Right as Rain

by George Pelecanos

  “How do our friends look today?” said Lizardo.

  “Don’t be funny,” said Nestor, smiling slightly at Ray through the window as he spoke. “The little jerkoff doesn’t like your humor. We just want to do our business and get on our way. And no Spanish, Lizardo; he doesn’t like that, either.”

  “Okay,” said Lizardo. “Here I come.”

  Nestor cradled the phone. He didn’t like the playful sound in his brother’s voice. Going back to when the two of them were kids, Lizardo was always with the jokes.

  Lizardo exited his car, locked it, checked the locks, and walked along the row of cars, dropping his keys in his pocket. He wore his hair in the same fashion as his brother’s but did not shave between his eyebrows, leaving one long brow like a furry black caterpillar stretched out across the base of his forehead. He had a small mustache but no hair on his chin, and dressed with less regard for style than his brother. He bought his clothing at Target and Montgomery Ward. He didn’t like fabrics that wrinkled and wondered why fools paid extra for fabrics that did. At home, he often slept in his clothes when he’d had too much to drink.

  Nestor got out of the Contour, locked it, and met Lizardo at the back of the car. He opened the trunk and flipped over the indoor / outdoor carpet piece that normally covered a well holding the spare but that now covered five identical gym bags with Adidas logos printed on their sides. He lifted two of the gym bags out, replaced the carpet, and locked the trunk. His movements were fluid, and both he and his brother were very calm.

  Nestor and Lizardo split up, Nestor going to one side of the Taurus and Lizardo going to the other, and entered the backseat of the car.

  “Hello, Ray,” said Nestor. “Hello, Earl.”

  “Ho—la, amigos,” said Ray.

  “How do, Earl,” said Lizardo, clapping Earl on the shoulder.

  “How do,” said Earl. He popped the ring on a can of Busch and took a long swig.

  “Lie on down back there,” said Ray. “It ain’t far.”

  They didn’t protest. This small thing seemed to put Ray at ease. Nestor and Lizardo arranged themselves the way they had many times before. Nestor let his legs dangle off the bench and put his face down on the seat, and Lizardo did the same in the opposite direction. Nestor’s face was inches away from Lizardo’s ass.

  “Here we go,” said Ray, backing out of his spot.

  They had been on the interstate for a mile or so when Nestor heard a kind of sharp squeak. Then came an awful, wretched smell from the seat of Lizardo’s pants.

  “Lizardo,” said Nestor. “Please.”

  “I can’t help it, Nestor. The huevos rancheros I had this morning, at the Denny’s on the interstate …”

  “You can help it! You’re forcing it out; I can hear the sound!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lizardo.

  But he wasn’t sorry. And he couldn’t help but giggle when he heard his brother gag.

  NESTOR felt the car slow down and then, after a sharp turn, the gravel beneath their tires as they drove onto the Boone property. The car kept going for a while, slowly, and finally came to a stop.

  “Y’all can get up,” said Ray, as he killed the engine.

  All of them got out of the car. The yard was cluttered with tires and oil drums, old brake pads, cinder blocks, upended logs, a rusted—out backhoe. A Prussian helmet was hung by its chin strap on the sissy bar of an old Harley, and a plastic buck’s head was nailed over the barn door. The house beside the barn was badly in need of paint. A dead plant hung from the ceiling of the porch, and the porch listed to one side.

  White trash, thought Nestor. You can give them money, but money will never buy them style.

  “Let’s go inside,” said Ray, “warm up some while we work.”

  They walked toward the barn. Ray checked out Nestor, holding the gym bags loosely at his side. Nestor with his shiny suit, big pads under the shoulders, and those pointed spick shoes he liked, weaved on the sides like a basket. Colder than the tits on an old sow today, and here goes Nestor, wearing shoes with holes in ’em. Ray knew Nestor liked the ladies, and he bet that this brown boy thought he looked pretty attractive, dressed the way he was. He once told Ray that the girls called him Nestor the Molester down in Florida, and he was proud of it, too. Well, maybe they went for that look down there, but up in Maryland, out here in the country? He looked pretty goddamned stupid, you asked Ray.

  “Hey, Nestor,” said Ray, “how much you drop on that suit, a buck?”

