by Don Donovan
"You keep saying 'we'. I can't let you —"
Her hands went to my cheeks and she caressed them. Then her eyes softened, and so did her tone. "Listen to me. If you're in this, so am I. I'm with you all the way down the line. You understand me? All the way, baby. I won't let this happen to you."
"It's not going to happen," I said, my uncertainty bleeding through in my voice.
"Bullshit," she replied. "If we don't act, it will happen and you know it."
My head moved from side to side in a single shake. "You can call it self-defense, but Ortega's gonna call it murder. And the State Attorney's gonna call it murder one."
Her voice remained even. "You don't think they'd slap a murder one charge on you if they could make you for those Miami killings? What do you think that fucking dyke cop was nosing around down here for? And Trey Whitney? I guarantee you they'd try you for murder two anyway, just so they could get a compromise verdict of manslaughter and send you away for twenty-five years. Wake up! The baby's in the well! Too late for any subtle distinctions here."
She was right. But I never murdered anyone before. I didn't think I had it in me.
She pointed to the front door. "Ortega's gonna show up one day at that door and put the cuffs on you. And when he leads you out of here, I'm finished. Finished without you."
I looked directly at her and saw the love I'd seen for the last ten years. Still there, still strong, visible behind her misting eyes.
"Let me think about it," I said. "Give me a little time."
"Don't take too long. We don't have a lot of time."
Her body moved closer to me on the couch, near enough for me to inhale her natural scent, and her mouth reached for mine. She kissed me, long and wet, supposedly as a gesture of love, and her considerable body pressed against mine. But deep in my head and in my gut, something told me the kiss had sealed our deadly pact.
31
Logan
Sunday, July 17, 2011
6:40 PM
DOROTHY MADE DINNER THAT NIGHT, a tasty pot of ropa vieja, my favorite Cuban dish. The arroz moro was all gray, the black beans cooked through it to perfection, and for a few sensuous minutes, I allowed the tangy aroma to inhabit my entire body. With the food out on the table and the beer poured into a couple of pilsner glasses, we took our seats and I dug into the buttery, soft shreds of beef. Then I heard the first drops of rain dance on our tin roof.
She let me get about a third of the way through the meal, the whole time distracting me with small talk, a variation on fattening me up for the slaughter to come, before she said, "So, what are we going to do with the stripper?"
I'd given it a lot of thought. I pursued all our options, each one right out to the end of the line, and every avenue ended in flames. No matter how I felt about this predicament, or whether it violated my moral code, every choice led to one result: Sharma had to go.
I couldn't live the rest of my life — or more likely, the next few days — wondering if she was going to keep her mouth shut. Undoubtedly, the time would come when she would blab to Ortega and not give a shit what I would do to her. He'd give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder and tell her not to worry, the cops'd pick me up right away so I wouldn't be able to take my revenge.
Or, worse yet, Win Whitney would send Morgan and Stanley around to see her and after about thirty seconds with them, she'd sing any song they wanted to hear. And every song would have my name in the chorus. Then I'd move to the top of their list and they wouldn't bother with any cop courtesy like Miranda rights or handcuffs. They'd wait for me one night, or maybe come after me the same night as they saw Sharma, and my mangled body might or might not turn up someplace on some future date.
The way it played out in my increasingly troubled mind, one of those two outcomes was a certainty. One hundred percent chance of deep shit. Deeeeep shit, baby.
I looked up from my plate into Dorothy's eyes. A dark-chocolate brown, right now devoid of any mercy, and her warm heart frozen over by the icy winds of capital murder.
"It has to be done," I said. "And the sooner the better."
Her pitiless eyes never moved from mine. "Tonight," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Tonight."
≈ ≈ ≈
We ate the rest of our dinner in silence, the only sound being forks against porcelain plates and the rain outside, which by now was really coming down. When we finished, Dorothy rinsed the plates and the pots off and left them in the sink. She went into the bedroom and changed clothes, removing her blouse and shorts in favor of a dark blue T-shirt and jeans. Then a thin black sweat shirt and another, older pair of jeans over the T-shirt ensemble. A pair of my black sneakers for the finishing touch, too big for her feet. She stuffed the sneakers with newspaper to tighten the fit, then stretched form-fitting hospital shoe covers over them. I put on a pair of those covers myself. Any footprints we might leave on the wet ground would be unreadable thanks to the shoe covers, especially hers, the too-big shoes giving the appearance of having been worn by a man.
