“You taking the rest of it?” said Donna, ashamed she had asked the question as soon as the words had tumbled sloppily from her mouth. Ashamed at first, and then afraid.
Murphy stood straight, strengthening his grip on the pillowcase, his mouth set tight. He stepped forward, stopping a foot shy of Donna.
Donna’s shoulders began to shake. Her eyes were swollen with fear and drunk with confusion. Murphy raised his hand to wipe the tears from her face. Donna recoiled, stumbling back to the bedroom wall.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she said.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” said Murphy, tilting his head in a funny way. “I’m a cop.”
Clay, Karras, and Tate stood at the window, watched a canary yellow Lincoln with suicide doors come to a stop across U Street. Al Adamson, shaved bald, with a closely trimmed beard and wire-rimmed glasses, got out of the car and crossed the street. Karras noticed the cut of Adamson’s biceps beneath his black sport jacket.
“Al’s lookin’ serious,” said Karras.
“Yes,” said Clay.
“See he still works on those Continentals.”
“His specialty.”
“That,” said Karras, “and fuckin’ people up.”
“Feels like we got an edge, now, doesn’t it?” said Clay. “Just knowin’ he’s on our side.”
Tate let Adamson in the front door. Adamson shook Tate’s hand, then gave Clay a handshake that the two of them had invented back in their unit.
“Good seein’ you, man.”
“Good to see you.”
Adamson nodded at Karras, a light in his eyes. “Long time, Karras. Where your Hawaiian shirt at?”
“Has been a long time,” said Karras.
“Ya’ll heard the radio?” said Adamson.
“What?” said Tate.
“Another shooting today, this one over in Kingman Park. Two young brothers got smoked in a market. Triggerman left the proprietors alone. Sounds like a gang hit. Add them to those kids last night and half a dozen others around town, and it looks like we’re about to set some kind of record here in D.C. Man on the radio said they’re callin’ this the ‘Red Weekend’ and shit.”
The men were silent as Adamson removed his glasses and steamed the lenses with his breath. He rubbed them clean on the lapel of his jacket. He fitted the glasses back on the bridge of his nose.
“Marcus,” said Adamson, turning to Clay. “Let’s talk about your problem.”
“They’ll be down here soon, I reckon,” said Clay. “We best get it together, figure out what we’re gonna do.”
Night had come quickly; its chill and darkness had emptied the Sunday evening streets. There was little activity on Fairmont, just a couple of hard cases hanging out up around 14th. Kevin Murphy killed the Trans Am’s engine, lifted a gym bag off the passenger seat, and set it in his lap. He pulled one stack of bills from the bag and slipped it under his seat. He got out of the car with the gym bag in his hand.
Murphy took the walkway up to the Taylor row house and rang the bell.
Lula Taylor opened the door and stood in its frame. A burning cigarette hung from the side of her mouth, her eyes squinting against the smoke curling upward, curtaining her face. Her fingers cradled a half-gone pack of Viceroys. Up one step, she cleared Murphy’s head by a quarter foot.
“Yes?”
“Kevin Murphy. The police officer who brought Anthony home yesterday.”
“And again today. I remember. Took me a minute, you bein’ out of uniform.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Murphy glanced behind him at the quiet street.
“Can’t ask you in,” said Lula, removing her cigarette from her mouth and tapping ash out onto the stoop. “And I don’t want to disturb Anthony. He’s up in his bedroom doin’ his mathematics. You must know how hard it is to get that boy started on his homework. Don’t need to be interruptin’ him now.”
“Didn’t come here to see Anthony, Mrs. Taylor.”
She looked him over. “What kind of business could you have with me?”
Murphy held the gym bag out. “Came here to give you this.”
She nodded at the bag. “What’s in it?”
“Damn near close to fifteen thousand dollars.”
Her lips twitched involuntarily, causing the beetle mole lodged beside her nose to notch up a quarter inch. She looked past him, trying hard to appear disinterested, and dragged on her cigarette.
“Lot of money,” she said, smoke spigoting from her flared nostrils.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s unclean, I expect.”
“That’s right. Drug money, you want it plain. Much bad as it does, I thought it might be time to put it to some good.”
She looked past Murphy. “What would you have me do with it, Officer Murphy?”
