The Mercy of the Night

by David Corbett

  The occasional table lamp glowed solo in a curtained window, a porch light here and there, the houses resting farther apart and deeper into their lots than back in town, the rough yards swaled and marshy and littered with junk. Some contained pens for chickens or goats, even the occasional hog parlor, ripe with slop. Almost all had dog runs.

  The barking tracked Jacqi’s every turn, and she had to check the stamped-tin street signs twice to make sure she’d gone the right way, only feeling confident she’d reached the right place when she detected in the near distance the outline of some guy standing on the hood of an F-150 pickup, taking a piss on the windshield.

  Once she was close enough to speak quietly, she said, “I’m looking for LeQuan,” wanting to back up from the beery stench.

  The guy shook his pecker, hopping a little on the balls of his feet, the pickup’s hood buckling. “Next house down”—zipping up, pointing with his chin—“cross the street.” He flipped off the nearest house, the one the truck seemed to belong to, down a muddy grade littered with car parts. “Thanks for the suggestion box, asshole!”

  A door flew open, but not there. The house he’d pointed to: LeQuan’s.

  Jacqi recognized the silhouette instantly, framed by the hazy light, and suffered a sudden impulse to turn around. Run.

  As in where?

  LeQuan stormed from his doorstep across his yard and into the street, loose shirt billowing, reaching the pickup as Mr. Whizzler jumped down. The pistol came out of nowhere. LeQuan lashed it across the other guy’s face, knocking him to his knees.

  Hissing: “The fuck I tell you. Don’t need no vigilante shit from the hillbillies.”

  LeQuan glanced down at the dark house, tensing. Waiting. Finger hooked on the pistol’s trigger now. The other guy tottered, trying to regain his feet. LeQuan kicked him hard in the ribs.

  “You move when I tell you to move, numbnuts. I gotta live out here, unnerstan? Just ’cause you white don’t make you right, you feel me?”

  The guy knelt there, palming the side of his face. Whimper in his exhale.

  “I asked you a fucking question. Do. You—”

  “All right. Yeah.” He checked his face. His fingers came away bloody.

  Not like LeQuan, Jacqi thought, to leave marks. He had technique, pointers learned from a twisted cop, worked riot squad, or so he said. You go for the groin, the armpit. Soft flesh—minimum pressure, maximum pain. His favorite was the eye gouge. No pain like it, and the redness went away in just a few.

  She stood there, barely breathing. I’m invisible, she thought. Here but not here.

  The magic failed. LeQuan glanced up, pirate eyes. Big gold tooth in his smile.

  “Hey, girl.”

  He lifted his shirttail, tucked the gun in his pants, nudged the kneeling whiteboy one more time with his shoe. That eerie gentle voice she remembered, almost forgiving: “Get back in the goddamn house.”

  The guy struggled up from his knees, staggered toward the waiting doorway, a slice of light in the darkness.

  LeQuan turned back to Jacqi. He seemed thinner, all muscle and jump, his face reduced to angles. The big shirt draped from his shoulders like a billowing flag. Hair no longer conked, a close-cut natural instead. Same eyes, though.

  “Knew you’d come back, girl. Just had to leave the door open long enuff.”

  53

  The three of them sat before a large-screen TV—LeQuan and the whiteboy on the ends, Jacqi in the middle, repeatedly declining as they passed a bong and a bag of Takis, Nitro flavor, back and forth, nipping off a bottle of Gilbey’s Gin. No crank, no pipe, not yet. But if she knew LeQuan, they’d come.

  They’d downloaded videos off the net, routing them through the Blu-ray, the seeming favorite a YouTube clip titled Hitler’s Kids. An actor made up like the Fun-Loving Führer invited all his favorite tykes down to Camp Treblinka: swimming, camping, fireside songs. “It’s not what you think,” he said, standing outside a shack marked “Smokehouse.”

  Every few minutes, LeQuan rousted himself from the sofa, waved his way through the beaded curtain separating the den from the front room, and shuffled to the window looking out on the street.

  Edging the curtains aside, he’d study the pissed-on pickup and the house beyond, looking for phantoms in the darkness, paranoid the Ku Klux neighbors were ready to launch some unspeakable revenge. Two minutes, five, sometimes ten he’d stand there watching, then come back, swimming through the beaded curtain again, letting it rattle behind him, the strands swaying for a moment, then still.

