Lives Laid Away

by Stephen Mack Jones

  Jimmy was carrying a deep purple Club Brutus gym bag and wearing a white gi—the uniform used in the practice of jujitsu—tied at the waist was a yellow belt.

  “Holy shit,” I said. “You’ve already earned your yellow belt?”

  Jimmy stood a little taller. He smoothed his gi with a hand. “Yessir. Mr. Brutus says I’m a fast learner.”

  “And Brutus doesn’t just hand out compliments,” I said.

  Lucy pulled away from the safe and turned to look at Jimmy.

  “Wow,” she said. “Ain’t you a sexy beast?”

  Had Jimmy’s skin tone been a bit lighter, his blushing would have been very apparent.

  “I, uh—I’s just wondering if everything was all right,” Jimmy said. “Mr. Ogilvy said you had some trouble the other night? Something about the shed?”

  “Just a couple rats, Jimmy,” I said. “We shooed ’em away.”

  “Okay. Cool,” Jimmy said, his eyes darting from me to Lucy and back again.

  “Something else?”

  “Uh, yeah—” he said. “Miss Three Rivers?”

  “Jimmy,” she said with disappointment in her voice. “If we’re ever to be friends and lovers, you’re just gonna have to call me Lucy. Or Snuggle Muffin.”

  “Yeah, okay, uh—listen,” Jimmy stammered, “Miss Carmela and Miss Sylvia, they really like you. I just want to make sure you treatin’ ’em right, okay? I mean ’cause sometimes I walk past they house and all I can hear is your music—”

  “EDM and techno. You like EDM and techno?”

  “I’m just saying I know they can’t half hear,” Jimmy said, “but you might want to turn the music down a bit. And they got used to me cooking for ’em once or twice a week. If you could do that, I’m sure they’d appreciate it. Maybe trim they toenails once a month or so—”

  “Their—toenails?”

  “And paint ’em,” Jimmy said. “They like that Sally Hansen Sonic Boom color in the summer. Number 226. You can get it at Walgreens or CVS.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Them ladies will take good care of you, even if you don’t care about ’em,” Jimmy said. “I’m kinda hopin’ you learn to care about them.” Then he looked at me and said, “Anything I can do, Mr. Snow, you let me know, okay?”

  “Thanks, Jimmy,” I said. “Now go kick Brutus’s ass.”

  Jimmy nodded to me. Then he nodded to Lucy and said, “Miss Three Rivers.”

  “Snuggle Muffin,” Lucy said.

  After Jimmy closed my front door behind him, Lucy looked at me and said, “Is Gomer for real?”

  “He’s as real as they come, Lucy,” I said. “Be nice to him or you and me are gonna have problems. In fact, just stop all this hard-case bullshit, awright? It’s exhausting.”

  Lucy put her ear back against the square black safe door. Slowly, she put her hand on the combination dial and began turning it one click at a time. Four numbers later, she gently took the handle, pushed it down and cautiously pulled the door open a half-inch or so.

  “Sometimes, dudes booby-trap these things,” she said, opening the door completely. She turned to me and said, “Ta-daa!”

  Wearing rubber kitchen gloves, I removed a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver from the safe. It was secured in a plastic bag with three spent shells. There was about five grand in cash, all tens and twenties, and files stuffed with neo-Nazi flyers, propaganda, agendas, and phone numbers. There were four DVDs with the initials “BO” and dates over a two-year period. There was a thick file which held some very damning information on some very interesting people, including Barney Olsen, Esq. And there were three burner phones, one in a plastic bag with dried blood on it, and a digital recorder.

  Finally, there were photos.

  Young girls in various stages of undress and looking drugged to their eyeballs. Young girls gagged and chained over the bar in the secret room at Barney Olsen’s house. Each photo had numbers written on back. Three of the numbers corresponded with the names in the files. The fourth set of numbers proved to be a coded mystery.

  “What’s all this shit?” Lucy said craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the photos. “What are those pictures of?”

  “Nothing you should know about. Ever,” I said, quickly stuffing the photos back into a file folder. “You were saying something earlier about a pterodactyl and a warp engine?”

  “Yeah,” Lucy said peering deeper into the safe. “Holy shit! How much money is that?”

  “Don’t touch anything!” I said, swatting her hand away from a stack of cash. “Warp engine, Lucy. Focus!”

  “Okay, so all communications these days is high frequency digital, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Awright, so imagine having your own private cell phone network run on old analog equipment at a low frequency. So low people think it’s just background noise. Nobody cares about monitoring that end of the spectrum anymore. Whoever spoofed your phone is using re-tasked UHF antennas and twenty-year-old satellite TV dishes. And that junk is everywhere!”

  “Can you locate the source?”

  “I’m Lucy Three Rivers,” she said. “The Original Digital-Diva! The Queen of Code! But you have to do something for me first, slick.”

