She thought about what she’d told Billy at his house, how the sheriff was convinced it was a clean shoot. The relief in his face.
“I need to get out on the road,” she said.
“I know. And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Sara, but don’t talk to anyone about this—anyone—without a lawyer from the county or the FOP present. That includes Billy.”
“He’s a fellow deputy. He’s having a hard time with all this. How can you say—”
“Trust me, it’s for the best. Now, I know you feel bad about what he’s going through, you want to support him. I understand that. I do, too. But you need to be careful.”
“It sounds like you’re expecting the worst.”
“I always expect the worst. It might be a good idea to stay away from him in general until all this gets cleared up.”
There it is. What you were waiting for.
“I don’t—”
He raised his hand. “I’m just saying. You need to keep in mind, someday you may be sitting in this chair instead of me.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I do, and that may come sooner than you think. If you want it, that is. In the meantime, you need to stay clear of things that could come back to haunt you later on.”
“What do you mean?”
He sat back, looked at her. “This is going to sound cold,” he said. “And maybe it is. But if things go bad on this, I don’t want you catching any of it. You might be in an awkward position, because of that past situation—and because you were out there the night of the shooting. If someone has to take the hit on this, I want you well clear of it, for your own sake.”
She watched him, waited for more.
“I tell you about when I was with the Rough Riders?” he said. “Running supplies into Khe Sanh?”
“Some of it.”
“When I got there in ’sixty-seven, there was only one road in and out. Highway Nine all the way from Ca Lu. One lane, through some of the worst territory you can imagine. NVA everywhere. From midnight to noon the road went in, from noon to midnight it went out. They’d have one of us in a tanker truck, driving five thousand gallons of JP-4, sandbags on the floor, an M-16, and that’s it. One man. I made that run about a dozen times. Saying every prayer I knew along the way.”
“Maybe it helped.”
“Maybe it did. But what I didn’t find out until later was the philosophy behind it, the way it operated. Our guys were getting blown up all the time, mines, snipers, RPGs. There was no way to hold and control the jungle around the road. The logistics officers figured we were losing an average of three to five percent of everything that tried to get through. No matter what they did. Three to five percent of the supplies lost, three to five percent of the men killed.”
“That must have been tough.”
“You know what solution they came up with?”
She shook her head.
“Add five percent more men, supplies, trucks. Make your losses sustainable. Get more trucks, more men out on that road so you can lose five percent without impacting the efficiency of the base. It made sense, unless you were one of those guys that didn’t get through, or their families.”
“Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Fair or not, it worked. You know what that’s called?”
“What?”
“Management. Take it easy out there, Sara. Be safe.”
She found herself out on CR-23 almost without realizing it, headed south, the window down. Cooler today, with a breeze blowing through the sugarcane. In the canal to her left, she saw a gator sunning itself on the bank, as they always did when the water temperature dropped. It was her first time out here since the shooting.
When she came over the rise, she saw the white cross ahead on the shoulder, at the top of the incline that led down to the swamp. What the hell is that?
She slowed, pulled over, heard gravel under the tires. She killed the engine and got out, slipping the handheld into her belt.
In the distance, she could see the hulk of the old High-field sugar refinery, sun glinting off what was left of its windows. Beyond it, acres and acres of scrub pine, dead fields. To her left, sugarcane bent in the soft wind.
The cross was white Styrofoam, about a foot high. A spot had been cleared in the gravel, the spiked base driven into the dirt. A teddy bear was wired to its shaft, a handful of flowers in a small plastic vase in front of it. They moved gently in the breeze.
A wallet-sized photo had been thumbtacked to the center of the cross. A young black man in a cap and gown, gold-rimmed glasses. A posed shot, high school graduation. She thought about Derek Willis lying facedown in the wet grass, his clothes soaked through with blood, his eyes open.
She stood there for a while, alone by the side of the road, looking down at the cross, hearing nothing but the wind.
