Prime Suspect

by A. W. Gray

  “See, Frank? I can hurt you.” Everett’s lips were inches from the nigger’s ear, and Everett was whispering. “Now what I’m thinking is, if that construction man wants to talk, then maybe I ought to see him. So tell me something, Frank. You know where to find this guy?”

  Breath escaped Frank’s lungs with a noise like a death rattle. He fixed his gaze on the ceiling. “Don’t know nothin’ about no construction man,” Frank said.

  “Now, that’s too bad, Frank. Hey, that’s too bad, „cause as long as you don’t know I got to hurt you.” Everett raised the sap, quarter-inch steel stitched inside smooth brown leather, and brought the sap down on Frank’s ribcage. There was a flat slap and a sound like the breaking of a twig. Frank grunted, strained against his bonds, then relaxed. His eyes glazed and his lids drooped. Everett’s brow furrowed. No way did he want the nigger passing out. Break the nigger’s jaw and maybe crack a rib or two, but Everett needed the nigger awake to talk to him. “Stop being dumb, Frank,” Everett said, “See, I did something for somebody, and then that contractor got his hands on some money that should have went to me. And I aim to have it even if I got to bust your arms and legs, you hear? Now tell me where this—” Everett paused and cocked his head. There was a faraway pounding noise.

  At first Everett thought that someone was building something a block or so away. But the sound was closer than that, and wasn’t the noise of a hammer. Rat-a-tat-tat. Stop. Rat-a-tat-tat. Someone knocking on the outside door. Somebody calling on the nigger. Might even be the construction guy.

  “Who you got coming over, Frank?” Everett said softly.

  “Don’t know nothing about nobody coming over. That’s the truth, boss, don’t . . .”

  “Oh, hey, I’m going to work on you some more,” Everett said. “Yeah, I am. But first I got to take care of your caller. Don’t run off, now.” He got up, left Frank, and went out through the kitchen, dropping the sap into his back pocket and digging for the Smith & Wesson. Everett flattened against the doorjamb in the kitchen and peered through the sitting room. Somebody out there, all right. Somebody visible through the screen door, somebody out there on the porch banging away like—

  Everett’s jaw dropped in surprise. Jesus Christ, was it . . . ? Yeah. Yeah, Jesus Christ, it was. Everett’s fingertips trembled and there was a tightening in his groin. He squeezed at his crotch through the coarse fabric of his pants. His breath quickening, dropping his pistol into his pocket along with the sap, Everett Wilson grinned and stepped around the doorjamb into the sitting room, standing in full view of the porch.

  Nancy Cuellar discontinued her knocking to check the slip of paper in her hand, then to compare what was written on the slip to the numbers affixed to the lower panel on the screen door. She was sure that this was the right house; she’d had Ronnie Ferias repeat the address three times—twice in English and once in Spanish to be certain—while she’d stood in the phone booth and written it down. There couldn’t possibly be any mistake. Nancy had never been to the Polytechnic section of Fort Worth in her life, so she’d had to use the Mapsco in her glove compartment to find the street. Get in touch with Frank Nichols, Lackey had told her, and he’ll know where to find me. Well if Nancy had ever needed Lackey, now was the time. She glanced from the porch across the weed-infested yard at her Mustang where it sat at the curb. The old Buick in the driveway was Frank Nichols’ car; she’d been by Lackey’s remodeling job where Frank had been working a couple of times, and she was sure that the Buick was the same one that Frank had driven on the job. The white Volvo parked behind the Buick tickled something in Nancy’s memory. Hadn’t one of those county cops told her something about a Volvo the first time she’d talked to them? Yes, they had, something about a Volvo that Lackey had nearly collided with as he’d left the Hardin home. Sure of herself, and determined to raise Frank from whatever nap he might be having inside, Nancy raised her fist to knock again.

  Someone was standing inside the house, on the other side of the screen, watching her.

  Nancy moved in closer and squinted to peer inside the house. She was looking into a sitting room with an ancient standup TV against one wall. The rabbit-ears antenna had its feelers encased in tinfoil. To the left of the TV sat an old cloth chair, and right beside the chair were two scarred black work boots. Above the boots were ankles clad in white socks and green army pants with turned-up cuffs. Two big male hands hung beside the legs, practically to the knees. The man’s head and shoulders were hidden in shadow.

