Pavement

by Andrew Davie

  PAVEMENT

  A Crime Novel

  Andrew Davie

  Copyright © 2019 by Andrew Davie

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  All Due Respect

  an imprint of Down & Out Books

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Eric Beetner

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Pavement

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Preview from Countdown by Matt Phillips

  Preview from How Kirsty Gets Her Kicks by Jennifer L. Thomson

  Preview from Once a World by Craig McDonald

  For my mother, father, and brother.

  Gropper entered the bar.

  He’d cased it the day before, knew the schedules of the workers, the locations of the entrances, and the delivery times. He was a man who left nothing to chance.

  It was close to midnight, and the place was as packed as it was going to be. Gropper took a seat at the bar, ordered a Jack and Coke, and laid the newspaper out next to him.

  The jukebox spat out Bob Seger while the scattered groups made idle conversation. The place was a beacon for blue-collar workers and degenerates.

  He killed his drink and ordered another. He hadn’t shaved for a few days and wore nondescript clothes. No one would be paying him any attention now and, if anyone asked later, they would get a watered-down description.

  Gropper checked the time. A patrol car would be in the neighborhood for the next half an hour. Good, it would give him time to go over the game plan. He had scoped the bartender the previous day, but up close he could get a good read. The guy wore a sleeveless black T-shirt that barely covered his frame. He had no muscle definition but was prison big. A shaved head glistened in the overhead light, and a two-tone beard hung down to his chest, streaked with gray. The bartender’s nose had been broken a few times, and the scar tissue around his eyes suggested he could take a beating and keep coming. Gropper made a note: If the bartender gets involved, give him the full business right away.

  In the back was the kitchen, which consisted of a grill manned by two ex-cons. They would stay out of it or run at the first sign of trouble.

  Gropper hazarded a guess that at least one of the patrons might join the fray, if it lasted long enough, another reason to keep things contained and expedited. No sermons, no acquiescing to pleas or apologies—just execute the job.

  He would act quickly and be in the wind.

  His target would be in the back office. A loaded .38 in the top desk drawer, ledger in the second, petty cash box in the third.

  Gropper ordered a final drink to bring him to an even keel. The adrenaline wouldn’t start coursing until right before the deed, but he felt it building, like a race car driver revving the engine. A group of people paid the bill and left. In total, there were now nine, including Gropper, in the entire place. He clocked them out of the corner of his eye. They were already drunk, busy arguing about which of them had a harder week. If things broke his way, he’d only have to deal with two of them. If not, possibly four or five. He’d dealt with worse.

  He began folding the newspaper.

  The bartender was engrossed in the news on the TV, but if he had noticed, Gropper would have looked like another drunk trying to escape the monotony. In reality, he was making a weapon. He’d read about how in the sixties, in Millwall, England, the police cracked down on soccer hooligans. Before fans could enter the stadium, they had to give up rolls of mints, pens, combs, boots, and shoelaces. But some enterprising fans brought newspapers with them. When rolled up and folded, they had created what became known as a Millwall brick. Gropper dug into his pocket for two rolls of pennies and laid them toward the top of the paper, so they would give the thing some heft. He finished folding it over.

  “Hey,” Gropper called out. He gripped the improvised weapon in his right hand.

  “Yeah?” the bartender said without taking his eyes from the screen.

  “Let me get one more.”

  The bartender didn’t move for a moment, then fixed the drink and set it in front of Gropper. When he turned, Gropper hit him on the side of the head with the brick. The bartender slouched and Gropper hit him a second time in the face, breaking his nose and sending him to the ground.

  “Hey, I think something’s wrong,” Gropper called out to the other patrons. The group at a table in the back stopped talking and looked over.

  “I’m going to call nine-one-one.”

  Gropper was up and off his stool, heading to the back before anyone could say anything.

  “Five-o! Five-o!” he yelled through the swinging doors into the kitchen. He didn’t think the ex-cons would interfere, but again, you never knew. He was through the hallway and outside of the office. He rapped loudly a few times on the door. Footsteps approached. As it opened, he heard, “Jesus Christ, what the—”

  Gropper hit the man in the chest with the Millwall brick. The man fell backward and scrambled for the desk and the .38 he had stored there.

  The guy was Joe, the manager. He had a thick mustache, sideburns, and white, powder-caked his nostrils. He crawled quickly and wheezed as his lungs fought to displace carbon dioxide. He wasn’t a pro, but he was savvy enough to go for the weapon. He pulled the drawer out, but Gropper was already there, kicking it shut. It crunched Joe’s hand. He yelled, then crumpled to the floor. Gropper flipped him onto his back and gripped him by the shirt.

  “My hand,” Joe said and stared at it. Multiple bones had been broken, and the webbing of his ring and middle fingers was severed. His face was ashen, and he was shaking. Shock would set in soon.