  “Buck and a half,” said Nestor defensively.

  “How about it, Daddy? Think I’d look good in a suit like that?”

  “Huh,” grunted Earl.

  It was warm inside the barn. They had a couple drinks, Ray insisting on pouring them shots of tequila, the gold kind he had sitting up on the top shelf behind the bar, to go with their beers. Earl sat with them at one of those tables with green felt on it, the type cardplayers used, while Ray went into that secret room of his to scale out the brown, make sure it weighed out to two full keys. Ray claimed to have some chemical kind of test back there he ran it through, too, though Nestor had never actually seen the kit.

  Earl didn’t say much while Nestor and Lizardo sipped their tequilas and beers. He smoked a cigarette and then another, nodding when Nestor tried to include him in the conversation but not giving up more than the nod or a “yep” or “uh—huh” here and there.

  “Take it easy with that,” said Nestor, pointing to the Cuervo bottle that Lizardo was lifting off the table and bringing to his glass.

  “Just a taste,” said Lizardo, pouring three fingers and setting the bottle back down on the felt.

  Nestor didn’t like to be around Lizardo when he drank. Liquor made his brother more stupid, and much sillier, than he already was.

  IN the back room, Ray broke open a spansule of meth, poured the white speckled contents onto the crook of his thumb, and snorted it all into his nose at once. He paced around the room, hungry for a smoke, his heart beating rapidly. He did a set of preacher curls, then opened the door that led to the saloon area and stuck his head out into the room.

  “Nestor, Lizardo! Come on back and get your money!”

  Nestor looked at Lizardo and shrugged. They got up from the table and walked to the back room. Earl butted his smoke and followed. When all of them were in the room, Ray closed the door behind them.

  Nestor had been curious about the back room. He had never been asked to come inside it, but now that he was here he felt somewhat disappointed. There was a tool bench, some shotguns in a case, a setup to cook drugs, a couple of safes, a weight bench, free weights strewn about, and a stack of porno magazines on a small table near the bathroom. It looked very much like the room Nestor kept in the basement of his house.

  “Everything all right?” said Nestor.

  “It all checked out fine,” said Ray.

  “Then we’ll just take our money and get on our way.”

  “You got the rest of the run to make, right?”

  “This is our first stop, Ray, same as always.”

  “Must be worried about the rest of your load, settin’ back there in the trunks of those cars.”

  “If I’m worried,” said Nestor, smiling cheerfully, “then it is my worry.”

  Lizardo laughed a little. Nestor could see from the familiar glassy sheen to Lizardo’s eyes that his brother was feeling the tequilas and beers.

  “Somethin’ funny?” said Ray.

  “It’s the boots, menino,” said Lizardo, his eyes traveling down to the custom Dingos on Ray’s feet.

  “What’s that word, me—nino?” said Ray.

  Nestor nearly winced. Menino meant “little man.” It was something you would call a boy.

  Nestor said, “It’s another word for amigo, Ray. It’s like calling you a friend.”

  “I like the boots,” said Lizardo. “Honest, Ray. And the heels! Tell me, where could I get some like those?”

  “What for?” asked Ray suspiciousl
y.

  Lizardo grinned. “I’d like to bring a pair back for my woman.”

  Ray took a step forward. Earl stifled a grin.

  “He don’t mean nothin’, Critter,” said Earl. “He’s just havin’ a little fun with you, is all. Go on and give these boys their money.”

  Ray went to the tool bench, picked up the gym bags the Rodriguez brothers had brought with them, and handed them to Nestor. Nestor unzipped one bag and looked inside.

  “Count it,” said Ray.

  “I don’t need to count it,” said Nestor. “We are going to be in business together for a long time.”

  “Hey, Ray,” said Lizardo, nodding to the weight bench. “You really pick up all that yourself?”

  “Damn straight,” said Ray. “Two hundred and fifty pounds. I’ll bench that motherfucker all day.”

  “Let’s go, brother,” said Nestor.

  “What,” said Ray, “you don’t think I can?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lizardo, winking at Nestor. “You look pretty strong, but…”

  “I’ll show you,” said Ray. “And not just one, either. I’m gonna do a set of ten, how about that?”

