“There was something odd about the drive-by itself. Why not shoot the windows or the walls? Why just the door?”
Biancho rolled his eyes, “I’ll make sure to ask when we track them down. Consider it lucky nobody was hurt and there was as little damage as there was.” He paused and pointed outside. “Go home, Jacob, go home and count your lucky stars.”
No way to delay; it was time to mind my business. I had a bad taste in my mouth and I expected worse. But halfway to the city I heard Al Green’s song play in my head and it sent me back to my personal puzzle. Had me wondering whether my lousy attitude toward Lauren and Lou’s relationship, my freak at Boots’ TV talk, my passive cheat with Alexis all came from fears of a permanent relationship.
I hoped not. Hoped so hard I made myself look forward to seeing Boots.
Until I drove down my alley and saw her talking to Washington Clifford on the small half-court tucked between the buildings—a sweet throw-in when Richard designed our renovation.
I stalled as long as possible before approaching with a pleasant smile. “Did I miss something?” I asked, forcing myself to wink at Boots who seemed relieved. “Day off?”
“Travel comp,” Boots replied. “I got here a few minutes ago.”
“I got here earlier,” Clifford said. “Helped myself to your ball.”
Which had been inside my apartment, something he failed to mention. As would I. Clifford’s short muscular arm circling the basketball looked menacing. Or maybe it was the gun in his back holster. His forty-four short hung on the chain-link fence that separated my alley from the grocery store’s parking lot.
“Looks like you’ve been shooting around,” I observed. Clifford’s light blue shirt was damp, perspiration ringing his thick neck.”
“You got a soft rim. Helps with the shot. Nice friend too, though I don’t understand what she sees in you.”
“Boots appreciates my hidden qualities.”
“Boots’s feet are tired and she wants down.” Boots glanced at me, “I’ll let myself in. Anyway, I have a feeling you boys want to be alone. I’ve heard a lot about you Officer Washington.”
“That’s Clifford, Ma’am. Washington Clifford. Best not believe everything your friend tells you. Oh,” he added casually, “you won’t need a key. I left the door open.” His teeth gleamed against his ebony skin. He was the only man who could grin and grind his molars at the same time. You never knew whether he was getting ready to laugh—or bite.
And I wasn’t talking breakfast.
“Thoughtful of you to pave the way, Officer,” Boots commented walking away.
Both Washington Clifford and I stood silently until she passed through the alley door.
“Good looking lady, Jacobs,” Clifford growled. “Play any of this?” he asked, bouncing the ball.
“When I get a chance.” Why did each bounce sound like a warning?
“Big guy’s game, right?”
“Spud Webb did all right.”
“Yes he did,” Clifford agreed, his lips tightening at the comparison. “Care for a little one-on-one?”
It wasn’t a request. I flipped my denim jacket onto the fence next to his double knit. “Losers out.”
“Winners,” he corrected.
I nodded.
“Take it back?” This time I asked.
“Hell no, we’re talking playground here.” He showed more teeth. “You know how that works, don’t you, shamus? Damn near anything goes.”
His “damn near” was a relief. Meant I’d live to tell Boots about the game.
“I’ll take it out,” Clifford demanded. “It’s your court.”
My court, his game. Clifford slammed his shoulder into my chest before I leaned into position. I staggered backwards while he went for an uncontested lay-up.
“Better “d-up,” Jacobs.”
“I’ll give it the old college try, Wash, but I barely graduated.” I stiffened, expecting another shoulder but this time he turned 180 and backed into me with his granite ass. I held my ground until I felt his holster rubbing against my belt. When I stepped away, Clifford spun unmolested for another easy bucket.
“C’mon, Wash, you packing an empty?”
“What’s the worry? You enjoy playing with danger.”
“Sorry, Officer, I want to see your face when your gun goes off.”