There was only one real motel in town, the Starlite, on Saw-grass Road. It had a fifties-era red neon sign that advertised FREE TV and LO RATES. A smaller sign over the office said AMERICAN-OWNED.
Sara parked the cruiser in the lot, left the engine on. There were half a dozen cars outside the adjoining coffee shop, a cab. If the woman was staying in town, she was here.
She considered going into the office, asking if a Simone James was registered. Then waiting out here for her to show up, however long it took, to get a better look at her.
After a while she got her cell out, called Billy’s home number. It rang six times and the machine picked up. Lee-Anne’s voice. Sara ended the call.
The lot at Tiger Tail’s was nearly full, mostly pickups, at least two with Confederate flag bumper stickers. In the back window of one was a decal that read TERRORIST HUNTING PERMIT.
Billy’s truck was parked alongside the fence. She pulled the Blazer in behind it. She’d gone home, showered, made dinner for her and Danny, waited for JoBeth to show up.
Crowded for a Tuesday night, eight o’clock and the after-work crowd still hanging in. Sara went in to a blare of smoke and noise, Johnny Cash’s “I Still Miss Someone” on the jukebox, Billy at it again.
He and Lee-Anne were at the bar, their backs to the door.
You surprised by that? Turn around, walk out. Smartest thing you could do.
Althea waved from the bar. Billy turned, saw her. Lee-Anne turned then, too. Sara lifted her chin at them, went to the far end of the bar, found a spot. Althea brought her a pint of Guinness.
“Sam’s here,” she said.
“Where?”
“Over there.” She gestured toward the back alcove. Elwood was at the pool table alone, stretched over the felt, sizing up a shot, cigarette hanging from his mouth. He was out of uniform, wearing jeans and a red Western shirt with pearl snaps.
“Want me to start a tab?” Althea said.
“No.” Sara got bills from her pocket, put a five on the bar. “I’m not staying long.”
She picked up the Guinness, walked back to the alcove. She heard the click of balls, the thump of the shot going in.
“Who’s winning?” she said.
Elwood turned, squinted at her through smoke. “Hi, Sara.” He tapped the cigarette into an ashtray on a shelf, picked up the bottle of Coors Light next to it.
“Surprised to see you here,” she said.
“Old Luke lets me off the leash every once in a while. Figured I’d come by, grab a beer.”
“Loose definition of beer.”
He gave a short laugh. “I guess. Rack ’em up.”
She put her Guinness on the shelf, got the rack from the wall peg. He squatted, fed quarters into the slot. The balls clacked, rolled out.
She set the rack, put the balls in, the one ball in the top position, eight ball in the center, lifted the rack away. He chalked his stick.
“Eight ball?” he said.
“Good enough. Calling shots?”
“Might as well.”
She got a cue down from the rack, tested its weight, chose another, heavier one.
&nbs
p; “Shoot for the break?” she said.
“No, you go ahead.”
She chalked, placed the cue ball, leaned over the table, her weight equally distributed, knees slightly bent. She shot to the right of the one ball, hard and fast, the way her father had shown her. The balls flew apart. The fourteen ball spun, dropped into a corner pocket.
“Stripes,” she said, walking around the table to the other side. The rim was marked with ancient cigarette burns. Elwood sipped beer, watched her. She picked her shot, leaned, eyed the setup, pointed the stick at a side pocket. She hit the nine off the eleven, watched it drop.
“Glad we’re not betting on this,” he said.
She missed her next shot, watched the twelve carom harmlessly off the rail.
Elwood put his cigarette down, blew smoke through his nose, hefted his stick, and circled the table. Sara looked back into the bar. Lee-Anne had her left arm linked in Billy’s right, had pulled him close. He was listening to her, nodding. He looked over his shoulder at Sara. She met his eyes for a moment, looked away.
Elwood sank his shot, took another, missed. She looked back at the table and for a moment couldn’t remember if she had stripes or solids. Elwood was watching her.
