by Bill Eidson
Three guys.
Good chance, he thought.
Where the hell is he going?” Ball said. “There’s not going to be enough left of him for us to squeeze out a dime.”
“Don’t know.” Jammer was behind the wheel. They were hanging two blocks back. “He’s one crazy bastard. Thought for sure those kids back there were going to nail him.”
“Fucking angel on his shoulder.”
Jammer had to laugh. Big ugly baboon like Ball talking about angels. A guy who had broken the arms of the other kids at school for lunch money. “You’re going to have to do it on your own. If he sees me, he’ll spook.”
Ball snorted. “Yeah. Sounded like he spooked last time.”
Jammer bit his lip. “Remember what I told you.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll make him give me your precious sword cane first.” Ball rolled his eyes. “Your trademark.”
“He’s fast.”
“Not after I’m finished.” Ball slammed his fist on the padded dash, and Jammer could feel the vibration through the steering wheel.
Ball put out his left hand, palm up. “Gimme.”
Feeling like he was losing something, Jammer handed him the Beretta. Ball checked to see that it was loaded, sighted it out the window at the back of the guy’s head.
“Jesus, pull that in here!”
“Take it easy.” Ball turned his cap forward, then pointed at the corner in front of Geoff. “Right there, cousin. I’ll get him, you be waiting by the side door. Then we’ll pick him clean.”
Geoff noticed the big man’s hand was inside his coat as he got out of the van. The driver was moving back into the back. The big guy looked at Geoff, his eyes shadowed by the baseball cap. His hand was still inside his coat as he took a step closer.
Geoff pushed the little button under the knob of the sword-cane. His mouth was dry; his heart was pumping hard.
“Hey, buddy,” the big guy said. “Got the time?”
“Late.”
The big guy was close now. Just outside of lunging distance.
“Late? That’s your answer?” He pulled out a gun and held it at arm’s length so Geoff was staring down the barrel. “Guess I’ll have to check your watch myself; you’re so frigging rude.”
The side door to the van slid open. Geoff recognized the pimp, Jammer.
Geoff hesitated. The big guy would obviously know about the sword cane.
As if he could read Geoff’s mind, the big guy held out his left hand, still keeping his distance. “Gimme the stick.”
Wordlessly, Geoff stepped forward and offered the cane to the man, holding it by the handle. The man took the bottom end. Geoff drew breath quietly and set his legs.
“Not like that!” the pimp yelled.
The big guy jerked his head to the right. When the gun barrel moved, Geoff grabbed it with his left hand, then drew the sword, letting the other man hold the empty cane. The blade glittered before he plunged it deep into the man’s chest. A round exploded and flame flashed against Geoff’s sleeve. The man’s breath hit him in the face in a hot gust. Geoff shoved the blade deeper still, until the man’s face was in his own. Then he twisted the handle, making the man scream as he fell to ground, his legs scrambling on the pavement.
“Ball!” the pimp yelled.
Geoff grabbed for the gun. The gun was clasped tight in the dying man’s hand, and Geoff had to peel a finger away at a time.
Jammer took that in, and without another word, he slid the door shut.
Geoff got the gun free as the van’s engine revved. He shattered the side window with the first bullet, then the back window as Jammer spun around in a tight turn. The van hopped over the curb and headed up Massachusetts Avenue, tires screaming.
Geoff breathed the city air deeply, while his heart tried to pound through his rib cage. He nudged the big man with his foot. “Hey.”
He kicked the man, hard.
The guy was dead.
“Jesus Christ,” Geoff said, pulling the sword out. “What a day.”
Chapter 11
Geoff walked all the way back to the MIT Bridge and threw the bloody sword cane into the Charles River. His legs were tired from all of the walking by the time he returned to his apartment, but his head still buzzed with the excitement.
He knew who he wanted. His lust made him feel both weak and strong. Out of control. He told himself that she might have diseases. He told himself that as Jammer’s whore, he surely couldn’t trust her. That, if anything, he should be trying to establish an alibi in case the police ever found their way back to him.
