by A. W. Gray
I had to admit that I was sort of enjoying the strangling myself, but I reluctantly sprang into action. I took a long step forward, brought the Smith & Wesson up, and placed the barrel inside Muhammed’s ear. “Hate to spoil your fun,” I said. “Call the gorilla off.”
Muhammed tensed. His right eye was visible from my side-angle view, behind the lens of his mirrored shades. The eye blinked once. “Who that?” Muhammed said. “You sound like Rick Bannion. Rick Bannion, that you?” Only his lips moved; the rest of him was still as stone.
“The last time I checked I was. Come on, high priest, call him off. Skeezix is getting sick.”
“Man, you working for this honky snitch muthafuckah?” Muhammed said. “I ain’t believing this. I thought you was Sweaty Mathis’s man.”
Come to think about it, I was having a tough time believing it myself. I pressed the S&W’s barrel harder against his eardrum. “I don’t have time to bullshit. The gorilla drops Skeezix and Skinny drops his gun.”
Muhammed showed gritted teeth in a half snarl. “Put the fat ass down, Honeybear. Yo pistol, Snakey, put it away. We got us a turncoat sonofabitch here.” He meant me.
Honeybear let go of Skeezix, who thudded clumsily to the floor. Honeybear looked as though his raw-meat ration had just been canceled. I still thought he resembled Mr. T. Snakey laid the .45 gingerly on the poker table and regarded me mildly though his one good eye. Skeezix flopped into his chair and clutched his throat, gasping for air. His face was the color of ripe plums.
“Get the piece, Bodie,” I said.
Breaux sauntered over, picked up the .45, rested his hip on the poker table, and aimed the gun loosely in Honey bear’s direction. Honeybear looked about as afraid of the gun as he was of Skeezix. He blinked dully. I briefly wondered whether bullets bounced off him.
I said to Muhammed, “Now we’re going to inspect the shoreline. Come on, the three of you first.” I took the S&W’s barrel out of his ear and motioned toward the back door. It was located down a narrow hallway at the rear of the poker room.
Honeybear didn’t move a muscle. He said to Muhammed, “What I do, boss man?” I mentally held my breath. If Muhammed gave the word, this monster was going to charge us, guns or no.
I put the barrel against Muhammed’s right temple. “You give him the right orders, bro,” I said. I showed Honeybear my version of steely gaze. He appeared bored to death.
Muhammed shrugged. “Do what the mothafuckah say, Bear. There be another time, you see.” He didn’t sound frightened, either. I began to wonder who had the drop on who.
Honeybear led the parade through the back door into the yard, his thick arms slightly akimbo and his palms to the rear. His shoulders rotated in a half swagger. Snakey went next. He paused in the doorway, adjusted the patch over his eye, glanced at my pistol, then at me. He said, “What you think this honky gonna do, Bear, shoot us down like dirty dogs? At least he don’t tell us ‘Reach for the sky,’ or none of that Hopalong Cassidy shit.” Snakey and Honeybear broke up, whooping and giggling. Muhammed Double-X followed them into the yard like he was strolling down Broadway. I went out after them, my gun at waist level, in full control of the situation. Breaux trailed a couple of paces behind me. He mumbled, “Jesus Christ, Bannion, I think you got ‘em.”
The Bermuda lawn slanted toward the lake. We’d made it about halfway down the incline, crickets whirring nearby and frogs croaking in the distance, when heavy running footfalls approached us from behind. I turned, tensing, and came within a whisker of shooting Skeezix. He’d come only about thirty yards, but he was huffing and puffing as though he’d run a couple of miles.
Skeezix showed me his version of a friendly smile, which didn’t look particularly friendly. “Hey,” he said, “I got to apologize for not trusting you, man. You’re all right. Fucking niggers, sneaking up on people. We gonna deep-six the fuckers, what?”
Honeybear halted and swiveled his massive head around. Breaux motioned with the .45. Honeybear moved slowly on.
As we neared the dock, the lapping of the waves grew louder and the boat bobbed up and down. I’d been right, it was a Cris-Craft, a twenty-footer with a steering wheel behind a curved windshield. I shifted my gaze warily between Snakey, Muhammed, and Honeybear. Skeezix stayed at my elbow, chattering a mile a minute, but I ignored him. I didn’t have time for him. Not just yet.
