“Package deal, I guess,” Jack said. “I’ll ask their supervisor.” He turned to the guy in the beige running suit. “Hey, Supervisor, these crackers a package deal or what?”
“Yeah,” the man said, chuckling. “We got the older one, and the younger came along for free.”
Coleman had wheeled closer, until he was only a few feet away from the Johnson brothers. “Somebody better tell me this ain’t no retard working in my operation.”
Beige Running Suit and Jack Washington made a big deal out of not looking at anything in particular. Finally Running Suit spoke. “Jack told me to hire ’em, said we need some more muscle, ’specially with the—”
“Mr. Dupree.” Clairol cut off the other man. “It’ll be all right. I’ll get Poon all cleaned up and we’ll be out of your hair in no time.” He looked nervously from his boss to his brother, standing at the bar with a towel pressed against his wounded hand.
Jack slapped the table, ignoring Clairol and speaking to his underling. “Shit, niggah, please. You smoking crack again? I never said nothing like that.”
Running Suit rolled his eyes and put his hands on his hips. “The hell you talking about, Jack? You told me—”
Coleman Dupree interrupted, his voice rising above that of his squabbling lieutenants. “I don’t give a flying fuck who hired what. Get rid of that drooling motherfucker.” He smiled and then wheeled back to where I was sitting. “Matter of fact, why don’t you clip him. Now. In front of Oswald here. Maybe that’ll soften him up a little before you go to work, Jack.”
Jack shrugged and made a face that carried all the concern of someone who’d just been told, “Okay, we’ll have turkey sandwiches instead of roast beef.”
Coleman’s woman wheeled him away. When they reached the door, he spun around and faced me again. “You’ve caused me a great deal of discomfort lately. I’m going to return the favor.”
Before I could say any thing, Jack “the Crack” Washington stood up and pointed to Poon Johnson. He spoke to Beige Running Suit. “Ice Forrest Gump for me, will ya? I’m saving my strength for Oswald here.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I decided three of the seven bullets in my mouse gun would go to Jack the Crack. The rest would be doled out on a first-come, first-serve basis.
Beige Running Suit made a move for Poon Johnson, a thin strip of wire dangling from one hand, two wooden dowels at either end. A garotte. Poon’s brother had other ideas. Beige Running Suit had taken maybe three steps when a pistol appeared in Clairol’s hand. He fired twice into the center of the man’s chest. The guy was dead before he hit the floor.
After that, things moved fast but seemed in slow motion. I brought my .32 up to bear on Jack Washington and slapped the trigger twice, as fast as I could. At the same instant, he shoved the table into my diaphragm, throwing my aim off, and drew a Glock, squeezing off two quick rounds at the Johnson brothers.
My first shot went wild, hitting a fire extinguisher across the room, which began to spew white foamy stuff everywhere.
My second shot hit the Korean in the crotch.
Jack fired three or four shots as he ran for cover, including one my way. I felt it whiz by my ear. The ponytail guy grabbed something out of his windbreaker that looked dangerously like a MAC-10, a nasty, street-sweeping pisser of a submachine gun. He swung it toward me and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He swore, and began to yank on knobs and levers.
I turned my attention to the bar. Jack Washington and Maroon Running Suit were at one end, the Johnson brothers at the other. Both parties were firing at each other, but to little effect. I ignored the squealing Korean and the swearing machine gun man, and steadied my arm on the upturned table. I aimed at the center of Washington’s torso, took a deep breath and carefully squeezed the trigger. My efforts were rewarded by a dead-solid, perfect graze on the shoulder of Maroon Running Suit. He swatted at his shoulder like it was a mosquito bite and stepped away from the cover of the bar for a moment. Someone from the Johnson end nailed him in the chest.
Jack Washington leapt over the bar at the same time as the guy with the machine gun got his piece working.
