Jimi Lee was his wife, but she still felt like she was my wife.
I thought I’d gotten away from that marriage from hell, but now the old feelings were back, so I guess I was just on parole. Like a prisoner, I sat in my mental cell, eyes closed, surrounded by a wall of old memories. Jake Ellis killed my unwanted trip down memory lane when he jammed hip-hop on KDAY. He cranked it up, rapped, blew the whistle, and got hyphy.
“You okay over there, Ken Swift?”
“Bro.”
“Talk to me, bruv.”
I clacked my teeth twice, exhaled. “Margaux mentioned that job in Miami.”
His face went serious and he turned the music down. “What does she know?”
“She said the name Balthazar Walkowiak. She threatened me.”
Jake Ellis’s jaw tightened. “Bruv, that changes every fucking thing.”
“That’s what that lunch was all about. She demanded fifty thousand.”
“Tell me every word my black-turned-white goddaughter said.”
“Bro.”
“Bruv, talk.”
We passed encampments for the homeless, passed a tattered man facing the streets, taking a piss. We passed women living in tents situated in the shade, the screens open so they could breathe the exhaust from cars and buses. Tent cities were the new normal in most parts of Los Angeles. Dozens at every turn. Gentrification in Downtown had pushed out the unwanted and created mini skid rows all over. That displacement had become so common we didn’t notice.
My concern remained with Margaux.
I told Jake Ellis all my daughter had said.
It didn’t show, but I was scared.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been scared.
CHAPTER 3
I TOLD JAKE Ellis all Margaux had said about Florida, and his temper flared.
Jaw tight, my partner in crime said, “Florida is San Bernardino business.”
“We killed Balthazar Walkowiak. And fed his body to the alligators.”
“Does she know that part?”
“She didn’t say. She was pissed and walked away.”
“There is no statute of limitations on murder. And she knows what we did?”
“She knows who; not sure about all the what. I guess Jimi Lee told Margaux.”
“And she brought that to you? San Bernardino won’t care that your daughter is pregnant.”
“I’m her target. Only me.”
“You are not the only one involved. I’m involved. So is San Bernardino.”
“Bro, she’s after me.”
“What if she talks and the law comes after you?”
“I won’t talk. I’m no stool pigeon.”
“And she wasn’t wired?”
“I don’t think she was.”
“Fifty grand as hush money?”
“Came at me like I was Bill Gates and had fifty thousand in walking-around money.”
“Wouldn’t put it past Margaux and Jimi Lee to team up and come at you hard.”
“I think this is just my daughter. A daughter who has been brainwashed into hating me.”
“What’s your plan to get fifty grand in your hands, Ken Swift?”
“Does your landlord have a rich older sister half as fine as she is?”
Jake Ellis said, “If she did, you know my car note would be getting taken care of too.”
He changed the music, played “Iskaba,” a song by Ghanaian Wande Coal. I straightened out my Muhammad Ali tee, then reached inside my suit pocket. There was a flyer for a three-bedroom, three-bath home on Eleventh Avenue in Inglewood. House was going for $649,000.
I tossed the flyer out the window, let it go wherever deferred dreams went.
“Bruv, littering is a thousand-dollar fine and a week of picking up litter on the side of the freeway.”
“Well, back up and I’ll find my trash in the middle of all the other trash and pick it up.”
He checked the rearview, didn’t see the hashtag makers’ flashing lights behind us.
I barked, “Was dealing with Rachel last week, now Margaux’s bullshit this week.”
“That fling Rachel Redman had with the rich Russian a few weeks ago, that’s over?”
“Said it was a reactionary fuck. Whatever that means.”
“Should I pay the Russian a visit on your behalf?”
“My days of fighting a man, of fighting men, over a woman are behind me.”
“I don’t need you to go with me to put the Russian on a stretcher.”
“It’s starting to feel like being with my ex-wife all over.”
“Well, you know your type.”
“And they know theirs.”
“You’ve been real quiet about it all day. Don’t get an ulcer over a wicked woman.”
“I’m stressed. And hungry.”
“Hot and hangry.”
“Headache kicking in.”
“I’m starving too. We’ll get us some food.”
“Just don’t get me any more pissed than I already am.”
“You get pissed, get to work, lose control, and try and beat folks through a wall. We got to Arizona and all of a sudden you were violent and beating up Asians like Mark Wahlberg in 1988.”
“Rachel Redman got under my skin and I lost the plot in Arizona.”
“Rachel and that Russian shit had you going Mike Tyson up in there.”
“Anger has to go somewhere. Anger, orgasms, and a sneeze; those are three things, once they get started, I can’t stop. And when I’m hungry, my anger only gets magnified.”
“We better get you some real food. Being this hot and hungry, bad combination.”
“You see that ungrateful . . . you see her stand up and throw her snot-rag in my chowder?”
“Everyone saw.”
“Well, I was going to reintroduce you. But, bro, you saw shit went south from the start.”
“Bruv, her skin shocked me more than her hair and tattoos and nose rings and all that confusion she had going on. But that skin. People in Africa do that mess day and night. Over half the women in Ghana bleach. And Nigeria is worse. I see the Ethiopians are in the same line.”