Skeezix was really getting into the act. “You fucking smokes think you’re big-time, huh? Muhammed Double-X, hot shit. Hell, that ain’t even your name.
I know your name, you jungle bunny. Hey, you guys, you want to know the head nigger’s real name?”
Muhammed paused and turned. “You don’t use that name, you fat honky. Don’t nobody use that name, you heah?” I couldn’t see the expression in his eyes, but the sneer on his lips was enough.
Skeezix laughed, a high-pitched, pig-like squeal. “Don’t use it? Man, you smokes with your phony names kill me. Porkpie. Porkpie, you hear me? Porkpie Stevens is the head nigger—I seen your FBI file. Porkpie Washington Stevens, just like one of them smokes on Amos & Andy.”
Up ahead, Honeybear grunted. “Porkpie? Boss, he’s shittin’, ain’t he?”
Muhammed said to Skeezix, “You one dead mothahfuckah, boy.”
I said, “Cut the crap. You three, in the boat. Now. Move it, over the side.” I waved the Smith & Wesson. I was snickering. I couldn’t help it.
The hoods climbed aboard. Honeybear staggered a bit to keep his balance in the gently rocking boat. Snakey was a bit more graceful; he swung one leg, then the other over the side and sat on a cushioned bench, watching me with one unblinking eye. Muhammed Double-X clambered aboard, then propped one foot up on the driver’s chair, and leaned on his thigh like Washington on the Delaware. Off to my right a big fish—a bass or crappie—broke water, wriggled in midair, and splashed back down into the depths. I smelled wet moss.
“Hey, Bodie,” I said. “Keep an eye on the crew for a minute.”
Breaux stepped forward. He’d come up with a flashlight from somewhere, probably in the house, and he switched it on. The beam stabbed the blackness and illuminated the Afro Mafia aboard the Cris-Craft.
Bodie pointed the .45 with his right hand and held the flashlight in his left.
I turned to Skeezix. He raised his fat face to me and grinned. “You going to pop the niggers right here,” he said, “or wait till you get ‘em out in the middle? Man, a nigger sinks good with a rock tied to his ass.”
I pointed the S&W at Skeezix. “You want to go for a boat ride?” I said.
His gaze shifted uncertainly. “Huh?”
“A boat ride.” I raised my voice. “Hey, Muhammed, you want to take Skeezix for a boat ride?”
From aboard the Cris-Craft: “Man, you kiddin’? Give us the fat muthafuckah.”
Skeezix’s uncertain look went away, replaced by knowing fear. He glanced in the direction of the house, tensing, about to take a running step in that direction. I raised the Smith & Wesson and put the barrel against the slight cleft in Skeezix’s chin.
He said, “Man . . . please . . .”
“’S matter, Skeezix, you don’t like boat rides? You have to get your sea legs. Come on, get in the boat.”
His eyes widened and his puffy mouth twisted. He shot a fearful glance in the direction of the Cris-Craft. He whimpered. “They’ll fuck me up bad.”
I kept my gaze on Skeezix and said to Breaux, “What do you think, Bodie? You think we ought to let Muhammed have him?”
“Do one or the other,” Breaux said. “Just quit fucking around. I’m tired watching these guys float. It’s making me seasick.”
Muhammed said, “You give us the fat shit, Bannion, we forget about you.” He was practically drooling.
I softly chewed my lower lip. “Look, Skeezix, you want to stay alive? Make a deal?”
“Anything.” Skeezix was breathing like a cardiac patient.
I pretended to be deep in thought, then said, “We’re going to give you a b
reak, Skeezix. You’re going to leave here with me and Breaux. You’re going out of town, like a trip, okay? Now I’m going to know where you are, every day, all the time. Always, don’t you doubt it for a fucking minute. And if you don’t stay exactly where I want you, Muhammed is going to find you. Okay? Now don’t lie to me, Skeezix. You understand?”
“I said anything, man. Just get me the fuck outta here.”
“Shove ‘em off, Bodie,” I said.
Bodie made Snakey hand him the two oars from the boat. He untied the rope, tossed it aboard, and used one oar to shove the Cris-Craft away from the dock. And they floated slowly away, watching us, the three black thugs like glum statues.
“So don’t take no wooden nickels, Porkpie,” Breaux said.
