hold the shoes while he took out his billfold. It wasn’t fat because it contained only brand-new hundreds. The bills stuck together. Mr. Kalali wet his thumb and first finger and counted twice.
Eight of the hundreds onto the flat of Sherman’s palm. Mr. Kalali expected fifty change. Sherman didn’t have it. Mr. Kalali reclaimed one of his virgin hundreds and said he’d owe Sherman the fifty until next payday.
Sherman wanted to say no way fucker. Instead he nodded and ducked beneath the grinding descent of the garage door, hurried to his car and was gone.
Mrs. Kalali, meanwhile, had entered the house and turned off the security system. She found a note from the live-in housekeeper on the kitchen counter. A lie about a family emergency and a promise to return Monday morning.
By then, Mr. Kalali, carrying his shoes with his billfold in one, was in the breezeway headed for the kitchen door that had been left open for him.
Floyd timed his move perfectly, stepped out of the darkness to be directly behind Mr. Kalali. Did so with such stealth that Mr. Kalali wasn’t aware until he felt the pistol jab his spine.
Mr. Kalali started, bowed his back and turned enough to see Floyd’s black face.
“Keep going,” Floyd told him.
Mr. Kalali felt legless. It seemed he levitated into the kitchen.
Mrs. Kalali saw Floyd and his weapon and realized what was occurring. She stiffened. Her breath caught, and when she released it, an apprehensive female sound came from her. As though it was called for. She studied Floyd for a moment, then decided it would be best that she look away.
The others came in.
Tracy and the white girl.
They were also armed. The white girl had a Mach 10 machine pistol. It looked too heavy for her.
Floyd hadn’t been able to reach out for Corky or anyone else who’d ever worked, and rather than phone Ralph to say it wasn’
t going to come off because they were shorthanded, it struck him that maybe the girl could drive, just drive. She was all for it at first, but when Floyd explained the work to her, she didn’t want to. Not just drive. She wouldn’t go along at all unless she could play a more important part.
The girl, whose most recent one name was Peaches, went back and forth about that with Floyd, but, finally, Floyd gave in and it was settled that the driving would be done by Dexter, who didn’t care one way or the other. It was also agreed that having Peaches along was something they’d keep from Ralph.
On the drive they’d played a couple of Toni Braxtons, smoked some boo and Peaches had gotten some laughs out of them with stories about four years ago when she was a titless fourteen in Phoenix passing for a flat-chested twenty. Between stories she sucked on Floyd’s second finger after alternately guiding it into a pint bottle of Southern Comfort and herself.
They’d had no problem finding the Far Hills area or the Kalali house or which wall belonged to the rear of it. Dexter had left them off and would return to the spot frequently to see if they were there to be picked up.
The wall had been easy, not very high and no barbed wire, spikes or anything, and the rear grounds couldn’t have been more accommodating: unlighted, wooded, overgrown with brush and landscaped with mature shrubs from the wall to two-thirds of the way to the house.
Now they were in the kitchen, the thieves and the Kalalis, weapons and edginess. Mr. Kalali was still carrying his shoes. Peaches noticed the wallet protruding from the one. She plucked the wallet out and was delighted with the nice new hundreds it contained. About twenty. She had on lightweight latex rubber gloves, as did Floyd and Tracy. There’d be no fingerprints.
“Who’s here in the house?” Floyd asked.
Mrs. Kalali volunteered a bit eagerly that there wasn’t anyone else. Floyd made sure, went from room to room. Throughout, the interior was white and sheer, minimally furnished. There was a lot of mirror, chrome and glass. All the floors were bird’s-eye maple, fine-sanded slick and bleached pale. There were ten rooms in all, generous spaces with high ceilings. Off a wide entry hall was the living room and opposite that the library. One entire long wall there was bookcases with a sliding chrome ladder to help reach the volumes on the higher shelves. Every book was jacketed in identical white paper, its title and author noted in small lettering at the base of its spine.
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