“Hurt to see that confusion on my own child.”
“From where I was, her body language was strong. She was on a rampage.”
“She hates me like no other. Hurts when your own child hates you. Hurts a lot.”
“Glad you didn’t reintroduce her to me. If she is making threats, I don’t want to meet her.”
“Let me see your phone.”
He handed it to me. I went to Facebook, put in Margaux’s name. Nothing came up.
I said, “I’ll find Margaux. She has to be on social media. Everyone her age is.”
Jake Ellis reached for his phone. “After Pasadena. We’re off to work. Need you focused.”
“You’re right. Being worried about her mother was what went wrong in Florida.”
I gave him his phone, let music from Africa try to take me to the motherland. I imagined sundry warm brown skin tones passing me on the streets, imagined men and women with a similar hue anchoring the news, on the billboards, seated in all political offices. I wanted to know what it felt like to be where they cared about and looked for missing black girls. I wanted to be in a place where I felt the way white people felt in America, like they controlled and owned everything.
I tried to distract myself by thinking of Rachel Redman, imagined her kissing me. That woman could kiss like no other. Rachel Redman was the only good thing I had going in my life.
But the distraction didn’t last. What had arrived was more powerful than any kiss.
Margaux on my mind, my ex-wife back in my heart, we headed to Pasadena.
CHAPTER 4
I COOKED THE wild rice and steam
ed the veggies, everything perfectly seasoned, then opened the cabinets, stood impressed by the round adobe melamine dinner plates. It was a contemporary kitchen, very modern, and had design elements I’d seen only in high-end magazines. Extensive marble throughout. Stainless fixtures against dark wood. There were two islands, one a workstation, the other a breakfast bar.
At least seventy-five palm trees framed the mansion. Each was twenty feet high. All palm trees were imported, but the ones that made this property into a beautiful jungle cost at least forty-five hundred dollars each.
I said, “That Olympic pool is the bomb. Deep end is fifteen feet deep.”
“He spent a few hundred thousand on that. That’s how you launder your money too.”
“Pool that deep in earthquake country is probably built outside of code.”
“Just like the walls around the property. They are higher than the norm.”
“Special permits?”
“Rules never apply to the rich. They grease palms and get whatever they want.”
“Look at the pictures of his wife on the wall.”
“Looks like a movie star.”
“Look at the sculptures all over.”
“Rich men get it all. They get the castle. The woman. The life.”
“Yeah. And everyone else has to hustle and settle for what they leave behind.”
Giant Ziploc storage bags were on the counter next to giant Hefty bags and Saran Wrap. They had all been put to use.
Jake Ellis looked toward the palm trees and high walls, the privacy that framed a large backyard and the magnificent swimming pool and asked, “Those bags are waterproof?”
“The Ziploc? Oh yeah. Wrapping everything in Saran Wrap first will keep ’em dry.”
“Don’t want complaints from San Bernardino.”
I whistled. “Glocks. AKs. Heckler & Koch G36s.”
“He kept one in almost every room.”
“Proud member of the NRA.”
Jake Ellis said, “You know that means Negros, Return to Africa, right?”
“Funny. You’re a regular Michael Blackson.”
“Michael Blackson is one funny motherfucker. Crass, curses too much, but funny.”
Jake Ellis stopped staring at African art. Statues and art from the motherland were mixed with the European, Asian, and East Indian art, all of that mixed with family portraits, wedding pictures, and art by Kimberly Chavers, David Lawrence, and Jacob Lawrence.
Nervous, I asked, “We got all the weapons, right?”
“Bruv, don’t get worried.”
“What worries me is that you don’t get worried about shit that should worry you.”
“You get worried, then you make me get worried, and I don’t like being worried.”
“Don’t be so damn cocksure.”
Margaux wasn’t off my mind, but she had become a low hum. I was focused on this job. This would be over in an hour, no more than two. Then that hum would become a roar.
Jake Ellis asked, “How much you think a kitchen like this cost?”
“Shit. Over one hundred thousand. Easy.”
I motioned toward the living room and den. “As much as those Samsung hundred-and-five-inch curved 4K TVs all over the place. I’d bet he’s spent a million on televisions.”
“He has an Olympic-size pool but didn’t turn the heat on.”
“As hot as it is up here, leave the heat off.”
Jake Ellis nodded. “How many pieces of this salmon you want?”
“Just one. But I want a big salad.”
Jake Ellis checked on the salmon at the same moment the gates opened to the mansion.
Jake Ellis said, “Showtime. The Bentley is joining the Ferrari, Jaguar, and Benzes.”
The Garretts had passed through the high walls and pulled onto their property. They parked in the five-car garage and entered the house through the heavy wooden door that led from the garage into a mudroom, and from there into the well-appointed gourmet kitchen, where we waited.
CHAPTER 5
MR. GARRETT WALKED in carrying a dozen shopping bags. He had on top-shelf golf attire and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. Looked like they had played nine holes, then gone on a Rodeo Drive shopping spree. Each bag probably had at least two grand worth of goods.
