“I got him under control,” said Ricardo. “But I rue the day I tapped that heifer he calls Mom.”
“We all got regrets.”
“Shoulda pumped my nut into a dirty sock instead.”
“You can pick your nose,” said Mobley, “but you can’t pick your gotdamn relatives.”
Feeling philosophical, Ricardo and Mobley met at the bar cart and poured themselves a couple of drinks.
LUCAS TOOK a long bike ride late in the afternoon and returned warily to his apartment. There were no patrol or unmarked cars on the street. He had not expected police to be waiting for him there, but he allowed that it might be a possibility. He was certain no one had witnessed the event in the parking lot, and though he had probably left DNA evidence behind, it would only be connectible if he was a suspect. It had been less than a day, but Lucas knew that if the MPD had made him, he would be in the box by now in 1D, being videotaped, answering seemingly polite questions, listening to the psychological head music that D.C. homicide detectives orchestrated so well.
Lucas went inside and took a shower. As the hot water calmed him, he speculated further: Ricardo Holley and his mob knew who had killed Earl Nance, but they wouldn’t give that information up to the law. If Larry Holley was going to do his job as a police officer and turn in Lucas’s name to Homicide, he would have done so by now, but that would also incriminate him. Ricardo could plant an anonymous tip, but Lucas had the feeling that it would be emotionally unsatisfying on his part to set in motion such a cheap and cowardly resolution to what was becoming a game of wills.
If it is a game, thought Lucas, perhaps now is the time to step it up.
He had been hired to get the money or the product back. He had been sidetracked to a degree that he had stalled in achieving that goal. He had seen Ricardo leave his house on 9th with an envelope that appeared to bulge with cash. That same day, he had observed the man who could be Mobley, Nance, the big man driving the Tahoe, Ricardo, and Larry Holley all congregated at the detailing building, which perhaps also functioned as their base of operations. Since Ricardo had taken money there, the meet might have been for the purpose of a payday, set in a place where they could come together to cut it up. He assumed that Ricardo, being the senior member of the group, was in charge. Ricardo damn sure didn’t use a bank. Ricardo distributed the cash from the reserve that he kept at his house. For Lucas, the next step was obvious.
He came out of the shower and dried off with a large bath towel. He put on some jeans, went out to the living room, picked up his cell, scrolled through his contacts, and found the friend he had last seen at the American Legion bar.
“Bobby Waldron.”
“It’s Spero Lucas.”
“Hey, man.”
“I could use your help.”
“You need somethin?”
“For now I need you. I got a tail-and-surveil job.”
“Thought you use Marquis for that sort of thing.”
“His lack of mobility is an issue.”
“I could use the work.”
“You free tomorrow?”
“Affirmative.”
“Let me give you some background.”
Lucas told him some of it. They agreed to meet early the next day.
EIGHTEEN
BOBBY WALDRON was standing on Emerson, leaning against his Ford Lariat SuperCrew pickup, when Lucas came out of Miss Lee’s house in the morning.
Waldron stood straight as Lucas approached. He wore cargo pants and a white T-shirt whose sleeves were filled with his bulging, Bengal-striped biceps. His left forearm was heavily dotted with shrapnel and ink. His hair, shaved back and sides, said military or police. A chaw of tobacco swelled his jawline.
Lucas wore dark blue Dickies pants, a matching blue long-sleeved Carhartt shirt, and black steel-shanked Wolverine boots. It was too warm for such an outfit, but any discomfort he would feel was necessary.
“My man Waldo,” said Lucas.
“Sir.”
“Knock that shit off.”
“Yes, sir.”
“C’mon.”
They went to the back of the Jeep. Lucas lifted the tailgate, exposing the cargo area, which he had loaded with tools and equipment. Waldron looked at a dark blanket covering several items and the thick pine handle that protruded from its edge.
“What is that, an ax?”
“It’s a sledgehammer,” said Lucas. “Haven’t decided what I’m gonna use so I brought a racka shit.” Lucas reached into a box, handed Waldron a two-way and headset, and a disposable cell. “Use the radio when we’re in range. When we get out of range, use the cell. Here’s my number.” Lucas handed him a slip of paper. “You have the address of his house.”
