Gone ’Til November

by Wallace Stroby

  He saw Morgan, stopped what he was doing, the key machine winding down.

  “My man,” he said. “Long time.”

  “How you doing, Otis?”

  “Day by day. Like everybody else.”

  Morgan took his outstretched hand in a soul shake.

  “Took me a while, after you called,” Otis said, “but I think I got everything you want.”

  “Solid.”

  Otis came from behind the counter, went to the door and worked the two dead bolts, flipped the sign to CLOSED. “Come on back,” he said.

  Morgan followed him behind the counter and into the rear of the store. Otis limped, a souvenir from an Aryan Brother who had stabbed him a half-dozen times with a bedspring shank. Two days later, Morgan had caught the Brother alone in a hallway off Five Wing and taken out both his eyes with a sharpened spoon.

  It was overhot back here, smelled of metal, oil, and dust. A radiator clanked. Morgan saw the double-barrel sawed-off that hung on pegs just above the inside of the door, within easy reach. Knew it was loaded.

  Otis stopped at a tall shelf of plumbing supplies, put his glasses on, peered up at the boxes there. He took one down marked SHUT-OFF VALVES, set it on a worktable.

  “There you go,” he said.

  Morgan opened it. Inside were five gray boxes of Winchester Super-X 9 mm shells, fifty rounds in each. Morgan thumbed one open, checked them.

  “Early Christmas shopping?” Otis said.

  “Something like that.”

  “You wanted to see something small, too, in a hand carry? I just got a couple new pieces in. Russian, but they’re in good shape. I’d let them go cheap.”

  “Junk.”

  “Maybe, but they’ll go quick. Corner boys love that shit. None of them can shoot worth a damn anyway.”

  “What else you have?”

  Otis took a second box down, handed it over. Inside was a small black automatic wrapped in oilcloth.

  “Walther PP,” Otis said. “German police gun. Nine millimeter, like your Beretta.”

  Morgan took the gun out, ejected the empty clip. The slide action was smooth, the gun recently oiled. No traces of rust. He pushed the clip back in.

  “Light,” he said.

  “Get the job done.”

  “It’s good.”

  “Got something else you might want to look at. Had it for a while, made me think of you.”

  He went to a shelf on the other side of the room, came back with a long, unmarked box, set it on the table. When he took the lid off, Morgan saw the short-barreled black-and-chrome Remington 12-gauge pump inside, resting on a bed of rags.

  “Model 870,” Otis said. “You used to keep one of them back when you worked for Poot O’Neal, didn’t you? Around the time he got to warring with the Johnson brothers.”

  “Sometimes.”

  Morgan couldn’t resist. He took the shotgun out, looked it over, feeling its familiar weight. He worked the pump, checked that the breach was empty, saw where the serial number had been filed off. After a moment, he shook his head, used a rag to wipe down where he’d touched it, put it back in the box.

  “Not this time,” he said. “I’m good.”

  He took the money roll out, peeled off four hundreds.

  “Too much,” Otis said.

  “It was a rush job.”

  “Twist my arm.” He took the bills. “Let me give you something to put those in.”

  He went out front, came back with a cheap canvas gym bag, set it on the table.

  “Been hearing some things about you,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “That you been going up against those boys from around the way. Took down a couple of their people.”

  “What else you hear?”

  “That they looking for you. I see you in here buying all this, makes me wonder what you got in mind. There’s a lot more of them than there are of you.”

  “My warring days are over.”

  “Don’t look like that to me.”

  Morgan put the wrapped Walther and the ammunition boxes in the bag, zipped it shut.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You ever sell to those Three Paw boys?”

  “Sometimes. Why?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Morgan hefted the bag, put out his hand. Otis took it. They clinched, released.

  “We go back a long way,” Otis said. “Thirty years at least.”

  “ ’Bout that.”

  “And you always one of my best customers. So don’t take no chances you don’t need to.”

  “I never do,” Morgan said.

  He put the gym bag in the trunk, headed back to the motel. On the way, he broke the seal on the Sam Cooke tape, pushed it into the player. “A Change Is Gonna Come” filled the car. It sounded like church. Like heaven. Like death.

  “You all set?” Mikey asked.

  “Good enough,” Morgan said. They were in a parking garage downtown, Morgan leaning against the hood of the Monte Carlo, Mikey in the front passenger seat of the Suburban, the door open. Dante was at the wheel. C-Love stood a few feet away, smoking a cigarette, looking around.

  “When you leaving?” Mikey asked.

  “Tomorrow. Take me two, maybe three days to get down there.”

  “You could drive straight through, be there before you know it. I can get you some blow for the ride, keep you kicking.”

  Morgan shook his head. “I want my head clear when I get there. Couple things I need to know, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Willis’s woman know what he was doing down there?”

  “Maybe. Some of it, I’d think. Don’t know how much he told her.”

  “She know how much money he was carrying?”

  “Shit,” Mikey said. “Even Derek didn’t know that. No need. Package was in the car before he even picked it up. He was told to deliver the car, leave it. He didn’t need to know shit else. Unless the boy was a total fool, he knew he had some cash in there, but not how much. He knew I wasn’t paying him no four grand up front just to drop a car off.”

