by Alan Lee
That left Kevin. And the other guy with a gun. Aimed at me.
Suddenly Manny was there. He used his pistol to hit the third guy in the back of the skull, a savage blow. Like breaking a melon. The guy dropped.
Three men down.
Manny pointed the gun at Kevin.
“No,” I said. “Manny, don’t point that at him.”
Kevin was pale and breathing heavy. His hands were in the air.
Shorty was groaning and holding his wrist.
“We’re good, Manny,” I said. “We’re good.”
Manny walked to the kid I’d shoved to the ground. The kid still had the gun in his hand. Manny put one boot on the gun and with the other boot he kicked the kid in the face. Busted his lip. Kicked again. And again.
“You don’t come here with guns,” Manny said, and he had a scary cold hissing note to his voice. “You never bring guns to a man’s house. You comprende that?”
“Kevin, go home,” I said. “Okay? Go home.”
Kevin’s hands were still up and he couldn’t move. Kevin’s life was much more real and harsh than it had been an hour ago. A further loss of innocence. Maybe it was good he learned now.
Manny quit kicking and took away the kid’s pistol, the kid on the ground with a bloody face.
I collected Shorty’s gun. And the gun on the grass, next to the kid with a busted skull.
“Shit,” Kevin whimpered.
Manny inserted the barrel of his Glock 22 into Shorty’s mouth. Shorty cried and twisted, but Manny held him still.
“Manny,” I said. “They’re kids. Ease up.”
Manny’s face was close to Shorty’s, and he was sweating. On the verge of madness. “You’re a tough guy,” Manny said. He moved the pistol around inside Shorty’s mouth and Shorty was crying. “But not really. You’re a little boy, playing with grown men. I’ve seen Mackenzie break a man’s teeth. For fun. You get that?”
A car was speeding down the street. Kevin looked torn. He wanted to run but couldn’t.
With his other hand, Manny cocked the revolver, which was the pistol taken from the kid. He pressed the revolver into Shorty’s groin.
“Pow,” he said, and Shorty spasmed in fear. “You come here again and I’ll shoot your dick off. Comprende? Done it before, and I’ll do it again.”
The car was a Lexus. An LS, the big one. It squealed to a stop, the front tire on my sidewalk.
Marcus Morgan got out and left it running. “Whoa, whoa! Everyone relax. Be cool. Kevin! Get into my car. Right now, Kevin.”
He had a good voice, full of iron and anger. Kevin didn’t hesitate. He almost ran to the car.
Marcus came into the yard and said, “Shit. What happened?”
“The boys were playing with guns,” I said. “Couldn’t wait for you.”
Manny stood up. He had a gun in each fist. I did too. Marcus eyed us warily. “You two did this?”
Manny was still angry. Big breaths coming through his nostrils. “The fuck are you?”
“Manny, this is Marcus Morgan. Marcus called to warn about the boys and their toys. Marcus, this is my good friend Manuel. I think we can all calm down now.”
“How the hell did you do this? Four boys with guns? You two don’t have a scratch.”
“They’re kids,” I said. “We’re not.”
“You’ve done it before?”
“We have,” I said.
Marcus walked to all three boys and told them to get in the car, like a father scolding little kids. They obeyed, slowly and in various states of pain.
“Kid with the busted-up mouth, I don’t even know that one,” Marcus said. Then he hollered at them, “You get blood on my car, I’ll kill you.”
“You know the other three?” I asked.
“And their mothers. This will be a long night for those motherfuckers. You see, Mr. August? It takes a village.”
“And sometimes an ass kicking.”
“Or sometimes ten. I appreciate you not phoning the police. That’d only make it worse. Boys pretending to be something they’re not,” Marcus said. “You guys sure you’re okay?”
“Positive. Need another beer, though. Calm the nerves.”
“If you want, I’ll deliver the pistols to the police station,” he said.
“Nah,” Manny said. “I’ll handle it.”
“Are you a police officer?”
“Something like that. Time for you to go, hombre, because I’m still a little jumpy.”
“Sure. Yeah, sure. I get that. Damn, what a mess.”
“Tell Jeriah thanks,” I said.
“I will. Definitely. Thanks again, gentlemen. I hope the rest of your night is peaceful.”
The Lexus LS dropped into drive and motored down the street. We could hear Marcus yelling within.
“Those assholes don’t know the rules,” Manny said. “Never make it personal. You don’t go to a man’s home.”
“Technically, Manny, I think you’re homeless.”
“Qué? No, señor, this is my home too.”
“Mi casa es su casa?” I asked.
“Sí.”
“Then you should pay rent, hombre,” I said.
“Don’t I pay rent? I should.”
“You should.”
“Maybe I will,” he said.
“And maybe sleep in your own room?”
“Don’t be silly, estúpido. I like the floor.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
I hadn’t seen Eddie Backpack in days. I stood in the hallway and scrutinized the flood but he simply wasn’t there. Chances were, he’d gotten spooked. Told Big Will that teachers got suspicious, and transferred to a different school and now Big Will arranged other suppliers to infiltrate Patrick Henry. That was my guess.
My two leads now were Trevor and Big Will.