I slipped on some black throwaways of my own and fit the silencer onto the business end of my .45. Jam the gun into my waistband rig under my oversized black T-shirt. Grab a couple of pairs of latex gloves and head for the door.
"Wait a sec," Dorothy said, and she scurried into the bedroom. She came out a minute later, clipping my jungle-survival knife onto her belt. Redemption model, blade length seven inches plus, handle contoured with curved swells to fill your grip, perfectly balanced, and sheathed in heavy-duty nylon. One serious fucking weapon. I'd often carried it, never drawn blood with it, but now, hanging on Dorothy's hip, handle slightly forward, the knife looked like it was itching to be used.
According to LeeRon, Sharma lived in a little first-floor room on Caroline Street, up past Simonton, a short walk from the Wild Thing.
We motored through town, taking all back streets. Slowly splashing down Windsor Lane, Angela Street past the cemetery, then Grinnell to Caroline. The rain was letting up, easing off to a soft, drizzly shower, not yet deciding if it wanted to continue under a warm black sky. I turned the windshield wipers to intermittent.
Dorothy spoke first, right after we turned off Windsor onto Angela, or as we called it, Graveyard Alley. "She's at home? Not working?" Her jaw tensed and her lips pulled tight across her teeth. She looked straight out the windshield.
"When she got the job, she told me she had Sundays off. Trey won't be there, of course, so there's a good chance she'll be home. All by herself."
I slowed way down for the speed bumps on the very narrow, wet street. The cemetery loomed in its eternal silence on our right, and I felt the eyes of the dead opening under heavy lids to watch us pass by in the rainy night, somehow knowing we were on our way to do murder, to send them some company.
So this is what it feels like. The premeditated part, the part that gets you the death penalty. Where you decide to take someone's life and then actually set out to do it. Wear black clothing, assemble your weapons, get in your car, and go over to where she lives so you can kill her.
A strange calm blanketed my entire being, like I'm totally centered, committed, and there's no turning back.
It never felt like this, any of the jobs I've ever pulled. I always had a little jitter in my bones beforehand, kind of like stage fright. I always overcame it, of course, but it was there every time. That quiver telling you something could go wrong.
Not tonight, though. This would be perfect. Smooth as an iced-over pond.
And I can finally get on with my retirement.
≈ ≈ ≈
Sharma lived in a small one-bedroom located in the back of a larger house. It looked like it was once someone's fine home, but uninterested heirs probably sold it to some real estate pro who chopped it up into apartments, which in Key West, is one way to make a lot of money.
The closest parking spot we could find was across the street and about three houses up. I wasn't crazy about it because it meant we'd have to walk
farther than I thought we should, more exposure out in the open after the fact. Vulnerability. I didn't like anything about it.
Before we got out of the car, I said to Dorothy, "Look, maybe this isn't a good idea right now. This parking place is far from ideal. Anybody comes walking along or driving by, they'll see us for sure, maybe even be able to ID us."
She unhooked her seat belt and turned to face me with the coldest eyes she's ever shown me. "Forget it. It's gotta be now. We don't do this tonight, tomorrow morning she might give you up to Ortega."
Of course, she was right. I knew it all along. I just had to hear her say it. I unstrapped myself and we both got out of the SUV. The rain had stopped. Damp, heavy air dropped over us immediately, crawling under our layers of clothing, drawing sweat. I glanced up at the sky and saw a half-moon trying to squirm out from behind a patch of thick clouds. There was no traffic on the street.
We stayed in the shadows on our side of the street and moved quickly to a point across from Sharma's apartment house. No cars coming from either direction, some pedestrians strolling across Caroline down at the Simonton intersection. They didn't see us as we crossed, careful to avoid black puddles in the street that had formed after the rain.