  “Four grand? That it?”

  “For driving a car to Florida, leaving it somewhere? Yeah, four grand is fucking generous, yo. Plus he pull that off, come back and he’d have more work waiting for him. He knew all that. Knew the risk, too.”

  “His woman down there, asking questions, poking around. She finds out how much was in that car, don’t you think she’ll want a piece of it?”

  “How she gonna find out? Who gonna tell her?”

  “Don’t know. With a little one and all, she finds out, she might think she’s entitled.”

  “Fuck that. She don’t know, and no one’s gonna tell her. You’re gonna hook up with her down there, and she’s gonna tell you everything she knows. I’ll take care of her when she get back. I’ll pay for the funeral, the flight and all that shit, too. She should be happy I’m doing that. Nigga got himself smoked, lost my money. She’s lucky I’m not trying to take it out of her ass.”

  Morgan looked away. C-Love finished his cigarette, dropped it, twisted it out with his foot.

  “I’ll call you when I get down there,” Morgan said. “Let you know what’s going on, what the deal is.”

  “I’ll send the twins down, you think you need them.”

  Morgan shook his head.

  “Okay then,” Mikey said. He put a hand out. Morgan touched knuckles with him. Dante started the engine as Mikey pulled the door shut.

  C-Love got in the rear, closed the door. As the Suburban backed out of the spot, Mikey nodded at him through the tinted window. Morgan watched them drive away.

  Cassandra moved naked across the room, lit the short, thick candles on the bureau top. Morgan watched her. He lay with a pillow behind his head, the sheet thrown aside. His skin felt warm, almost feverish.

  When the four candles were burning, their incense filling the small room, she set th
e plastic lighter beside them. Soft light flickered on the wall, glinted off framed photos on the bureau.

  “That okay, baby?” she said.

  He nodded, and she slipped back into bed, curled against him, one hand on his chest, the wiry gray hairs there.

  “I can feel your heart,” she said.

  He looked past her, through the open door into the other bedroom, could see the crib there, the night-light over it.

  She traced his scars with her fingertips, lingered over the fresh one from his appendectomy.

  “When are you coming back?” she said.

  “Soon. I just have to take care of some things.”

  “You’ve been spoiling me. Sending me that money, and Aaron love those toys. But it feels like you haven’t been by in a long time.”

  “Been busy.”

  He hadn’t told her about being sick, wouldn’t. He’d known her for three years now. She’d been nineteen when they met. Her boyfriend worked for Mikey, had been killed in a police chase after making a delivery. The first time Morgan met her, he was bringing money from Mikey—five hundred dollars. It was all he would give her.

  Morgan had added five hundred of his own, then come by to see her a week later with two hundred more, and then again the week after. That night she’d let him stay, and when he’d woken in the middle of the night, she was crying softly beside him. He hadn’t known what to do, so he’d done nothing. After a while the tremors stopped and she slipped back into sleep. He’d come by once or twice a month ever since. Mikey didn’t know about it. No one did.

  He watched shadows play on the ceiling, then closed his eyes, felt her warmth against him, her softness. Wind rattled the room’s single window.

  He felt safe here, the only place now. Her breathing was slow and deep, and he found himself falling into rhythm with it, drifting into warm darkness.

  He woke all at once, his eyes snapping open, muscles rigid. A draft from somewhere made the candles flutter. She murmured something against him but didn’t wake. After a while, he disentangled from her, went to the window. He looked down on the empty street. A plastic bag scudded into the light from a streetlamp, then blew higher and out of sight.

  He dressed without waking her. When he was done, he took two thousand dollars from his jacket, folded the bills, and slipped them under the jewelry box on the bureau. Then he leaned over and softly blew the candles out one by one.

  He let himself out of the apartment, used his key to lock the door behind him.

  He was on the road by noon. He took Route 78 to the Turnpike, headed south. He’d bought a map at a gas station, knew it was a straight run to Florida. I-95 all the way to Jacksonville, then west on 301.

  He’d disassembled the Beretta and Walther, wrapped them in oiled rags, and stored them in the spaces below the rocker panels, along with the boxes of shells, the bag of marijuana, and the pills. He couldn’t take a chance having them in the car if he were stopped.

  The Monte Carlo’s tank was full, the fluids topped off, and it was running smooth and strong, the heater on low, the Impressions coming through the speakers, “People Get Ready.” It calmed him as he drove.

  TWELVE

  It was ten thirty when she heard the knock at the door. She was stretched out on the couch in sweats and sneakers, reading a Jude Deveraux paperback, her hair tied up. The knock came again, soft.

  She put down the book, went to the front window, and inched the blinds aside. Billy was on the steps, holding a pizza box in one hand, a plastic bag in the other.

  She undid the chain and dead bolt, opened the door, looked at him through the screen.

  “Hi,” he said. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  She brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  He raised the box. “Thought you might be hungry.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Not at all. Just wanted to come by, see you. That’s all. Figured I’d bring a peace offering.”

