“I don’t feel comfortable taking this until you two meet up.”
“Keep it. I trust you,” I say without meaning a word of it. I have a sense for these things, and I know now after he tried to give me back the money that he’s full of shit. It’s something you know after years of dealing with all kinds of people. I’m sure I’ll get a call in the morning, but he’ll have one excuse or another for why he can’t find Biddy.
He slips the money under his lap.
“All right, then” is all he says.
After he drops me off, I watch him drive off. I walk quickly to my car. I still got what I need in my backpack, so the plan is to drive right back to Diamond’s house and sit on it for as long as I gotta.
Forty-Four
I don’t think taking the side streets made much of a difference as far as time is concerned, but it’s always a good policy to do that if you think you’re being tailed. I got lucky with a good parking space. It allows me a view of the front entrance of Diamond’s house and the cut leading behind it. Whatever route he uses, I’ll see his car.
Since I like to keep up with what’s going on locally, especially when it concerns me, I tune the car radio to WTOP.
More rain in the forecast. That’s always a good thing. After the commercial break, first thing on the local news is about Jeffrey Baldwin.
Shit. I feel for Hurley and Millhoff. It’s turned political. Who am I kidding? I feel more for me. What the hell is going to happen? What the hell am I doing?
Maybe I’ve let myself get too close to Diamond. Revealed too much. Damn—my prints are all over the interior of his cab. Just the thought of being suspected is bad enough. I’ve been there, and it’s not fun.
A couple of cars rolling by catch my attention. They pass slowly. Probably looking for a parking space, though.
Evening settles in, and still nothing. Those cicadas change their song. No lights on in the house. I should be more concerned right about now, but the Klonopin I took earlier is kicking in. Easy. Easy.
Time slows down while you’re on surveillance. It’s like fishing, being out on the Potomac in that old johnboat I used to have. It’s not like surveillance: when I was fishing, it didn’t matter whether I caught anything or not. On the river, sitting back with the line out and letting the current do all the work was more than enough.
Headlights beaming through my rear window bring me right back. I slide farther down in my seat, let the car pass.
It’s fucking Diamond, and it looks like he has a passenger in the front seat.
He double-parks in front of his house a few cars up and across from where I’m parked. The cab’s hazard lights turn on. They exit. I’m betting the passenger is Biddy. He’s a skinny young man, but he’s well dressed and doesn’t look like a typical crackhead. Most likely because he’s not homeless and might even shower on occasion.
The young man follows Diamond to the front porch and then into the house, closing the door behind him.
Warm glow filters through curtains on the front window. Shortly after, another light on the second floor.
I focus my attention on that front door for what seems like more than an hour. Then the door opens, and Diamond walks out, followed by the young man, now carrying a medium-size suitcase.
Has to be Biddy. He’s been staying there all this time, but now the protective uncle is gonna take him somewhere else. I hope he won’t do something stupid after, like take my advice and turn himself in. No, I have a feeling that when he calls me tomorrow he’ll come up with something like he can’t find Biddy, some shit like that.
I let them make the right turn, then turn my headlights on and speed up to the intersection.
Traffic is light. Hell, it’s a Monday night. Diamond’s obeying the speed limit, which is a good thing. It allows me to stay farther back and get behind another car when I can. He crosses Constitution Avenue, still heading south on 14th. The Washington Monument’s to the right. Obvious he’s gonna take the bridge across to Virginia.
He does, but he stays to the right and doesn’t hit the HOV lane. Instead he takes the exit for the George Washington Memorial Parkway and National Airport.
He’s going to fly him out of town? Fuck that shit.
If I believed in luck I’d be crossing all my fingers and toes right about now. Instead I only believe in survival.
The exit for the airport is a couple of miles away.
When it comes up, I don’t see a blinker. He continues on GW toward Old Town, in Alexandria. Thank the Lord for the nighttime. It makes it easier to tail someone.
He slows down as we enter Old Town, and then after a couple of blocks he slows even more and puts on his right turn signal. He’s gonna turn into that old motel on the edge of town. I pass him as he enters the parking lot, then make a U-turn at the next traffic light and park illegally across the street from the motel.
The young man, who I now am sure is Biddy, pulls his suitcase out of the trunk and follows his uncle to the motel office. I can’t make out anything through the small office window. A few minutes later they both exit, walk along the room doors on the left. I count the doors they pass. They stop at the sixth, and both enter.
I won’t know until tomorrow what it is Diamond’s trying to pull, but that doesn’t matter to me anymore, ’cause I know where the fuck Biddy is.
Shortly after midnight, Diamond exits the room, enters his cab, and makes a left, back onto the GW Parkway, headlights nearly smacking me in the face on the turn.
Then it’s red taillights in the distance, then he’s gone.
I sit back and consider the circumstances here, and it doesn’t take long to decide that I’m too drunk to drive and that the best thing to do is get a room at this very motel in Old Town.
Forty-Five
The man sitting behind the counter looks old enough to be the motel’s original owner, and this spot has been here for as long as I can remember.
