Quiver

by Peter Leonard

  “You think I’d be here if I was married?” He sipped his beer. “After you, I never met the right person.”

  “Be patient. You will.” She looked down at her untouched piece of tuna. “Want some of this? I’m not hungry.”

  He shook his head.

  Kate sipped her tea and said, “What do you do?”

  “You mean do I have a real job? Yeah. I sell real estate,” Jack said. “Looking for an investment opportunity?”

  He was angry, giving it back to her.

  “I’ve got a manufactured home development-Eldorado Estates. The pro forma offers a guaranteed six percent per year, with an opportunity to realize nine or ten percent. You buy into the LLC and split the profits with investors and the holding company. With the stock market sputtering, real estate is a viable alternative.”

  He sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

  “Ever heard of Sun Communities?”

  Kate shook her head.

  “Or Equity Lifestyle Properties? That’s what we do.”

  Kate sipped her tea, eyes on him. Maybe she was wrong about him; maybe he’d cleaned up his act.

  “I’d take a look at it if I were you,” Jack said. “The upside is stratospheric.”

  Kate said, “I’ll put you in touch with Marty Smith when he gets back in town.” If it made sense to Marty, she might do it.

  Jack said, “Who’s Marty Smith?”

  Kate said, “Owen’s financial guy.”

  “When’s he coming back?’ Cause this deal isn’t going to be around for long.”

  “Next week,” Kate said. “He has a place in Bermuda.”

  “Too bad,” Jack said. “It closes Friday.”

  Kate said, “How much are we talking?”

  “Minimum investment-fifty grand.”

  He sounded convincing, but hadn’t he always? “Let me think about it,” Kate said.

  The bill came and Jack picked it up and studied it.

  Kate said, “Do you want to split it?”

  “I’ve got it,” Jack said. “I think I can afford thirty-three bucks.”

  He left money on the table and they walked back into the mall.

  Kate said, “It was good to see you. I’m glad things are going so well.”

  Jack said, “Can I take you out to dinner?”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Kate said. “There’s too much going on.”

  He kissed her on the cheek and said, “Think about it, will you?”

  She left him standing there and headed down the mall concourse toward Saks.

  He was thinking about what lunch cost. Thirty-three dollars for a plate of chink food, a beer, tea and a piece of raw fish she didn’t even touch. He was getting low on cash now, down to about forty dollars, and he had to fill up his sister’s car with gas that cost almost three bucks a gallon.

  He heard a voice with a twangy southern accent say, “Dude, you never call, never write.”

  Jack turned and saw Teddy sitting on a bench outside the entrance to J. Crew: a tradesman in Levi’s, construction boots and a flannel shirt with food stains on it. Teddy Hicks, an ice cream cone in his hand-looked like strawberry-checking out the teen shoppers. His sister’d said a redneck with a mullet stopped by the house looking for him, and he only knew one guy that fit that description.

  Teddy said, “Still got a way with the ladies, don’t you? Who’s that little number you was having lunch with? I wouldn’t mind some of that, I’ll tell you.” Teddy flicked his tongue out like a lizard with a mullet, licking the ice cream, keeping his eyes on Jack. “No possibility of parole, and surprise, you’re out twenty-two months early. Just missed you in Tucson.”

  “That’s too bad,” Jack said. “We could’ve had dinner, talked about old times.”

  “What’s too bad is how long we’ve been waiting for our money.” Teddy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “I don’t have it.” Jack moved past him now, heading down the concourse.

  “What do you mean, you don’t have it?”

  Teddy was right behind him.

  “I hid it in the motel room ceiling,” Jack said. “Adobe Flats, it was called.”

  “And you’re telling me you didn’t go back and get it?”

  Strawberry ice cream was running down the side of the cone into a napkin that was wrapped around the base.

  Jack said, “It’s gone.”

  “Maybe you got the streets wrong.”

  “Campbell and Hacienda,” Jack said. “It’s a strip mall now. Got a Starbucks, a Carl’s Jr., and a few new restaurants that cater to upscale professionals like yourself.”

  “Huh?”

  “Stop by next time you’re out there.”