Driving the Corvette with Skeezix sitting on the console was like trying to steer with the world’s largest bag of marshmallows bumping my elbow. Twice on Airport Freeway he knocked the shift lever into neutral, and the engine revved and raced while I fought to get the car back in gear. The exhaust pipe rattled against the Corvette’s underbody with every bump in the road.
As we made the slow northbound curve off the freeway and headed for the twinkling red and green lights strung over DFW Airport’s entry toll booths, Skeezix said, “Well, yeah, he’s my baby brother and all. He’ll put me up for a while, but Jesus Christ, showing up in town without any clothes—”
“You’ll have to think something up to tell him, Skeeze,” I said. “I don’t know how long Muhammed and the boys floated around in the lake, but I’ll bet not over a quarter of an hour. The first thing they’re going to do is make a beeline for your pad, so we can’t afford to go by there for you to pack. What’re you worried about? You got all that federal stoolie money in your pocket, go buy yourself a new wardrobe. And Skeezix, show some taste this time, huh? No more purple sport coats. Minneapolis, huh? You better not be shitting me, Skeeze. I know a guy in Minneapolis and I’m going to have him check on you every day.”
Skeezix bit the nail on his right index finger. He was acting more and more nervous, and I suspected that he needed a little cocaine in order to get his head on straight. They all think they do. He said, “You don’t believe me, check on it. Moore and Stanton, CPA’s, downtown Minneapolis. It’s in the book.”
On Skeezix’s right, Breaux snorted. “Skeezix, your brother’s a CPA? I bet he does a lot of bragging around about you.”
I steered into the inbound lane, slowed, accepted the blue ticket that the machine spat at me, then pulled back into the whizzing traffic, following the tail-lights of a Chevy van. The jammed parking areas and lit-up terminals whooshed by on either side. We passed a luminescent green sign that told us the next exit led to American Airlines. I checked the digital clock on the dashboard: 11:42.
“You’ll be just in time, Skeeze,” I said. “Red-eye special.”
I thought he was going to say something, but at that instant we bounced over a freeway expansion joint that was deeper than normal. Skeezix jiggled up and down and steadied himself with his fat palms against the dashboard. I made the winding up-and-down circle and screeched to a halt in front of the American terminal, probably making the ride a little rougher on Skeezix than necessary. I wasn’t doing it on purpose. I didn’t think.
“Bodie, escort our guest to the departure gate,” I said. “He’s got ten minutes.” Then I put my lips close to Skeezix’s ear and whispered, “Don’t fuck with me, Skeeze. I’ll be watching you. Every day.” I winked. “No fooling.” He nodded. He was blubbering. Probably sad over leaving his setup at Connie Swarm’s. I couldn’t say that I blamed him.
I watched Skeezix waddle into the brightly lit terminal with Breaux at his side, then put the ‘Vette in gear and made the circle once more. The ‘Vette seemed a whole lot peppier without Skeezix riding the console. I only had to make the circle once; the first time by the terminal, Breaux waited on the curb, hands on hips. I stopped and he climbed in. “Fucker barely made it,” Breaux said. “Jesus, I’d hate to have to pay for the petrol it takes to fly that fat son of a bitch around.”
The Cafe Dallas was jumping, bodies now writhing on the dance floor. As I pulled to the curb in front, I peered inside through the windows. I didn’t see the redhead, but I’d have bet she was still inside. Breaux affected certain kinds of women like that.
He said, “You coming in?”
“I don’t guess so, Bodie, I’m worn out. I think I’ll go on to bed.” I fished a roll of bills out of my pocket and peeled off five hundreds. “Here. You’re high, bro, but you’re worth it.”
Breaux eyed the money, then me. “Bannion, you’re a real fucking Daddy Warbucks, you know that?” he said.
I told Donna, “I think it’s going to be all right.” “Are you sure? I don’t want you to get in any trouble, Rick. What did you do?”
“Don’t ask.” I was standing outside a 7-Eleven store using a public pay phone. The ‘Vette idled at the curb behind me, its hood vibrating more than it should have. Probably needed plugs. “Let’s just say, I think they’ll have to set bond. It’ll be high, but I think you’ll be able to post it.”
There was a brief silence on the line, broken by the faint noise of static, like paper rustling. “Rick?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Can I see you?”
I’m not sure whether I’d expected it or not. To give her the opportunity was probably the real reason I’d called. “Tonight?” I said.