An angry hornet’s nest of nine-millimeters exploded as I ducked. Bullets flew everywhere as it became apparent that Machine Gun Man did not know much about that particular firearm. He sprayed the entire room, floor to ceiling. Glass and lights and breakable shit rained down, blanketing the whole place. Gloom descended as the fluorescents overhead broke, and the only illumination came from the exit lamps over the two doorways.
The gun jammed or the clip emptied and silence rang in the air. I thought about peeking from behind the upturned table where I was hiding. Someone moaned. From across the room I heard Jack Washington calling me. “Hey, Oswald.”
I didn’t reply.
“Hope you like fire. Because hell’s getting ready for your ass.”
I had the sensation of something flying over my head, and then there was a breaking sound. Flames spread out along the wall.
Molotov cocktails.
Washington was using the liquor behind the bar to make the bombs. He was nothing if not resourceful. Another bottle followed the first and I could feel the heat now. Still kneeling, I slid a chair toward the front door, pushing it hard enough to knock over several others. Washington fired two rounds at the movement and threw another whiskey grenade. I kept my head low and slithered the opposite way, toward the back entrance. Flames engulfed half the bar now. The plastic and carpeting started to melt, emitting a harsh, chemical smell.
The machine gun began working again, better controlled this time. It raked the upturned table where I’d been. A wasp stung the calf of my left leg. I peered through the forest of table and chair legs and saw I was even with the Johnson end of the bar. They were nowhere to be seen but still around because there were another half dozen shots fired from each end of the room.
I stuck my head up for a quick peek and was rewarded with a glimpse of thick smoke and dancing flames, punctuated by the occasional muzzle flash. The Korean was screaming again. I ducked as another bottle jetted over the bar toward the main stage. It broke at the back of the runway and spread flames into the area backstage.
I had just started to crawl toward the exit when Lucifer himself upchucked in the form of a blast from the dancers’ dressing area. The walls shook like there had been an earthquake. Sunlight streamed in as the roof on the front half of the club collapsed in a mass of flames. A gust of muggy air stoked the fires as the smoke threatened to overcome my lungs. With my last bit of energy I dashed for the back door.
I hit it on the run, with my shoulder, and mercifully it opened without a protest, dumping me in a heap on the dirty asphalt. I saw blue sky and took a breath of sweet, beautiful, clean air.
Then I passed out.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back where I had started the day, the rear seat of Clairol Johnson’s Lincoln. This time there wasn’t any duct tape around my arms and legs and only Clairol sat in the front seat. We were in the alley behind the inferno that used to be the strip center housing Roxy’s. My hand still clutched the tiny .32.
Fire engines blocked our access to Harry Hines. Cars and people from the Mexican flea market down the street stopped our alley escape. We sat and watched the firefighters battle the blaze. That nasty house fire smell lingered over everything.
My calf itched and I scratched it. Blood covered my hand. I started to ask Clairol for a rag but thought better of it. Instead I rolled up my jeans leg and examined the wound. The bullet had passed through the muscle part of the calf cleanly, more than a graze but not much more. No major damage. I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and bandaged the wound as best I could. I was getting sick of dodging bullets.
I’d been back in the world of consciousness for a couple of minutes now and Clairol still hadn’t said a word. I leaned forward and spoke to him. “Where’s Poon?”
He pointed to the blazing building. “In there. He took one in the throat, right at the e
nd.” Other than a slight tremor, his voice was blank, no emotion whatsoever at the death of his brother.
“Sorry.” What else was there to say. Poor Poon.
Clairol grunted and then was quiet. After a few moments he said, “We need to get out of here.” Another fire truck pulled up, followed by a police unit.
I agreed wholeheartedly and said, “Let’s head down the alley, see if we can ease around all the people.”
Clairol didn’t say anything. He stuck the key in the ignition and cranked it. And cranked it again. And one more time. He slumped his shoulders. “The car won’t start.”
“Yeah.” I nodded my head slowly. “I can see that. Gonna be a problem.”
“Uh-huh.” He removed the key and twirled the chain around one finger.
I sighed and tightened the makeshift bandage on my leg. “I guess we’re gonna have to walk.”
“Yep. You want your gun back?”