“I do.”
“Park on Somerset or Tuckerman. Be aware that it becomes one-way on that strip due north. If our man is a creature of habit, he’ll go right to the Safeway after he leaves his crib. He gets his morning coffee at the Starbucks there.”
“Right.”
“I’ll be in the lot to make sure this is going as planned. From there you’re on your own. Last time we tailed him he went to a pole-dance club deep down on Georgia. Look for him to go there or some other stroke palace and then over to his spot in Edmonston.”
Waldron spit juice on the street. “Got it.”
“He starts heading back to his house, hit me up.” Lucas looked him over. “You got a long-sleeve shirt?”
“It’s too hot for that.”
“I know you’re proud of your guns, but you do stand out with all your ink.”
Waldron flexed, his stripes expanding. “Whaddaya think?”
“Tony the Tiger’s jealous.”
Waldron issued a lopsided grin. “I don’t have a long-sleeve shirt with me.”
“I’ll get you one.”
Lucas went back into his apartment and returned with a Johnson Motors long-sleeved T carrying a print of Bud Ekins riding his Triumph. Waldron examined it.
“Who’s this guy?”
“McQueen’s stunt double. He jumped the bike over the barbed wire in The Great Escape.”
“Cool.”
“My brother doesn’t think so,” said Lucas.
“He’s overeducated.”
They climbed into their vehicles and went to work.
LUCAS WAS far back in the lot of the Safeway on Piney Branch Road, waiting, when Ricardo Holley, in his white Lincoln, pulled in and came to a stop. Bobby Waldron’s Lariat arrived shortly thereafter. His voice came into Lucas’s headset.
“I’m here,” said Waldron.
“I got you,” said Lucas.
Waldron parked in another far corner. Holley stepped out of the Mark V and crossed the lot. He wore a purple shirt tucked into triple-pleated black slacks and a black bolo tie. His hair was large, puffy, and somewhat bronze in the sunlight.
“Where do you get that haircut in this day and age?” said Waldron. “And those clothes. Where do you buy shit like that? Seriously.”
“Maybe he’s got a time machine in his basement.”
“Weird-lookin dude, bro.”
“You think so?”
Soon Holley emerged from the Safeway with a cup of Starbucks in hand. He started up the old Lincoln and cruised through the parking lot toward the Georgia Avenue exit. Waldron ignitioned his truck.
“I’m on it,” said Waldron.
“Switch over to your disposable.”
“I will.”
“He starts to head back to his house, you call me, hear?”
“Copy that.”
Lucas watched Waldron follow Holley, Waldron spitting a stream of tobacco juice out the window. PFC Bobby Waldron, 2nd Platoon, 2nd Battalion, 503rd Infantry Regiment, had been stationed at a firebase in the Korengal Valley and had participated in harrowing recon patrols throughout his deployment. Lucas was not worried about his friend. This was butter for him. He’d do fine.
Lucas started his Jeep and drove toward Holley’s residence.
&nb
sp; AS THERE is with nearly every house in D.C., there was an alley behind Holley’s house on 9th. Lucas drove through it, north to south, slowly. He noted the No Parking / Tow Away Zone sign, stopped his Jeep, and took several photos of the rear of Holley’s bungalow. It was bordered by a cheap post fence one grade up from chicken wire that could be easily vaulted. It had a couple of windows that were probably locked and definitely hard to access, and an iron set of steps with a handrail that led to the wooden back door. Lucas saw no water dish, paw-dug holes, mounds of feces, or any other evidence of a dog. If Holley had one, he would mistreat it, and the animal would be mean. Lucas would deal with that if he had to.
He looked to his right. There was a commercial building on the west side of the alley whose windows faced north; its occupants would have no sight lines on the Holley house. Past the building was the busy Georgia Avenue intersection beyond which Piney Branch would soon become 13th Street.
Lucas drove out of the alley, went around the block, and parked on Tuckerman facing Georgia.
He examined the photographs he had taken on his iPhone. He stowed that phone in the glove box and slipped his disposable into his pocket. On his belt he wore a holster for a Leatherman utility device, which, assuming there was no safe to crack, had all the tools he might need, including a knife long enough to blind someone if properly stuck. He picked up a knit watch cap off the shotgun seat and fitted it on his head.
