by Alan Lee
I felt like someone electrocuted me.
Manny made a loud hooting sound and clapped me on the back.
“You two!” he said. “I am the happiest spic. He won’t say it but he loves you too, Miss Ronnie.”
“I sincerely hope so.” A deeper patina highlighted her cheeks.
I wanted to reply but couldn’t.
“Ain’t this cute,” said Dexter, teeth still clenched. “Fucking cute. You just got yourself killed, bitch."
“Easy, Dex. We need to be smart,” said Darren.
“At some point you’ll need to examine the evidence of the envelopes,” she said. “Trust me, it’s worse than you fear. Copies of each envelope, and all the others I have, are in the hands of two local reporters. In the event of my death, they are instructed to open the envelopes and report on their contents. There is also a box ready to mail to a larger news outlet in Washington. You will each be humiliated and ruined.”
Darren nodded. Sweat beaded at his hairline. “Understood. Nicely done, Veronica.”
“I’m not finished,” she said. “I’m overhauling the Kings’s prostitution racket. It’s deplorable and disgusting and it will not continue it its current form. Resist me and every one of us is going to jail.”
Toby held up his hands, appealing to reason. “Be serious, Summers. It’s the world’s oldest profession. There’s lonely stupid assholes on every block. Whoring is a gold mine. You just get rid of it?”
“Of course not. I’m not ignorant enough to try, Toby. I’m improving it so the girls are treated and paid better. I can’t solve all the problems in the world, but I can dramatically improve this part of it. It’ll become a voluntary profession, not forced servitude.”
Marcus said, “You tackling a big problem, Veronica. Goes all the way up to the board, the Kings themselves.”
“I’ve had half the Kings in bed and I have evidence. They’ll play ball.”
“Okay, Veronica, okay,” said Darren. “We can figure this out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out. I’ve accepted that I need to pay for my sins. And I am. I’m prepared to die. The question is, are you?”
“Yeah,” said Dexter. “I am.”
“Well I’m not,” said Darren Robbins. “So go easy, Dex.”
“You boys and your hormones,” said Ronnie. “Your dicks make you so stupid. You quickly need to realize—I have you by the balls; I own you.”
A somber heaviness settled around the shoulders of the room. She was right. They were caught, pants down.
I decided to lighten the mood by stacking the $1,500 in front of me. The clacking chips sounded mellifluous to my ears, and I assumed to all the rest.
Should I whistle a jocose melody? I might.
Dexter sniffed. “This is bullshit. Let’s ace the bitch, right?”
“You heard her,” said Darren. He tilted his head back to finish his drink, ice tinkling. Wiped his mouth. “She’s got the evidence to put us away.”
“Not if she’s dead.”
“The reporters, Dex. Don’t be a stupid rookie. I believe her.”
“It’s a bluff.”
“No. It’s not. Shut your got’damn mouth,” said Darren. “That’s all you know how to do, get your gun off. Cooler heads need to prevail. Let someone with a college degree do the thinking, got it?”
Dexter went quiet. I could see the gears turning behind his eyes—he wasn’t handling the paradigm shift well. The sudden diplomacy had thrown him, and now the slut ran things? That made no sense. He grew still and even more quiet. An inner absence.
I saw it coming. So did Manny.
Dexter went for his pistol. Kill the bitch and figure the rest out later.
He was quick.
I surged forward, like a bull lunging. The chips and cards popped up as confetti. The felt table steamrolled into the lap of Dexter, Darren and Toby.
I blanked out. Even in retrospect I have no memory of the event.
For a long moment my vision was full of three guys from Washington taking turns hitting Ronnie in an alley. And her taking the punishment and refusing to back down. And me not being there to help.
Pent up anger released. Every muscle in my body flexed and clenched and bunched, and I ground my teeth so hard I’m surprised they didn’t break.
Dunno know if it was a hallucination or an out of body experience or what. But for an undetermined period of time, my mind shut me out.
I came to as Marcus was firmly pulling me backwards.
