She took a sloppy bite and chewed with gusto. Hunched in front of her, Leon watched her eat, deep-set eyes smoking like stoked coals.
“My mama used to do that shit,” he said softly.
“What’s that?” She kept chewing.
“Ignore me, tune me out, change the subject, give me the cold shoulder, like you did. I don’t like that shit, baby girl, not one iota. Don’t fuckin’ play with me, bitch.”
Bracing herself for anything, she swallowed, and regarded him with a purposely bland expression.
He slapped her across the face, hand as quick and sharp as a bullwhip. Her head slewed sideways, and the sandwich dropped out of her fingers. Pain rose in her cheek like a heat blister.
She clenched her teeth against a cry, and though tears hung in her eyes, she blinked them back. No more weeping. She would not give him the satisfaction.
He got to his feet, blew out smoke. “You better hope that Corey comes through for you and the munchkin, you hear me, bitch, you better hope you don’t ever see me again.”
She looked up at him and gave him a kiss-my-ass smile.
He snarled and flicked his cigarette at her. She raised her arms to protect her face. The glowing butt stung her forearm, and she stifled a scream.
He stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the house.
As he left, she was still smiling, even though smiling worsened the ache in her face. She had finally discovered a chink in his armor, a weakness for potential exploitation, if it ever came to that.
But she hoped to God that it didn’t, and that Corey came through for them.
30
Corey arrived at Lenox Square Mall a half hour early. This was one time when he couldn’t let Atlanta’s crazy traffic jam up his plans.
Lenox Square Mall was located in Buckhead, north of downtown, a district of upscale restaurants and trendy boutiques, posh condos and gleaming office towers, and picturesque homes tucked away in tree-shaded enclaves. The mall itself featured a wide range of high-end stores and even offered valet parking. Considering Leon’s aspirations to the finer things, it made a twisted kind of sense to Corey that he would have picked this place for the drop-off. Lenox was usually busy, too, a popular shopping destination for tourists, and would make it easy for someone to disappear in the crowd.
He parked at the far edge of the parking lot on the eastern side. As he waited in the car, cracking his knuckles obsessively, he checked out the sky. The sun had not only vanished, but the clouds had thickened, too. They hung low and dark over the city, threatening a storm, and a breeze had picked up, tossing scraps of debris across the asphalt and teasing the skirts of the young women sauntering in and out of the doors.
The black leather Hermes briefcase that Todd had given him lay on the passenger seat. It contained fifty thousand dollars, in rubber-banded packets of fifties and hundreds. When Corey had met Todd at his Midtown condo after leaving the bank, Todd had invited him to count the money, but Corey had given the cash only a brief glance. Looking at it, counting it, would have only pissed him off, would have reminded him that Leon had won.
By ten minutes to four, he was too antsy to wait any longer. He grabbed the briefcase and got out of the car.
Although it was probably only in his imagination, the briefcase felt so heavy it could have contained a load of bricks. As he walked slowly across the parking lot, he had a nightmarish vision of dropping the case and seeing the money spill out and scatter across the pavement, drawing the attention of security and eventually the police, the cops searching him, finding the gun on his hip, adding up the money and the handgun and assuming he was there for a drug buy.
Relax, man, just relax.
God, he hoped this worked, he couldn’t wait for this to be over, Simone and Jada in his arms again, safe.
He reached the revolving doors. He couldn’t remember if Leon had told him to go inside and await his call or to hang around outside, but he felt vulnerable and exposed outdoors, so he headed in.
Indoors, the refrigerated air crystallized the sweat on his face. He read his watch. Seven minutes to four.
He looked around. No Leon.
He drifted toward an empty bench not far from the entrance. He considered sitting, but his knees felt so watery he worried he wouldn’t be able to get up. Remaining on his feet, he unclipped the cell phone from the belt holster and clutched it in a clammy grip.