Lucas got out of the Jeep, went around it, lifted the tailgate, and pulled back the blanket in the cargo area. He looked at the sledgehammer and knew that it was too conspicuous and heavy. Beside it was a Stinger all-steel battering ram used by police that Lucas had bought off a website for two hundred and seventy-five bucks. It was not the monster hydraulic ram he had seen used to great effect on houses overseas, but it was sufficient and weighed only thirty-five pounds. He took it out of the Jeep and proceeded to the alley.
Walking south, he tossed the Stinger into Holley’s yard without breaking stride. At the foot of the alley he turned and went to 9th, then turned north. Now he was going by the front yards of the houses there. The street was quiet. A woman with a belly hanging over the front of her elastic-waist jeans crossed the street carrying a laundry hamper and went toward her car. She glanced at him for only a moment and walked on. He was a young white guy in a uniform and cap, medium height, solid build, no facial hair, no features to distinguish him, completely unremarkable and unmemorable, going about his business, which appeared to be some kind of official or blue-collar task. He continued up the sidewalk of the Holley residence, hearing the turn of an ignition behind him, going by the security alarm sign that he assumed would be bullshit. Now he was on the porch, hearing the car with the Laundromat-bound woman inside it going up the street.
Lucas stood before the door and pushed a button beside it and did not hear a bell. He knocked on the door and got no response. By now a dog would have come, but apparently there was no dog inside. He looked in the thin vertical window beside the bell, saw the messy interior, saw a plastic box hanging by the wall inside the door that showed a keyboard but had neither a red nor a green light, and he knew that it was a false security monitor that Holley had attached in a half-assed way.
He turned and walked off the porch, retracing his steps. He went back to the alley, and at the rear of Holley’s house he vaulted the fence, picked up the Stinger off the ground, and headed for the back door. He looked to the right and left and saw no one and took the iron steps up to the door. With one hand gripping the rear handle of the ram and the other on the top handle, he swung the heavy steel bar with great force into the door a few inches from its lock, and he felt the door give. The sound did not seem alarmingly loud to him, and he swung the Stinger again, putting his hips into it, and the door splintered and moved, and Lucas kicked the heel of his right boot into the same spot with a grunt, and the door opened and he stepped inside. He closed the crippled door with his back.
Lucas was in a small kitchen with old appliances and a sink filled with dirty dishes. The room stank of unemptied garbage. He placed the Stinger ram on a cheap laminate countertop scarred by burn marks. He walked from the kitchen into the living room and did not stop to look around.
Lucas knew what every burglar knows: people, straight and criminal alike, keep their cash, jewelry, and valuables close to where they sleep.
There was no second floor, only a crawl space. He found the bedroom that looked to be Holley’s by virtue of the fact that it held the largest bed. It was the master; there was a bathroom inside accessed from the room. Lucas went into the bathroom, saw men’s toiletries, long black hair in the sink, a shower stall covered with mold. A tube of mascara and lipstick, no doubt left behind by one of Holley’s tricks.
Lucas went back into the bedroom and surveyed it. An unmade king with no headboard; a cheap particleboard dresser with three drawers, an open cigar box doubling as a jewelry box atop it; a large velvet wall painting of a full-figured woman, naked, on her knees; a poster of the zodiac signs showing men and women coupling in various positions; and a closet filled with shirts, slacks, sport jackets, and shoes.
Lucas drew the blinds and closed the curtains. He got down on his chest and looked under the bed. There was nothing but dust bunnies there. He stood, threw the sheets back, drew his Leatherman from its holster, and pulled from it a small but very sharp serrated blade. He cut the mattress open from head to foot and cut it crosswise and inspected its stuffing and springs. Nothing. He went to the dresser and pulled its drawers one by one, emptying them onto the floor, tossing the drawers in a jumbled heap to the side. He looked in the cigar box, saw several bolos, cuff links, and rings with glass jewels, and he emptied this onto the floor as well. With his hand he swept off whatever was left on the dresser and felt his face grow hot. He removed the velvet painting from the wall, held it aloft, punched his right fist through its center, and dropped it. Lucas heard himself laugh.