“It’s over, August. It’s over, babe, you hear me? Ease up. Let go, Mack,” he said. Like speaking underwater.
My vision cleared. My chest heaved.
The world refocused.
Dexter was dead. I knew because I had his neck in my hands.
His throat looked like pulpy ribbons between my fists. His esophagus was punctured, broken by my thumbs. I’d pulled him apart. His exposed arteries still pumped weakly and blood spilled everywhere. His eyes bulged. From the knees down he was trapped under the poker table, me kneeling on his stomach.
I had choked him and squeezed and I’d been unable to stop.
I attempted reconnecting with my fingers but it took a concerted effort for them to cooperate. They released Dexter and I raised up.
Sounds and awareness rushed back in.
Everyone was on their feet.
Darren and Toby had their pistols out, aimed at me. Carlos had planted himself as a shield between us. He clenched his eyes, prepared to soak up gunfire.
Manny (a .357) and Ronnie (a little .380) and Fat Susie (Glock 17) each had a pistol out, held over Carlos’s shoulders, aiming at Darren and Toby.
“It’s over,” Marcus said again. “Right? Be cool.”
“Right,” I said. The word emerged like a groan.
“Good hell, it ain’t over,” Toby barked. “The lunatic killed Dexter.”
“Look at the poor bastard,” said Darren. “Look at his throat. It’s gone. I didn’t know that was possible.”
“Me either,” said Manny. But he looked happy about it.
Edgar was so bereft he took off his sunglasses. “Damn it, my floors. Freddie, find some fuckin’ towels. The closet, maybe. Table’s ruined too. The hell’s the matter w’you. Supposed to be men of honor.”
“And women,” said Manny.
“Put your guns down,” Marcus ordered. “Now. There’s no violence at an official convening.”
“Marcus, examine your loafers,” said Darren. “The leather is covered with Dex. No violence my ass.”
“Dexter broke the rules. Went for his piece. Paid the price. It’s done.”
Freddie came back. Threw a couple towels on the broken poker table. Pressed a roll of paper towels into my hands and backed away.
“Veronica, you go first,” said Marcus. He stood between the two opposing groups, arms raised, palms out. Not directly in the line of fire, like Carlos. “Put your gun down first, babe. We get out of here alive.”
“If you insist.” Her voice sounded jarring and beautiful, a contradistinction against the carnage. She pulled her little .380 away. I heard the click of a safety. The gun went into her purse.
Next, Darren lowered his.
I looked at my red fingernails and grimaced. My stomach heaved.
“Reginald,” said Ronnie. “This has been charming but I need to return to Street Ransom. Help the girls get settled. Coming?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said and he holstered his Glock.
That left only Toby and Manny with guns out. Toby was glaring. I couldn’t see Manny but I bet he was grinning. And possibly winking at his foil.
Ronnie stepped into her heels. “Good night, gentlemen. Our deal is firmly in place. I’ll be in touch.” She caught my eye. “Sooner or later, according to your merit and sex appeal.”
She left. Fat Susie rumbled after.
On the ground Dexter’s corpse released a bubbling sigh from the ruined larynx.
“Got’damn,” said Toby. “Tha
t bitch worth all this?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She is.”
27
The following morning at breakfast, Kix and I appeared dressed in our Sunday best—both of us in loafers, khakis, and shirt and tie. Neither of us wore socks because we aren’t animals.
Timothy August put down his mug of coffee. Sheriff Stackhouse smiled and waved lazily from her spot on the couch. She wore the indecent nightgown that I refused to inspect closely.
Timothy said, “Nice to see you, son.”
“You too, Pops.”
“I didn’t fall asleep until you and Manuel came home.”
“You ratted me out,” I said. Withering him with scorn. “To Manny.”
“I did. Was there violence?”
I got coffee. Kix flexed his fists, eager for milk.
“There was some of that.”
“What a pleasant surprise it would be,” said Stackhouse, “if one day soon the sheriff knew what was happening in her city.”
“All important parties are alive and unharmed. An uneasy truce was called between Ronnie and her detractors.”