We moved silently around to the rear entrance of the house and slipped on the latex gloves. The tight gloves made soft pops as they fastened themselves to our wrists. A quick check of my gun. Jack a round into the chamber, slowly, minimum of noise. Wipe the sweat from my forehead.
The door to her apartment was up a couple of steps and had a big glass pane on the top half. A cheap curtain covered the pane but didn't block out lights inside. Nor did it block out voices from within.
The voices froze us at the door. Male and female, the female was Sharma, and she sounded upset, maybe frightened. Then a hard smack, like a blow to flesh, and she yelped. I drew my weapon.
I turned the knob and gently pushed the door open. We were in the kitchen. I noticed how hot it was, like there was no air conditioning. The activity came from the next room. Upon entering, we saw Trey's goons, Morgan and Stanley, standing over Sharma as she lay on the floor, bleeding heavily from a wide gash on her face. They turned and saw us.
"Logan!" one of them cried, and they both came at us.
My silenced gun spit two quiet pops at the first one. He took them in the chest and went down. The other was on me right away, wrestling me for the gun. He laid a big fist into my gut and my legs gave out. As I headed for the floor, I still had the gun in my hand, but I knew I wouldn't have it for long. He reached for it, while grunting and cursing at me, but then I saw Dorothy's hand swing around, big knife flashing, catching him square in the stomach as he came at me. Moving faster than I thought possible, she jerked it out, and he shrieked in terrible pain and grabbed at his torn gut. Another hard thrust, this one in the back. Her whole body went into it, and the long blade pushed all the way into his heart. His torso convulsed, he gave out a little sigh and crumpled, falling on top of me, gravity sucking blood out of him all over my clothing and my arms. A death mask pasted itself onto his round, ugly face.
I rolled him off me and checked the other one. Both dead. Sharma was still on the floor, groaning in pain, her face by now covered in blood. I reholstered my gun and checked Morgan and Stanley again. Sure enough, one of them wore brass knucks, designed for maximum damage to flesh, bone, and teeth.
Careful to step around the pooling blood from the two corpses, we moved to Sharma's side. My first instinct was to help her up and clean up her wound, maybe get her to a hospital. I bent down to cradle her head. Dorothy grabbed me by the arm, pulling me back up.
"What the fuck are you doing?" she asked.
I froze. "I don't know, I — I —"
"You forget what we came here for?" She shoved me out of the way and grabbed a handful of Sharma's hair, jerking her head up from the floor. With one decisive move, Dorothy sliced the knife across her throat, slow and very deep. Blood sprayed out of her. A couple of gurgles and Sharma was no more.
Dorothy and I looked at each other. At that moment, it felt like the world had stood still. The apartment was utterly quiet, and I once again realized there was no air conditioning. It was much hotter in here than it was outside and I didn't know how Sharma could've stood it. Living here, I mean, in this heat. Sweat ran down from my hair to my forehead into my eyes and over my lips. I wiped it with a handkerchief I'd brought, but it didn't do much good. More sweat was right behind it.
One thing I couldn't wipe away was the air in that apartment. It was thick with death. The first sound I heard was a tiny dribbling noise. I looked at Stanley. His bladder had opened up and all at once the room stank of his piss soaking through his pants and forming a little puddle on the floor.
"Let's go," Dorothy said, wiping the knife on Stanley's shirt. Or it might have been Morgan. I never could keep them straight. She added, "And be careful where you step."
She didn't really have to tell me that, but she probably thought I was in a state of shock. I damn near was, but I collected myself and rinsed the blood off my hands and arms in the kitchen sink. We exited the apartment and headed around toward the front of the house. I felt like I could breathe again.
Outside, we saw cars, and plenty of them. Traffic had backed up a couple of blocks from the red light at Simonton. Looked like a fender-bender involving a van down at the corner. Also a group of merry tourists carousing their way up Caroline about a half a block away. We ducked into some nearby bushes running along the side of the house. Dark enough that we couldn't be seen.