  “Hello,” Nancy said. “Hello in there.”

  The man stepped into the light. He had a sloping forehead and thinning hair, and was grinning. His teeth were crooked, and his smile sent a crawling sensation up Nancy’s backbone. “Yeah,” the man said. “Yeah, you looking for Frank?” He pulled the screen door open. A spring creaked like inner sanctum.

  The man’s breath smelled of onion. He was only an inch or so taller than Nancy’s five-three, was burly and barrel-chested, and there was something about his eyes. His smile seemed friendly enough, but his eyes were dead black holes in his face. Nancy mentally recoiled, and if she hadn’t needed Lackey so badly she would have made a lame excuse and left. But she had to find Lackey. Had to. She took one hesitant step across the threshold. “Frank. Frank, yes, is he . . . ?” Nancy said. Visible through an open doorway beyond the man, a rickety table and an old refrigerator with a yellowed finish sat on cracked linoleum.

  The man’s grin broadened as he stepped aside and extended his hand toward the kitchen. “He’s jest restin’, little lady. You go right on back, now.”

  A warning voice somewhere inside Nancy told her that she should turn around and run. There was something not right about this, this strange man answering the door in Frank Nichols’s house. Think of Lackey, Nancy thought. She nodded and smiled timidly as she went past the man toward the kitchen. The afternoon sunrays filtered in through the screen and made a rectangle of light on faded carpet. Halfway across the sitting room, Nancy’s foot slipped. She’d stepped in something. Conscious of the man’s bulk near her elbow, his onion breath in her nostrils, Nancy backed up a step and looked down past the snow-white hem of her pleated skirt. She gasped.

  It was blood. She was certain it was blood, a big glistening drop clinging to the carpet and beginning to soak thickly in. A few feet further on was another drop, then more drops which formed a trail through the kitchen. In the kitchen some of the blood was smeared on the linoleum. Her pulse racing, Nancy started to turn back toward the porch.

  The man grabbed her from behind. Thick strong fingers dug into the back of her neck; an arm like twisted ocean liner rope encircled her chest and he hugged her to him. “Back there, little lady,” he whispered fiercely into her ear. “Back there, I said.”

  Oh, God, Nancy thought, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. She opened her mouth to scream, but a rough hand clamped over her mouth and stifled the sound.

  Christ, she smells good, Everett Wilson thought, and that TV news program didn’t do her looks no justice, either. Smells good and feels good, smooth skin over vibrant muscle, firm buttocks pressed against his crotch, bouncy young breasts moving against his arm. Christ, what a . . . You’re going to like me, girl, he thought, before this is over. I got plenty of time for you.

  He put his lips close to her ear. “Your name, girl. What’s your name?” His voice was like sandpaper.

  She struggled and squirmed in his grasp. Feisty. Everett liked that. His erection swelled until he thought it might tear through his pants. He kept his left arm tight around her as he fished in his back pocket and drew out the Smith & Wesson. He showed her the gun by holding it in front of her face, then placed the barrel just below her ear. Her struggles ceased; she was rigid as stone.

  “Your name. I ain’t going to hurt you lessen I have to. Your name.”

  “Nancy.” Her voice was soft and cultured with just a hint of a Spanish accent. Highbrow pepper-belly gal, Everett thought.

  “Nancy. Nancy.” He repeated he
r name like a sixth-grader struggling to memorize a lesson. “You looking for your boyfriend, are you?” Everett said.

  Her chin lifted. “Lackey? Is Lackey here?”

  “Well, no he ain’t. Not exactly. Come on, straight back yonder. Somebody back there wants to talk to you.” Everett shoved her in front of him toward the kitchen.

  Slowly, one faltering step at a time, Everett herded Nancy back through the kitchen and into the bedroom. He kept the barrel of the pistol against her head and his arm tight around her. Her movements were wooden. He’d liked it better when she’d been fighting him, but he’d have more time for that later on.

  As they approached the bed, Frank Nichols’s head lifted and his eyes widened like twin cue balls. He strained against his bonds. Waste of your time, nigger, Everett thought.

  “Lackey said you’d know where . . .” Nancy’s tone was subdued, even apologetic. She trailed off and her chin sank toward her chest.