He looks up at me, stone cold, like the living dead, and waits for me to talk.
I try to sound drunk, slur my words.
“I need a room. Too much to drink, and can’t make it back to DC tonight.”
“Hundred dollars a night for a king. No smoking.”
“Damn, hundred bucks. Better than jail, right?”
His face doesn’t even twitch.
“Credit card or a hundred plus a hundred and fifty cash deposit.”
“Can’t put it on my card because my fiancée might find out. Damn. One hundred and fifty deposit?”
Nothing.
“Okay. Okay. I think I can do that. Got some cash.”
I count out the money and put it on the counter.
“I’ll need to see a driver’s license.”
I look at him square but throw in an innocent half smile.
“How about another fifty so I don’t have to do that? I got a job where I can’t let something like this come back and bite me.”
He contemplates.
“Hundred.”
I look in my wallet.
“All I got is eighty,” I lie.
An upward nod, which I take as a yes.
“Mind making that on the bottom floor? Might not make it up your stairs.”
He scans the wall that has all the keys hanging on hooks next to room numbers. He hands me the key for room 110.
I drop four twenties on the counter.
“Thank you, compadre.”
“I’m not Mexican.”
“I know. Just being friendly.” I slur my words.
“No smoking,” he orders.
I walk out and follow the same path as Diamond and Biddy. I pass Biddy’s room, notice through the curtained window he’s got a light on. Hear the television muffled through the front door. Walk a couple doors past his room to my room, unlock it, and enter.
Smells stale, like mold. Who knows what the fuck I’d see splattered over the bed if I had a black light? At the very least there’ll be bedbugs. But I don’t intend on sleeping, so
who cares? I peek through the curtains and across the parking lot toward the front office. All that’s visible is the office door with its four glass panels, and I don’t think the old man is paying much attention anyway.
I notice a smoke alarm on the wall above the thermostat. After I put my pack down I walk to it, reach up, and remove the battery. I find a drinking glass in the bathroom, return to check the armchair cushion before I sit. Light a smoke. I try to figure how I’m going to do this, and judging by Biddy’s physical stature, I know I won’t have to go hard. There won’t be a problem putting him down. But I don’t want to go hard, maybe just nudge him a little bit.
I snort up the contents of a couple of capsules, get my mind right, find my handcuffs in the pack, and slip them through the belt at the small of my back. I pick up the pack and walk out the door.
Light’s still on in his room.
I put my ear to the door. Sounds like he’s still watching TV. I bow my head so he can’t make me out through the peephole, take a deep breath, and knock.
Couple seconds later, I hear shuffling inside.
“Who’s there?”
“Front office. Smoke detector light’s blinking for your room. I need to check it out.”
“I don’t smoke, and there’s no fire in here that I can see.”
“City fire regulations, sir. I have to check. Won’t be but a minute. Might be just a short or something.”
“I’m telling ya there’s nothing,” Biddy says.
“Sir, either I check or I have to call the fire department, and they’ll have to check on it. Sorry to bother you, but I have to come in.”
The door opens, but only a bit.
“I’ll just be a second,” I say with a smile.
“I didn’t see you in the front office.”
“I work maintenance, stay in one of the rooms upstairs, and got a call. Smoke alarm’s right there on the wall above the thermostat.”
He turns his head to see, then back to me. He opens the door to let me in.
Looks like he’s been lying on top of the covers. Some reality show is on cable. I smell the familiar sweet scent.
I walk to the smoke detector, look at it briefly, and reach up to remove the battery.
“Just as I thought,” I say.
I take the battery and drop it in my pack, then set my pack on the armchair.
“One more thing I have to check out,” I say, walking toward him.
He steps back as I pass.
In one quick move, I snatch him by the hand and twist it so he doesn’t have a choice but to turn the way I want him to. He yelps, comically, as I think he meant it to be a scream. I kick him on the inside of his right knee, and he buckles and falls face-first on the bed.
“Make any noise, and you’re fucked.”
He turns his head so his cheek is on the mattress, his right eye trying to focus on me.
“I don’t have money.”
“Do I look like a burglar?”
I take out my handcuffs and cuff his right wrist.
He struggles.
“Wait, wait…”
He’s double-jointed, the gangly little fuck.
“Hold on, now…hold on…what’s going on here?” he squeals.
“Quit struggling or I’ll snap your arm in two.”
“Please…”
I manage to cuff him, but before I roll him over onto his back I say, “You scream, even talk loud, you’ll regret it. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Stay just like you are.”
I leave him, his legs dangling over the mattress, the tips of his toes barely touching the floor. I grab my pack and return. I pull out the duct tape and set it on the mattress where he can see it.
“Aw, c’mon. What are you going to do? Please.”
I pull him up by the collar and help him turn so he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress.
“Listen to me and you’ll get out of this okay. Like I said, you raise your voice or try to scream, that’s what the duct tape is for. Understood?”
