“You waited on the money to transfer before you addressed this issue.”
“Of course. Pussy and money: both make the world go around. If you have pussy, you can get money. And if you have money, you can get pussy. That’s the law. I was born with the pussy. And you know I always get the money. Before anything else, I have to get the money. My daddy told me that a man has to keep his money pregnant. Money should give birth to more money. If you’re not making sure your money is impregnated, you’re the one being fucked.”
I nodded. “And since your money gave birth to more money, you’re ready to fight.”
“We’re safe from being ambushed? How many are inside?”
“None. His bushwhackers fled. The ones that could. Might be a couple severely injured moaning here and there. They weren’t armed. They won’t come after the team you brought.”
“Good. I was waiting while my drone surveyed the property. My infrared told me there were four in the house. Three in one room and one in another. I watched every movement.”
“Police?”
“We’ve monitored. No calls have gone out from here. Neighbors can’t call out if they have Internet phones. I’ve disrupted that service for a half mile. You know me. I got that on lock.”
“You came across all these freeways in the middle of the night to get your respect.”
“I don’t procrastinate and I don’t play with other folk’s children. You know that.”
I looked up.
Over the whiteness of the stately mansion, I saw a fleet of Phantom drones, counted six of them, silent, hovering, feeding images back to her workers in the SUVs. I bet those had arrived and had been overhead before they compromised the code to the security gates.
San Bernardino said, “Take me to Mr. Richard Israel Garrett the Third. I need him to repeat all he said on the goddamn phone. Let’s see the motherfucker talk that way to my face.”
“Jake Ellis had some time with him. But you probably saw that on the infrared.”
“Lead me to Garrett’s ding wing and show me what’s left of him.”
“Yes, ma’am. Jake Ellis left Garrett contemplating life from his ghetto penthouse.”
She asked, “Should I bring my daddy’s double-barreled shotgun?”
“I don’t think you’ll need it.”
“That disappoints me.”
“He’s been tenderized. I doubt if he can raise a hand to wipe his ass.”
“I did not need that visual.”
“Apologies.”
“You’re talking to a woman. Not one of your homies on the corner.”
“Understood.”
The boss regarded her team. I saw them up close. All were Caucasian men.
She told them, “Boys, stay alert. Watch my six.”
Her men nodded.
She said, “Now. Jake Ellis.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come with.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
San Bernardino said, “And turn that atrocious music off. I hate rap. It’s maddening. Lyrics that promote violence and contempt for women . . . that misogyny . . . cut that crap off right away.”
“Will see what we can do when we get inside.”
“Cake-eater, take my left side. My other left. Ken Swift, put your Mississippi on my right.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As soon as we started to walk, I pointed, said, “Shit. I see Mr. Garrett.”
“Good. I want him to see me coming. I never hide. I want the motherfucker who had the unmitigated temerity to talk down to me to see that San Bernardino is here to make a house call.”
CHAPTER 30
GARRETT HAD STAGGERED out of his bedroom, the well-appointed area that had been a squared circle for at least one good round of fisticuffs. Even if he couldn’t fight, I guess the Pillsbury Doughboy could take a hard blow. Princeton looked like a refugee, like a wild beast that had barely survived a Middle Eastern war. I led the way, but Jake Ellis moved in front and opened the double doors to the palace. Ghana held one door and Mississippi held the other.
San Bernardino sashayed inside, moved her wrath and grace into the extravagance of her newest enemy, and we followed her until she stopped at the base of the stairs. She took a deep breath, nostrils flared when she inhaled the fading scent of salmon dancing with the stench of pool water that had permeated my clothing and body. With each step, I dripped. We looked up at the art, at the home that was an elegant museum, at images of Garrett and his wife. The queen from one kingdom had arrived riding on two black dragons, and she was here to handle this herself. The chandelier gave enough light and we could see King Garrett on high from where we were. He still smelled like arrogance. He had never learned to be afraid. He was too stupid to be afraid. He rested at the top of the spiraling staircase, bloodied, but still a man who looked like he was ready to beat his chest and proclaim he was the king of all of the goddamn Kongs.
Biggie Smalls was still on repeat. The rapper I loved as aggravating as a nagging wife.
Jake Ellis had given Garrett ten years of blood-pissing pain in less than two minutes. He struggled to stay upright, held the rails, then stood at the top of the stairs, breathing heavily. Curses rained down on us, most directed at San Bernardino. Biggie Smalls swallowed all words. I knew what Garrett was saying. He had only one note. He was beaten and threatened to have us all killed before the sun hit noon. He spat over the rail. While he stood there in his own agony, the double doors to Mrs. Garrett’s closet opened. She hobbled out of her cage. Her husband didn’t see her behind him. She hurried up and pushed him. She growled and shoved him, as he had shoved her. Mrs. Garrett shoved Mr. Garrett headfirst down the stairs. It happened fast. Dickie Bird tumbled head over heels, Jack without a Jill. Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill came hobbling after. Mrs. Garrett took one stair at a time, held the rail, made her way down. Mr. Garrett was broken but still twitching. I couldn’t tell what damage was from Jake Ellis and what injuries had come from the fall. Mrs. Garrett stood over him and unloaded her .380 into his body.