  Jacqi teased out the whiteboy’s name—LeQuan called him Fishbelly, because his skin had a speckled whiteness—and he had a chastened meekness about him now, his cheek shiny with Bactine.

  LeQuan, taking Jacqi into the kitchen at one point to microwave a cup of tea, said, “You probably wonderin what I’m doin out here in the Land of Cracker.”

  “To be honest,” she said, lifting the microwaved cup to her lips, “My head’s been kinda elsewhere.”

  He looked at her as though wondering whether he should take offense. “Yeah, well, thing of it is, got me a whole new situation.”

  He told her he’d teamed up with Fishbelly—who, it turned out, had a master’s in botany, UC Davis—and together with a few other partners, more silent in kind, they were maintaining grow houses tucked away inside absentee rentals and foreclosures all around the area, feeding quality dank to the medical pot dispensaries.

  Ridiculous money, LeQuan said. Like stealing from a blind girl.

  “I’ve known a few blind girls,” Jacqi said, “I wouldn’t try to rip off.”

  They returned to the den as Fishbelly downloaded some vintage porn. Kaptain Kornhole and the Kinky Kandystripers. “Lemme fast-forward to the good part,” he said, aiming the remote. He held up the Nitro Takis, shook the bag.

  Jacqi said, “LeQuan, there any way I might lie down somewhere for a while?”

  The room had an honest-to-god bed, queen-size, and Jacqi couldn’t flop down fast enough, curling up on her side, jamming one pillow beneath her head, gripping the other like a big stuffed panda. LeQuan closed the door and eased on up behind her, pressing himself against her back, a hand on her hip.

  “You smell like rain,” he said.

  She’d left her shoes on, lucky accident. Make sure they stay on, she thought. That was another pressure point, the soles of the feet. Soft flesh.

  “Heard about the reward. Hundred thousand dollars. That ain’t no joke.”

  So, she thought. Scratch me back.

  “Seems to me, you should check out your options. I’m not saying turn snitch. That’s the stupid move. Too long a wait, no guarantees. They don’t convict, you get squat. Might have to share regardless, no telling what you’d get in the end. But may be there’s somebody willing to pony up for you to keep quiet.” He leaned in closer. “Like Mo Pete. Like Chepe. Maybe—”

  “LeQuan, listen. I got nothing to say about Mo Pete or Chepe or anybody else on the video that the picture doesn’t say.”

  “Video ain’t gonna do it. You seen that thing?”

  “I already talked to a cop, LeQuan, one of the detectives.”

  She felt his coiled body tense up behind her. “Did what?”

  “I knew him from, you know, before. Just bumped into him at the hospital, I didn’t say anything. Trust me, he wants me a million miles away from this. Told me straight up: get outta town. They fucking hate me, LeQuan. Believe it.”

  The hand on her hip tapped out a mindless code. “That don’t mean you don’t have value. And cops don’t run your business.”

  “LeQuan—”

  “You keep that shit under your hat, understand? You got value, bitch. Use it.”

  He dropped onto his back, as though spent from sex. Or failing at sex. Jacqi had to remind herself to breathe.

  “I’m gonna te
ll you something, and you gonna listen. You walked out. I coulda come looking, found your ass, collected on what you owe—and make no mistake, girl, you owe—but I decided, Hey, let it be. I know what you been through. I ain’t some slightweight don’t unnerstan. But now you come running back, all help me and shit, put me in a position. And you think you’re not gonna set this right?”

  For just a second, in a kind of get-me-outta-here daydream, she imagined herself standing in a long dim hallway, flickering lightbulbs overhead, grimy psycho carpet beneath her feet. Otherwise, nothing but doors, hundreds of them, and a queasy sense they were all locked shut.

