Lemming scooted back inside the club, and Duke looked up at the night sky and his breath caught as he saw a shooting star streak by.
“Did you see that?” Duke asked the bodyguard, who looked as engaged as a sack of dry cement. “Now that, my friend, is a sign of good luck.”
Duke fiddled with the ruby gold pinky ring he had just bought, thanks to Mueller, and pulled into his stop before he met his boss. Chums was a dive bar on Eight Mile, where his buddy Rickie Samuels was waiting for him. Duke knew Mueller wanted this particular pickup right away, but Duke had promised Rickie he would celebrate one last drink with him before Rickie got the hell out of town, since the Feds were about a half a hair away from nailing him.
Duke banked the Caddie across the street from Chums and checked to be sure the trunk lock was secure, since that’s where he had stashed the painting. Assured Max’s latest purchase was safe, he headed into Chums, which sported a blinking yellow sign out front that read: BEER AND BURGERS SO GOOD, YOUR TONGUE WILL SLAP YOUR BRAIN.
Bob Seger’s “Beautiful Loser” belted out from a tabletop jukebox in the corner of the bar as Duke walked in and assessed the scene. The crowd at Chums was sparse, filled with just a couple of guys, who likely just got off their shift. The only two patrons besides Rickie were playing pool in the back, and Duke gave them a nod when he entered, figuring them for honest working men in their faded jeans and blue-and-gray short-sleeved Ford uniform shirts they still had on.
Rickie was leaning up against the bar and was dressed like Duke, both in a suit and tie, despite the ninety-degree heat that still hung around long past sundown. Rickie was blond and tan, and looked genuinely glad to see Duke as he took a long drink from his bottle of Bud Light.
“Rickie, my man,” Duke said, and held out his hand to shake his friend’s. Rickie had worked for Max once, but had started his own offshoot business, mainly gun trafficking. This endeavor had created a profitable solo business—so much so, the ATF was now on his tail, hence Rickie’s decision to move his business elsewhere before he got snared and wound up with the fate of thirty to life.
Rickie nodded at the bartender, who was busy wiping a glass and watching the Tigers game.
“Whatever my buddy wants,” Rickie told the bartender.
“Club soda, with a twist of lemon, please,” Duke answered.
“That’s a pansy drink,” Rickie said.
“Never had a taste for liquor. A man needs to be in control of his surroundings before his surroundings get control of him.”
“Duke Gooden, the resident philosopher. You know, I’m almost going to miss this place.”
“You heading to Florida?” Duke asked. He knew one of Rickie’s main distributors was in Miami, so it made sense.
“No. I’ve got to get out of the States. I’m going to the Dominican Republic, to start anyway. A man can get good and lost down there, and that’s what I need right now. Why don’t you come with me? You don’t want to be hanging with Mueller much longer. He’s a bad man. I generally don’t have a problem with bad men, but working for him was the dirtiest job I ever had.”
“Max isn’t so terrible,” Duke said, and took a drink from the club soda the bartender had just delivered. “You can’t fault a man for buying what’s stolen, if that’s what he wants. Max likes art and strange collectibles. Doesn’t seem that bad to me.”
Rickie beckoned the bartender back with two fingers and waited until the bartender reluctantly returned, with his eyes still fixed on the game.
“A shot of Jack. Make it two. Might as well go off in style,” Rickie said. “You know, the thing about you, Duke, is that you have so much potential, but you’re still green. If you think all Max is doing is stealing artwork, brother, you’re in a world of denial. You want me to tell you what Max really does?”
“No. If Max is into something dirtier than stolen art, I’d rather not know about it. The pay is way too good to tempt me out of the job.”
“Suit yourself. You got a contingency plan, though?” Rickie asked.
“For what?”
“A man like Max, he’s likely going to get caught one day, and when he does, the cops are going to be coming for his whole operation, and that means you, too. That is, if Max doesn’t try and pin the blame on you first. I’ve seen him do it before. I bolted before he could do it to me. A guy who used to work for Max when I was still with him is serving twenty, up in Marquette, because Max sold him out to the cops to save his own hide.”