  Everett released her and stood back, holding the gun loosely in her direction. “You sit awhile in that corner, Nancy. I got business to finish with old Frank here.”

  She looked around, confused.

  Everett motioned with the pistol. “The corner. Right over there, this won’t take but just a minute.”

  She backed slowly into the corner of the room, pressed her shoulders against the adjacent walls, and sank down to a sitting position. Her skirt rode up to show a foot of thigh covered by transparent nylon.

  Everett stood still for seconds as his gaze shifted from Frank to Nancy and back again. Frank’s bare chest moved up and down with his breathing. Nothing personal with this nigger, Everett thought. Just something I got to do. Finally Everett said, “I got this lady here, Frank. I can’t think of nothing else you and me got to talk about. Can you?”

  Frank watched the pistol, his look uncertain, not sure what: was coming but suspecting. Deep down inside, Everett thought, they all know. Frank shook his head slowly from side to side.

  Everett grabbed the pillow from behind Frank’s head, brought the pillow up, pushed it down over Frank’s swollen face. Then Everett pressed the Smith & Wesson’s barrel into the softness of the pillow, felt the pillow’s downy inside give, felt the shock of recoil as he pulled the trigger. The gun’s discharge was like the popping of an air-filled paper bag. The pillowcase around the barrel changed as if by magic from dirty gray to sooty black. Frank’s body jerked once, raised to strain against the ropes, then relaxed. Breath came out of the lungs in a sigh. The odor of burnt gunpowder mixed with the stench of feces. Jesus Christ, Everett thought, they all got to shit all over themselves. He looked to Nancy.

  She cringed back into the corner. Her mouth was twisted in fear.

  Everett smiled. He reached down and untied the length of rope from Frank’s lifeless ankle, “See, Nancy,” Everett said. “That didn’t take long. Now we got nobody to mess with us. We got all the time we need, Nancy.”

  18

  Once, during the Panama invasion, Lackey Ferguson got lost from his seven-man unit. The mission had been a house-to-house search, supposedly in search of General Badass Noriega, but what they’d really been doing was walking down peaceful city streets in full battle gear, knee-high boots laced tight against calf and shin, M-l rifles nestled in the crooks of their arms, wearing pants and shirts of dull green camouflage cheesecloth, while the near-the-equator sun beat down and olive-skinned men and women stood in doorways and on curbs and stared at the gringo soldiers as though they were a bunch of monkeys in the zoo. Which was exactly what they had looked like, Lackey supposed.

  Somewhere he’d taken a wrong turn. One minute he’d been part of a squad of battle-ready troops; the next minute he’d found himself stalking alone down streets the width of bicycle trails with two- and three-story buildings crowding in on both sides, and while muffled shouts of “Chingarro” and “Yankee go the fock home” had come from balconies and doorways all around. He’d come within a hair of laying down his rifle, going into one of the bars that he passed, bellying up to the rail and ordering a cold one.

  Suddenly he’d been face to face with a woman. It was as though she’d materialized. He’d rounded a curve and there she’d been, eyes flashing, frizzy hair sticking out like an uneven frame around her face, grimy bodice cut low and shapeless skirt molding around strong brown legs. She’d looked him over head to toe, no fear in her gaze, a hooker measuring him up, deciding whether he might be a John or was just a no-money dude and a waste of time.

  Apparently she’d decided the latter. Her upper lip had curled as she’d said in perfect English, “Sonny, you want to play G.I. Joe, you need some toy tanks and trucks and shit.” Then she’d flounced away while hoots and catcalls had come from all around. Ten minutes later, Lackey had sat down on a bench in front of the Panama Hilton Hotel and resigned from the war.

  It had been the same feeling that he had now, wandering around in the Polytechnic section of Fort Worth, Texas, looking for a needle in a haystack. Aside from asking Frank Nichols, Lackey didn’t have the slightest idea how to go about finding a hit man, and if he should run across a hit man, what were the odds against it being the right guy? A hundred to one? More like a thousand.

  And then there was the empty feeling in Lackey’s stomach every time he saw a patrol car, and in Polytechnic it seemed that every other auto had a cop behind the wheel. How long before somebody recognized him from his picture in the paper? He didn’t have any doubt that by now there was a full-fledged manhunt going on, and his pickup standing behind the Sleep Inn on Berry Street coupled with his being the only white person registered at the motel was sure to point the finger in his direction.