“And you?” he asked.
“No truce. Still working on that.”
Timothy sighed. “I had hoped last night was the end.”
“Soon,” I said. “Darren won’t leave town yet.”
Stackhouse asked, “Darren What’s-his-name, the prosecutor?”
“He and I have a score to settle. In the court room. And Grady Huff is the prize.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Doesn’t to me either. And yet, here I am.”
Manny arrived a few minutes later, wearing brown slacks and a checkered vest I didn’t know he owned. His fingers and face glowed slightly pink, fresh from vigorous exfoliation.
He said, “Ay caramba, señorita, te ves atractivo en ese vestido. Tus senos se ven perfectos.”
I translated, “He likes your nightgown, sheriff. And the woman underneath.”
“Tell him thank you.”
“We going to worship Jesucristo?” he asked.
“I am. Note my expertly affixed tie.”
“Wait for me. I’ll drive. First, un café negro.”
Timothy and Stackhouse shared a glance. Manny going to church? For purposes of protection? Perhaps the danger to Timothy’s son was greater than he expressed.
I said, “Everyone look how rugged and toothsome my son is. I mean, come on.”
St. John's Episcopal was downtown, a beautiful stone church with original mahogany in the chapel, polished and gleaming. Stained glass windows, hanging cathedral lights, candles, the Christian flag, St. John’s had it all. Manny and I slide into Marcus’s pew a couple minutes late and took a hymnal.
He whispered, “Good of you to dress up. Least Manny, he put on a vest.”
Between verses of How Great Thou Art, I said, “Perhaps you didn’t note my tie.”
“This charcoal suit cost me two grand, August. I got style.”
“I don’t peddle cocaine for a living,” I said. “Fewer funds.”
He whispered. “Maybe keep your voice down."
“About the cocaine? You bet.”
His wife Courtney, singing in the choir, gave us a ‘Hush!’ motion, mid-chorus.
“Your wife is a knock out,” I said.
“I know.”
“Aren’t you glad we’re friends? We’re so witty.”
Manny shushed us. “Shut up, you two. I’m singing.”
Marcus tilted his head to indicate the other side of the aisle. I followed his gaze.
Darren Robbins and Toby Moreno stood dutifully with hymnals in their hands, singing. Each wore an overcoat. Each had a slight pistol bulge at the hip. Toby saw me, raised his finger, and shot me with it.
The message was clear—this isn’t over. We’re still here.
“Those inauthentic pricks,” I said softly. “Apostates. I should report their hypocrisy to a deacon.”
“I got word this morning,” said Marcus, “From an associate. Darren about ready to go home. He or Toby don’t pop you soon, he’ll put a price on your head.”
“Heavens.”
Another minute passed and Ronnie Summers slid next to Marcus from the other side of the pew.
I ogled her. So did everyone else.
Fat Susie absorbed the rest of the free space at the end.
“Thank you for the invite, Marcus,” she said sweetly and softly, like a breeze in May. “Sorry I’m late. Reginald’s hair takes forever.”
She winked at me.
Thereafter I no longer had the ability to concentrate. I tried to focus on the words but they all turned to plucky Ronnie Summers.
We sat. After a while the sermon began.
Marcus wasn’t happy about it, but I forced him to pass a note to Ronnie.
It said, Last night was impressive. We would’ve lassoed the moon, had you asked.
She replied, Thank you. I cried for an hour afterwards. A year ago I would not have had the strength. If you were sitting beside me, I would hold your hand.
I wrote back, That’s episcopal fornication.
She responded, Wouldn’t it be hot if we fooled around during church?
I began a reply but Manny took the slip of paper from my hands and ripped it in half.
Marcus mumbled, “About time. I was gonna do it soon. White people be passing notes in church, like when I was a boy.”
“That’s racist,” I said.
28
Monday morning, Candice Hamilton and I dropped our kids off at the same time. Roxanne, dressing a little cuter than she used to, accepted them both.