  Lizardo made a spreading motion with his hands. “You want to show me, man, pfft, show me.”

  “Jerkoffs,” said Nestor, stepping between Earl and the weight bench.

  Ray stripped off his flannel, leaving on only his white T—shirt. He lay back on the bench, the pad of which had the word Brutus spelled across it. He got a grip on the bar, took a couple of deep breaths, and pushed the bar off the towers on which it rested. He bench—pressed the barbell once, twice, three times, counting aloud the reps, veins emerging on his forehead and neck. He benched it ten times and gently returned the bar to its place on the towers.

  Ray sat up, checked his arms briefly, and smiled up at Lizardo. “Now you.”

  “You don’t think I can?”

  “Now you,” said Ray.

  “Vamonos, Lizardo,” said Nestor.

  “Y’all ain’t gonna vamonos nowhere until he benches this bar,” said Ray. “I did it; now he’s gonna do it. C’mon, Li—zardo, can’t you do it?”

  “I can do it,” said Lizardo. “But do I have to take off my shirt?” It sounded like “chirt.”

  Lizardo laughed shortly and lay down on the bench. He gripped, ungripped, and regripped the bar. He took a deep breath and held it in. Ray moved behind the towers and centered himself for the spot.

  “One!” shouted Lizardo, as he raised the bar. Immediately he knew that he could only do but two or three. The weight was much heavier than he had imagined it would be.

  “Two!” he said, his voice weak. He barely got the bar up to where his elbows locked. He brought it down slowly to his chest, breathed in, and pushed with everything he had.

  He didn’t count this time. It was difficult to get the bar up at all. His arms burned and shook, and he felt his face grow hot. The bar was only halfway up and it wouldn’t, couldn’t go any farther. He looked up pleadingly at Ray.

  “I got it,” said Ray. He reached over the towers and gripped the bar, pulling it up toward him.

  “You got it?” said Lizardo.

  “I got it,” said Ray.

  Lizardo let go of the bar and allowed his hands to fall to his sides. Ray drew the bar up to the height of the towers. He looked over at his father and smiled stupidly.

  “Hey, Daddy,” said Ray, as he released the bar.

  Lizardo screamed, watching the barbell fall. The bar crushed his Adam’s apple and windpipe, and broke his neck. For a moment, but only for a moment, Lizardo saw the spray of blood that he coughed up into the room.

  Nestor dropped the gym bags. His hands shook wildly as he fumbled inside his jacket for the .9.

  Earl drew his .38 and shot Nestor in the back of the head. Nestor’s black hair crested, a wave of crimson arcing out above it, and as he pitched forward Earl shot him between the shoulder blades. When Nestor hit the ground, his legs kicking, Earl put his palm out above the hammer of the .38 and shot Nestor once more behind his ear.

  Ray laughed nervously, squinting at his father through the cordite. There was only Ray’s laughter for a while, and a ringing sound in their ears.

  Earl slipped the .38 back into his jacket. He checked his clothing for blowback and saw that he was clean. He was glad he’d put his palm out as a shield. He washed his hands in the sink.

  “Got a smoke, Daddy?”

  “Yep.”

  Earl shook one out for himself and one for his son. He flipped open the Zippo, thumbed the wheel, and got flame.

  Earl dragged and exhaled. “You plan that?”

  “Kind of came to me,” said Ray, “while we were out in the saloon, havin’ our drinks.”

  “You were plannin’ it, you shoulda told me.”

  “Seemed like an opportunity. Coleman was havin’ a problem with those boys —”

  “He asked you to talk to ’em, is all.” Earl hit his smoke. “Guess you better get you a shovel, Critter.”

  “Ground’s too hard for that. I got somethin’ else in mind, least until this cold spell breaks. Meantime, I got to get over to that shopping center before it empties out. Clean those trunks out and get on back.”

  Earl nodded and smoked.

  Ray smiled. “Well, Daddy, you said you wanted out.”

  “Uh—huh.”

  “Well, we are out now, aren’t we? And we are going to be rich. Ain’t nothin’ we can’t have.”

  “I could use some company,” said Earl, thinking of that pretty little colored junkie, down in D.C.

  “A woman, you mean?”

