The Martini Shot

by George Pelecanos

“No, but we can fuck the ones who did it. I could use you, Barry. You walk into a room, you make an impression.”

  “Say it plain.”

  “First thing, you need to get the money from your nephew, so I can pay off Skylar’s connect. Absolve that debt for the girl.”

  “What else?” said Barry.

  “I’ve got an appointment with Wayne and Cody.”

  “And when you get up with them? You fixin to do what? ”

  “Are you with me, or not?”

  “When?” said Barry.

  “Tonight.”

  I called Detective Joe Gittens when I got back to my room.

  “The TV writer,” he said, with amusement, after I identified myself.

  “Making any progress on the Branson murder?”

  “Only my boss gets to ask me that.”

  “I was just wondering…”

  “What?”

  “I’m curious. What kind of slugs were recovered from Skylar’s body?”

  Gittens said nothing.

  “Nine millimeter?”

  “Why would you need to know that, Ohanion? Is this for one of your scripts? Tanner’s Team gonna put this one down?”

  “What about the shell casings found at the crime scene?”

  “You make me smile, man.”

  “Well?”

  “Wasn’t no casings,” said Gittens. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, today is my day off, and I plan to spend it with my family. Unless you’ve seen the light of day and plan to suddenly cooperate with this investigation, I gotta go.”

  “Sorry to bother you.”

  He hung up on me without another word.

  I lay down and tried to take a nap, but I couldn’t sleep. The late-afternoon sun was coming strong through my window, strobing the room as the trucks on the nearby interstate passed, blocking and unblocking the rays.

  I got off the bed and went to my laptop, open on the desk. The beat sheets for episode 114 were beside it. Similar to our shooting schedule, I often wrote out of sequence, especially when I was looking to crack a script on page one and staring at a dreaded blank screen. I found a place where I could start, and began to type.

  In the scene (INT: INTERROGATION ROOM, HOMICIDE OFFICES, POLICE HQ—NIGHT), Tanner is in “the box,” interrogating a drug dealer, a man named Glover, who Tanner thinks has information on a murder.

  TANNER

  So this Dwayne Elliot, he went by Day, right?

  GLOVER

  That was his street name, yeah.

  TANNER

  Day was a dealer?

  GLOVER

  That boy was trappin like a mug.

  TANNER

  Trapping?

  GLOVER

  Sellin tree.

  TANNER

  Why was he killed?

  GLOVER

  He rotted his connect.

  TANNER

  What do you mean, he rotted him?

  GLOVER

  Day owed the man money and Day wasn’t in no hurry to settle up. If you in the game, and you do someone dirt, you got to pay a price.

  TANNER

  Who killed him, Glover?

  GLOVER

  I ain’t no snitch, Tanner.

  TANNER

  You tell me, I promise you, no one will know where it came from.

  GLOVER

  You asking me to trust you?

  TANNER

  I’m asking you to do something right.

  ON GLOVER, conflicted.

  I wrote the scene, and then two others. It was coming, and I could hardly type fast enough. The faucet was fully on.

  The light in the room dimmed. I’d been sitting at the desk for a couple of hours. It was night.

  I dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a shirt worn tails out. I retrieved the prop gun from the bathroom, then stood in front of the mirror and experimented with its placement. I settled for the front dip, barrel down, with the grip angled so I could pull it easily with my right hand. I practiced my draw several times, then covered the gun with the tail of my shirt. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I looked like me, but different. A man armed with a gun, even a fake gun, is changed.

  I called Annette on the house phone, but she didn’t answer. I left a message and told her I was going out, and hoped to see her later that night. I grabbed my book bag, slung it over my shoulder, and took the elevator down to her floor. I knocked on her door and there was no response. Maybe she was in there. Maybe she’d been in her room when I’d phoned her, too.

  I got my car from the valet and drove over to Barry’s place. He was standing in his front yard, playing with his dogs, when I pulled over to the curb.