But his need was greater than any rational thought. He put the gun under the bed and went looking for Carly.
Detective Lazar pushed the baseball cap with his toe and said, “Ball is way the hell out of his territory. What’s a punk from Southie doing here?”
“Doing what punks like him do best,” Bannerman said. “Getting their guts ripped out.”
“Heart.”
“Huh?”
“Heart ripped out.”
“Guts were just a figure of speech,” Bannerman said. “Want to be factual about it, I’d say his heart probably has a hole poked in it, rather than ripped out.”
“Guess we’ll have to wait for the medical examiner to set us straight.” Lazar was a black man in his early forties. Heavy-set, with a round moon face. His powerful shoulders and beer belly were winning against his slouchy sports jacket. The sleeves on the jacket were on the short side, and he couldn’t help but notice Bannerman still looked smooth and unrumpled.
Bannerman was white, about thirty-five, and wore a nice suit. He was more of a comer in the department than Lazar and prone to give advice. In spite of that, Lazar liked him.
A small crowd had formed around the body. All of the faces were black. After the initial questioning that the two detectives and uniforms had conducted—just got here, man, didn’t see nothing—the group had simply watched the body and detectives. Lazar heard someone say, “Whose black ass this gonna be pinned on? Gonna happen.”
Lazar sighed.
From his days as a beat officer in Southie, Lazar remembered Ball. Lazar had been assigned to the tough white neighborhood in the late seventies for a three-year stint, right after forced busing. Top brass had deemed it politic to have a few black cops working Southie, but it had been very, very tough for those cops to do their jobs.
Ball had been one of Lazar’s first arrests. Back then, Ball was a teenager. A massive, brutal, and dangerously stupid seventeen-year-old with close-set eyes and a permanent scowl. He had already been arrested a few times for burglary and was a suspect in a number of muggings. This time they had a complaint sworn out against him. Ball had threatened to torch a local grocery store unless they came through each week. When Lazar had knocked on the door of Ball’s house, he had come out to the stoop with his hand slightly behind his leg. He said, “A nigger cop? You can’t be serious.” A half dozen of the guy’s brothers had been looking out the window at Lazar. All of them smirking, insolent, and looking a shade too eager. Ball had turned his back on Lazar. It had looked a little too easy to Lazar, the guy virtually begging to be cuffed and rolled down the stairs in front of the whole brood. Lazar had followed, but not too close.
Sure enough, Ball had spun around with a spring-loaded sap.
The department had backed Lazar up, put it in writing that Lazar’s use of force was justified. Ball wasn’t really that keen on pursuing the brutality charges. Embarrassed, probably, that his nose and two front teeth had been broken. Ball had made threats about his friends taking Lazar out, but nothing had happened. Lazar was fairly certain Ball had never been really connected. He was too much of a flake. He and his crazy family.
Now, he was definitely out of place, lying dead in Roxbury. Lazar figured the most likely scenario was that Ball had been trying to score some drugs, possibly by force. Ran into someone faster and tougher than him, someone good with a knife. Bye-bye, Ball.
It was tru
ly hard to give a damn.
Nevertheless, there was something about Ball that he couldn’t quite remember, and the thought flickered off to the side of his brain. Lazar let it alone.
When the medical examiner finally arrived, a bald guy named Dr. Vincent, he opened Ball’s shirt and said, “Knife wound.” Lazar tried to make a connection there. A known associate of Ball’s who carried a knife? Big deal, so did all the people Ball didn’t know, as far as Lazar could tell.
Dr. Vincent chewed bubble gum while making his cursory inspection of Ball.
To Lazar, the sweet scent of the gum added a surrealistic element to the grim scene: the white, cold body bathed by flashing blue lights of the police car, the circle of black faces.
“Help me roll the body, will you?” Vincent said.
What they found surprised them all. A pool of blood had formed from a hole in Ball’s back.