“Is that right?” Duke said, letting the weight of his friend’s words sink in just below the surface.
Rickie stood up from the bar as he checked his watch. “I’ve got to catch a plane to Miami in an hour. I’m leaving you with a parting gift. I like your style, and you’ve got plenty of it, almost more than any other guy I know, but you’re still wet behind the ears. You change your mind about working for me, here’s the number where you can reach me. You give it out to anyone, I’ll kill you,” Rickie said, and gave Duke a piece of paper with a number scribbled across it. Rickie then reached down for a brown paper bag, which was wedged between his stool and the bar on the floor.
“I should be getting you a gift,” Duke said as Rickie handed him the bag. Duke took a quick glance inside, not really sure what he was expecting to find. He raised one eyebrow when he saw a gun and a fake passport with Duke’s picture on it and a name that didn’t belong to him.
“Stash this somewhere, along with some cash if you have it. Sort of like an emergency-supply kit you stick in the back of your car. It’ll come in handy if you ever need it.”
“Hey, thanks. Why are you doing this?” Duke asked.
“Because I don’t like Max, and I know how to spot talent, and you’ve got it. Call if you change your mind about working for me. You don’t have kids or family, right? That always makes things a lot more difficult in this line of work.”
Since he had left them behind two weeks earlier, Duke’s three children and wife were getting smaller and smaller in his mind with each passing day.
“Not me. A family ties you down.”
Rickie clapped Duke on the back of his shoulder. “Hope to see you again.”
Duke watched Rickie leave out the front door. Duke then slipped down the hall that led to the bathrooms and the pay phone. He fished a quarter from his pocket, plugged it into the slot, and called his boss at the strange number Max told Duke to call if he didn’t get back to the city until after seven.
A gruff male voice answered the phone when Duke asked for Mueller, and Duke waited less than five seconds before he could hear Max snatch up the phone.
“Mr. Gooden, you’re late. Where the hell are you?” Max said in a dry, nasally tone.
“Just got to the city. Bad traffic all the way from St. Louis to Detroit,” Duke lied, not wanting to tell Max he stopped off at a bar with one of Max’s former employees, instead of meeting up with him as soon as he got back to the city, like Duke had promised.
“You got the pickup from Lemming?” Max demanded.
“I did. I didn’t look at it like we discussed, but Lemming promised it’s what you ordered. You want me to meet you at your place in Birmingham or your other one in Detroit?” Duke asked.
“Neither. I have a shipment that needs to get moved tonight. I have a property up in Macomb County. Meet me there and come right away.”
Duke rolled his eyes as he thought about how he was going to have to log on even more miles to Macomb, but took down the directions, which were more like following markers rather than regular routes or street signs once he got off I-94.
Duke left a five on the bar for the club soda and got back into the red Cadillac, the machine feeling big and important, just like Duke was starting to feel about himself. He hooked onto the freeway and thought that when Max paid him next, he’d do the right thing and wire more money to his wife. Duke thought his absence might actually be good for Marjorie as it could be the catalyst to make her finally sober up and take responsibility for th
e kids. That’s what he’d do, send her a Western Union cash wire from time to time so she could buy the kids shoes and food and pay the rent. Enough money to supply the sheer amount of family shit they seemed to always need. Duke ignored a voice in the back of his head reminding him the rent on their place in Sparrow hadn’t been paid in two weeks, and his family would likely get evicted unless he did something.
Duke looked back at his new pinky ring and took the speedometer up to ninety, feeling the freedom and the immense possibilities of the wide-open road ahead of him. The clouds that had hung low on the night sky for most of the trip parted, and Duke felt like he had been hit with an epiphany into his very soul as he pictured his own father, Hunter Gooden, whom Duke had seen last when he was five. Hunter had shown up shit-faced to Duke’s mother’s house on Duke’s birthday. Hunter’s real family—his wife and four kids, who didn’t know about Duke or Duke’s mom—was tucked away safely in their nice home in the suburbs as Hunter presented Duke with a brand-new Huffy bike and then vanished for good from their lives. Duke didn’t know what happened to his father or why he never claimed him as his own, but growing up a fatherless bastard made him strong and resourceful. Duke knew the sudden memory of his father meant that his own kids would turn out just fine without him, too, maybe even better than if he had stuck around.