  Kenny was standing next to a clean black Marauder, under the beams of his Gulf Stream spotlight, as we arrived at his trailer park. We met him at the Merc.

  “Black Barry,” said Kenny, and they bumped fists.

  “Kenny G,” said Barry.

  I had no nickname that I knew of, so Kenny just nodded in my direction.

  “She’s a beauty,” said Kenny, running his hand lovingly over the hood.

  “Looks like a Crown Vic with extended pipes to me,” said Barry, who was a GM man. There was a decal in the rear window of his Grand National of a kid wearing a Chevy shirt. The kid was pissing on a Ford.

  “It’s all in the details, Barry. Eighteen-inch wheels, five-spoke rims with the god’s head right in the center. Blackouts, color-keyed grille…”

  “I see all the window dressing. But does it move?”

  “It’s a true muscle sedan.”

  “Will it run with an Impala SS?”

  “I wouldn’t want to split the difference.”

  “Can we go?” I said. “I already rented the car, G. You don’t need to sell me on it.”

  Kenny looked Barry over, then said to me, “I see now why you needed the extra room, Victor.”

  “To fit your belly under the wheel?” said Barry. “Mines is flat.”

  “If a basketball is flat,” said Kenny. “I see you been lovin that chicken at Popeye’s.”

  “And I see you ain’t rubbed the red off your neck.”

  It went like that for a while, and continued as we got into the car. They were friends.

  Kenny got in the driver’s side, Barry in the shotgun bucket, and I climbed into the back, like the third wheel on a high school Friday night.

  “Where to, sir?” said Kenny.

  I gave him the address.

  Wayne and Cody stayed on the east bank, over the river, in an area that looked more country than city, with unkempt homes and properties, some abandoned or foreclosed. The river bridge, lit majestically at night, loomed over this section of the parish. We drove down their dark street, which faced railroad tracks and a field featuring blown-in trash and one rusted-out car. The road dead-ended at a concrete barrier.

  “Turn around and face the way we came in,” I said.

  “I ain’t stupid,” said Kenny, adding, “Writers.”

  He three-pointed the Marauder, curbed it, and faced it toward the open run of the street. We looked at the house and its driveway, where an old Toyota Supra with custom rims was parked.

  Barry got out of the car and I followed.

  I slung my book bag over my shoulder and leaned in Kenny’s open window. This made him recoil.

  “Thought you were about to kiss me,” said Kenny.

  “Keep it running, Boss Hog.”

  “I’ll write down the tag number of that Nagasaki nut-bucket.” He meant the Toyota.

  “Good idea,” I said.

  Barry and I walked toward the house. It was a ramshackle one-story affair with tan asbestos shingles that were half on, half off. Plywood had been fixed in several of the windows.

  “Is there a plan?” said Barry, wearing an electric-crew T-shirt, rolled at the sleeves. He looked like a horseman.

  “Just be your badass self,” I said, as we stepped onto an uneven planked porch.

  I knocked on the front doo
r. Soon it opened. A shirtless, barefoot man in his early twenties stood in the frame. He had a pencil-line beard, braces on his teeth, and dull eyes. On his upper chest was a Celtic cross tattoo, an appropriated symbol of “white pride.” Similar tats were inked on his inner forearm. He was holding a cell phone in his hand.

  A second young man, who looked just like the first, stood behind him. He too was thinly bearded, and wore a wife-beater, jeans, and black motorcycle boots.

  “I’m Victor. This is Barry.”

  “Wayne,” said the one who was standing behind his brother. When he spoke, I saw that his teeth were brace-free. “You ain’t say you were bringin no one.”

  “I didn’t say I was coming alone, either,” I said. “Can we come in?”

  I let Barry go ahead of me. As I entered, Cody closed the door behind me.

  The house was as small as Laura Flanagan’s but without any of the artistic touches. The furniture was cushiony, torn, and probably infested with bugs. The place smelled of garbage, nicotine, perspiration, and weed. It was stuffy and hot.