“Use it to get Anthony out of here, for starters. Right away. Send him down to the country, where it’s safe. To be with his mother and sisters, where he belongs.”
Lula snapped ash off her Viceroy and studied the night. “What, just pull him out of school in the middle of the year?”
“The Social Services people down there, they’d work it out. He can start fresh in school in the fall. Ain’t gonna hurt nothin’, right? Let him breathe fresh air for a while, play in the woods, make new friends. Take walks at night without fear.”
Lula closed her eyes, imagining it. “You make it sound nice.”
“Has to be better than this.” Murphy shifted his feet. “Mrs. Taylor?”
“What?”
“You did the best you could. You brought him to the point where he is, and he’s a fine young man.”
“Thank you. I do love that boy.”
“But the streets are stronger than you. And it’s only gonna get a whole lot worse in this town. You understand that? For the good of Anthony, you’ve got to let him go.”
Lula breathed deeply, her ample chest rising and falling. “Fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Wouldn’t object if you took a small piece of it, to make things easier for yourself.”
“My baby girl could use all of it. And I believe she’d use it for her children now.”
She hit her cigarette and dropped it on the concrete, where she killed the butt with the sole of her shoe. She looked at Murphy and nodded one time. He handed her the bag.
“Tomorrow morning,” said Murphy, “you put him on one of those Greyhound buses. The double-decker kind with the green-tinted windows. A window seat, too. Make sure he gets that.”
Lula Taylor wiped a tear that had threatened to fall. “All this money, I could fly him down there, first class, still have plenty left over.”
“Put him on a bus,” said Murphy, squeezing her hand.
He turned and headed toward his car.
“Officer Murphy!” shouted Lula Taylor.
But Murphy kept walking. He got into his Pontiac and drove away, not glancing back at the light in Anthony Taylor’s room.
Richard Tutt thumbed hollow-point rounds into a magazine, palmed the magazine into the butt of his Government Model .45. He turned the gun in the light, admiring the Colt insignia set in the walnut stock. Beautiful weapon. Some preferred the Lightweight Commander, which came in at twenty-seven ounces against the Government’s thirty-eight. But Tutt liked the heft of this gun.
He slipped the automatic in his holster, clipped to the belt line of his acid-washed jeans.
Tutt lifted his throw-down piece off the table, an F.I.E. six-shot .25 he had taken off some spade on 14th and T. Rughead had said, “You take care of my Astra Cub, now,” his face smashed up against the squad car window as Tutt patted him down. Had the pistol tucked in his drawers, right up alongside his snake. Fuckin’ niggers and their guns.
The .25, it fit nicely into the side pocket of Tutt’s Members Only jacket. He dropped it there and checked himself in the mirror. He looked fine.
The .45 held seven. That and the six-shot made thirteen. Murphy would post with his .357s, adding twelve.
You could bury a few bootheads real easy with twenty-five rounds. Surprising them would be the key. But, Christ, you could fight a fuckin’ war with twenty-five.
Tutt picked up the phone and dialed Murphy’s house. He was surprised to see his hand shake. He’d never killed anyone, but in a strange way he felt he’d been waiting to all his life. Anyway, it would be a relief when it was done. No other way out of this one—a clean break and then move on. He could use a beer or something, but not yet. He’d celebrate later with Murph.
“Hello,” said Wanda Murphy on the other end of the line.
“Hi, Wanda, it’s Richard.”
“Richard, how are you?”
Tutt tapped the toe of his Dan Post boot on the floor. He wasn’t up for small talk with Wack-Job Wanda tonight.
“Kevin in?”
“He just walked through the door,” she said in that too-happy, singsong way of hers. “Let me get him for you.”
Tutt heard conversation and footsteps. Murphy came on the line.
“Tutt.”
“Murph. Been out?”
“Got the money, Tutt. Got Tyrell’s twenty-five.”
“Goddamn, boy! How the fuck—”
“Eddie Golden hipped me to it, back at the house.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wanted to make sure. But I’ve got it. Got it right here. Was thinkin’ we’d take it to Tyrell tonight. Make a trade for Golden.”
Tutt said, “But we’re not really gonna make a trade, are we Kev?”
“No,” said Murphy.
Tutt relaxed. Murphy was with him all the way.