“An exit wound,” Vincent said.
“Thought you said the wound was made with a knife,” Bannerman said. “You mean he was stabbed in the back first?”
“Why would I say ‘exit wound’ if he was stabbed there first?” The doctor looked from Bannerman to Lazar. “Don’t I usually say what I mean?”
Lazar took over. “So what you’re saying is that it’s an exit wound …”
“… that’s exactly what I said.”
“… meaning whatever it was went all the way through the chest and out the back. Like a very long knife.”
“Like a sword,” Vincent said.
“Jammer,” Lazar said.
“Huh?” Bannerman said.
“His cousin, Jammer. Pimp who carries a sword cane.” Lazar laughed. It had come to him at last. “The shithead tells people it’s his trademark.”
Geoff waited for a half hour outside the bar on Boylston Street. He wanted to leave, but nevertheless, he waited until he saw her get out of a car and wave to the man behind the wheel. The guy looked like a businessman, late forties, driving a Chevy. A john.
Geoff supposed that’s what he now was.
Before she saw him, Geoff slipped back into the bar. He ordered a beer and a glass of white wine as she came in and headed for the ladies’ room. She hadn’t noticed him. The ridiculous aspects of the whole thing were not lost on Geoff: She was wearing a tight black miniskirt, a black top that was little more than a chemise, and bright lipstick. Such blatant, cheap sexuality usually held little appeal for him. Now he was hard as a rock.
When she came back out, he was sitting at a table. Her eyes slid over the crowd, over him, then snapped back. She quickly checked out the rest of the room, presumably looking out for her pimp. Not seeing him, her expression changed from sulky invitation to a bright smile. A smile that was totally out of keeping with her whore’s clothing. He smiled back at her, feeling it a little inside, too.
“Tell me you were looking for me,” she said. “Make my night.”
He stood and held a chair out for her. “I ordered you a glass of wine. Chardonnay all right?”
“Sure. I guess.” She sat down, crossed her legs, and saw him noticing. She smiled. “Really, did you come looking for me? Or is this just luck?”
“Little of both.” He sipped his beer and watched her. She drank some of the wine. She winced at the taste and tried to hide it.
He smiled. “You don’t like it, don’t drink it.”
Inside, he was raging. His body was so pumped up, he thought he might explode. Her long legs, the taut softness of her … it was all he could do not to pull her to him right there in the middle of the bar. He didn’t care what she had been doing before with that businessman in the car. He wanted her with a heat that made him as nervous as a teenager. He knew his hunger was all tied in with killing that guy on the street, but that didn’t feel bad. Hell, it felt fucking incredible.
He waved the waitress over. “Get her whatever she likes.”
Carly ordered a Kahlua sombrero.
“Jammer around tonight?” he asked after the waitress had moved on.
Carly shook her head. “Haven’t seen him since this afternoon. But you never know with that guy.” Her eyes left Geoff, searching the bar carefully. When her attention returned to him, she casually reached over and took his hand. It was a gesture that was unexpected and surprisingly appealing. “Tell me why you’re here. You want me to make those connections you asked about? I can do that, maybe sometime tomorrow. But I’m getting other vibes from you here. Normally, that’s great, taking care of those vibes is what I do. In this case, Jammer would kill me if he saw us together. So I’ve got to know what’s going on before I sit here much longer.”
The waitress dropped off the drink, and Geoff waited until she was gone before answering. His voice was hoarse, partially with embarrassment. “To start, just what any guy who calls you over wants.”
“I thought you were afraid of diseases.”
“There’s protection for things like that. And afterward, I want to talk about what we discussed on the street.”
“Sure,” she said, smiling warily. “You’re due a freebie, you don’t have to spin a big story.”
“You want money, I’ll give you money.” He couldn’t believe he was saying those words, but he was shaking he wanted her so badly. He wanted his hands around that slim waist, he wanted her heat against him.
“I can’t take you back to my place. Jammer might be there.”