  We all stood there in the living area. I inspected the two of them, obviously identical twins, six-footers and solidly built.

  “Well?” I said.

  “Have a seat,” said Wayne.

  “You all first,” I said.

  Cody shrugged and sat down on the couch. Barry had been waiting for that. He sat down next to Cody, closer than he needed to be. Wayne and Cody both had size, but seated next to Barry, Cody looked like a child.

  Wayne and I remained standing. He was not far from me. Striking distance, if that’s what he wanted.

  WAYNE

  Is the money in that bag?

  OHANION

  Let’s talk first.

  WAYNE

  ’Bout what?

  OHANION

  Skylar Branson.

  WAYNE

  Told you over the phone, I don’t know anyone by that name.

  OHANION

  He was murdered outside Red’s bar, down by the river.

  WAYNE

  Oh, that guy. I read about him in the newspaper.

  (smiles)

  Friend of yours?

  OHANION

  Yes.

  WAYNE

  Too bad he got his self snipped.

  Snipped. I took note of the term.

  “Why do you think I’m here, Wayne?”

  “You tell me,” said Wayne. “You said you was fixin to give me some money. Only a fool would turn that down.”

  “Laura Flanagan,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know her. I got your number from her phone. You called her, Wayne.”

  Wayne smiled. “Skinny little thing, right? Works on movies. Yeah, I met her in a club. So?”

  “I want you to leave her alone.”

  Wayne smiled stupidly. “But she’s my type. See, I’m into those itty-bitty gals. I fuck ’em to the bone, Victor. I like to see if I can break ’em. You know what I mean?”

  When I said nothing, Wayne’s silly grin faded.

  “Let’s just do the business you came for,” said Wayne. “Give me the money and you can get gone.”

  I hitched up my jeans and parted the tail of my shirt, just a little, and brushed my thumb on the checkered plastic grip of the prop gun. I then let the tail fall back over the grip. Wayne’s eyes widened slightly; he’d seen it—I’d wanted him to see it. I supposed that Barry and Cody had seen it, too.

  “Leave her alone,” I said, pointedly.

  “The money,” said Wayne.

  I un-slung my book bag and dropped it at his feet. He picked the bag up, unzipped it, and reached inside.

  “You,” he said, sharply tossing the bag aside.

  “Wayne?” said Cody.

  “It’s empty,” said Wayne.

  In the corner of my eye I saw Cody furtively touching a pad on his cell. Momentarily, a phone rang in the back bedroom.

  “You stay right where you are, slick,” said Wayne. “I gotta get that.”

  I knew where he was going and what he was about to do. I looked at Barry with apology. He looked back at me, both angry and juiced. But he was a professional, and kept up his end. Barry had draped his arm over the back of the couch, behind Cody’s shoulder.

  When Wayne returned there was a gun pressed against the leg of his jeans.

  As he walked into the room, Barry moved quickly, clamping down on Cody’s neck in a choke hold and pulling him across the couch.

  Wayne pointed the gun at my chest.

  “Looks like we got a problem,” I said.

  Wayne’s head swiveled toward the couch, where Barry had Cody’s neck in the channel-lock of his massive forearm. Cody was already losing color. He was beginning to kick his feet.

  “Pull that piece out your dip and drop it,” said Wayne, panic in his voice.

  I did it slowly. It fell with barely a sound to the hardwood floor.

  “It ain’t even real,” said Wayne, with wonder.

  “Your brother’s not gonna make it,” I said. “You might get us, but Cody will be dead, too. Think fast, Wayne. You don’t have much time.”

  My knees were weak, and I’d felt the blood drain from my face. I looked at the gun in his hand, a snub-nosed revolver. It was why I came, and all I needed.

  “I’ll kill him, Wayne,” said Barry, with great calm. “He damn near gone already.”

  “Don’t kill him,” said Wayne.