I didn't like any of this. The heavy film of sweat over my face and upper body had grown denser and it began to spread downward. I itched like crazy and had the urge to scratch at my crotch, but I couldn't for fear of making noise, giving away our position. We had blood all over our clothes and by now it had certainly gotten onto the ground and the vegetation that hid us. I was holding a murder weapon with an illegal silencer, Dorothy had a knife clipped to her waist, traces of blood still on it, and three dead bodies lay back there in the apartment. We quietly stripped off our black shirts and I rolled them up, careful not to get any of the blood on our regular clothes.
Nervously, we waited for the tourists to pass by. Four of them, two guys and two girls, all attempting to sing the chorus of Jimmy Buffett's Why Don't We Get Drunk. They stopped on the sidewalk, about ten feet away from the front of the house and began arguing.
One of the guys said, "I'm telling you, it goes like this: They say you are a snuff queen …"
A girl broke in. "No, it's not 'snuff queen', it's 'stuff queen'."
The first guy said to the second guy in an exasperated voice, "Kevin, you gotta tell her. I'm an original fucking Parrothead. I know the words to all of Jimmy's important songs."
I wanted to wring their fucking necks. Them and their important songs.
Kevin turned to the girl. "He's right, Heather. The man does know his shit."
"I don't care," she pouted. "I still say it's 'stuff queen'. I'm gonna look it up on my cell phone." She reached into her large purse and fished around inside.
My heart pounded hard against my breastbone and the heat had once again made it difficult to catch a breath. I glanced at Dorothy. She breathed through her mouth, short, impatient breaths. Her eyes were wide, the whites prominent, nearly bursting out of their sockets. Her quivering hand inched down toward the knife on her hip. I was beginning to feel she was capable of anything. For the briefest of moments, I thought she might go crazy.
"Oh, shit," the first guy said. "Come on, Heather. Let's go. I don't want to stand here all night while you look for your phone. Schooner Wharf awaits. I need another margarita."
The other two chimed in with agreement, persuading Debbie to abandon the search for her phone and the correct lyrics. They resumed their slow pace up the street toward Schooner Wharf, picking up where they left off in the song.
They soon were well past us, and the traffic had cleared the stoplight. A coup
le of more random cars drifted by and we waited till they passed. We started to move out, but at that instant, someone stepped out the front door of the house. An older guy. He walked down the two or three steps to the front walk and out onto the street. We hunkered back down into the shrubbery that hugged the side of the house. Dorothy shifted her weight a little and stepped on a stray twig, making a slight crack in the quiet night. The guy stopped in front of the house and looked back toward the side where we were crouched in the hot, close blackness of the bushes. Neither Dorothy nor I breathed. We couldn't even blink. Standing in silhouette in the hazy backlight of a streetlamp half a block away, he seemed to be staring straight at us, trying to find the source of that sound, searching for movement in the darkened reaches. My eyes slid over to glimpse Dorothy. Her sweaty hand unsteadily wrapped the knife handle, ready to unsheathe it. I caught a glance at my own hand resting on the grip of my gun. After a few seconds, the guy turned and walked away, ambling down toward Simonton Street.
We exhaled simultaneously and moved out toward the sidewalk, peeling off our shoe covers. We crossed the street at a steady clip, but not too fast. Once we stood beside the car, deep in the shadow of a nearby tree, I took another look around. All traffic gone, no pedestrians in sight. We slipped out of our pants. All the clothes, as well as the gloves and the shoe covers, went into a black lawn and leaf bag I had in the back seat. I tossed my gun, the silencer, and the big knife into it as well before we got in the car. The lawn and leaf bag went into the back of the SUV, under a blanket.
Fire up the car, pull out of the spot, and drive slowly to US 1. Crank up the fucking air. I couldn't remember the last time I let the heat and humidity bother me this badly. Nor could I remember the last time my insides rolled around like boiling surf on a stormy beach.
The rain came back. All the way back. To make matters worse, a large portion of US 1 on the island was under construction, forcing traffic into a one-way, incoming direction on North Roosevelt Boulevard, the wrong way for us. So we had to use inconvenient, time-consuming back streets to get to the Cow Key Channel Bridge, the turnstile out of Key West. I grew uneasy because it meant more and more exposure for us, slowly motoring through narrow streets with stop signs on every corner, all the while with evidence of bloody murder in the back, waiting to be discovered.