  They were walking by Johnston amp; Murphy, Jack checking out the expensive executive shoes on display, fancy ones with laces, in shades of brown and shiny black, and loafers with thin soles that looked like slippers. Teddy finished the cone, licked his fingers and dropped the napkin on the tile floor.

  “I know you’re a stand-up guy,” Teddy said. “Didn’t rat out your buds, didn’t complain, did your time like a man. But it doesn’t change nothing, you still owe us our money. Now you don’t have it, we’ve got a problem.”

  “I just did thirty-eight months trying to stay alive and keep my butt from getting augured while you’re out fucking around, having a good time, and you think I owe you, huh? What parallel fucking universe did you just step out of?”

  Teddy grinned. “That’s pretty good. You make that up yourself?”

  Jack pushed through the door, Teddy following and now they were outside. Wind whipped across the parking lot, blowing Jack’s hair back.

  “You made a bad decision,” Teddy said. “You lost our money, now you’ve got to pay it back.”

  Jack could feel the anger rising in him, coming up from his stomach, through his chest into his head, ready to blow.

  “Don’t get all mad,” Teddy said. “Let’s get back together and get back what you lost and a lot more.”

  “Not interested,” Jack said.

  “Sure you are. Just don’t know it yet.”

  Teddy went back in the mall and got another ice cream cone, chocolate this time. He was sitting on his bench checking people out when Celeste walked up.

  “Whoever she is, she’s rich,” Celeste said. “Lives in a mansion like movie stars do.”

  Teddy said, “Seen anyone around?”

  “No,” Celeste said.

  “Get a name, at least?”

  Celeste handed Teddy a stack of envelopes. He took them in his lap, dripping ice cream on the top one.

  Teddy said, “What the hell’s this?”

  Celeste said, “What do you think it is?” She sat down next to him.

  He looked confused.

  Teddy said, “What’re you giving it to me for?”

  “Take a look.”

  He glanced at the envelope from Consumer’s Energy, read the name Owen McCall, 95 °Cranbrook Road, Bloomfield Hills, MI 48034. Owen McCall, the NASCAR guy? Had to be. Teddy was well acquainted with him. But Teddy’d swear the man had died. Remembered hearing it on the news, thinking that asshole got what he deserved. He looked up at Celeste who was standing next to him. “Who’s the girl?”

  Celeste said, “I’d say she’s his wife.” She gave him her smart-ass, know-it-all look.

  Teddy said, “What’s Jack doing with her?”

  “That’s the big mystery,” Celeste said, “isn’t it?”

  “Well, he’s on to something,” Teddy said.

  “What’d he say about the money?”

  “Doesn’t have it.”

  “What I tell you?”

  Teddy didn’t care for her tone but let it go. He slurped some ice cream, thinking,’ course Jack wasn’t interested in them. He’d got his own plan.

  TEN

  They were sitting in Shelly’s Jag in the church parking lot off Cranbrook near Lone Pine. Shelly turned sideways,
leaning back against the door. She looked fine, DeJuan feeling a tingling in his manhood, thinking he’d like to get naughty with the bishop’s wife, show her some moves she ain’t seen before.

  He imagined Shelly, cool, talking to the police, saying, “Marty had demons he couldn’t control.” Trying to explain why he’d taken his life. He bet she was a fine little actress.

  It had been a couple weeks since Marty’s funeral, DeJuan giving her time to get her act together. But now he wanted his money.

  “First, my condolences,” DeJuan said. “Sorry for your loss.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Shelly said. Bitch in her tone.

  “Your beloved life partner, Marty.”

  “You said you were going to make it look like an accident.”

  “No. You said that.” He remembered exactly what he said, could recite the whole conversation ver-fuckin-batim.

  She crossed her legs, DeJuan staring at her thighs in tight jeans, the jeans tucked into black boots.

  “Let me ask you something,” DeJuan said. “Did it work out or didn’t it?”

  “Why’d you write that dumb letter? You could’ve blown the whole thing.”

  Was she trying to get him to reduce his fee, or just fucking with him? He looked right at her and said, “Man like Marty take his life, he better have a reason, or the police going to get curious, start asking questions. They come over, interrogate you?”