  “Break the cylinder on that gun and let the shells fall.”

  Wayne emptied the revolver. Barry released his grip on Cody’s neck and pushed on his back. Cody rolled off the couch and struggled for breath. I moved forward and kicked the rounds out of Wayne’s reach. They skittered across the floor.

  Barry got up off the couch. I picked up my empty book bag and the prop gun.

  “Fuck,” said Wayne, to no one in particular.

  “Leave the girl alone,” I said.

  Barry and I backed out of the house. We crossed the yard quickly and got into the Mercury. Wayne had not followed.

  “Drive,” I said to Kenny. “You can take it slow.”

  But Kenny slammed the console shifter into low and pinned the gas. The big Mercury lifted and growled as I was thrown back against the bench seat. Kenny left rubber on the street as we came out of a fishtail and finally straightened. He upshifted to drive and slowed as he neared the turn ahead. In the rearview I saw his eyes, bright and alive as a seventeen-year-old boy’s.

  Barry turned to me from the bucket. He was not pleased. “I oughta kick your monkey ass. Bringin a toy gun to a situation like that. You shoulda told me…shit, you could’ve got me killed.”

  “I needed Wayne to pull that revolver. I had to provoke him.”

  “You did that.”

  “I handled it,” I said, defensively. “Told him to break that cylinder and let the shells fall. Right?”

  “I said it. I told that cracker to unload his pistol. You was so scared, you couldn’t say shit.” Barry looked down at the crotch of my jeans and smiled. “Boy, you even pissed your gotdamn pants.”

  I looked down. There was a wet spot there.

  Barry began to laugh, and Kenny joined him. They were laughing still as we passed through the tollbooth and rolled onto the river bridge.

  I stared out the window at the shining lights strewn on the bridge suspenders, and through the rails at the black water below. The plastic pistol was still in my shaking hand.

  I woke up in the bed of my suite alone the next morning. I had called Annette when I got home, but she was out or didn’t pick up.

  After I’d dressed, showered, and had breakfast, I phoned Detective Joe Gittens. He was not happy to hear from me. It was Sunday, and he was about to go to church.

  “I’ve got something for you on the Branson murder,” I said.

  “Oh. You’ve got something.”

  “Do you have a pen?”

  “For God’s sakes.”

>   “Listen carefully: twin brothers, two white boys who go by Wayne and Cody, were responsible for Skylar’s death.”

  After a silence, he said, “You happen to have a last name on these twins?”

  “No. But I have their address and the tag number of their vehicle.”

  I gave Gittens the information, along with the make and model of the car.

  “I’m guessing they’re renting the house. But you can find the landlord by going to the database search on properties. The owner can give you their full names.”

  “For real? I didn’t know that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Are you gonna tell me why I should do this?”

  “You said there weren’t any shell casings found at the crime scene. Okay, the weapon could have been an automatic, and the killer might have picked up the casings after they’d been ejected, but I doubt it. There wasn’t time. That means the murder gun was a revolver.”

  “Okay…”

  “I saw the gun, Detective. They still have it.”

  “Why would they?”

  “Because they’re stupid. Because it was their daddy’s gun and it has sentimental value. I don’t know. But I saw it. I’m not certain of the caliber, but I’d say it was a thirty-eight.”

  “You’d say. I don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me why you suspect them, or how you came to see this gun.”

  “No, sir. You’re gonna need to treat this as an anonymous tip.”

  “You should have called the Crime Solvers line if you wanted to stay anonymous.”

  “I called you.”

  “I’m your man, huh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Boy, do I feel special.” More dead air filled the line. “It’s not much to go on. Sure not enough to get me a warrant.”

  “You’ll figure it out. Trust me, those are your guys.”

  I heard a female voice call Gittens by his Christian name.

  “I gotta go,” said Gittens. “My wife doesn’t like to be late for service.”

  “Stay in touch.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Ohanion. You and me are gonna talk again.”