Then, eyes wide, surprised by what she had finally done, she looked at us.
It took all of her energy to command, “Alexa, stop playing Biggie Smalls.”
Mrs. Garrett smelled like pool water too. She smelled bad, and I knew I smelled worse. I could smell her pain, agony leaving her pores. San Bernardino took in Mrs. Garrett, took in her injuries, her black eyes and bald head, and she moved closer to the wounded woman. Mrs. Garrett looked so bad that, before she spoke, San Bernardino thought she was facing a man.
Mrs. Garrett wiped her nose. “He beat me. Cut off all of my hair. Raped me. Tried to drown me.”
San Bernardino was unfazed. “Then that cowboy you married did a Dutch act.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“He committed suicide. If he did what you have claimed, this was a Dutch act. He had started a Dutch act when he talked down to me on the phone. All roads led to this moment.”
“He beat me. Cut off all of my hair. Raped me. Tried to drown me.”
Mrs. Garrett looked diminutive. Naïve. Body battered. Life shattered. Tears falling.
“He beat me. Cut off all of my hair. Raped me. Tried to drown me.”
She softly, sweetly, innocently, and painfully said her mantra as if she were practicing it for the police. For attorneys. For the jury. For the judge. She practiced the words, sounded like a child, a child who hadn’t done anyone wrong. She had the look. She had the pedigree. Killers didn’t look like her. Even if she was a cold-blooded killer, she could put on a Casey Anthony routine at her trial. Her hair would grow back and it would be like seeing Taylor Swift being tried for manslaughter. She could become America’s obsession. She could become every battered woman’s hero. Jake Ellis moved forward to help, but I grabbed his arm. It would’ve been a tell
that he had touched that woman. She might’ve thrown her arms around him like he was her hero.
I let the woman cry and shake and shiver and look down at the blood on the floor. Garrett smelled worse than rotten eggs cooked until they were burned using Vaseline as cooking oil. He had that new-death rank, the one that came when bowels loosened upon death. She cried, asked Garrett to get up. Begged him not to be dead. She asked her husband to please move. San Bernardino went to Mrs. Garrett, eased the smoking gun from the distraught woman’s hand. San Bernardino was a hard woman, a thief, a con, a killer, but she was still a mother, and it didn’t matter that the woman she faced looked like a refugee Caucasian from the mountains of Caucasia. Her dark hand held one that could have been the descendant of a Viking from Iceland.
“He beat me. Cut off all of my hair. Raped me. Tried to drown me.”
Women could look at other women and recognize all the evil things that men had done.
Women had experiences that bonded them, had their own fears, same as blacks in America.
San Bernardino regarded me. “Is this contained?”
I nodded. “Garrett brought me here to make me swim with the fishes and probably to dispose of my body, so I’m sure he made sure it was contained.”
San Bernardino told Mrs. Garrett, “I can fix this. I can make this nightmare go away.”
Mouth bloodied, Mrs. Garrett babbled, “He cut my hair. He knew how much I loved my hair.”
San Bernardino looked at the stunning pictures of Mrs. Garrett gracing the walls.
“What do I do now?” The widowed woman’s voice splintered. “I don’t know what to do.”
“We do what we always do at times like this.”
“Should I call the police?”
“Too much would have to be explained.”
“I’m scared.”
“Jake Ellis, I’m sure they have coffee in this barn.”
“We have good coffee. The best coffee. Dickie Bird only drinks kopi luwak Indonesian coffee. Tastes good . . . like . . . like chocolate caramel. It’s his coffee. It gives me gas really bad.”
“Jake Ellis, make the coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
San Bernardino handed me her phone. “Ken Swift, page my Honduran cleaners.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the crematorium in Santa Monica. The one on Broadway I use from time to time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Garrett was wide-eyed. “I shot Dickie Bird.”
“While the men serve us, you and I will have a little talk.”
“Why would we call the dry cleaners?”
“Sweetheart, you mean Richard is your husband and this is your first crime scene?”
“The worst day of my life.”
“My cleaners are bioremediation specialists for the Mexican cartels. Do you understand?”
She sobbed, eyes on her fallen king. “What about my Dickie Bird?”
“You’re having a meltdown.”
“I shot my Dickie Bird.”
“Mrs. Garrett, sit down in your kitchen.”
“I did love him. Even when I cheated, I loved him.”
“Sit and have a sip of water.”
“Where did you come from? You just appeared like an angel. Who are you?”
“I am your savior.”
“You’re beautiful. I’ve never seen a black savior.”
“We’re everywhere, yet invisible to the world.”
“Who do you work for?”
“I will help you fix this.”
“Like a fairy godmother?”
“Better than a fairy godmother.”
“You’re pretty as the mayor of Compton.”
“Prettier. When I look in my mirror, it says I’m the prettiest of them all.”
“He tried to kill me.”
“I just need you to take a few deep breaths so we can start.”
“That monster cut off all of my hair.”
“Men are trash.”
“He tried to drown me. I think I died. I swear, I think I died.”