I said yeah and he handed me back my Browning. We both got out of the car. He went to the trunk and got another pistol out. “Lost my piece in there.” He stuck a .45 in his waistband. Together we headed down the alley, toward the flea market. I tried not to limp.
Hacking up God-knows-what out of my lungs, bleeding from the calf and lip, I entered the back of the mercado, Clairol following close behind. The place was a riot to the senses, a whirlwind of sights and smells and sounds: piñatas and brightly colored clothing hanging from the ceiling, chiles roasting, tamales cooking, people bargaining with one another in Spanish.
My head ached and I began to grow dizzy. From somewhere up ahead came the smell of baking bread. We turned a corner and found a panaderia, a Mexican bakery. I stumbled in and ordered a cup of coffee and a pan de huevo. The coffee was thick and syrupy, almost espresso. The sweet bread was sugared and chewy from the egg-based dough. The sugar and caffeine amped me up and my head started to feel something approaching normal.
Clairol finished his second sopaipilla and took another slug of Coca-Cola. He burped and said, “How the hell are we gonna get out of this mess?”
I choked on the last sip of coffee. “We? What’s this we shit? You gotta mouse in your pocket?”
“Well, I just figured that we’re sort of in this together and—”
“And nothing. If you hadn’t kidnapped me this morning, then none of this would have happened.” I stood up to leave.
“Sorry, Hank.” Clairol got up also, hovering around where I was trying to walk. “I didn’t know it was gonna be like that. I thought you’d tell ’em what they needed to know and everything would be cool.”
“Try not to think anymore.”
Clairol chewed on his lip for a moment. “B-b-but now they’re gonna be after me. I mean they’re coming after both of us now, after what just went down.”
“Welcome to my world.” I walked back out into the teaming mass of humanity. Clairol followed and together we threaded our way through the shoppers. I headed for the front door, without much of a plan. I wanted to get away from the flea market, get somewhere safe and regroup. I figured to call Nolan once I got outside. I’d see what kind of police presence there was, and get her to pick me up.
Two men wheeled a refrigerator out of a stall up ahead so we stopped. We were in front of a place selling roosters, the proprietor an old man with long, gray hair. He was petting his critters and making them squawk so I didn’t hear what Clairol said at first.
He tapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t you want to know, Hank? Huh?”
“Know what?” Foghorn Leghorn cock-a-doodle-doo’ed in my ear.
“Don’t you want to know what I know about Coleman Dupree?”
The thought had already crossed my mind that Clairol might have some useful information. Probably not, since he was at the bottom of the food chain, in more ways than one, but maybe. “Okay. Tell me what you know about Coleman Dupree. Where’s he stay? Where’s headquarters?”
Clairol’s beady eyes frowned and he looked from side to side. “Well, uh, I don’t know that but—”
“Okay, let’s try this one. What about Jack Washington? Where does he work out of?”
“I don’t know that either. See, the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on him was this morning. Don’t matter, he’s dead.”
“He’s dead when I can see his body. Otherwise, don’t count your bales of hay until they’re in the barn.”
The blockage in the aisle cleared and we continued on our way. “Well, I know where Marvin worked,” Clairol said.
“Who’s Marvin?”
“He’s the guy that hired me.”
Marvin was also the name of the maintenance man for Aaron Young’s company, though I didn’t mention that to Clairol. I don’t like coincidences. We paused our conversation again as we made our way past the electronics stall. Boom boxes blared a wall of conjunto music, the accordions that I normally liked grating on my nerves now. When the noise died down, I spoke again. “So Marvin would be the guy that you shot first back there?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Where’d he hang out?”
“This Denny’s on … the expressway?”
“That’s narrowing it down. What expressway?”
Clairol stuck a stubby index finger in his ear and twisted, either scratching something or tweaking the linear amp in his brain. “The north expressway in … Richardson.” He smiled, evidently proud of himself for remembering.