His wife entered snapping, “Then tell me why two are missing.”
He barked, “How would I know?”
“Why would you even need them if you don’t use them?”
“For the last time, woman, they aren’t mine.”
“Who opened the box, Dickie Bird, if not you?”
“Don’t raise your voice at me, Elaine. Woman, don’t ever raise your voice at me.”
She could stunt double for Jennifer Lawrence. Mr. Garrett was a fat Ben Affleck. He weighed at least three fifty. Pictures around the house showed him thinner, stronger, younger.
She persisted. “Did the box open itself and two just get up and walk away? Or were they stolen? You should know what’s in your Ferrari. It’s your goddamn favorite car.”
“I will check with the Koreans who detail my cars.”
“Yeah, let’s blame the Asians.”
“They are the ones responsible.”
“You have a quick answer for everything. Everything is always someone else’s fault. Nothing is ever your fault. Nothing. Not even this. No matter what, you have the perfect—”
“Woman, what did I—”
They stopped their heated conversation when she shrieked and dropped her bags. We were right there, not hidden, but they had been too busy arguing to notice us across the room.
The man of the hour jumped when he saw me setting the formal table. He reached to his empty waistband in a way that told me if he had a gun, he would have come in shooting, killed us both, earned a key to the city, then went out to dinner for steak and lobster.
But I gave him a peek at the .38 I carried under my coat. He tightened his jaw, squared up, then spread his fingers to show he was unarmed. Trouble wasn’t new to him, the man born and raised in Boston, son of a bank robber who ran his business in Arkansas, Tennessee, Texas, and Alabama in the sixties and seventies. Bad news and trouble were in Mr. Garrett’s blood.
Tense, knowing how bad this could get, I said, “Welcome home.”
Mrs. Garrett scurried behind Mr. Garrett, and even though she didn’t say a word, it was in her frantic body language: Let Fatso die first. I’m the graceful blond European woman of good stock; I’m supposed to live to see the credits role at the end of any horror film.
She stepped on dropped bags, trembled. “Sweet baby Jesus. We’re being robbed.”
Mr. Garrett snapped, “Who the fuck are you niggers?”
His powerful Boston accent carried across twelve thousand square feet like an overseer’s alarm.
Jake Ellis tilted his head sideways. “Did he call us niggers?”
“Fucking moolies. Why are you niggers in my goddamn home?”
Jake Ellis frowned. “Lower your voice and show some respect, mayo sandwich.”
“You don’t give orders, nigger. Not in my house.”
Garrett’s wife pulled his shoulder. “You called him the n-word, Dickie Bird, which is very offensive, unless it’s in a song, but even then, well, people like us shouldn’t sing it, not in public, but you called him that bad word, and he’s unhappy about that, so he insulted you back, that’s all.”
I stepped toward Garrett. “San Bernardino paid us to stop by.”
“You broke in my fucking house under the orders of San Bernardino?”
I nodded and pointed. “How this dinner goes is up to you, Mr. Garrett.”
Mr. Garrett looked to his left and saw what was on the floor. Ten feet of plastic had been laid out. Along with tools from Home Depot that could build a house or cut a body to p
ieces.
“Nigger, is that supposed to scare me?”
Jake Ellis did African finger snaps. “If you had sense, you’d be pissing your pants.”
“If you had common sense, you wouldn’t be in my home. You wouldn’t even be in Pasadena. Back in the day we had laws; we had ordinances to keep your kind out.” Garrett smiled as his eyes went from Jake Ellis to me. “San Bernardino sent two nigger derricks to break in my home, to cross this line, over this fucking financial disagreement?”
Confused, the terrified wife asked, “Derricks? Their names are Derrick? Both of them?”
Jake Ellis said, “No, pretty woman. A derrick is someone sent to execute someone.”
“Nigger, don’t talk to my wife.”
Her voice shook. “Execute?”
Jake Ellis said, “Your husband is in big trouble. He might end up on the gallows.”
“Gallows? You mean like hanging? You’re going to hang him? And me?”
Jake Ellis snapped his fingers the African way. “Your boo is in debt and refusing to pay.”
Mr. Garrett frowned at Jake Ellis, glared at him like he wanted to rip his head off, then again at me, shot me the same vile look. It had no impact. He’d end up dancing on air if he made one false move right now. Garrett glanced toward the living room, toward two spots where he had hidden guns. A man like him, even now, was contemplating his next move.
I said, “We put the Glocks in a safe place. Same for the rifle you had in the kitchen. Matter of fact, we moved all of your guns and automatic weapons. Same for the sharp knives.”
“You niggers stole my guns?”
“We’re not thieves.”
Jake Ellis added, “I took out all the house phones too. And your Wi-Fi is down.”
Mr. Garrett yielded a soulless smile. Danger lived behind his eyes. He inhaled, looked toward the kitchen, offended. “You niggers cooked my salmon?”
Jake Ellis said, “I sure in the fuck did.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t eat fried chicken.”
Bad Men and Wicked Women Page 4