She eyed a combination on the eleven, shot and missed.
“You’re distracted,” he said.
She chalked up. “I guess.”
He walked around the table, looking for his shot.
“Our friend’s out a lot these days,” he said. “He should be keeping a lower profile.”
He sank the five ball.
“Is that what you’re doing here?” she said. “Keeping an eye on him?”
He stretched out for a shot, looked up at her, then back at the table, hammered the three ball into a corner pocket. “Maybe somebody needs to,” he said.
She sipped Guinness, looked out to the bar. Billy and Lee-Anne were standing, ready to leave, arms still entwined.
Elwood missed his next shot. Sara looked away from them, back at the table.
“Your shot,” he said.
She put the Guinness down, shot for the eleven again, missed. She heard the front door open and close.
“I can’t remember the last time I saw you miss two shots in a row,” he said.
“Can’t seem to concentrate.”
“No wonder on that.” He bent, missed an easy shot on the four.
“Don’t do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“You know what I mean.”
He shrugged, got his beer.
She looked at him, then down at the table. She chalked up, leaned for the shot, used the ten ball to put the eleven in the side pocket. The cue ball came to rest midtable, gave her an easy setup with the fifteen in the far corner. She sank it hard, watched the cue roll back into position for another shot at the ten.
“That’s more like it,” he said.
She sank the ten, ran the table. The eight ball lingered near a corner pocket. She pointed the stick at the pocket, and he nodded. She chalked, bent, put it in.
“Like I said, glad we weren’t betting.”
“Good game, Sam.”
“Go again?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ve got to be getting home.”
She put the cue back on the rack. The pint of Guinness was still half full, but she was done with it. She carried it back to the bar to save Althea a trip, went out the front door. It shut behind her, muffling the music. She got her keys out, headed for the Blazer.
Billy’s truck was still there. Light wash from a pole fell at an angle across the windshield. She could see him in the driver’s seat, alone, head back, eyes closed, as if he were sleeping.
As she walked by, he opened his eyes, saw her. He said something she couldn’t hear, and then Lee-Anne raised her head up from under the dash, looked out at her.
Sara felt the warmth rush to her face. Lee-Anne met her eyes, smiled. She pushed her braids away, turned and spoke to Billy, then powered her window down. Billy sat there, frozen, blinking.
Sara couldn’t move. Lee-Anne looked out at her.
“You want to come over here and watch?” she said. “See how it’s done?”
Sara turned away, walked to the Blazer, her face burning. Behind her, Lee-Anne laughed. Sara got behind the wheel, turned the key, ground the starter, had to switch the ignition off, try it again.
Lee-Anne looked back at her, then dipped her head again, disappeared from sight. Sara heard a low moan from the truck, one she knew well.
She backed out, turned the wheel, pulled fast out of the lot. She was a mile down the road before she realized she was speeding. She willed herself to slow down, her face still flush and hot. It was the tears that surprised her.
EIGHT
When the knock came at the door, Morgan got the Beretta from the nightstand, looked through the peephole. C-Love and Mikey were outside.
“Come on, man,” C-Love said. “It’s freezing out here.”
Morgan undid the lock and night latch, opened the door, the Beretta at his side. As they came in, he looked past them into the parking lot. The Suburban was parked in the shadows near a Dumpster.
“The twins out there?” he said. He shut the door, locked it.
“Yeah, why you ask?” C-Love said. He was carrying a black plastic grocery bag. Mikey walked around the room, poked the bathroom door open.
“What are you looking for?” Morgan said.
“Nothing.”
“You bring what I asked?”
C-Love hefted the bag, dropped it on the bed.
“We need to talk about some shit,” Mikey said. There was a table and chair under the front window. He pulled the chair out, straddled it.
“That boy you murked in the alley,” he said. “That was Philly Joe from around the way.”