And Kevin, but he’d skipped school today. I didn’t blame him. That would have been awkward.
My cover was most likely blown. Kevin and the gang of four would relate the story to others, and more rumors would start, and blah blah.
Mackenzie August, major league screwup.
* * *
That night Dad and I ate steak and salad, and Kix worked on small pieces of pear and a bottle. Dad had Frank Sinatra playing from the Bose stereo on the counter.
“Manny told me about last night,” he said. “I didn’t even notice the fracas, so immersed I was in a book.”
“Which book?”
“Just Mercy. Really eye-opening. I think I may be a bit of a racist. But I’m working on it.”
“Lecherous, Timothy, the word is lecherous.”
He wiped his mouth with a napkin and sat back. “Here’s what I want to know. And I’m only curious because Manny is curious.”
“Okay.”
“The boy, Kevin,” Timothy August said. “From last night. Manny said you were worried only about him. Go home, Kevin. Don’t shoot Kevin. Stuff like that.”
“I am merciful and fearsome and mysterious.”
“Is Kevin black?”
“Yes,” I said. “They all were.”
“Is he younger than the others?”
“A little.”
“So is that why?” he asked.
“No. Kevin’s in my class. I got a soft spot for him.”
“Would you have a soft spot for the others? If they were your students?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Good question. But they’re not my students, and I have no relationship with them. Ergo, keep Kevin alive.”
“How is your investigation going, otherwise?”
“I’ve developed leads. I think my time might be up soon at Patrick Henry, and I’ll pass along what I got.”
“You’ve only been there a month,” he said.
“But they caught on quick. Lots of rumors circulating about me, and not the good kind like how great my chicken cacciatore is.”
“How did they guess your true occupation?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Suspicious, though,
isn’t it? Like someone was working against us.”
“Perhaps the assistant principal, the women you said made veiled threats.”
“She’s sometimes shrewish, but I doubt it. An administrator’s life is hard enough as it is, and I’m not doing a bad job. But. Possibly her.”
“You realize, son, that even if you are successful in your mission you won’t stop the drugs. Nor even make a dent in them,” he said.
“I know this. Teacher across the hall agrees with you.”
“Then why do it?”
“It’s never been about the drugs,” I said.
“I don’t understand.”
“See? Mysterious and fearsome.”
“Explain?” he asked.
“It’s about teenage girls being hurt. And it’s about a guy.”
“Ah yes, a guy, the General.”
“We can’t eliminate all vices. We can’t remove all temptations. Can’t solve all problems. But perhaps we can do something about the worst of the worst. And I think this guy’s it. Sheriff Stackhouse believes so.”
“The pictures of the girls put you over the edge, I believe,” he said.
“Probably. And…”
“And?”
“This is our city. Not his,” I said. “It’s a good place. And he’s messing it up.”
“You are as noble hearted as ever.”
“And fearsome.”
“My questions have all been answered. Thank you for the explanation.”
“I am a faithful and obedient son,” I said.
“That you are.” He stood and washed his plate. “I’m going out for drinks. Back late.”
“With a woman?”
“Drinks with a woman, yes.”
“You are a faithful and wretched womanizer,” I said.
“Honor your parents. That’s in the Ten Commandments, right? Act like it.”
“Yes sir. Enjoy your adultery,” I said.
“I shall do my best.”
* * *
Manny came home a few minutes later. He read two books to Kix, who tolerated Manny more with each day, put the kid to bed, opened a beer and sat down on the couch.
I glanced at my watch.
“You staying here for the rest of the night?” I asked.
“Simon.”
“Simon?”
“Pronounced ‘seeMOAN.’ Means yup, en español.”
“I’m going out for a few. If someone tries to take Kix—”
“I’ll shoot’em in the ass,” Manny said.
“Simon.”
I took off my sneakers and put on topsiders and a sports jacket and tucked my Kimber .45 into my belt.
Bond. James Bond.
Looking for Will. Big Will.
I was unusually nervous as I approached and parked next to the Addisonian Social Club. It was, as the kids say, lit. Big Will’s truck was on the street. I sat in my car and watched the foot traffic until nine.
It would be hard to be a minority, I decided. For a lot of reasons, but also because fewer people looked like you. A simple but powerful factor. I became acutely aware of my whiteness as I noted eighteen of the twenty partiers plunging into the club weren’t white. We’re all racists, so said the Wall Street Journal, but I’d like to think I was less so than most and yet I still felt the tension of looking different.
I’m deeply profound.
I got out of my car, fastened the coat’s top button, and walked to the entrance.
The Addisonian was, above all things, a fun place to be. Colors flashed, music played, and partiers danced. The ceiling was high and the lights were low, and balloons drifted on strings at the walls. Looked like two birthdays being celebrated. The Addisonian didn’t have a traditional bar, but rather a communal kitchen stuffed with food and drink. Bring your own, I guessed, was the rule, to keep costs down.
There was not a bouncer, but two gentlemen near the door took on the role unofficially. I got an amused once-over.
“Damn man, you’re a big dude,” one guy shouted over the noise. He had on a gray t-shirt strained to the point of bursting with muscle. Khakis and work boots.