I figured it out, and it made sense. North Central Expressway in Richardson, which lay on the northwest side, was a gateway into the white-flight suburbs of Plano, Allen, and McKinney. They were separate municipalities, with the small-town values and the schools everybody liked. That’s code talking for not a lot of people of color living nearby. That’s also a lot of kids with affluent parents. New market share.
I decided to get back to the coincidence. “Ever hear of a guy named Aaron Young?”
Clairol stopped to let a herd of small children sweep by, two tired-looking parents following, loaded down with shopping bags. He spoke out of the side of his mouth. “The real estate guy.”
I nodded. The last of the people moved from the aisle and I started walking again.
“We weren’t supposed to sell on blocks where he had property.”
“Why was that?”
Clairol stepped around a dropped pile of cotton candy. He told me. I tried to process the information but my head hurt and another pile of coal-miner phlegm sputtered out of my mouth.
We’d made it to the front door. The outside was a bigger party than the inside; mariachi bands, more food vendors, and carnival rides dotted the parking lot. A black cloud plumed from the remains of the strip center to our left. Fire engines and police units had blocked Harry Hines completely, making a quick exit difficult if not impossible, even if we had a working car.
We slinked along the outside wall of the place, skirting the edges of the parking lot. Clairol was talking again. “See, Hank, we could go hang out at the Denny’s and when one of Coleman’s guys comes in, we could snatch him. Then we could make him tell us where the headquarters is. Then we could go and hit the pla—”
“That’s not a good idea, Clairol.”
“Huh. Why not?”
I stopped walking and felt the swollen part of my lip again. “First of all, they’re going to have people watching for us. They know what we look like. Second, I’ve got something they want. The smart thing to do is to give it to them.”
A police cruiser made its way through the crowd, windows down and the two uniforms scanning the herd of people. We turned our backs and examined a stall of Mexican statuary. I hoped they were just looking, not for us in particular.
“Well, we could wait to hear when they’re going to do this park thing,” Clairol said. “Washington’s supposed to be taking care of that himself.”
“What park thing?”
“I dunno, I heard Marvin talking about it a couple of days ago. Jack was going to take care of this thing in this park.”
&n
bsp; “What ‘thing’? He supposed to kill somebody?”
“Uh-uh,” Clairol said. “Wasn’t a clip job. He didn’t say. It was this problem he was gonna have to do in the park. Marvin saw me and Poon standing there so he shut up.”
“Where?”
Clairol did the thing with his finger in the ear again. He switched to the other side but to no avail. “I dunno. Some park. The problem in the park.”
“Keep thinking, maybe it’ll come to you.” We watched another fire truck race up Harry Hines. I tried Nolan’s cell phone. No answer. “While you’re studying on that, Clairol, be working on a way for us to get out of here.”
“No problem.” He smiled like the slow kid at a spelling bee whose first word was dog and disappeared into the crowd. I started to stop him but didn’t. I guess I was hoping he wouldn’t come back. I thought I would make my way to Harry Hines and head south, try to reach Nolan again, or Delmar and Olson.
Clairol came back.
In an early 1980s Chevy pickup, with a Mexican flag hanging in the back. He rolled down the window and said, “Hop in.”
“Not a chance.” I rubbed my eyes and shook my head, tired to the core all of a sudden. From somewhere deep down, a cough leapt out of my lungs and I spit up something black and carcinogenic-looking. My calf started to ache where the bullet had passed through. “What the hell.” I jumped in the passenger seat. The inside of the truck was immaculate, spotless serape seat covers and a carpeted dashboard. A plastic Virgin Mary overlooked everything.
Clairol headed south through the parking lot, jumped the curb at the end, and got to the street from the parking lot of a nightclub called El Conquistador. We managed to miss the owner of the truck, as well as any law enforcement. At my request, he stopped two streets from my house. I opened the door and put one foot on the pavement.
“How’d you know where to find me?” The question was valid. My number was unlisted. The house was registered to a corporation and all the bills came to a post office box.
“Marvin, he had me doing some collection work a couple of blocks over. Saw you turning down this street.”
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