Duke turned the radio on and let it run on high decibel until he pulled off the exit and followed Max’s direction of markers, which led him through a desolate country back road that turned to dirt about a mile in. Duke wondered if he wrote down the directions wrong, when he saw a red balloon that was hung on an old fence post, the last marker Max had given him.
Duke pulled the car onto another dirt road, which was tightly nestled between two thick lines of trees. Duke didn’t consider himself a man who got scared often, but something felt off in his gut as he saw two buildings in the distance: a large two-story home, which had all the windows boarded up, and a trailer, with a large van parked between them.
Duke tucked the Cadillac behind a row of trees before the property and killed the engine. He looked at the house in the distance and saw one of Max’s guards, the big Indian, Ahote, whom he had met before, rocking on his heels back and forth next to the van as he pulled the rear door open.
The night country air was thick with mosquitoes as Duke swatted them away from his face. He moved on the inside of the tree line, holding his breath all the while as he approached the house. He wanted to get paid and didn’t plan to screw over the boss, but Rickie’s comments about how Max would likely turn on him stuck, and something deep in his core screamed a silent warning that he needed to check out the scene before he entered it.
A gunshot blasted from inside the house, and Duke instinctively hit the deck and made himself as flat to the earth as possible. He lay down on his stomach on a nest of pine needles and peered out at the scene from behind a tree.
The garage door of the house opened, and Duke watched as a group of people, maybe twelve or so, walked out, single file. Their arms were bound, and two large, armed men were yelling orders to the group. Duke strained his eyes as he tried to adjust them to the dark as he spotted Max walking out of the garage behind the group, which consisted of mostly females who looked, on first blush, to be in their late teens to early twenties. The exception was a Vietnamese woman and a young Vietnamese boy, whom Duke pegged for sixteen or so, and likely the woman’s son. The woman was screaming something in Vietnamese—which Duke couldn’t understand—and her son was trying to calm her down.
Max Mueller, who was wearing a suit and hat and leaning on his bent black cane, walked over to the boy and his mother.
“You speak English, gook?” Max asked the woman. “If you do, then read my lips. Shut the hell up before my man Ahote here puts a bullet in your head.”
“My mother doesn’t speak English, but I do,” the Vietnamese teenager said. “Go to hell.”
Duke watched as the teenage boy spit directly in Max’s face, and Max cursed as he pulled out a handkerchief to clean himself up.
“No one does that to me,” Max yelled, and began to beat the Vietnamese boy across his legs and stomach with his cane.
The boy looked as though he were about to fall to his knees but righted himself as Max began to walk away. The teenager then charged Max while his mother began to scream in a nonstop, anguished wail.
Duke watched as Ahote snatched the slight teenager up under his arm like a small toy before the teen could reach Max.
“You can have him. He’s too much trouble, and I don’t want any push back from Lemming. Where the hell is Duke?” Max asked as his eyes looked out toward the dirt road.
“He called over an hour ago, so he should be here soon,” Ahote answered.
“All right. Load them up in the van and send them to Lemming. Tell him for this batch, he gets me a price cut on my next purchase,” Max said.
The Vietnamese mother continued to sob as she was forced into the van, along with the other women. Duke shivered as the door to the van slammed shut, and he now knew the real business his boss was running.
“When Duke shows up, tell him to meet me at the Brandeis Hotel over in St. Clair Shores. I have a dinner appointment and can’t wait any longer. Have Duke call the restaurant when he gets there, but tell him to stay in the parking lot. I’ll meet him outside. Tell him I’m cutting his pay by a grand this week for showing up late and making me wait around for him.”