  More than anything else, Lackey missed Nancy. In the six months since he’d come home from the army he’d never been away from her for twenty-four hours in one stretch, and he guessed it had taken the previous night and day for him to realize how much a part of his life she’d become. The second she’d left him last night, taking her short confident steps up the sidewalk, pausing in the glow from the gaslight to turn and wave, then ascending the staircase with her small hand gripping the rail every few feet, a lump of sadness had lodged firmly in his throat. The lump was still there. Maybe if he could talk to Nancy he’d feel better. Sure couldn’t do any harm.

  Springs creaked as he rose from sitting on the motel bed and went over to the window. He parted the drapes to look outside, his gaze falling on old pickups, seventies and early-eighties model cars as they paraded back and forth on Berry Street. It was near dusk; about half of the cars that went by had their lights on. A seventies model Ford with one headlamp glowing bounced through the intersection of 10th and Berry; the dead light winked on, then off again as the Ford negotiated the double dips. Catty-cornered from the motel was a 7-Eleven; burglar bars made grid patterns across the convenience store’s windows, and, seen through the windows, overhead neon reflected from rows of potato chips, laundry detergent, and every brand of candy known to man. As Lackey watched, a stoop-shouldered black woman in a shapeless flowered dress came out of the store, struggling along as she carried a stuffed-to-the brim grocery sack. She very nearly stumbled and fell a couple of times as she made her way down the sidewalk. At the front of the store, on the far righthand side, was a single open-air phone booth. This time of evening Nancy was generally doing her situps. Lackey dug in the pocket of his jeans and found three quarters.

  He shrugged into a navy blue T-shirt which showed a silver star on its front underneath the script letters spelling “Dallas Cowboys,” slipped his bare feet into dirty white Reeboks, and left the room and entered the parking lot. Two women—a fortyish black-skinned lady with close-permed hair, and a light-skinned colored chick wearing skintight jeans—got out of an old Plymouth and entered the room next door. The women ignored Lackey, which suited him fine. He crossed the asphalt lot and went around to the front of the motel, crossed Berry Street and did a column-right through the crosswalk on 10th, circled the gas pumps at the 7-Eleven, and approac
hed the phone booth.

  A teenage girl was talking on the phone, one elbow leaning on the shelf, her lips moving nonstop. She wore bright pink lip gloss, which contrasted sharply with the chocolate color of her skin. She cut her eyes in Lackey’s direction, showed him a disapproving grimace, then clutched the receiver tighter and turned her back. Lackey jammed his hands in his pockets and, doing his best to appear casual, strolled over to the newspaper rack. He spun a quarter into the slot, lifted the plastic cover and took out one late edition of the Star-Telegram. He spread the paper open, then felt his throat constrict as he gazed on his own picture on the front page beside a large reprint of Nancy’s high school graduation picture.

  He glanced quickly up and down the street. There were no pedestrians in sight, and other than the teenager on the phone there was no one else standing in front of the convenience store. Nonetheless, Lackey held the newspaper up to shield his features from view as he read the story. They’d indicted Nancy. Jesus, they’d indicted her. And according to the article—which was preceded by the italicized caption, “Exclusive to the Star-Telegram”—she had eluded the police in a car chase and was still at large. The picture of Nancy was one he’d seen a thousand times, and as far as Lackey was concerned the photo didn’t begin to do her justice. He skimmed the parts of the newspaper story which were about him—most of it was a rehash of the same things that had been in previous editions of the paper and on TV, and, what the hell, he’d known all along they’d be coming for him eventually—then rolled up the newspaper and stuck it under his arm. He went back to the phone, where the teen-queen was just finishing up. She dropped the receiver into its cradle and sauntered away with her rear end twitching, and without so much as a glance in his direction. Lackey dropped a quarter into the phone with a rattle-and-jingle and called Ronnie Ferias. They’d made the arrangements earlier; Nancy’s phone could be tapped, so Lackey would call Ronnie, who would drive the three blocks to Nancy’s place and give her the number of the phone booth where Lackey now stood. Then she’d call Lackey from a convenience store near her apartment.