“Yes. Yes.”
I grab him under his arm to stand him up. I pat him down, but he doesn’t have anything. I notice a wallet, a key ring with a couple of keys on it, and an old cell phone on the nightstand. Probably everything he has except for what I’ll try to find in a second.
“Sit over here,” I say as I walk him to the armchair.
He sits, falling back a bit, but then straightens himself out. I pull a chair on rollers out from a small rectangular desk and position it so I can sit to his left. Bathroom is straight ahead, the door behind me.
I look at him for a second and say, “You broke into the wrong house.”
Forty-Six
Most of them always deny it at first. Some never give it up at all. I’ve also had a few who gave it up right away. Biddy’s not going to give it up right away, but I can already tell it’s not going to take much effort.
He’s not what I imagined. He’s shorter and skinnier than I thought he would be, maybe early thirties, clean-shaven. Keeps his hair tight. It’s not the kind of frailty that comes with an unhealthy lifestyle, which is what I would have thought. I could see this guy on the street and wouldn’t think that at all. No, it’s something tenuous. Pleasant. Somehow not hardened, despite the years of criminality and abuse he’s gotten himself wrapped up in.
I don’t smell alcohol or tobacco on him, either, only the slightly pungent, sweet-smelling scent of smoked crack still lingering in the air. I pick up the duct tape off the mattress and lift my backpack from the floor.
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
“Don’t talk or I’ll tape your mouth shut.”
I kneel on one knee beside his feet.
“Put your feet together.”
“I’m not going to try anything. I swear.”
I shove his ankles toward each other and duct-tape them together. After that I stand and walk to the place where he was resting his head before I came in. I find the remote and turn the TV off. I search the contents of his suitcase but don’t find anything useful. I open his wallet; twenty bucks inside. No credit cards. He has an expired license. The name on it is Robert Graham Givens. Givens? Holy fuck, this guy’s Givens? I also find fake identification showing Graham Biddy as his alias. Son of a bitch. It’s the same guy. He doesn’t look anything like I thought Givens would. Ray made him out to be much more. Like a cold-blooded murderer. I find that hard to believe, looking at him now sitting in that chair, scared to death. I’ll keep this to myself for the moment. Fucking Robert Givens.
I open the nightstand drawer, find a baggie that contains at least an ounce of nice yellowish rock, a razor blade, a glass rose pipe, and a lighter. I look back toward him. His head now bowed, shaking it slowly from side to side.
“This has gotta be at least an ounce. Shit, what is that in DC now—seven, eight hundred bucks?”
No reply.
I grab everything and take it to the chair where I was sitting. I set everything but the blade on a round table beside the armchair. I turn on a small lamp that sits on the round table. It shows off the goods better. I go to the bathroom, drop the blade in the toilet, and flush.
I return and look down at him.
“Well, Robby—no, Biddy. I like that name better. You must have worked hard for this here.” I lift the baggie. “How long will this last you?”
No answer.
“I’ll ask one more time. You’d better damn well answer.”
He finally looks up. “Couple days.”
“Well, I’ve seen worse. You’re probably wanting some about now. Am I right?”
I can tell he’s trying to figure out if he should answer that.
“Maybe later. You took a bunch of stereo equipment from my house. Remember that?”
That gets a good reaction.
“Got some of it back from Thrift World, though.”
I grab the sport bottle from my pack, take a good swig.
“It ain
’t Gatorade, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I set it on the table near the baggie.
“I will go hard on you if I have to, Bid. I don’t want to, but I will. See, my life got really fucked up with the burglary. And the poor boy murdered in my kitchen.”
He knows the house I’m talking about now. Even though he tries hard not to react, I can still see it in his eyes. Fear.
“Please, sir. You have the wrong person here.”
I walk back to the nightstand, grab the fake identification out of his wallet, and bring it back. Put it in his face.
“This is all I need to have you put away for life. But I don’t make you for the murdering type.”
“I’m not. I’m not…I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
I bitch-slap him hard on the side of the face. Maybe too hard. I’m worried I snapped his neck.
He whimpers.
“And I’m pretty damn sure you won’t last long in prison. So you’re going to talk, tell me what I need to know.” I pull out my wallet and flash my badge. “Or we’ll take care of this outside of court.”
“Oh, damn,” he whimpers.
I see watery eyes and a few tears.
“Do you still have a job?” I ask.
“No.”
“What did you do before you got messed up with this shit?”
“Building maintenance for DC public schools.”
He didn’t deny being messed up with any kinda shit.
“Damn. So you got fired?”
“Yeah.”
“Piss test?”
“Yes.”
“You had a pension, health, and all that?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“How many years did you have?”
“Four.”
“That’s not so bad. Built up a little bit on your pension is all. You didn’t lose much.”
He chuckles, a nervous chuckle.
“I want the rest of my shit back. I want to know why that kid was murdered in my kitchen.”
“How do I know you’re not setting me up?”
What the fuck does he mean by that?
Crime Song Page 14