A security guard walked past, but ignored him. Shoppers of all ages and ethnicities streamed around him, laughing and talking, chatting on cell phones, making dinner plans and hook-up plans and plans for who knew what else, going about normal everyday business, and seeing the casual happiness on their faces intensified Corey’s aching desire to bring this awful episode of his life to a close so he and his family could resume their ordinary lives.
After what felt like an eternity, his watch hit four o’clock.
The phone rang. Before the ring completed Corey had the cell against his ear.
“I’m here,” Corey said.
“Right on time,” Leon said. “That’s why I liked having you as a wingman. You’re dependable as the day is long, yep, yep.”
Squinting against beads of sweat dripping into his eyes, Corey looked from the lower level where he stood to the upper floor. “Where are you?”
“I’m all around you, I’m like the Force, I’m everywhere like chi, permeating the ether and the ozone and the oxygen you breathe, can you feel me?”
“Listen, knock it off, will you?” Corey wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I want to do this, okay? Where do you want me to go?”
“What’s my most favoritest thing in the whole wide world?”
“I. . Jesus, I don’t know. Cigarettes?”
“Man, you disappoint me. What would I be carrying around with me all the time back when we used to rock and roll? Have you forgotten, has it slipped that sputtering hippocampus of yours in your middle age, you coming down with a hard case of Alzheimer’s?”
“Why don’t you cut to the chase and tell me, Einstein?”
“Books, my illiterate brother, books. Iceberg Slim, Donald Goines, Chester Himes-those were my heroes, gave me my joie de vivre, my inspiration.”
Corey did recall that Leon would carry books with him, but Leon would boast that he never read any of them cover to cover, that he would skim them to find the juicy parts and then toss them aside to pick up another one; he claimed that his mind was so quick and brilliant that no author could keep up with him and therefore even the best books failed to hold his attention for more than a few pages.
Corey tightened his grip on the briefcase. “Okay, books, so what? You want me to go to a bookstore?”
“There’s one on the second floor next to an antique furniture boutique. Take the escalator behind you. Keep the phone to your ear. Move it, my man, time is money and time is a wasting.”
Corey moved toward the escalator. He scanned for Leon again, but didn’t see him. Where the hell was he hiding?
He mounted the rising steps. There was a gaggle of adolescent girls ahead of him, gabbing on their cell phones and giggling amongst themselves, and they made him think about his daughter.
“Is my family okay?” Corey asked.
“They’re snug as pigs in a blanket. That wifey of yours has a hellified mouth on her, though, good Lord, I think you’ve been sparing the rod and spoiling the bitch. If she was mine I’d be going upside her head on the regular like Mister from The Color Purple. Did you skip the part during the exchange of vows when she was supposed to agree to kiss your ass?”
Corey tuned out Leon’s meaningless patter and stepped off the escalator. “I’m upstairs now.”
“The bookstore is a hundred paces ahead, forward march, left, left, left, right, left.”
Corey strode forward briskly. “I see it coming up. But I don’t see you.”
“I told you, you’re not supposed to see me. I’m like the Matrix. I’m all aro
und us.”
“I’m standing outside the bookstore now.” His fingers were curled so tightly around the briefcase they had begun to ache.
“Go inside,” Leon said.
Corey walked inside the store. A handful of customers browsed the magazine racks, oblivious to him. A strawberry-haired female clerk behind the counter was on the telephone, flipping through a catalog, and she didn’t notice him, either.
“Now what?” Corey asked in a low voice.
“Walk to the rear, on the left-hand side.”
Corey marched down the center aisle. All of the customers were apparently gathered at the front; the rear sections were deserted.
The back of the store was devoted to children’s literature. Colorful unicorns and dragons and other fanciful creatures cavorted on the walls, and splashy floor displays advertised Dr. Seuss books.
On the left side, the area was set up for story time: ten miniature green plastic chairs were arranged in a semicircle around a normal-size folding chair. A small, low wooden bench stood against the wall, bracketed by shelves on either side.