  “No,” Shelly said.

  “That’s ’cause I took the time, wrote the dumb letter. It’s all in the details.”

  She reached in her purse, took out an envelope, number ten-style, filled with money and handed it to him.

  DeJuan said, “I don’t have to count it, do I?”

  “That’s up to you,” Shelly said. “It’s the balance of the job, what we agreed to. Ten grand.”

  “The fuck you talking about?”

  She broke into a grin now. “I got you.”

  “Yes, you did.” He liked that. Bishop’s widow fucking with him, showing a wicked sense of humor.

  “You should’ve seen your face,” Shelly said.

  DeJuan looked at the money.

  “It’s all there,” she said. “Fifteen thousand.”

  “Satisfaction guaranteed,” DeJuan said, “or your money back. That’s my motto.”

  “More people should adopt that attitude,” Shelly said. “Stand behind their work like you do.”

  He slid the envelope in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “Got any other odd jobs you need done?” He reached over and squeezed her leg, felt her ankle through the butter-soft leather boot.

  “I’ll keep you in mind,” Shelly said.

  DeJuan was feeling good the way things had worked out, wanted to go downtown to the MGM, play some roulette. Only problem, Teddy was coming over with news about Jack. Jack, who was supposed to be in Arizona doing time. Jack, who had their money-$257,000 they were going to split three ways. Now maybe hoping it was all his and thinking he deserved it after doing three years and change, his sentence cut short for some unknown reason.

  He thought about Marty on the way back to his crib. Pictured him, man walking in the house shit-faced that night. Plan was to have Marty’s favorite dish, spaghetti Bolognese, ready to heat up. Like Shelly, the loving wife, bought it for him before she left town. DeJuan picked up a carryout at Andiamo’s.

  He heard the refrigerator open and close, heard Marty put something in the microwave, and heard the ding when it was finished. Marty at the kitchen table eating spaghetti, washing it down with Grey Goose on the rocks-new Eye-talian combo.

  DeJuan walked in the kitchen, Marty look at him, eyes little slits, said, “Wha you doing?”

  Man was rocked, swaying in his chair.

  DeJuan said, “Been a change in plans.”

  “Wha you mean?”

  His head bobbed forward, chin on his chest. Ten sleeping pills crushed up in the spaghetti, mixing with the booze and the dude was starting to nod off.

  What gave DeJuan the suicide idea was seeing the prescription container of sleeping pills in Marty’s medicine cabinet. Man was already taking them. There was a precedent.

  Marty was fading fast.

  “Shelly outbid you for my services.”

  “Wha…”

  “Shelly want to get rid of you more than you want to get rid of her.”

  Marty was moaning now. DeJuan got him up out of the chair, wrapped his arms around the dude’s chest, slid around and tried to get under him, Marty collapsing on him now. DeJuan tried to lift with his legs, but this motherfucker was a load. He heaved, got him off the ground over his shoulder, took a couple of steps, crashed into the Sub-Zero, but didn’t drop him. DeJuan, 175 pounds, toting this five-foot-seven Mormon butterball, had to be two hundred if he was a pound, carried him out to the garage.

  He put Marty down on the hood of the Benz, breathing hard, heart pumping. He opened the driver’s door, went back, got under Marty, picked him up, dropped him in behind the wheel, straightened him up, and slid the seat belt around his waist and buckled it. Marty’s eyes popped open for an instant like he coming around and it freaked DeJuan, unexpected as it was.

  “Going on a trip, my man,” DeJuan said. “Relax, enjoy the ride.” He reached over, put the key in and started the Benz. Marty, DeJuan figured, was halfway to the promised land, let carbon monoxide take him the rest of the way.

  Back in the kitchen, DeJuan wondered about a suicide note. Man offs his self-he going to say why-tell his story. But why’s a dude worth all that money going to do it? DeJuan thinking, he could be depressed. Yeah? Depressed about what? — money being the ultimate depression buster.

  He decided it had to have something to do with being a Mormon. Did something he couldn’t live with. Like what? He’d have to do some investigating. He sat at Marty’s laptop, went to the Church of the Latter-Day Saints Web site, got an idea.