“Jacqueline’s spending the night with her friend. Tonight, yes. It ... might be our only chance.”
Long-ago images flashed through my mind. One was a scene at Jack and Donna’s wedding reception, the warm, nearly feverish squeeze she’d given my hand as I’d passed through the reception line. “We might be sorry,” I said.
“I’d be sorrier if we don’t.”
I sighed. “Me, too. I don’t want to come to your house. I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”
“Where, then?”
“You’re sure you want to?”
“I’m sure I have to,” she said.
I gave her an address, returned to the ‘Vette, and headed south on Greenville Avenue. Deep down I’m a real bastard. I’ve gotten used to the feeling.
5
I lay on my side on cool satin sheets, propped my head on my elbow, and peered through the dimness at Donna’s outline against the sliding patio door. She was standing with her feet slightly apart on the carpet, her back to me, her chin pointed downward and to her left. She was looking across Turtle Creek Boulevard toward the stately elms and sycamores that grew in Lee Park. There was a big bronze statue of General Robert E. himself over there, in full Rebel battle dress astride his horse. I’d stood where Donna now was countless times, and General Lee would be visible to her. There was a spotlight in the park, trained on the statue, and the general showed up pretty well at night. Underneath the horse’s belly there’d be a few spent roaches on the ground.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other; one round hip moved upward, the other down. There was a stark white strip across her buttocks that contrasted with her tan. “That doorman called you Dr. Peters.”
“Peterman,” I said.
“God. The eternal phallic symbol.”
“I never thought of it that way,” I said.
Her slender arm moved; the point of her cigarette glowed hot, then dimmed. She snuffed it out in an ashtray on a small round table just inside the door. I’d put an oldie album on the stereo, Johnny Mathis. “Chances Are.” Old lost times with old lost loves.
“Why the alias, Rick? You’re not a spy or anything.” Her rich mahogany hair hung below her shoulder blades. She tossed her head. Visible beyond her outline, the full August moon touched the tops of the trees.
“This isn’t really my place,” I said. “I clear out a couple of times a week so some bookmakers can take over the phone. If this place gets too hot they’ll move on. We’ll move on. Then I’ll be living someplace else and there’ll be a different nam
e on the mailbox. What I get out of it is a free place to stay. What they get is a safe place to operate. It works out.”
“I don’t get it, Rick. I don’t get any of it. My husband, a guy I’ve lived with all this time without knowing he was a cocaine smuggler. You, the way you’re living. What’s happened to all of us?”
“I can only answer for me,” I said. “And my story’s pretty simple. I live whichever way it takes to get by. Oh, sure, I could work on an assembly line, but prison didn’t leave me a lot of choices. As for Jack, well, nobody’s proved anything about him.”
She came over to sit on the bed, and I scooted over to give her room. She leaned her back against my bare midsection and crossed her legs. One small foot began to swing. Johnny Mathis was now into “Small World.”
There was a stuffed zebra head on the wall over the bed. She looked at it. “At least your friends go first-class. God, the first time I looked up and saw that . . . animal, it scared me to death. Nothing against you, Romeo, but it was the zebra that made me yell the first time. Turtle Creek North is a pretty fancy address for a temporary pad.”
“You should have seen the last one,” I said. “Out in Southeast Dallas. If I still lived there I would have had to put tight jeans and a crash helmet on you and smuggle you over there on the back of my Harley.”
She laughed, a silvery tinkle like crystal dinner bells. Her voice was slightly higher-pitched than I’d remembered. “Jesus Christ, Rick . . . yes, it’s funny. But at the same time it’s a little sad to see you living like this, with no future. You don’t have much of one, do you?”
“No. Whatever future I might’ve had, well, the feds took it away.”
“I couldn’t believe it when you went to prison,” she said. “And having to read about you in the papers, well . . . I’m not sure that wasn’t more of a shock than finding out about Jack.”
I rolled onto my back and clasped my hands behind my head. She draped an arm across my chest. I smelled faint lilac in her hair. “I guess it’s a shock if you don’t understand what’s going on,” I said. “But turning to dealing drugs isn’t peculiar to Jack and me, it’s happened to a lot of worn-out jocks. The one bonehead offside play against the Forty-Niners, that wasn’t the real reason that Dallas got rid of me. That’s all baloney. They let me go because I was short on talent. The Rams found that out and quick.”