  “Listen,” Gropper said, “You fenced a ring and bracelet. Where’s the locket?”

  Joe looked at him, eyes blank, uncomprehending.

  Gropper took Joe’s injured hand and squeezed. Joe’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he was on the verge of passing out.

  “Cashbox.”

  Gropper tore the third drawer open, grabbed the box, and headed for the door. He could cut through the kitchen and out the back. One of the other customers blocked the entrance, a squat man with a scowl and a head the shape of a bullet. He didn’t make any threats, just started swinging. Gropper knew instantly this guy had no finesse—too much time on the heavy bag. Probably uttered profane things as he slugged it.

  The guy fired a decent combination, most of which Gropper took on his forearms. He landed a counter right hand, then kicked the guy in the shin with his steel-toed boot. The guy winced and slunk down. Gropper hit him with a one-two, and the guy fell to his side, a marionette with its strings cut.

  The rest of the crowd stayed in the bar, and Gropper could see them debating what to do. He didn’t wait to find out. He moved through the swinging doors, past the grill, and out into the parking lot through the service entrance.

  He continued through the bushes, onto the sidewalk, and down a side street. He got to the highway. At this time of night,
a few cars drove by, but mostly there was an eerie silence. Gropper continued across the highway into the strip mall. The bail bonds office, pizzeria, nail salon, and Mexican restaurant were all closed. He found his car parked where he’d left it, in front of a dental office.

  Once inside, he calmed his breathing, listening for the telltale sound of a siren. Nothing yet. It would probably take them another few minutes, and by then, he would be long gone.

  “How’d it go?”

  McGill took a massive bite of his corned beef sandwich and chased it with the rest of his Mickey’s. He was on his second course of what would probably be three to four entrées. The diner was McGill’s favorite and the only place he’d meet. Rumor was he never left the place. Gropper took a sip of his coffee. He never ate during these meetings.

  “Fine,” Gropper said.

  McGill sneered—his way of smiling. He sat back in his seat, and the leather squealed. McGill was an enormous man whose appetites had ravaged what had been a formidable person. His once-imposing frame now looked overstuffed as he pushed three hundred pounds. He was a former cop turned unlicensed PI. His career as a legitimate law enforcement officer long gone, he turned to the other side. His Rolodex had enough contacts to keep him well informed about the local Charleston microcosm.

  McGill was a fixer now, a middleman. He would find two interested parties, and like a sell side broker, match them up. He would get a taste, of course. He had a legion of hitters, junkies, hookers, and dealers who all got greased for info. Regardless, the reality was McGill was a small timer who kicked back enough to those in power.

  McGill never sought the limelight. He wasn’t flashy, didn’t drive a car that screamed out for attention. He was a smart operator.

  Gropper didn’t say anything more. McGill’s sneer faded. He finished his sandwich in three bites.

  “I’ve always liked the way you do things: lead pipe cruelty, mercenary sensibility.”

  Gropper’s lip twitched; it was the closest he came to laughing. Gropper reached into his pocket and left the envelope containing the locket on the cushion next to him.

  McGill signaled the waiter, who brought over his next course and a fresh Mickey’s. The beer wasn’t on the menu, but it was a concession the owner made for McGill. Gropper sat in silence while McGill ate. Gropper finished his coffee.

  “Try some pecan pie. It’s the best.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “All right, I’ll let you know when I need you.”

  Gropper nodded and left. Later, he would check the dead drop where McGill had left his payment. Gropper went out the service entrance and got into the car.

  He’d take a different route home. Along the way, Gropper imagined how it would go down later. McGill would return the locket to his client, in this case, the grandson of the locket’s true owner.

  When Joe wasn’t operating the bar, or holding for a dealer, he did some B and E on the side, as part of a crew of three. He’d fenced most of the jewelry, but the pawn shop owner was on McGill’s payroll. Word had already circulated about the items, and the guy alerted McGill almost as soon as Joe had left.

  “The locket had sentimental value,” McGill said when he gave Gropper the information. Gropper wasn’t sentimental, nor did he want to be included in the post-activity festivities. He did not want to receive thanks or be the recipient of hugs and pats on the back for a job well done. Perhaps McGill was on to something with his mercenary comment.

  Gropper pulled the car into a spot off the side street near his house. He nodded to a group of men sitting on the stoop next door. They uttered terse acknowledgment of his presence and went back to tilting their brown bags.

  Across the street, John lounged in his chair on the second-floor balcony. His brown skin hung off him like putty and glistened from sweat. He was a full-blown alcoholic who rarely left the house. A fifth of vodka stayed between his feet, except when he was sucking at the neck. Gropper paid him fifty bucks a week to keep an eye on both Gropper’s car and the comings and goings of people to the house. Gropper sublet a room, which had direct access to the sidewalk.