We walked back to our cars and I said, “Why do girls dress better for each other than for outrageously attractive men?”
“Because we’re judgmental bitches,” said Candice. The chill had returned and she had a double-breasted overcoat synched with a belt. Her words produced vague steam.
“I knew it.”
“Have any fun this weekend? I was hoping you’d call. Invite me out on the town.”
“My weekend was mostly work,” I said. “Nothing I would call fun.”
“Let’s get lunch.”
“Alejandros,” I suggested. “I need Mexican.”
She smiled, forming the laugh lines. “It’s a date.”
I had a visitor waiting at my office. He sat on a chair in the hallway, staring at his phone. Bill Osborne, a twitchy prosecutor who worked for the Commonwealth’s office.
“Inspector August,” he said. “Got a minute? I have a confidential story to relate.”
“Come into my office, Osborne. Been a while. Not since you helped me with Calvin Summers’ informant.”
He followed me in and I started the space heater.
“Correction. I didn’t help at all. I couldn’t or I’d be disbarred.”
“That’s what I meant,” I said.
He sat. Looked at his phone, ran his finger across the screen a few times, and jerked his shoulders.
“I work in the Commonweath’s office,” he said. “I went in last night for a few hours. I don’t get paid enough for that, but the government doesn’t care. Anyway. Who did I run into? Phil Mason.”
“Phil Mason,” I said. “He’s the prosecutor working on the Grady Huff case. He and Candice Hamilton locking horns.”
“Exactly.”
“Phil enjoying Darren Robbins lurking over his shoulder? I bet he loves that,” I said.
“In fact he is not enjoying it. Co-counsel, not a smooth ride.” He glanced at his phone a moment, as if temporarily distracted. “So anyway. Phil Mason is raging last night. He got a call from Judge Barker.”
“Judge Barker, overseeing the Grady Huff trial, set to start in less than two weeks.”
“Judge Barker is livid, apparently. And a little spooked. Judge Barker expressed indirectly to Phil that he’s getting pressure about the Grady Huff trial,” he said. “I heard you were involved and figured you for the aggravator.”
“Judge Barker is feeling pressured,” I repeated.
“To send Grady Huff away for life. Which, of course, makes him want to do the opposite.”
“Who is in position to pressure a judge?”
“No one really,” said Bill Osborne and he grinned. “The only person I can figure is the congressmen. He’s the guy who picks judges. But why would he care about Grady Huff?”
“Why indeed,” I said.
Because Darren Robbins was exerting some power. His squad had contacted the congressman who had then contacted the judge.
He’d lost Ronnie.
He’d lost at poker, a game with totemic aftermath.
And now he fretted about losing the Grady Huff sentencing, which hitherto had been meaningless. But if he lost, he’d have struck out.
So he tried pressuring the judge. Little did he know Judge Barker was not a man to be pressured.
“So Mack,” said Bill Osborne. “What the hell are you doing that’s got Judge Barker and the Commonwealth’s attorney so riled up?”
“I’m merely essaying my winning personality.”
“That what you call it?”
“That and blindly pestering innocent citizens.”
He said, “Well the locals are suddenly sick of this thing. This trial had a lot of energy and buzz, but I predict today it’ll be nothing but gloom and doom. Phil’s tired of the big shot attorney from Washington, and Judge Barker is gonna be prickly,” he said.
“Does Phil want a plea?”
He twitched and glanced at his phone. “Hell yeah he wants a plea. I don’t know the ins and outs, but he said the problem is the defendant won’t plead and Darren Robbins wouldn’t accept it anyway.”
I said, “That’s it exactly. Neither side wants a plea. Whereas your’s truly wants to make it happen against their will. Coerce them into it.”
“What role you playing? You’re on the defense payroll?”
I nodded sagely. “Something like that.”
“Shouldn’t his attorney be coercing the plea deal? Why do you care?”
“I hate Darren Robbins. It’s become personal. And something went down on the dock when Grady Huff killed his cleaning lady, and I want to find out what. Grady doesn’t have the guts to pop someone without reason.”
