by Preston Lang
“What if he did it in the parking lot before we got here?”
“So a guy was here waiting for him, Cyril puts the money in his trunk, then goes out on foot?”
“Okay, you’re right. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Hey, I’m glad you’re thinking, dog. I respect your intellect. You want to play hangman?”
“No.”
“It’s kind of fun to play with people who can’t spell. It passes the time.”
“I can spell.”
“I know, I know. Inside, some of those guys were straight up illiterate. Luis couldn’t read a newspaper. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t smart. Any time you meet someone successful who can’t read, that’s a smart individual.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re going to run a serious operation, keep all that going, without knowing how to read—means you have it together up here,” Danny said, tapping his skull.
At around eight o’clock, a single man pulled into the Firstway Inn, middle-aged in a bad, gray suit.
“That’s not him,” Danny said, peeking through the blinds.
“Could it be the guy with the money?”
The man in gray went to a room on the other side of the motel. Marcus and Danny waited another hour before anyone else came. Just after midnight, a young couple showed up.
“That can’t be him,” Marcus said.
But they walked right to 14, not quite touching, but giving every indication that they were about to.
“So she’s giving him the money?” Marcus asked.
“I think she’s giving him the honey.”
“Okay, but is she also giving him the money?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not carrying anything.”
“Maybe she has it in—”
“Where? Unless she’s got it in hundred thousand dollar bills, the money is not on her.”
Marcus and Danny didn’t talk for a few minutes. The silence was broken by a steady squeak coming from the next room.
“They . . . are doing it,” Danny said, listening at the wall. “They are getting it on, my friend. Web designer, drug mule, ladies’ man. He’s got it all.”
“Maybe she’s a hooker.”
“She’s not a hooker.”
“How do you know?”
“She might be a hooker.”
The squeaking grew louder and faster.
“Give it to her, Cyril,” Danny said. “Drop the hammer hard. I got to tell you the truth: this is getting me aroused. Do you mind if I pleasure myself?”
“Jesus, no,” Marcus snapped.
“You don’t mind. Great—”
“No, I do mind. Do not—I mean, keep your hands away—”
“I was kidding, dog. Relax,” Danny laughed. “Though I will tell you something—if you ever do time, you will appreciate a roommate giving you warning before slapping it.”
“Okay, but we’re not in prison, and besides—”
“Quiet. We should keep listening, maybe in the throes of passion, she’ll yell out something important.”
The bed started to thump against the wall and soon there was a building moan.
“Here we go,” Danny said. “Bishop to queen four.”
Just when it sounded as if the act was complete, there were three quick yelps. It wasn’t clear if it was the man or the woman who’d made them.
“Someone finished the job right,” Danny said.
“Now what?”
“Either he pays her and she leaves, or they try again in half an hour.”
Soon they could hear murmuring, and a few louder sounds. Shortly after that the man and woman came out of their room—the man walking out ahead, the woman following a few strides back.
“And here comes the happy couple,” Danny said.
“They’re going to make the pickup?”
“You think he’d bring a hooker to the pickup?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t get me wrong—I’ve got nothing but deep respect for the professional lady, but you do not bring her to a drug deal.”
“Why is he barefoot?”
“That—I do not know.”
“It’s forty-five degrees. He’s walking around barefoot.”
The man sat down near the car, and Danny adjusted his binoculars.
“Now what is that? Why did he just sit down on the asphalt?” Marcus asked.
“Oh, no. Come on.”
“What?”
“Oh, just fuck me. Fuck me with a walrus.”
“What is it? What do you see?”
“She’s got a gun.”
“She does?”
“Look in her left hand.”
“That’s a gun?”
“Yeah.”
“So. She’s jacking him?”
“It looks that way.”
“First she bangs him, then she robs him?”
“You don’t know girls like that?”
“Does she even know who he is?”
“It would appear that she does.”
“Does she know he hasn’t made the pickup yet?”
“It would appear that she doesn’t.”
The woman seemed to be checking the inside of the car. They watched her search. The nose of a small handgun occasionally peeked out from under her sleeve. Marcus had been promised no guns, and now here was a gun.
“She’s a girl—okay,” Danny said.
“I see that.”
“What I mean is—if you hit her from behind, she’s not going to hold on to the gun.”
“I’ve never hit a woman.”
“No, of course not. You’re a gentleman.”
“I’m only saying that—”
“You think I go around slapping women? That’s what I do?”
“I don’t know. You’ve got a history.”
“Of caresses. What is on record is that I touched a lady in an affectionate way. Are you seriously telling me that you won’t grab a woman who’s holding a gun?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“And it may not even come to that. We’ll see.”