Corey blew out a breath. “I’m here.”
“See the bench?”
“Yeah.”
“Slide the briefcase underneath it.”
Sweating so much in the cool air he felt feverish, Corey knelt in front of the bench, knees popping, and pushed the briefcase beneath it. The case disappeared in the shadows.
Lord, please let this work out for us, he prayed as he released the handle. Please.
Rising on unsteady legs, he clenched and unclenched his sore fingers. “All right, it’s done. Now where the hell is my family?”
“Not so fast, home boy. I’ve got to collect the currency first. I’ve got to see the loot with mine own eyes, and when I have, when I’m satisfied that you’ve held up your end of the bargain, then I’ll give you the coordinates for the other members of the Webb pride.”
“So come get it then.”
“Leave the store, and make a right.”
Corey hurried headlong down the center aisle. Again, no one appeared to notice him. He had left behind fifty thousand dollars in cash in a briefcase in a risky gamble to ransom his family from a maniac, and no one had the slightest clue what was going on. He would have found the scenario impossible if he weren’t living it.
Outside the store, he cut to the right. “I’m out. Now where?”
“Mr. Webb?” a husky female voice said.
Corey turned. Special Agent Falco strode toward him, short arms swinging. Her wide-shouldered partner, Agent March, was close on her heels.
The bottom fell out of Corey’s stomach.
“Who the fuck are they?” Leon asked, voice crackling in Corey’s ear.
“Can we speak to you, please, sir?” Falco asked.
Numb, out of breath, Corey backpedaled.
Agent March peeled away from Falco and strode into the bookstore.
They had seen him go inside with the briefcase, he realized. And walk out empty-handed.
Oh, shit.
“You went five-o on me?” Leon said. “You went to the Feds after we made a deal?”
“No,” Corey whispered. “No, no, I didn’t-”
Cursing, Leon hung up. Corey backed away from Falco.
“Mr. Webb, listen to me,” she said, dark eyes like darts. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll come with me peacefully.”
“Stay away from me,” Corey said. “Please. . just stay away.”
And then he ran.
31
Peeping the merde going down near the bookstore from the cool safety of a men’s clothing shop on the other side of the mall, Leon headed in the opposite direction.
Using his singular gift for blending in to the crowd, he’d kept watch on Corey ever since his home boy had come inside. Corey had been looking around for him, of course, but his eyes had swept blindly over Leon as if Leon were draped in an invisibility cloak like a kid in a Harry Potter flick.
It happened, simply, because Corey was expecting someone else.
After leaving the Webb flock at the house, Leon had shaved off his beard, a little sad at watching four months of growth tumble into the sink of a local Mickey Dee’s restroom. A bit of concealer had hidden the red scratches on his face. And he’d removed the dreadlocks wig, too, exposing his bald head, smooth and round as a baby’s backside.
No beard, no dreads, Rasta man no more, kiss good-bye to his wisdom-weed toking brothers in the West End.
He’d dressed in one of his disguises: a crisp, long-sleeve blue work shirt with an official-looking but meaningless insignia on the breast, dark slacks, polished oxfords, fake walkie-talkie holstered on a chunky utility belt, black serge hat with visor, aviator sunglasses. He wore a Bluetooth apparatus clipped to his ear, to speak hands-free on his cell.
Chin up, shoulders thrown back, head ratcheting back and forth, walking with a slow, I’m-the-man gait, he passed so well for mall security that someone flagged him down and asked for directions to the can.
When he’d passed Corey, he’d been close enough to slit his throat. In retrospect, he wished he had. He should have slit his throat and snatched the briefcase, because once Corey came out of the bookstore and those two Feds rolled up on him-Leon tagged them as FBI from their bland suits-he knew he would never get his hands on that currency. His El Dorado was gone, game over, hit the restart button or quit the game altogether and play something else.
As Leon swaggered away, in the corner of his eye he watched the refrigerator-wide agent stride inside the store, going to retrieve his goddamn money.