  “So here’s what’s gonna happen. Got this friend, does the build-outs for the grow houses. Hooks up the filtration systems, air conditioning, circulation fans—average nigger got no clue the shit goes into his high—jacks the wiring and hangs the grow lamps so they don’t max out the breakers, burn the place down. Works the bypass so PG&E don’t get wise to the big bump in juice. Couple pinheads tried the do-it-yourself route back last fall, damn near burnt off their arms. And you leave a trunk line exposed, some fool’s gonna get fried—could be just a cat or a raccoon, but that tips people off. Cops come poking around. And if some kid stumbles onto it, Jesus. This friend, he looks after all that. Smart man, useful dude, call him Teddy Toolbelt. Got a call from him earlier, right about the time they start barking your name around the news. He asked about you. Knew you and me used to be hooked up—think I didn’t brag? Miss you, girl. We made us some money. But he asked about you, said he wanted to meet up. Said it was important.”

  Jacqi tried to get to her feet but he caught her, dragged her back down.

  “Where you think you going?”

  “I need to pee.”

  “You can hold it.”

  “LeQuan—”

  In a flash he was straddling her, knees gripping her hips, one hand pinning her shoulder to the bed. The other hand clamped down on her throat.

  “This how it is? Gonna make me do this?”

  She felt his thumb press down and that brought Fireman Mike to mind, the hideous bruise on his throat. I’m gonna die just like him, she thought. How romantic.

  “I told you. You got value. And I don’t know just what it is ol’ Teddy Toolbelt thinks is so damn important, but I got a notion. Could hear it in his voice. You saw something. You saw him. And he can’t have that. He ain’t in no position to be seen. Too much exposure, too many questions. Too much at risk. Well, that’s worth something.”

  His lips were gummed with sticky whiteness, his breath stank. A stare like he wanted to dig out her brain. Then, ever so slightly, the pressure eased up on her throat.

  “Real name’s Teddy Buker, unnerstan? Say it.”

  She coughed, needing air. “Please—”

  “Fuckin say it!”

  “Teddy. Teddy . . .”

  “Buker.”

  “Teddy Buker.”

  “Again.”

  “Teddy Buker.”

  “That’s good. That’s real good. You keep saying it. You memorize it. You put it away someplace in your mind where you can’t never lose it. Because I got a feeling, girl, that’s your ticket. Yours and mine.”

  54

  The interview room was blindingly lit and walled in cinder block painted a brown found nowhere in nature, the air smelling of funky sweat with just a righteous hint of ammonia. And there were ghosts: rough men broken down into easy liars, drunks blubbering into their fists, mouthy girls turned mute.

  For this round, Katsaros asked the questions, Tierney jotted notes. Damarlo resisted at first, all toughness and sulk, but Cal produced a letter from Winnie Rae, telling her grandson to trust these men, and just the sight of her shaky handwriting uncoiled the boy a little. From there it was peck, peck, peck.

  “So you were just a tagalong,” Katsaros said, cleaning his glasses with his tie.

  “Arian, he the one had business with them all. I just kinda saw an opportunity.”

  Damarlo sprawled forward in his chair, elbows on the table, clutching his head. His mumble sounded sleepy, but his eyes bulged like saucers.

  “Opportunity with who?”

  “Mo Pete. He the one got the connection. Thuggy Fresh and Strange Mobb.”

  “The music producers.”

  “Had me a demo, thought I’d slip it to him. Jams is the slap, ya know? Wanted him to check ’em out.”

  Katsaros slipped the horn-rims back on. He fooled a lot of people with the geek bit. A micrometer beneath the surface, he was the scrappiest fighter Tierney knew.

  “You were there to talk music.”

  “Thought he might front me up, let me lay down some tracks at the studio.”

  Spends a lot of time alone, Tierney thought, in his room with his music. If you looked you could see Winnie Rae and Truman in the boy. But you had to know that, had to look. Katsaros said, “And Arian figures in this how?”

  “Arian knows Mo Pete, least a little. Better than me.”

  “And why meet at this particular spot?”

  Damarlo scratched at his nose, using his sweatshirt sleeve. “Can’t tell you. All I’s know is Mo Pete wanted to meet up with the cholo, guy called Chepe. Mo Pete was gonna let ’em know he’d back their play. Something to do with who gets what now that, you know, some baller left town and everybody’s scrambling for his action, wanna post up on his corner, something like that. Honestly? Wasn’t paying much attention. But Arian, he wanted Mo Pete to feel it. Like: Hey, I’m wit’ you. Show the flag, ya know?”

  “You had nothing to do with that.”