“Pussy,” he said, unbuckling the leather and placing it alongside my building. “Try not to trip. Wouldn’t want a relentless detective to shoot his own foot.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Damn careful, though not about the gun. Clifford wasn’t interested in finesse, preferring brute strength to push, hip, and force his way to the hoop. The longer we played, the more he used the game as an excuse to pummel my body. A knee here, chop there, following me even when I backed away. I was too busy protecting myself to notice whether he traveled.
I was also careful not to hit back. Beating on a cop, no matter what the guise, wasn’t smart. Beating on Clifford was suicidal. Instead, I shot my jumper and kept the game close. Not too close, though there were a few times when I couldn’t resist using my height to snatch a rebound off his fingertips. In fact, I’d just made my best put-back, feet never hitting the court after his miss, when the powder keg stopped the contest with a sharp elbow to my face.
I kept my teeth, but he’d added a bleeding mouth to go with the sore body.
“Did I foul you?” Clifford asked innocently.
“See why I asked you to put the gun away?”
“What about your gun? Chief Biancho told you to stay away from his fucking turf.”
Clifford’s remark surprised me but I tried to cover. “I came directly home, Wash. Didn’t pass Go, didn’t collect two hundred. Just a bleeding mouth.”
“Something to shut you up. Biancho warned you off before, didn’t he?”
“If you know he talked to me today, you know why I was there.” The real question was why Biancho had bothered with Clifford at all. I wasn’t going to ask. I wanted the blood to stop trickling.
“If all you’d done was inquire about that situation, you’d be inside playing with that pretty girl instead of being out here with me.” Clifford’s eyes were slits in his broad face and his quiet words underscored by two-handed explosions on the blacktop.
“I went there to tell him what I knew, that’s all.”
“Matt Jacobs, Mister Citizen. Who you trying to fuck?”
“I’d have to see you in a skirt, sweetheart.”
“Just can’t keep it zipped, can you?” The next slam bounced off my groin.
I dropped to my knees and tried to keep from vomiting.
Clifford talked while I stared at his heavy rubber ripple soles. “Biancho is a good cop. Had him as a student once upon a time. He don’t need a pigheaded P.I. offering help. I’d take him at his word.”
I braced myself for another blow but his feet stepped toward the fence. “Don’t move, asshole,” Clifford commanded, throwing my smokes and lighter in front of my unhappy face.
I lit one with shaking hands.
“Only reason I’m not laying on a real hurt is Biancho asked me to talk to you. You leave the police up there alone, you hear?”
“You’re being modest about the licking, Wash,” I quipped, unable to keep quiet.
Clifford shook his head regretfully. “You know me Jacobs, if I don’t plant a nice kick, it don’t really count.”
His ripple sole’d toe found my belly and I pitched forward, my struggle to keep from vomiting a lost cause.
“Are you conscious, Matt?” Boots was on her knees anxiously tugging my shoulder.
“Just resting my eyes,” I placed my hands on either side of the puddle and pushed onto my knees. “We need a couple pairs of oversized shoes so we can do a Spike Jones.”
“A who?” Boots couldn’t erase her look of horror.
“Vaudeville. He used to slap a pair of clown shoes on his knees and prance around the stage. He had a TV show during the fifties..�
��
“I don’t understand.”
“You had to be there.”
“The hell with there. I’m sick about here! There’s blood dripping from your mouth. It might be internal bleeding.”
“The inside of my cheek is cut, that’s all.”
“Hardly all, you idiot,” but her panic was beginning to recede. “When I fell asleep on the couch, the last thing I heard was grunting. When I woke up you were moaning.” Boots speed-rapped, talking off her anxiety. “I looked out the window and saw you on the ground. Then I saw something wet by your head and thought it was blood.”
“Better blood than puke,” I said. My mouth throbbed and my entire body ached. I rose slowly from my knees to a catcher’s squat.
“What the hell happened?” Now that the anxiety had dissipated, I heard the start of her anger.
“Clifford slapped me around. The game was a cover to beat the shit out of me,” I grunted, trying to clean the side of my head with the towel Boots brought.
“Did you vomit from a concussion?” A fresh look of alarm spread across her face.