His hands twitched. He wanted to break something.
For some reason, though, Corey started running from the pretty, pint-sized female agent. It puzzled Leon. If Corey was cooperating with them-or if they were only following him because they suspected him of being linked to Leon-why the hell was he running?
Bad move, C-Note, now you’ve got the mark of the beast. Welcome back to the dark side.
Leon descended a flight of stairs and sauntered to a corridor that led to the parking garage, where he had parked the van and where Billy awaited his return. He had no idea what he was going to do next, but what else was new. He was an impulsive guy and rolled with the punches, danced on the cutting edge of life, lived in the moment.
As soon as he got outside, he lit a cigarette, hands jittering, heart banging.
At the moment, he realized, he felt like venting his anger.
32
Corey raced pell-mell to the nearest escalator going down, yelling at people to get out of his way, using his elbows and shoulders to clear a path. In his frenzy, he caused one guy to drop his ice cream cone and another woman to fumble her shopping bags, spilling shoes. Both of them shouted at him angrily and Corey muttered apologies, while on the walkway above, a red-faced Falco ordered him to halt.
He couldn’t believe what was happening, couldn’t believe he was running from the FBI. Jesus, how had this gone so wrong?
Nearing the bottom platform, he jumped off the steps and sprinted to the exit doors, shoes clapping across tiles.
All around, people turned and looked, alarmed. A pimple-faced teenager had his cell phone out and tracked Corey running. Just in case it wound up being a sensational crime in progress, someone had to capture video footage to replay on YouTube and the local news.
Corey shouldered through the doors. The sky had finally split open. Cold rain hammered the afternoon.
He dashed across the street to the parking lot, splashing through puddles, rushing heedlessly through traffic. Cars honked. An SUV screeched to a halt, bumper less than a foot from him, the driver shaking his fist.
Corey ignored them and looked over his shoulder. He didn’t see Falco coming outside, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t on her way, and she might have a whole team of agents stationed in the area. If they caught him, his life might as well be over-Simone and Jada would be gone forever.
No, never.
> He ran across the lot, rain pelting his face and soaking through his clothes. He couldn’t remember where he had parked. Shit. He wiped water from his eyes and whirled around in a circle, searching.
Wait, there. Over there. There, in the corner.
He finally reached the BMW, dove inside, and stabbed the key in the ignition, fingers trembling so badly it took three tries to get it in.
Drive.
He roared out of the parking lot, tires seizing traction on the slick asphalt, the turbocharged six-cylinder engine responding magnificently to pressure, steering responsive and tight, the perfect getaway car if ever there was one.
But he was going to have to get rid of it, and very soon.
Because now he was wanted by the FBI.
Part Three
33
As storm clouds darkened the sky and spat cold rain, Ed left his trailer to check out Their home on the other side of the lake.
Sitting at his bedroom window eating green beans straight from the can, he had watched the white van depart the house and roll away down the street, soon traveling out of sight. He waited for a while before he made his move, to be sure the vehicle didn’t come right back and he was forced to confront Them on Their turf.
Convinced the coast was clear, he brought four members of his family with him, big, strong hounds. All of the dogs wanted to tag along, and he had to shut the door in their faces to keep the entire family from getting out. Scratching at the door, they yelped, whined, and barked in protest.
“Ed will be back soon, okay?” he said. “Ed’s going to check on something around the lake. Don’t worry, Ed’s coming back.”
He had a flashlight, the binoculars, his cane, and his bowie knife from the war, too. He hoped he didn’t need to use the knife.
But if it meant saving a dog from Them, he would.
It was raining hard. He zipped his fatigue jacket and flipped up the attached hood.
Moving slowly, he picked his way around the lake and into the forest, mud squelching under his boots. As if aware of the gravity of their mission, the canines kept pace with him, occasionally halting to shake the rainwater off their coats.
Cornered Page 14