“The money will keep them busy,” said Tutt. “But you know what we’ve got to do.”
“I know.”
“Then you and me are square on this.”
“Yes.”
Tutt smiled. “Like you were, buddy. Been waitin’ a long time for you to come back around.”
Murphy relaxed his tightened jaw. “We’re gonna need help. Was thinkin’ about Rogers. He can bring Golden out, get everybody together in one room. He’s the weakest of the bunch. Won’t be hard to convince him we’re gonna cut him in.”
“We can’t cut him in, though, Kevin. He’s one of them.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll beep Rogers,” said Tutt, “clue him in.”
“Let me talk to him, Tutt. You’re not exactly the right guy to be talkin’ Rogers into anything. He can relate to me.”
“You handle it, then.” Tutt looked at his watch. “Meet me at O’Grady’s in an hour.”
“Make it two. I got some things to wrap up.”
“All right, partner. See you there.”
Tutt racked the phone and looked down. His hand wasn’t shaking anymore.
Murphy placed the phone back in its cradle. He glanced across the room. Wanda sat on the edge of the bed, her old Kmart housedress hanging loosely over a faded cotton sleeping shirt, pink slippers on her feet. The TV set threw colors on her face.
The laugh track swelled, Wanda’s laughter riding above it. “Oh, Kevin! That Punky Brewster girl is so cute tonight!”
“Want something to eat, sweetheart?”
“Had a grilled cheese before you came home. I’m feelin’ kind of sleepy. Gonna watch Silver Spoons, and then I’m gonna take a little nap.”
“Don’t sleep too long. You’ll be tossin’ all night.”
“I won’t.”
“Wanda?”
“What?”
“I’m goin’ out tonight. Got some police business I got to take care of with Tutt.”
Wanda’s eyes stayed on the television screen. “Okay.”
“Picked up something for you at the market today. I’ll bring it to you before I go.”
“Thanks, Kev.”
“Love you, girl.”
“I love—” Wanda’s hand jerked to her mouth. “Kevin, this little girl is fuh-nee!”
Murphy changed into a pair of jeans, running shoes, and a short-sleeved polo shirt. He walked from the room.
Murphy wrote a one-page letter in longhand, standing at his workbench, and signed his name. He sealed the letter in an envelope and addressed it to George Dozier in care of Marcus Clay. Murphy had little respect for his superiors and none for the suits in IAD; Clay’s endorsement of Dozier, and Dozier’s rep, had sealed things in his mind.
Murphy lifted the pillowcase from where it sat heaped at his feet. He set it next to the box containing his father’s church lottery tickets and dumped the lottery tickets into the pillowcase. He dropped the last stack of banded money in as well.
Murphy brought his S&W Combat Magnums down from the shelf, took them out of their cases, and laid them on the bench. He picked up one of the .357s and turned it in his hand: six-inch barrel, squared butt, checked stock. The stainless steel satin finish winked in the overhead light. He thumbed back the grooved hammer, sighted down the barrel, and dry-fired at the wall. He opened the box of Remington rounds and located the bullets with the Xs etched in their heads. He broke the chambers of the guns and loaded six hollow-point dumdum bullets into each. He wrist-snapped the chambers shut.
Murphy found his gun belt. He buckled the belt to his waist and slipped the guns into the holsters, one on each side, steel scraping leather on entry.
He turned to the wall, where he had taped a Jesus card he had picked up at the Jarvis Funeral Home on the night of his brother’s wake. Murphy raised his hands, his palms facing the paper icon, and closed his eyes. Standing there, his guns heavy on his hips, he prayed.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want….
Murphy unbuckled his holster belt and dropped it in the pillowcase. He got a good grip on the load and headed up the stairs.
The TV was still on in the bedroom. Wanda was asleep on her back, her arms folded across her chest. Murphy turned off the set and walked across the room. He placed a red-and-white package of chocolates on the nightstand, next to her lamp. He knelt beside the bed.
“Brought you some Turtles, baby. Your favorite.”
Murphy ran a hand through Wanda’s coarse, dirty hair. He brushed dandruff off her housedress. He kissed her on the side of her mouth, her breath warm and sour on his face.
Murphy got to his feet and looked down at the husk on the bed. He switched off the light.