“No such luck,” I reassured. “Clifford hit me in the ‘nads with the ball, then kicked me in the belly. A mean duet.”
“We’re going to report that son of a bitch, you hear? He has no right doing this to you. We’ll see they fire that fat fuck!”
I smiled through my raw mouth. “Wash ain’t fat, honey.”
“I don’t give a shit, I want his ass fried and fired!”
I stumbled to my feet and Boots hopped up to right me. “Thanks, I needed that,” I said quoting an old television commercial before remembering it referred to a face slap.
“I don’t understand why you call him Wash, like he’s a friend or something. How the hell can you joke about it? It’s criminal.”
“It’s cops, Boots, not criminal. Buying a private investigator’s license is criminal.”
Understanding crossed her face. “So you can’t do anything because he might find out?”
“I’m sure he already knows.” My words melted into a serious yearn for a double.
“So he can abuse you, but you can’t fight back?”
“That’s about it.” I shrugged.
Boots began to reply but abruptly changed her mind.
I tried a small step for mankind. “Save your energy, woman. You’ll need it to get me into the bathroom.”
“Wait here a minute,” she said loping to the fence for my jacket.
But I tentatively started toward the door and kept on walking as she rejoined me. Boots skipped in front, about to grab the handle when Charles, my flaky building manager, rushed out the other rear exit.
“Good lord, what’s happened?” He was wearing a long ponytail pulled through the back of a Sox cap. “I just came home and happened to peek out my window.”
“Washington Clifford came calling, I wound up crawling.”
Charles grimaced with distaste. “I absolutely detest that violent, horrible man.”
“Join the crowd.”
I glanced at Boots. “We’re going inside. As soon as I clean up I’ll hose the court. Wouldn’t want someone to blame the drunks.”
“I’ll take care of the court, Matt.” Charles smiled and winked seductively, “You go inside and let lucky Bootsie take care of you.”
“Thanks Charles, I appreciate it.”
The lucky lady took me by the hand, carefully leading me to the bathroom while I forced my aching body to follow. The bleeding from my mouth stopped, but I grunted in pain when I pulled my cheek away from my teeth to get a better look. It looked worse, not better.
“Why don’t I take a shower and meet you in the kitchen,” I suggested. The kitchen was further from the liquor cabinet than the living room.
“In a minute.” Boots stood behind me and we stared at each other’s reflection in the mirror.
“I want to know why you turn this war with Clifford into a game. You sound almost lighthearted when you talk about it.”
I shrugged. “What else can I do? You know why I can’t retaliate and I’m still too young to retire.”
“There you go again.”
“Look, he has something on me and I have something on him from the Simon case. His is usable, mine really isn’t,” I said sharply. “But it’s enough to keep me from getting killed. Play in shit, you get some on your hands. Clifford makes sure I eat my share as well.”
“I can’t stand it when you talk this way.”
She wasn’t angry at me. I cracked wise when anxious, Boots blew off steam. If it were reversed, Boots wouldn’t be Boots and I’d be in jail.
“What gets me is Clifford generally doesn’t whomp without a reason. But I can’t figure the reason. I went to see Lauren’s Police Chief about the drive-by, that’s all.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” Catching Boots’ flashing eyes and taut lips through the mirror, I was suddenly bothered by more than Clifford’s visit. My already tense skin was tightening. Time to be alone.
“We’ll talk about this after my shower. Help yourself to anything that’s out there.”
“Where are your damn cigarettes?”
“Take a fresh pack from the carton on the dresser. Light one and bring it here?”
“I thought you were taking a shower?”
“Trust me, Boots, I can do both.” When she walked out the door my words clipped me from behind. Truth was, I couldn’t. And I wasn’t thinking shower and smoke. I was thinking Boots and Alexis.
I blasted the water and waited for Boots to return. When she handed me the cigarette I climbed into the tub and leaned the top of my body out over the toilet. If I wasn’t lucky enough to wash down the drain, I could always flush myself away.