  John saw Gropper and wiped at his nose—the signal to let him know everything was clear and that Gropper had no visitors that day. Gropper unlocked his police lock, felt the crossbar slide, and walked into the dimly lit room.

  It was sparse. Practically the same as when he first moved in six months ago: a bed against the far wall underneath a window with an armoire next to it. Otherwise, barren. Gropper had a go bag at the bottom foot of the bed, and another one in a bus station locker a few miles away. If it came down to it, he could be gone in under a minute as if he never existed. The thought gave him a sense of security. He owned nothing, had nothing. He locked the door behind him, replacing the police crossbar out of habit.

  Ms. Bradley, age seventy-eight, owned the house. She spent most of her time traveling back and forth to the hospital. Her afflictions were too long to list in one sitting, but she was tough. She and Gropper immediately took to each other. He helped around the house, when he could, and she gave him free reign of the place. Her daughter had worked with McGill, so she knew to keep Gropper’s business anonymous.

  The house was quiet except for a grandfather clock that ticked away the seconds. Gropper went into the living room, walked over to the bookcase, and selected a Bill Evans record. He fitted the album on the revolver turntable and placed the needle on track two. He sat down and shut his eyes.

  The music was the one pleasure he allowed himself.

  McGill took a bite of his pecan pie. They put it on the grill to warm it up first. It was how he always ended the day. Carmine sat back in the booth and opened his arms like flower petals blossoming. He had enough product in his hair for it to shine, Carmine was an emissary for Cleon James. Cleon and his crew had made some noise over the last few years, and he was looking to expand his enterprise. This was the second time Carmine had dropped by the diner. The first time, he told McGill about the group’s intentions, offered terms, and McGill listened politely. Then he told Carmine what he told people who’d been trying to shake him down since he set up shop.

  “Go fuck yourselves.”

  Carmine laughed and said to think about it. The terms were reasonable, but they weren’t going to remain that way forever.

  This evening, Carmine returned and his good nature about McGill’s earlier response was not there. This time, he went into specifics of things they had done in the recent past to people who didn’t see their way.

  “So?” Carmine said, as McGill finished eating.

  “My message hasn’t changed.”

  Carmine bit his lower lip, and then laughed like a hyena.

  “You know, you’re not untouchable,” he said. “Some shit could happen to you, same as it does anyone else.”

  “And what do you think will happen if something bad comes down on me?”

  “You think I’m scared of Gropper?” Carmine said, then turned to look to see if Gropper might actually be there. “But I don’t see—”

  McGill hit Carmine in the sternum. Carmine’s eyes bulged from their sockets as the air wheezed from his lungs. His mouth opened and shut a few times like a fish out of water.

  “First off, just worry about me. Be glad Gropper isn’t here, or you’d be dead.”

  “You can’t…” Carmine began.

  “I just did.”

  Carmine took in a deep breath and coughed.

  “Relax, it’ll pass.” McGill took a toothpick from the dispenser. Carmine’s face turned a shade of green, then his breathing returned.

  “You’re fucking—”

  McGill hit him in the same spot. Carmine was amazed at the speed McGill moved at for a man his size. His eyes widened to the size of half-dollars.

  McGill signaled the waiter, who came and took his plate and brought a coffee and water.

  “Here, drink this.” He nudged the water toward Carmine and took a sip of the cof
fee. Carmine stared at McGill, unable speak.

  “Swallow your pride and go. Next time, Lord help you if Gropper is here.”

  Carmine looked like he was going to say something but instead rubbed at his chest and headed toward the door.

  Maurice liked to take care of business himself. He was stubborn that way; his mother instilled it in him when he was young. Solve your own problems. Having three siblings, two who never saw twenty-one, the advice served him well. Problems not dealt with had a way of quickly growing exponentially worse. Like snuffing out a match versus snuffing out a raging inferno. He considered the calm to always be the signal before the storm. When—not if, but when—a problem occurred, he took care of it straight away.

  He had been diagnosed with cerebral palsy at a young age, and his mother also made certain he was capable of taking care of himself and never to accept pity.

  He hadn’t meant to get into the game. Maurice had promised to steer clear of drugs and drinking, which claimed both his two brothers and his father. He finished high school, then worked as the day shift manager of a motel, and took night classes toward a bachelor’s in management.

  They said it was the stress of all the years of taking care of her family that finally caused the heart attack. Suddenly, Maurice was responsible for taking care of himself and his younger sister. He attended fewer classes and logged more hours at work. Soon, it felt like he was there twenty-four-seven.

  Then his cousin Stacy came to him with a proposition.

  Maurice hadn’t seen her in almost a year.

  She showed up at the motel during the day, still high, but coherent. It looked like she hadn’t slept in months.

  “Jesus,” he said when she got close enough. She hadn’t bathed in a while, either.

  “It’s good to see you too, cuz.”