  “No, man. I’m just thinkin, hey, this the guy knew Hookie personal, knows the dudes who mix Thuggy and Nation of Thizzlam. Be cool if I could hang wit’ that.”

  Katsaros clasped his hands behind his back, arching his neck in a catlike stretch. “Back to the place,” he said, “nobody said why they were meeting up there?”

  Damarlo shook his head. “Mo Pete started walkin, Arian and me started followin. Figure cuz it’s close to school and yet kinda like, ya know, nowhere. That’s just a guess. Never even noticed that street before. But we all get there and this red car, fire car, whatever, it’s parked midblock. And they see the girl, you know—”

  “Jacqi Garza.”

  “Who did?” Tierney glanced up from his notes. “Who saw her?”

  Damarlo’s brow knitted, eyes hazed. “Can’t remember. Maybe the Mex dude.”

  “You mean see her, or recognize her?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I meant: recognize. Arian’s the one pointed out the car and, like, there wasn’t just the guy inside.”

  Katsaros, stepping back in, “So he sees her in the car.”

  “It’s like, no secret what’s going on. Mo Pete and this Chepe, the Mex, start laughing. Arian, thinkin he’s gonna show he’s a soldier or some shit, picks up this big-ass rock and heaves the thing. Nails the damn windshield, boom, I mean serious. Guy in the car, the fireman, he busts out and just, like, freaks. You know, calling us names—”

  “What names?”

  “All sorts of shit.” Damarlo puffed his cheeks. “Called us girls.”

  “Nigger?”

  “Naw, not like, specific.” Damarlo winced, scratching the back of his head. “Porch punks, said that. Corner jockeys.”

  “But it was racial, sexual, the insults.”

  “Yeah.” Damarlo sighed, like all this remembering wore him out. “Turd burglar, that’s what set Arian off. He got, like, faggot phobia or some shit.”

  “Okay.”

  “Was like somebody pulled a damn trigger. Arian, he just wound up and wailed. Fireman caught it, the punch, like it was nothing—dude was tough, give him that. Bent back Arian’s wrist, some kinda jujitsu street-fight shitkicker move, fucked Arian up for real. That’s when the rest of us jumped in.”

  “Weapons?
”

  “Naw, man. Just kicks and fists. Wanted to mess him up, not do him.”

  The last words landed with a put-upon thud, and Tierney wondered whether it had really sunk in. The man was dead.

  Tierney reached over to touch Katsaros’s sleeve, a bit of tag team. “Damarlo,” he said, “it’s pretty clear from the video you went at him hard. Verrazzo, the fireman. Especially once he was down. Why was that?”

  Almost imperceptibly a twitch compressed the bridge of the boy’s nose, the merest tic, except the compression spread to around the eyes, a wincing tightness, and then his whole body gave in, as though some invisible hand was dragging him away from the question, his body going with it. He eased back from the table, dragging his hands until they dropped into his lap and he slouched into his chair, saying nothing.

  “Did you know him? Did he say anything specifically to you that set you off?”

  The kid blinked. The edges of his mouth quivered.

  “Was it about the girl in the car?”

  “Hell no.” He reached up and, using the heels of his hands, rubbed his eyes. “Don’t even know her, not like that.”

  “Then what?”

  “I dunno, man, it just, you know, felt like it had to get out.”

  “What had to get out?”

  The boy’s eyes began to glisten. He made no move to wipe at them.

  “Just making sure I understand, Damarlo. This is important. What had to get out?”

  If there was a way to be sitting right there while also sauntering the face of the moon, Damarlo had figured it out.

  “It’s okay to miss your mom.”

  The boy shot up, kicked his chair away, turned his back, took a few steps. Just standing there, breath quick and ragged. Mopping his face with his sleeve. As though, if he waited long enough, the opposite wall might just open up.

  A minor eternity passed, then Tierney rose from his chair, approached the boy, stopping just beyond arm’s reach.

  “Nothing hurts worse, losing someone like that. Nothing prepares you for it. All the things you thought you understood feel like a lie. All the things you used to want to do, they seem pointless. People talk to you but it’s like you’re underwater, you can’t hear. Or if you can, the words sound familiar but all the meanings have changed. For you, anyway.” He inched closer, ready to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, wondering if that was wise. “The anger just comes.”