“Dutch act. Whenever a man touches you in a bad way, make sure it’s his Dutch act. Each time. My daddy told me to never let there be a person walking this earth who can claim they disrespected you. Women, all we have is our reputation. Your reputation always arrives before you do. So, we sit down. We talk. We take a lot of pictures. And we make an agreement.”
“You can fix this?”
“You hire me to fix this, and in four hours, it will be like this never happened.”
“He pushed me down the stairs. He tried to drown me.”
“And he has paid the ultimate price.”
When she said that, there was movement. And a groan. Garrett moved. Mrs. Garrett screamed. His hand moved back and forth. Moved his legs.
Jake Ellis stepped closer. “He’s shot up, but he’s not dead.”
“I deleted him, and God undeleted him. God is rebooting Dickie Bird.”
I asked the boss, “What do you want to do?”
San Bernardino said, “Good. He’s alive. I’m happy he’s not dead.”
Mrs. Garrett said, “He will kill me for shooting him. He’ll kill me.”
“Probably. If someone shot me that way, Jesus knows I would.”
San Bernardino reached in her purse, pulled out a pair of blue surgical gloves, eased them on, and went to the bloodied man. His eyes were open, but there were no words, just the look of a man who wanted help, a man who didn’t want to die. He was made of something that most men weren’t made of. And so was San Bernardino.
She said, “Glad you’re alive. I needed to look in your eyes and dare you to talk down to me the way you did on the phone. That really rubbed me the wrong way. Because I was born with nothing, and because I was born a woman, doesn’t mean I am nothing, Garrett. Speak up. You have no idea how much I have had to endure to get to where I am. At every turn, there is someone like you. Look in my eyes. Disrespect me. Talk down to me now, you swindling son of a bitch.”
Garrett gurgled. It sounded ugly, grotesque, and still belligerent and challenging.
“Glad I didn’t drive this far for nothing. Not with gas prices being ridiculously high.”
San Bernardino held Garrett’s nose and covered his mouth.
Mrs. Garrett screamed, “No, no, no.”
San Bernardino looked at her, rage rising in her eyes.
Mrs. Garrett said, “He’s my husband. My husband. I should do that.”
The rage became a small smile. “Let me show you how.”
“Can I drag him out back and throw him in the deep end of the swimming pool?”
“Let’s keep it simple, shall we?”
“We can do it together?”
If there was another man inside every man, a stranger, a conniving man, that philosophy was the same for all women. San Bernardino covered Garrett’s mouth, pressed down hard with her palm. His wife pulled back her hoodie, showed him what he had done to her face and hair, wanted him to see what he had done, and scowled in his panic-stricken eyes as she pinched his nose. He jumped. Filled with bullets, broken and battered, he bucked.
Mrs. Garrett snapped, then yelled, “Go to hell already, Dickie Bird. Just die, you moron. ‘You worthless piece of shit from Compton. You’re stupid. Without me you’d be nothing. Be glad you’re pretty because that’s all you have going for you.’ Tell me those things again before this Dutch act is over. You were horrible in bed, took too long to come, and you even die slow.”
Seconds later, it was done. Once Death clocked in, it was efficient, never took long.
“You should have been nicer to me. Dickie Bird, you should’ve been a lot nicer.”
San Bernardino removed her gloves, turned them inside out into a ball. Mrs. Garr
ett shuddered, wiped away tears, then washed her hands in the kitchen, put lotion in her left palm, creamed her hands, strawberry scent rising to meet death, and went back to San Bernardino.
San Bernardino sipped the decadent coffee Jake Ellis put in front of her, then smiled at Mrs. Garrett, patted the distraught woman on her leg twice, then asked, “Now, where were we?”
“You said you . . . you could . . . you can . . . you can make all of this go away.”
“I can. Your black savior, your fairy godmother, can do just that.”
“Will I get to keep his money?”
“Minus my fee.”
“Even the fifty million he has hidden in a bank in Barbados?”
I went to the patio window that Jake Ellis had broken. Looked out back. Looked at the pool, imagined my body floating there, Mrs. Garrett’s apple booty not far away. Saw the dead and the wounded. Jake Ellis followed me. We threw the wounded men in the pool. That was my idea. A man can’t try to kill me and get to go home and eat Froot Loops.
The bushwhackers knew where I lived. They knew where Jake Ellis lived.
Jake Ellis said, “What about the one you sent out the door first?”
“San Bernardino will handle that.”
“She scares me.”
“Scares me too.”
I looked up. San Bernardino’s drones hovered over our heads.
Jake Ellis asked, “She know about Margaux and Balthazar Walkowiak?”
“Nah.”
“Let’s keep it that way. As long as we can.”
“She’s your goddaughter, Jake.”
“I know. That’s why San Bernardino hasn’t been informed.”
“I need to learn how to be that brat’s daddy.”
“Lite Brite.”
I nodded. “Put on Billie Jean. Bet she could moonwalk. That was funny.”
We went to our boss and Jake Ellis told all of us his part of the night, that Garrett had done a drive-by and tried to burn down Leimert Park like racists had done Black Wall Street.
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