The man and the woman went back into their room. Danny and Marcus pressed their ears up against the wall, but again the man and woman didn’t speak loudly. Sometimes Danny almost felt like he could understand what they were saying, but the next moment it sounded like they were speaking a foreign language, tense but not ugly, like an argument between adults who respected each other. Soon enough, they went back out to the car, and the man started trying to remove the tracker.
“They see it,” Marcus said.
“Yup.”
“So that’s it? We’re done?”
“Not necessarily. We just have to keep them in sight.”
“You think there’s any way they’re still going to try to make the pickup?”
“If they’re greedy enough, sure. They’ll try to shake us and give it a shot. That’s what I’d do.”
“I don’t know if I’m that greedy.”
“I think you have to be. We just have to follow them the old-fashioned way.”
“That’s going to be hard.”
“Gee, you really think?”
“I don’t like the way you’ve been talking to me.”
Danny’s hard edge of sarcasm had come on suddenly.
“A lot of times when you want to make a few hundred thousand dollars you have to put in an honest day’s work.”
“They know we’re following them and the girl has a gun.”
“Obstacles, yes. But we’re still going to do this.”
It looked like the man had given up on removing the tracker. Soon after he and the woman started scanning the lot, clearly worried that someone was watching. Well, guess what, you’re right.
“They’re scared,” Marcus said.
“They’ll make mistakes.”
“I want a bigger share.”
“Dog, that’s all been settled.”
�
��No, now there’s a girl with a gun, looking around like she wants to shoot someone. You want me to jump her. I should get more money.”
“I thought we were friends,” Danny said.
“I want half.”
“You can’t have half—Luis gets half.”
“I want half of what’s left.”
“Fifty percent of fifty percent—that’s twenty-five percent.”
“Then that’s what I want.”
Danny looked at the bigger man. This was no time to fight. If necessary, he could figure something out later.
“You said it would be easy. You lied to me.”
The man and the woman went back into the room.
“What now? Don’t they know it’s time to run?” Danny said. “Unless they really need to make just a little more love.”
Danny pressed his ear to the wall. The man and woman were talking again. He even thought he heard the words Your People. After about two minutes, they came out of the room and took off at a quick walk, out of the parking lot and to the shoulder of the road that led back toward the town.
“Give it a minute, then you follow in the car and I’ll follow on foot,” Danny said. “Keep your phone on, okay?”
“Where are they going?”
“Probably to her car.”
Danny started to fill his water bottle with soap and tap water.
“What are you doing?”
“We’ll need the tracker too. Get the car, count to a hundred, and then drive past them. Don’t slow or look at them.”
“Don’t look at them?”
“Well, see them, but don’t act like you are checking them out. Park when you get closer to Main Street. Keep your eyes open and we’ll figure things from there.”
Danny shook the bottle until he had bubble mixture. Marcus probably didn’t have enough money to get home on his own. If he bailed, he’d have to hitchhike back to Saida and return even more broke than he’d been.
They walked out to the parking lot and Danny tossed soapy water on the tracker then hacked it off with a screwdriver. Marcus got behind the wheel of the car and started the engine. Danny ran over, waved his arms, and mimed rolling down the window.
“Okay, first of all, you did not count to a hundred,” he said.
“Yes, I did.”
“Then you count really fast. More important, you take this.”
Danny handed Marcus the tracker—it was still a little wet.
“What do I do with it?”
“Look for out of state plates—back east probably, most likely more New York plates.”
“And I just slap it on a car with New York plates?”
“Call me if you find a car like that and we’ll talk it out.”
“Okay. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to follow on foot. If I see them get in a car, I’ll call you.”
“Okay. Should I go yet?”
“97, 98, 99, 100. Okay, let’s go.”
CHAPTER 14
Inez had a little trouble with the front door key.
“Need a hand?” Duane asked.
“No, I can open a door.”
They walked up to the third floor, and Inez opened to a small one-bedroom apartment. There were afghans on a bright red couch and bad fake antique lamps on plastic tables. It wasn’t her apartment. Maybe it was a sublet—there was no way this junk belonged to Inez.
“How long you been here?” Duane asked.
“A while.”
“You picked out all the furniture yourself?”
“Stop saying things,” she said and took off her jacket. Then she took off her shoes and socks, her shirt, and her jeans. She wasn’t a user, not even just for fun on a Saturday night. That was clear to see. Her skin was smooth, unmarked, and she smelled a little like an apple. They made love quickly, quietly, but with an edge of pain. Inez scratched up Duane’s back as if that were the point; then he pinned her arms down. She broke free and scratched him up one more time.
He was already looking forward to trying again, but he also needed to figure out exactly what was going on. He had plenty of the handsome man’s vanity, but he also realized that it was possible for a woman to sleep with him for reasons other than her uncontrollable lust.
“How come you don’t have tattoos?” she asked.
“Why would I want a tattoo?”
“Afraid of a needle?”