I flicked the ashes into the bowl, repression broken, my head swarming with questions. Had the torrid night with Alexis been a last fling of kinky freedom before accepting my feelings toward Boots? Or, was it really impossible for me to commit to one person, however deep my feelings?
And why the hell did I always mouth off to Clifford?
I pitched my cigarette and turned toward the hot, stinging spray. I didn’t want to answer any of those questions. If I did, I’d have to face things about myself I wasn’t ready to face. Meant learning whether the part of me that existed during my brief second marriage died along with Chana and Becky; those few short years no match for the rest of my alienated life.
I inspected my bruises and tried to stretch my muscles. The movements, coupled with hot water, helped my body, did nothing for my head. Tucked between the guilt, recrimination, and slivers of hope, lurked a continuing hard-on for Alexis. Talk about being fucked.
“What the hell are you doing in there?” Boots called through the door. “Do you want another cigarette?”
“When I come out.”
“Well hurry. I’m not finished with our conversation.”
A couple of nights ago I’d been thankful for blue-balls, now, knock-on-wood for black-and-blues.
By the time I came out of the bathroom, Boots had picked up my apartment, opening windows to get rid of the stuffiness. The refrigerator was also open and I listened to the thud of old Chinese food cartons hitting the garbage bag.
“You do floors?” I asked.
Boots stood up from behind the door. “It’s about time. Any longer I’d have called 911.” She closed the refrigerator. “Not much left in there.”
“You threw away all the good stuff.”
“If mold is good.”
I was thirsting for Wild Turkey. A lot of it. Instead, I walked to the fridge and pulled out a Bass. “Want one?”
“Sure.”
I opened the bottles and sat down at the enamel top table. I noticed three lipsticked butts lying in the otherwise empty ashtray. I’d been schizing longer than I’d realized.
Boots sat across from me. “Now please tell me exactly what’s happening and why Clifford hurt you.”
“It’s easi
er to explain the meaning of life.” I reviewed the entire series of events much like I had for Biancho, hoping to catch something I’d missed the first time around. But it only got worse. Biancho’s decision to immediately call Clifford just added to my confusion and concern.
“It has to mean they’re hiding something,” I concluded, suddenly surprised by how easy it was to talk. I’d expected to be defensive and monosyllabic.
“What would they be hiding?”
“I don’t know. That’s what bothers me.”
“So you do think all the stuff is related.”
“I don’t know that either. I sure can’t tie anything together. And won’t have an opportunity to try.”
“Why not?”
“Lauren doesn’t want me around. And we know where Biancho stands. Doesn’t leave much room to operate.”
Boots shook her head and reached for a cigarette.
“Where did you put the pot?” I asked, getting to my feet.
“I left it on the coffee table.”
I returned to the kitchen just as Boots exhaled a mouthful of smoke. “I’m not thrilled about you operating at all,” she said, keeping her eyes averted. “You walked into the living room like an old man.” She inhaled her Newport. “You think what you have on Clifford will keep him from killing you, but I’m not so sure.”
I smiled through my sore mouth, touched by her concern. “Clifford enjoys himself too much to finish me off.”
Boots didn’t see the humor. “I’m sick of your jokes and I’m starving. How about pizza?”
“Don’t want to be seen with me in a fancy joint?”
“I don’t want to lug you around on my back. Let’s order in. You have wine and beer, maybe we could watch a movie.”
“Sounds about my speed. What do you have in mind?”
“Before I arrived, anything with sex. But the way you’re moving around, a good comedy seems like a better choice.”
Our time together was more than nice, though we never did get around to the movie or that conversation she’d been hinting about. I think Boots felt Clifford’s beating was enough for one day. She seemed content just to be with me, and I was actually pleased she was here.
As the late afternoon faded into evening, we splurged. Ordered garlic pies from Santarpio’s and hired a cab to haul them to my doorstep. Boots pulled her executive number, promising a fat tip if the pizza was delivered hot.
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 99