Max got into his car and drove away as Duke scrambled to come up with a plan. He watched as Ahote dragged the softly crying Vietnamese boy into the trailer, and Duke felt disgusted as he started to think what Ahote was going to do to him in there. Duke realized the right thing to do would be to call the police, but then his own ass would be in a sling.
He could just give Max the painting and be done with it, Duke realized. He could quit and maybe go back to Sparrow, but he knew, deep down, the homecoming wouldn’t last. Duke swatted at his ear as an ant crawled across it, and Duke climbed back to his feet, deciding upon his plan. He’d leave the painting and call his boss tomorrow to tell him he’d quit. The money was the best he’d ever had, but there was a low even a man like him couldn’t stoop to.
Duke started back to his car, when he heard a door open. He looked toward the house, but realized the sound came from the trailer. Duke watched on as the Vietnamese boy staggered out, looking dazed and groggy. Duke noticed he wasn’t wearing any shoes as Ahote pushed him outside.
Duke reached into his pocket and felt his straight-edge razor. His mind quickly raced back to the paper bag he had left on the passenger seat, with the gun that his friend Rickie had given him, but Duke knew he didn’t know how to shoot and wasn’t sure he’d be able to aim straight because his hands would be shaking so much, trying to hold the thing steady.
Duke looked at the Vietnamese boy, who looked utterly terrified, and thought about how brave the teenager was to go after Max.
Ahote ducked back into the trailer and returned with something in his hands. Duke couldn’t at first process what Ahote was holding because it seemed so out of place, but then he felt a cool trickle of sweat slip down his temple as he realized it was a bow and arrow.
“I’ll give you a five-minute lead. After that, we start the hunt,” Ahote said to the Vietnamese boy.
Duke pulled his straight-edge razor out of his pocket and opened the blade. He’d never used it before and wasn’t sure he could now. Duke tried to be as quiet as possible as he moved along the protection of the trees, still safely hidden as he neared the trailer.
A low-lying tree branch snapped across Duke’s chest and he froze in his tracks.
Ahote’s eyes darted in Duke’s direction, and he began to move quickly toward Duke.
Duke swallowed hard as he tried to make himself invisible behind the trunk of a tree and willed his rapid breathing to quiet and not give him away. Duke realized he likely wouldn’t be able to outrun Ahote, and he didn’t want to get on the receiving end of the ar
row. So hiding was the desperate man’s option he was going to try first.
Duke took a quick glance at the trailer and saw the Vietnamese boy dash into the woods until he got so far in, it looked like the trees had swallowed the teen whole.
Duke held the open straight-edge razor in his hand, close to his body, and heard his heartbeat thud along with the slightest of footfalls as Ahote made his approach.
Looking up to the night sky, Duke said a prayer, promising he’d do right by his family if God just got him out of this jam.
A loud rustle of underbrush startled Duke, and he turned his head slightly to see two wild turkeys scurry out of a thicket of weeds, high grass, and brambles directly in Ahote’s direction.
“Is that all you are,” Ahote said to the large birds. “Still better to check.”
Duke felt like his heart was going to explode as Ahote moved past him, and Duke’s eyes hung on the big Indian’s massive back as Ahote continued to move forward.
Duke began to slip to the other side of the tree just as Ahote stopped in his tracks.
Before Ahote could turn around, Duke lunged at him, waving the straight-edge razor wildly in his direction, fighting for his life like a madman, until Duke felt the sharp blade connect and slide into Ahote’s skin by the corner of his right eye. Duke’s hand came down as the razor ripped its way down the side of Ahote’s face until it reached the cusp of his jawline.
Ahote looked stunned for a second and dropped his bow and arrow. He clutched his bleeding face and blinked heavily as he tried to wipe away the blood that had seeped into his eye.
Duke ran, faster than he ever had in his life, even faster than the time when he was chased by a former client wielding a baseball bat after the man had discovered Duke had fleeced him out of a grand.
The moist Michigan air seemed to split open as Duke raced through it, never once looking back, as he was sure Ahote was steps behind him.
Worth Killing For Page 21