  You were a Mormon, worst thing you could do was murder. And right after that, running a close second, was fornication. DeJuan couldn’t believe that one. Dude gets his self some trim, that’s a sin? What was that about? DeJuan wondering how long he’d make it as a Mormon. Five, ten minutes before they excommunicate his black African-American ass.

  He typed out a suicide note, printed it and read it. Sounded pretty good, thinking, he nailed it.

  Brethren:

  I feel myself sliding into the abyss, so heinous are my sins.

  I do not believe Jesus can forgive me for what I’ve done: smoking marijuana and fornicating with young women.

  I’ve betrayed my wife. I’ve betrayed my congregation.

  And most of all, I’ve betrayed my Lord and Savior.

  I can no longer live with myself.

  May God forgive me.

  DeJuan liked starting it with the word brethren. Like Marty writing it to all the Mormon brothers, the whole congregation. He also liked the words abyss and heinous and sins of fornication — man, like they right out the Book of Mormon. Only thing looked strange, he didn’t have the man’s signature. He found it in Marty’s transfer folder, Marty in fancy script, saved in different sizes. Picked one and dropped it on the bottom of the letter. Right fucking there. Perfecto.

  Teddy was waiting out front in the muscle car when he got back to his crib. Had a two-bedroom townhouse in Royal Oak. Walking distance to bars and restaurants. No gangbangers. No drive-bys. Nice easygoing ’hood.

  Teddy came in with a six-pack-dude drank more beer than anyone he’d ever seen-and his girlfriend Celeste who didn’t seem to go with him. Teddy with his Canadian haircut and BO and this nice piece of trim.

  Teddy telling him about Jack and the rich lady-woman inherit her husband’s NASCAR fortune and seeing opportunity for all concerned. Teddy said the man’s name was Owen McCall. He finished his beer and popped another one, green longneck bottles of Rolling Rock.

  DeJuan Googled Owen McCall and found out he’d built a NASCAR empire and had a fortune estimated at thirty mill
ion when he’d died in a bizarre hunting accident. Killed by the sixteen-year-old son. DeJuan decided that maybe there was something to what Teddy was telling him. He looked over at Celeste. She seemed bored, sitting on the couch staring out the window, not really paying attention to what they were talking about. Or was she? He wondered what she saw in Teddy, this fine-looking girl with the creamy white skin. He said, “Yo, Celeste, what do you think?”

  She turned and looked at him. “I’d fish where the fish are.”

  Teddy said, “What the hell you been smoking?”

  DeJuan thought about what she was saying. Get money where the money’s at. Uh-huh. Her brain a couple car lengths ahead of Teddy’s and pulling away fast. Fish where the fish are at-going after Jack’s rich lady. One thing was clear: if it was going to happen, DeJuan was going to have to do it. Teddy left him the rich lady’s address: 95 °Cranbrook Road, Bloomfield Hills. That was some high-class living. Now, how was he going to go to Bloomfield Hills, do what he had to do and not stand out, not get noticed?

  They got back in the Camaro and Teddy said, “What’d you think of him?”

  “First black person I ever met in my life,” Celeste said. “And I liked him.” She was thinking about what her dad, Bob Byrnes, would’ve said if he’d seen her. He’d have said something like, “Don’t tell me you were in a jig’s house, setting on a jig’s couch. That the way you was brought up?”

  No. She’d been brought up to hate everyone who didn’t have a hundred percent pure Aryan blood, which, as Celeste discovered, was a whole lot of people. It didn’t make a lot of sense to her then and even less now.

  She told Teddy her dad used to take the family to Haden Lake, Idaho, every summer to Richard Butler’s Aryan Compound. Her dad said it was the international headquarters of the white race, and we Aryans are the biblical “chosen people.”

  Teddy said, “Chosen for what?”

  “To lead the less fortunate.”

  “Lead ’em where?”

  “It’s a figure of speech,” Celeste said.

  “Oh,” Teddy said.

  Like he knew what a figure of speech was.

  Teddy stopped for a red light at Nine Mile. She could hear the throaty rumble of the high-performance engine as he tweaked the accelerator with the toe of his boot.