“So?” He set the Beretta on the nightstand.
“His people gonna be looking for you.”
Morgan went to the bed, opened the bag. Inside was a ziplock plastic bag filled with greenish-gold marijuana. C-Love stood near the door, watching him.
A plane came in low overhead. The lamp on the nightstand rattled.
“That’s good shit,” C-Love said. “Best hydro around right now.”
Underneath, two brown plastic prescription bottles without labels. He twisted the top off one, saw the Vicodin inside.
“What you need that shit for, dawg?” Mikey said. “You never told me.”
The tablets were five milligrams each. Morgan broke one in half, put it on his tongue. He dropped the other half back in the bottle, put the cap on. He went into the bathroom, palmed water, swallowed it.
“That shit will fuck you up,” Mikey said.
Morgan drank more water, came out of the bathroom.
“You scarfing down those pills so quick,” Mikey said, “you don’t even see what else is in the bag.”
Morgan looked. There was a black plastic bundle at the bottom, ends taped shut with duct tape. He drew it out, knew what it was. “This for my trouble?”
“That’s an advance,” Mikey said. “I need you to take that little trip for me. Shit I told you about.”
“How much is in here?”
“Five Gs.”
“Not much.”
“For expenses, for now. Traveling money. Good timing, too, since Philly’s boys looking for you. There’s that thing with Rohan, too. Gonna be a while before all that shit quiets down.”
“You talk to them?”
“That Trey Dog crew? Can’t do that just now. They’re screaming for blood, and they know you with me. I can get messages back and forth, with an intermediary. But I gotta watch my back on this, too.”
Morgan sat on the edge of the bed. “Tell me about this trip.”
“Told you some of it. Pipeline’s been dry since the Colombians went down. Even if they beat the case, they ain’t gonna be up and running anytime soon, if ever. Now I got this RICO shit hanging over my head, and these lawyers, man, they keep
wanting more.”
“Go on.”
“Word was some Haitians down in Florida had a good line on powder, shit coming in through the islands. They the new power down there now. Making mad money. We set up a meeting, place called Belle Glade. Curtis went down there.” He nodded at C-Love. “It looked good. They had their shit together, steady source, but they don’t know me well enough to want to do business. And those voodoo motherfuckers don’t trust anyone didn’t grow up poor and barefoot like them.”
“So you sweetened the deal?” Morgan said.
“You know my cousin Leon? He in Rahway now, longtime, but he used to run those corners down near Baxter Terrace. His son Derek was wanting to get ahead, put some work in. Smart boy, too. Going to Rutgers, wanted to be a teacher or some shit. But he got a little one now, a baby mama, too. He needed cash, you know? He came to me, wanted me to help him out, bring him along a little. So I gave him a shot.”
“You sent him down there?”
“Set him up good. Route, expenses, every damn thing. He had a cash advance for the first shipment, prove we were serious.”
“How much money?”
Mikey twisted a thick gold ring on one finger. “A lot, man. More than I could afford.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred fifty K. I threw in some iron, too; as a gift. Island boys love their guns.”
“Why didn’t you send the twins?”
“With their jackets? Some cop pull them over, think he hit the lottery. Derek was clean. No sheet on him.”
“What happened?”
“Some shit I still ain’t figured out. He got pulled over in some cracker town down there. They say he drew on a deputy, but that’s bullshit. They capped his ass and took my money.”
“You know this?”
“Much as I need to. I ain’t known Derek to ever carry, but he might have been, I don’t know. Might have got nervous, cash in the car, dealing with some niggas he didn’t know. But shoot it out with a cop? Nah. He ain’t got the stones.”
“Maybe he got scared.”
“Maybe he did. Maybe it happened exactly like they said. But ain’t nobody said shit about the money yet. And it was in all the papers down there. They impounded the car, probably ripped the thing apart. If they found the money, some motherfucker took it.”
Gone ’Til November Page 6