Short Man Monroe studied Tyrell, slumped in that big chair of his, running one of his long fingers down his cheek. Big man like Tyrell, it was strange seeing him look so weak. The call from Chink Bennet’s aunt, it seemed to take time off Tyrell right in front of Monroe’s eyes.
Alan Rogers stood against the wall, looking down at his shoes, smears on his face where he’d tried to wipe tears away. Rogers was nothin’ but weak; Monroe could see that now. You had to be hard, realize that death was just another day-to-day reality of the street.
Now Antony Ray? That was one hard nigga, boy. He’d snorted, laughed shortly, said something about “those simple-ass mothafuckers” when Tyrell had gotten the call. Now he was over by the table, doin’ a line through the tube of a ballpoint pen. Havin’ no feelings at all, it was something to reach for. No feelings meant no fear. Bein’ that cold, it could keep you alive.
“Alan?” said Tyrell.
“Yeah, Ty.”
“Tomorrow morning you send some flowers over to the funeral home, hear? I’ll put a couple hundred in an envelope, you run it over to Jumbo’s moms and Chink’s aunt.”
“Can’t believe it,” said Rogers.
“One of those accidents,” said Tyrell. “They just got in the way of some niggas doin’ some mayhem in one of them shops.”
Ray dropped the pen casing on the mirror, rubbed his nose. “Figures fat boy got smoked in some food store.”
“Wouldn’t of happened,” said Monroe, holding up his Glock, “he’d been carryin’ his gun.”
Monroe looked at Ray for approval. Ray’s eyes, heavy lidded with pinhead pupils, smiled.
“Seems like all our shit’s just
flyin’ apart,” said Tyrell.
“Can’t let it slip away altogether, cuz,” said Ray.
“Heard that,” said Tyrell, rising from his chair. “We best get on our way.”
Monroe released the magazine of his nine, checked the load, slapped it back inside the butt. He slipped the Glock barrel-down behind his Lees.
“Thought you said no guns,” said Rogers.
“Did I, Alan?” Tyrell eased himself into his leather jacket. “Yeah, well. Fuck all that.”
Ray laughed. “Wisht I was comin’ with you.”
“Need you to stay here and take care of our boy, Antony.”
“Oh, I will.”
“Give him water,” said Rogers, “he asks for it. Last thing we need’s another death on our hands.”
“Yeah,” said Monroe, “take care of Alan’s other girl.”
“Come on,” said Tyrell. “Let’s go.”
Rogers said, “Gonna take my Z, Tyrell, that’s all right. Need to do somethin’ after.”
“Fine.”
From the window, Antony Ray watched the two cars drive away.
Ray did a couple more lines of coke and had a seat in Tyrell’s chair. Felt good sittin’ there, too. Tyrell ever got tired of it, or went down, maybe Ray’d make this seat his own.
Ray shook a Newport from his deck, lit it, and dragged deep.
Tyrell, he’d always had brains. Could’ve been a real businessman, wearing a fine suit and shit, he’d had the opportunity. But he’d never been incarcerated, and it showed.
Ray, he’d been on the soft side himself when he’d first gone in on that armed robbery beef. Course, he’d had his priors, done plenty of violent shit before he took the long one. Wasn’t till he was in Lorton, though, that he killed his first man. Had to prove yourself real quick in there, sleepin’ in that dorm-style room in the Occoquan facility with all those other hard brothers, most of them scared inside but even more afraid to let it show. So you had to make a point. Ray made it when some skinny, light-skinned nigga cut across him in the prison barber shop, took the chair he’d been next in line to get. Friends of this light-skinned boy, they laughed right in Ray’s face, all of them tryin’ to take him for bad. Ray figured that before he knew it they’d be punkin’ him out in other ways, too. So he waited for that light-skinned boy when he was comin’ out the showers, and Ray cut him with a razor blade he’d melted into the stem of a toothbrush, slashed down with pressure and ripped him open from his chest down to his cock. Mothafucker bled right out, his legs kickin’, screamin’ for his God to save him, tryin’ to hold his hands over the long slice while the blood pumped out from between his fingers, and his life left his eyes. None of his niggas talked, either. And nobody laughed at Ray after that.
The Sweet Forever Page 26