“I’m not afraid of a needle.”
“You don’t like Art?”
“Not even a little.”
“See, I need a man who’s more cultured.”
“Like Tony?”
“Why you even want to say his name? I find that sinister.”
Tony had tattoos on his arms and neck, and they were starting to fade. Duane thought tattoos were stupid. You see some old guy who got a fire-breathing dragon the day before he dropped onto the Mekong Delta, and now it looked like a bad magic marker job. Top used to have a small flare of ink—a blade—that popped from under his collar. He’d had it removed.
Inez walked across the room. She glanced out the window then continued to the sink where she poured herself a glass of water.
“I see his car,” she said
“Who?”
“Who you think?”
“You see him?”
“No, just his car, parked in front of the building. He’s probably right by the front door. Unless someone let him in already.”
It was impossible to see the front door from the window without sticking your head all the way out. Duane had no problem leaving through windows, but that looked impossible in this case.
“Why is he doing this?” he asked.
“I don’t know. He hates you and he thinks I’m his girl. That shit’s been going on since, like, Socrates.”
“He doesn’t have a key to the place, does he?”
“You afraid of him?”
“Like I’d be afraid of a certain kind of cunning animal.”
“Like what kind of animal?”
“One of those mean, mid-sized ones with teeth? I don’t know—a badger or a wolverine. It’s better if you know where it is and what it might be thinking.”
“Okay so what do we do?”
Duane started to put on his clothes.
“You’re a smart girl. Any ideas?” he asked.
“We can order a pizza.”
“Okay?”
“What does he do—we order a pizza?”
“Can we order a pizza this time of night?”
“Angelo’s,” she said, gesturing to a pile of menus on the table. “So what does he do if a pizza comes to the door?”
“If he thought it was coming to us—”
“And he will. We’re the only ones still up.”
“Then he takes it and tries to deliver it to us. And he probably thinks he’s the smartest motherfucker in all of Newburgh. What do you think he does to the pizza boy?”
“You care?”
“It might matter.”
“If he’s smart, he gives him fifty dollars. If he’s stupid he shoots the kid in the head.”
“Tony can be a whole lot of stupid.”
“Either way,” Inez shrugged. “When he gets the pizza, then he comes up here. I just leave the door open and call from the bathroom—put it on the table.”
“No, better to get him on the way up. The stairs. Is there a good place to hide on the stairs?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t hide in staircases.”
Inez was working on the problem, but she didn’t seem too concerned about the result. Did she not get that Tony might want to hurt her too? Or did she have some plan of her own?
“Have you ever brought him here, to this apartment?” Duane asked. “Is he familiar with the building.”
“He’s familiar with it, like—he knows there are stairs and then a door you got to open before you come into my apartment.”
“You got anything to hit him with?”
“Don’t you got your
little baton?”
“Something bigger?”
“You went Derek Jeter on that guy’s knee back in the bar.”
“Derek Jeter? Is he still alive?”
Duane had found that the baton was a good weapon to carry around in the who-knows-what-can-happen world, but you could hit someone with it and not end the discussion. That wasn’t the worst thing in a bar fight, but it was a bad way to go when the other guy had a gun.
“I want something a little heavier,” he said.
Inez spread out her arms; she was still naked.
“Anything you see you can use. I got a frying pan, a toilet duck, some adobo.”
“What’s adobo?”
“You never cook a chicken for yourself?”
Duane lifted up the mattress.
“I need to take your bed apart,” he said.
“You’ll buy me a new one?”
“A better one.”
He kicked a solid metal slat out of the support and swung it.
“You think that’s better than your pipe?”
“Yes.”
“A gangster like you doesn’t have a gun?” she asked.
“I’m not a gangster.”
“Okay.”
“Why, you have a gun?” Duane asked.
“No.”
But her answer was odd. The cool customer just gave something away. Why? Was she showing off?
“Hold on—you’ve got a gun in here?” he asked.
“No.”
“Because that would make things a whole lot easier.”
“I don’t got a gun. Check the place. I already said you can use whatever you find. Just stay out my panty drawer.”
“Because that’s where you keep your gun?”
“No, that’s where I keep the panties. And you let a man play with your panties on his own, he starts to get weird.”
Trying to distract him with talk of panties—not going to work.
“Why do you have a gun?”
“I don’t.”
He believed there was a gun in the apartment, but it was probably better to do the job with blunt force. Guns were loud. She handed him the pizza menu.
“It’s your show,” she said.
He picked up the phone.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“On your pizza.”
“I’m not hungry, pendejo.”
“Half mushroom?”
Duane waited until she’d closed the door before dialing. They made him give his address and phone number before he could even start to order. Then there was some trouble with half mushroom. The menu offered half toppings, but the kid on the phone wouldn’t do it—late night rules.