“Almost ten pounds at birth,” I noted with pride. “Thanks for noticing.”
“Who you here to see?”
“Just passing through,” I said. “Open party?”
“Yep. Better if you know someone here.”
“Reginald Willis told me about the place.”
“You know Reginald?” he asked.
“Sure. Love Reggie. Talks my ear off about how I need to shave more.”
Gray T-shirt’s glower cracked and he chuckled good-naturedly. “Yeah, sounds like Reggie. He ain’t here.”
“Still. I am footloose and fancy free.”
“Yeah, sure, man, up to you.”
I found a corner and surveyed the scene. Because I’m an investigator, and because I cannot dance. To my trained eye, one thing became apparent; the people at the Addisonian had more fun than I did on my couch, most nights. And the women dressed better than Manny, and displayed more cleavage.
Big Will wasn’t dancing either. He sat at a table with a red Solo cup and a collection of curvy woman and stout men. The men were overly serious and their dates talked at an overly loud decibel. I could watch and take notes and snap a few candid photographs with my camera for research later, like the intrepid detective I am. Much to my chagrin, though, Big Will was staring straight at me.
Drat. Thwarted. Should have worn a fake mustache.
Big Will spoke quietly to the man sitting to his left. That man rose and approached my corner.
He arrived and said, “Come with me.”
“My, what big teeth you have.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Lead on.”
I followed him to Big Will’s table. Another man got up and indicated I should “Spread ’em.” I did and he patted me down.
“Pistol in the back,” I said.
Big Will waved it away, and his man sat.
Regrettably there was no extra chair for me. He and his friends stared like I was a zoo animal. No one offered me theirs.
“Oh it’s awkward. One sec.”
I found a cushioned straight-back chair, brought it to Big Will, and sat next to him. Not at the table, but close enough.
“Ahh, that’s better. Now it’s not awkward,” I said.
Big Will still had the grizzly beard and shaved head, reminding me of James Harden, the NBA point guard. His biceps and thighs bulged like tree trunks. He picked up his cup and drank once.
“I’m not happy.” He had a soft, high-pitched way of speaking. I’m not sure what I expected, maybe a bawling sailor. “Not happy to see your ugly ass here. This is a good place.”
“You know me.”
“I do. What do you want.”
“I want Bryce Harper to play for the Nationals till he’s forty-five, for fifteen million a year.”
“The fuck?”
“It’ll never happen, I know, but we can dream.”
“You should not be here,” Big Will said.
“You just invited me.”
“Not to this table, motherfucker, to this place. This is a good place. No troubles.”
“I brought no troubles with me. I am affronted by the suggestion. I came to dance.”
“Look like a cop,” he said.
“I’m not a cop. I’m a teacher.”
“Big damn teacher. Packing heat,” he said.
“You look like James Harden, but I’m not giving you grief. If you are? I think you should pass more.”
“James Harden’s a punk,” he said. “Westbrook tear his ass up. Look. I don’t know what’s going on. And maybe I don’t gotta know. But there’s business and there’s personal. We are relaxing.” He put the emphasis on “-laxing,” drawing it out. “We got kids. We got women. This ain’t the place.”
“I get that. But, how do you know me?”
“We know you. Smart-ass cop, feeling out the local distr
ibution. You should be ass up in the ground but you ain’t, because I’m nice. And then you show up here.”
I had a sneaking and very definite suspicion that my cover was blown. That somehow all of my elite clandestine surveillance work had been discovered, and instead of me getting the drop on them, the tables had been turned.
Lesser men would be daunted.
I was simply confused.
He said, “We tryna be tolerant of you, but you on my fucking nerves now. I see you again, I’ll kill you and deal with repercussions later.”
“Can I feel your muscles?” I said.
“Keep it up, asshole, see what happens.”
“You’re the boss?”
“I’m your boss, and that’s all that matters.”
“Who’s your boss?” I asked.
“Don’t got one.”
“Ah, but see, you referenced repercussions earlier. The boss is implied, and he or she mentioned me. Tell me who it is and I’ll put in a good word for you. Get that Christmas bonus.”
“This is Ray. And this is Echo. They will walk you to the door. You don’t leave immediately and they’ll break your fingers,” he said.
“But I need those.”
Two of his friends stood, and so did I.
“Suppose I’m a little outnumbered,” I said.
“Correct.”
“What’s your number?” I said. “I’ll call you.”
Ray and Echo closed in.
“Never mind. I’ll get it from Ray. So long, Big Will.”
I walked to the door. So did Ray and Echo. I walked outside and down the sidewalk. So did Ray and Echo.
“You guys gonna walk me all the way to my car?” I asked.
“Yup.”
I jogged across the street. They followed.
“Wait. I didn’t park over here,” I said.
I jogged back the way I came. They followed.
“Oh, no, my mistake. I was right the first time.”
I jogged across the street again. They followed, reluctantly and a bit peeved.
“Hmm. Not here. Simon says, let’s go back and check the other side again,” I said, and I crossed the street a fourth time. The two quasi-bouncers at the bar watched this with deep concern and bemusement.