Geoff figured his own place might not be safe either. “I’ll pay for the night. You must know a place.”
“Sure. What’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
She looked at him levelly. “I want it to be my last night as a hooker. I’m not asking to get married, just help getting free.”
He squeezed her hand. “We’ll be able to work something out.”
His touch seemed to surprise her, please her. “You think so?” Her voice was small.
“I know so.”
Up in the room, he couldn’t control himself a second longer. He slid his hands up under the chemise and felt her firm breasts, hard nipples. Her answering sigh was probably false, but he was past caring.
She started to slide out of the miniskirt, but he pushed her hands aside, pushed her onto the bed and raised her skirt. Saw the patch of dark on her white skin, felt between there, felt her moistness. Smelled the scent of baby oil. The voice in his head that was saying, she’s a hooker, greased and ready for anyone, didn’t slow him down. He slid into her seconds later, thrusting hard, his hands all over her body. He groaned as he came instantly, coming so hard that he was practically crying.
Minutes later, he fell asleep lying on top of her as she ran her fingers along his back, saying, “Hey, hey, hey,” softly, looking up at the ceiling over his shoulder.
Chapter 12
When Lazar and Bannerman showed up at Jammer’s apartment and told him Ball was dead, Jammer said, “Christ, I knew I was gonna hear something like this someday.” He had a big scar on his forehead, a pink, clean cut. A washed-out blonde he introduced as Darlene sat beside him on the couch. She stared straight ahead as if she were alone in the room. Both of them were fully dressed even though it was after one in the morning.
“Ball wasn’t what you’d call a nice guy,” Jammer said. “But his mama’s gonna be screaming. You told her yet?”
“No,” said Lazar. “We came to you first.”
“Me? I was just his cousin.”
“Where’s your sword?”
“My what?”
“Your trademark,” Bannerman said, grinning. “Lazar told me about it. I always wanted to meet a pimp with a trademark.”
“I’m not a pimp.” Jammer was indignant.
“She’s your girlfriend, huh?” Bannerman gestured at Darlene.
She stared back at him, but said nothing.
“That’s right. Prove she isn’t.”
“I go looking for a sheet on her, I bet I’ll find one saying she’s been arrested for soliciting. We know there is one on y
ou, man. Pimping.”
“History,” Jammer said. “What do you want right now? Because if that’s all you’ve got to say, I’d just as soon get some sleep.”
“Told you,” Lazar said. “Your sword.”
“I used to have a cane, but it was solid wood. I don’t know anything about a sword. I don’t even have the cane anymore.”
“You offering us a chance to look for it?”
“You offering me a warrant?”
“If I have to,” Lazar said, evenly. “But taking the time to go get one is going to piss me off. I have to warn you of that.”
Jammer shrugged. “Hell, I was just asking. Knock yourself out if you want.”
Lazar looked around the dingy, three-bedroom apartment while Bannerman continued the interview, saying, “So let me guess—you cut your head shaving?”
Jammer said he fell down. The blonde then provided Jammer with an alibi for the night.
The place had wall-to-wall shag carpeting and smelled of perfume, sweat, and roach spray. One bedroom had an aquarium on the dresser, with two turtles inside. Beside it was a picture of Darlene that looked as if it had been a high school photo. The other room held posters on the wall of mountain scenes, pictures of the ocean. A couple of the posters had inspirational phrases. Pathetic shit for a hooker’s bedroom. Lazar didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. There was a picture of a surprisingly pretty young woman standing in a stream, naked, but covering her breasts.
The largest bedroom, apparently the one Jammer used, had a big waterbed, mirrors on the ceiling. The whole place had been cleaned recently. There wasn’t so much as a match in any of the ashtrays, not a speck of coke or pot in the dresser, the tank behind the toilet, or the kitchen. The nap of the disgusting rug still showed vacuum cleaner marks.
It looked as if the blonde and Jammer had just cleaned the place, getting ready for them.
Lazar went back to the living room. “Let’s get some fresh air, Bannerman.”