  “I never eat this late. You know that.”

  “Then do you mind if I have a slice? I haven’t had dinner yet.”

  She unlocked the screen door, pushed it open.

  “Thanks,” he said. She held the door for him as he came in.

  “Danny’s sleeping,” she said.

  “I’ll be quiet. I tried not to knock too loud, but I was worried you wouldn’t hear.”

  She closed the door behind him.

  “Long time since I’ve been here,” he said.

  She took the pizza from him, went into the kitchen. He followed her. She put the box on the table.

  “Paper plates on top of the refrigerator,” she said.

  He set the plastic bag on the floor, got two plates down, napkins and a salt shaker, set them on the table.

  “I’m not eating,” she said.

  “In case you change your mind.”

  A piece of Danny’s artwork was on the front of the refrigerator, held there by magnets. A colored pencil drawing on construction paper of a blocky police car, a figure with a smiling face behind the wheel. Next to it he’d written in oversized letters MOM.

  Billy looked at it, smiled. “He’s getting pretty good,” he said.

  “He’s growing up.”

  “Are you going to let him trick-or-treat this year?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You should. I mean, what’s the harm?”

  “Well, that would be for me to decide, wouldn’t it?”

  “You’re right.” He sat, opened the box, the smell of the pizza wafting up. He dragged a slice onto a plate.

  “This is the only house on the block with no decorations,” he said. “Couldn’t help but notice.”

  “I didn’t want to make him feel worse. Remind him of what he was missing, that he couldn’t go out with the other kids.”

  “Makes sense, I guess. If you say so.”

  She sat across from him. “How’d you know I didn’t have company?”

  “Just a feeling. I’ll leave if you want.”

  “Eat your pizza first.”

  He slid another slice onto a plate, edged it toward her. She ignored it.

  “You have anything to drink?” he said.

  “Some Bass in the refrigerator. Ice water, soda.”

  “I’ll take a Bass, if that’s okay. Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  He got up, took two bottles from the refrigerator, opened them.

  “You want a glass?” he said.

  She shook her head. He set the bottles on the table, sat down again. She could smell his cologne.

  “Where’d you park?”

  “On the street. Didn’t want to leave my truck in the driveway, get your neighbors talking. I got sausage. Hope that’s okay.”

  “You trying to make me fat?”

  “No. You’re in great shape.”

  “For my age?”

  “You know what I mean.” He salted a slice, folded it, and began to eat.

  She’d felt irritation when she answered the door but found it fading now. It was good to have him back here, in the closeness of the kitchen, sitting across from her. It reminded her of a better time, back when she was naive enough to think they would someday be a family.

  She sipped Bass. It was cold and sweet. He reached for the plastic bag.

  “I saw this today,” he said. “Thought Danny might like it.”

  He took out a square box with a painting of a tyrannosaurus on it.

  “Plastic. The parts snap together. They’ve got a whole series.”

  He put it on the table. She looked at it.

  “That’s a lot of parts,” she said.

  “I know. I was worried about that. The box says ages eight and up, but he’s a smart kid. I figured he could handle it. Think he’ll like it?”

  “He’ll love it.”

  He ate in silence for a moment, wiped his mouth with a napkin, drank Bass.

  She looked at the slice in front o
f her, pulled a piece of sausage off with her fingers, ate it.

  “That was a bad scene last night,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You already apologized.”

  “I need you to know that, though, how I felt.”

  She nodded, didn’t look up.

  “If I could make it up to you, I would,” he said.

  She turned away, looked out into the hall.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” she said. “How about we just never mention it again?”

  “Okay.”

  She pulled off another piece of sausage.

  “Pizza’s good, isn’t it?” he said. “I got it from Sabatico’s. Haven’t had one in a long time. Last time I was there the old man asked me how you were. He must have seen the look on my face. He let it drop.”

  “This where you ask me to feel sorry for you?”

  “No. I know better than that.”

  She pulled the slice toward her, tugged it into ragged halves. She dropped one on his plate, wiped her hands on a napkin.

  “Table manners elegant as always,” he said.

  “Shut up and eat.”

  She folded her half, bit into it. It was still warm, the cheese thick, the crust thin and crunchy the way she liked. She finished it in three bites.

  “That’s more like it,” he said.

  “That’s an extra thirty sit-ups tonight.”

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “You think it’s easy, staying in shape with all the junk food and bad coffee I consume on a normal shift? It’s not. It’s work.”

  “I know. You always were more motivated than everyone else around you. One of the things I admired most.”

  He opened the box, pulled another slice onto his plate.

  “Got a knife?” he said. “We’ll do it right.”

  “I’ll pass.” She got up. “Back in a minute.”

  She went down the hall, looked in Danny’s room. He was sleeping, face to the wall, the night-light the only illumination in the room. She pulled the door almost shut, left it open a crack. The old clock in the kitchen began to bong softly. Eleven o’ clock.

  She went back into the kitchen, washed her hands in the sink. The slice was untouched in front of him.