That’s for sending the little man.
He went to the closet, which had no door. He pulled all the clothing out by the hangers and tossed it onto the bed. There were many pairs of shoes lined up on the floor, side weaves, fake gators, country-to-the-city, boat-to-America shit, and Lucas kicked them to the side and got down on his haunches and saw the plywood wall in the back of the closet that was obviously false from the way it hung. He got a grip on its edge and pulled it back and he smiled.
There were three ghetto safe-deposit boxes on the floor behind the false wall, stacked on top of one another. Lucas picked up the stack of Nike shoe boxes and put them on top of the dresser. One by one he opened them, and inside he saw banded stacks of cash. Twenties, hundred-dollar bills, tens, and fives.
The cell rang in his pocket. He pulled it and answered.
“Yes.”
“It’s me,” said Waldron. “Our boy came out a massage parlor ten minutes ago. I’m guessing he got his self yanked.”
“And?”
“Seems to me he’s headed back to his house. He just turned off Georgia onto Missouri.”
“I need ten minutes,” said Lucas.
“Copy that.”
BOBBY WALDRON passed the Lincoln on the right, raced ahead, and got back into the left-hand lane. Now he was in front of Holley. They were on Missouri Avenue headed east. At the red light at the 9th Street cross, Waldron came to a stop. Ricardo Holley braked the Mark V behind him, his left turn signal activated. Waldron, wearing a pair of Bobster wraparound goggles with amber frames, checked the rearview. He waited for Holley to look down at his cell, the modern habitual stoplight behavior, and when he did, Waldron put his truck in reverse and gave it a touch of gas. The Lariat rolled back slowly and tapped the fender of Holley’s Lincoln. Waldron quickly threw the shifter into park and stepped out of his truck.
Holley got out of his Mark and limped forward, his face set in an angry frown. The light turned green and horns sounded as both men walked toward each other. The traffic on Missouri streamed by. Waldron and Holley m
et in the street, four feet apart. Holley towered over Waldron. Waldron spread his feet.
“What the fuck you think you’re doin?” said Holley. “You backed into me.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Waldron calmly. “You hit me.”
“Motherfucker—”
“That’s not necessary, sir.”
“You—”
“I saw you, sir. You were looking at the screen of your cell phone. When the light turned green you came forward without observing that I was still stopped.”
“That’s not true. It’s not.”
“Is there any damage to your car, sir?”
Holley turned his head and inspected the bumper of the Lincoln. There wasn’t a scratch on it.
“That’s not the point,” said Holley.
“Maybe you’d like me to phone the police.”
“No, I don’t want that.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Motherfucker, I want you to apologize.”
Waldron stared impassively at Holley from behind amber lenses and spoke in a monotone. “I told you, sir. That kind of language is completely unnecessary.”
Ricardo Holley looked at Waldron, his redneck haircut, his redder than red sunglasses, his arms and shoulders stretching out the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt, had a picture of some white sucker riding a motorcycle. Holley had eight inches on the man standing before him, and reach, but the short man had quiet confidence. And with that tree stump build of his, he would be hard to hurt. Still, if he were twenty years younger… but he was not.
“Apologize,” said Holley, because he could not give it up.
Waldron said nothing. Holley’s face darkened and he limped back to his car.
Waldron got into his truck and drove away. Down Missouri, near Kennedy, he phoned Lucas.
“He’s one click away from his house,” said Waldron. “He’s on his way.”
RICARDO HOLLEY pulled up in front of his bungalow and killed the Mark’s engine. He was running a little late for the meeting at the warehouse, what with the extra time he’d spent with that Korean gal, but he decided to come back to his crib and pick up his bottle of high-dose naproxen, which he’d forgotten that morning. The prescription painkillers did help to soften the pain in his hip. Doctor said that the bone deterioration since his shooting all those years ago was “pronounced,” and that he should think about getting the replacement surgery, that is unless he wanted to be physically impaired for the rest of his life. Holley knew what they did to you in that operation; they took a table saw or something like it to your ass. Just thinking of that saw cutting into his bone made him sick. He’d stay on pills and gut it out.
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