  “You don’t have someone to share it with,” said Earl, “all this good fortune, it just don’t mean a thing.”

  Chapter 14

  STRANGE sat in his office, reading the transcripts of the Quinn hearings, Greco asleep at his feet. A red rubber ball with rubber spikes on it rested between Greco’s paws.

  Strange brought the boxer in to work with him once or twice a week, when the dog begged. Earlier that morning, when Strange had headed for the front door with the car keys in his hand, Greco had looked up at him with those big browns of his and whined something fierce. Strange couldn’t bear to think of the dog standing in the foyer all morning, pacing back and forth, barking at every car that slowed down or parked on the street.

  He picked up his phone and hit Janine’s extension.

  “Yes, Derek.”

  “Anything on Kane’s address?”

  “I’ve got it out here. He lives with his mother, apparently.”

  “What about his phone number?”

  “I’ve got that, too. But it cost us twenty dollars. I put it on your credit card.”

  “Damn.”

  “You can get anything off the Internet, for a price.”

  “Ron out there?”

  “Uh—huh.”

  “What’s he doin’?”

  “Looks like he’s reading the newspaper to me.”

  “I pay him to read the paper?”

  “You know I don’t get into your business, Derek.”

  “Print out a copy of that page where you gave them my Visa. I need to show it on my expense sheet.”

  “I already did it.”

  “Good. And call Lydell Blue over at the Fourth District, see if he ran a sheet for me yet on Ricky Kane.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll be out in a few.”

  Strange finished reading the transcripts. Much of the information had been duplicated in the newspaper and television reports. He carefully read Quinn’s statement and the corroborating statement of his partner, Eugene Franklin. Then he read and reread the testimony of Ricky Kane.

  On the night of the shooting, Kane, a restaurant and bar worker, was driving across town after his shift at the Purple Cactus, a trendy eatery on 14th and F, when he pulled over on D Street to urinate. Kane explained that he had downed “a beer” after work, had begun to feel the effects of a weak blad
der, and saw that D Street was deserted as he drove east. Standing beside the open door of his Toyota, “I pulled out my penis and prepared to urinate,” when a Jeep, “the military—looking kind,” came from around the corner, its brights tapped on, and stopped behind his Toyota.

  The lights from the Jeep were in his eyes and blinding as Kane “tucked myself back in” and zipped up his fly. A “large black man” came through the glare of the lights and was upon him at once, yelling in an extremely agitated manner for Kane to produce a license and registration.

  “What did I do?” Kane asked the black man.

  “You were pissin’ in the street,” said the black man. “And don’t even think of lyin’ about it, ’cause I saw you holdin’ your little pecker plain as day.”

  The man was broad, “like a weight lifter,” and taller than Kane by a head. Later, Kane would be told that the man’s name was Chris Wilson and that he was an out—of—uniform cop.

  Kane said here that he detected the strong smell of alcohol on Chris Wilson’s breath.

  When a man had been drinking, even one beer, thought Strange, it would be difficult to smell alcohol on another man’s breath. Strange made a line through this statement with a yellow accent marker.

  “Who are you?” asked Kane. “Why do you need to see my license?”

  “I’m a cop,” replied Wilson.

  Kane was frightened, but “I knew my rights.” He asked to see Wilson’s badge or some other form of identification, and that’s when Wilson “became enraged,” grabbing Kane by the lapels of his shirt and throwing him up against the car. Kane suffered severe back pain immediately, he said.

  “Aw, shit,” said Strange under his breath. That was for the benefit of a future lawsuit, right there. Greco opened his eyes, lifted his head up, and looked up at Strange.

  Kane claimed to have “a moment or two” of blackout then. He next recalled lying on his back in the street, with Wilson crouched down upon him, one knee on his chest. There was a gun in Wilson’s hand, “an automatic, I think,” and he was holding it “point—blank” in Kane’s face.

  Kane said that he had never known that kind of fear. Spittle had formed on the edges of Wilson’s mouth, his face was “all twisted up with anger,” and he was repeating, “I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker,” over and over again. Kane had no doubt that Wilson would. He was “embarrassed to say” that when Chris Wilson pressed the muzzle of the gun to his cheek and rolled it there, Kane “involuntarily voided” his bowels.