  I felt my eyebrows furrow. “And that would be?”

  Twenty-five

  If shopping malls are dying out, you could’ve fooled me.

  I found myself at Twelve Oaks Mall in Farmington Hills, thirty miles northwest of Mexicantown. I was there on a Saturday afternoon with a smartass nineteen-year-old hacker, two elderly stoners—Carmela and Sylvia—and about five thousand zombie-walkers with shopping bags, texting on cell phones or gulping down Starbuck’s coffee concoctions.

  I figured Carmela and Sylvia would be infinitely more help to Lucy in choosing women’s clothing than I could ever be. Plus, the trip might serve as a bond between the girls. So far, things were good between the ladies; just as Carmela and Sylvia had adopted Jimmy as their beloved son, so they had instantly taken to Lucy as a beloved daughter.

  Lucy, on the other hand, didn’t initially appear comfortable with such attention and affection. The sign of someone who’d been scratching and scrapping on their own for too long.

  I’d gone shopping once with Tatina at Paleet, a large and confusing mall in Oslo. I would have gone mad if not for two things: 1) I liked watching Tatina try things on, and 2) I knew I was going to be treated to a plate of Pinnekjøtt—salted, dried, and smoked lamb ribs—for having held her purse, carried her shopping bags and complimented how nice her butt looked in this dress or that pair of jeans.

  I’d even complimented how nice her butt was when she tried on shoes.

  I was getting nothing out of this journey to Twelve Oaks, save for the bill.

  While the girls whirligigged through the Contemporary Women’s section of Macy’s, I sat on the solitary bench provided for bored husbands and confused boyfriends and had a pleasant phone chat with FBI Special Agent Megan O’Donnell.

  “You pull shit like this again, August, and swear to God, I will shove a stick of dynamite up your ass and light a very short fuse.”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound at all pleasant.”

  O’Donnell drew in a long, deep breath. “You’re clear on this Taffy’s escapade. Barely. There was enough there—including the girl—to nail these bastards on statutory rape, drug trafficking, money laundering and an assortment of firearms violations. The guy you or Tomás put down was wanted on felony murder of a teenage girl in Indiana, so I don’t think anybody’s gonna come after you with a vengeance on that one. You’re just lucky the local cops saw the mess, vomited and gladly handed it over to me and the State cops. I have the feeling those BMC assholes will want to go directly to a deal, so you won’t even be implicated in your O.K. Corral-style gunfight. I cleaned up your mess, August, including you
r trashed rental car. Oh, and don’t ever have your lawyer—what’s his name?”

  “David G. Baker.”

  “Don’t ever have that annoying fuck-bag David Goddamn Baker call my office again!”

  I’d have to remember to send G a case of good Pinot Noir for being an effective fuck-bag.

  O’Donnell continued telling me what a pain in the ass I was. Meanwhile a sticky-faced kid crunching a luminescent orange sucker was staring at me.

  I smiled at him.

  He flipped me the finger.

  His mom grabbed him by the collar, apologized profusely, then hustled him off.

  O’Donnell finally took a ragged breath.

  “Yeah, so anyway,” I began, “I have this safe from the biker bar at home and there’s stuff you need to see.”

  “Gee, I’d just love to see even more evidence I can’t use, August, because you fucking stole it from a crime scene,” O’Donnell said. “And by the way, I’ve got forensics people going over that lawyer’s house—what’s his name? The guy on the buses.”

  “Barney Olsen.”

  “I’ll tell you this much,” O’Donnell said. “Three bullet holes, no slugs. Bleach-degraded blood splatter. And neighbors who heard and saw nothing. Whoever cleaned that up was quick and professional. Bikers aren’t exactly known for cleaning up their messes.”

  “Set a meeting of your white whale cabal tonight,” I said. “LaBelle’s. Eleven o’clock.”

  We disconnected.

  “Is this all right?” Lucy said holding a bright yellow lacy-frilly-top-thing three inches from my face. “Carmela and Sylvia like it. I mean—it is okay, right?”

  She held out the price tag for me to see.

  “It’s fine,” I said.

  “Yeah, we’re cool, ladies!” Lucy yelled back to Carmela and Sylvia. They grinned and gave the thumbs-up sign. She started to walk back to the girls before stopping and turning to me.

  “I, uh—I don’t know how long I’ll be around,” she said. “I—don’t stay nowhere for very long. You think Carmela and Sylvia will hold these for me if I go away for a while?”

  “Every now and then, home is where you happen to land, kid. It just happens.”

  Lucy looked at me for a moment before saying, “So, I mean, is that a yes, they’ll hold on to this shit for me? Or what?”

  “Yes,” I said. “They’ll hold on to your shit.”

  “Cool!”

  I bought Carmela and Sylvia silver charm bracelets before we left the mall. Amazing how the old girls had gotten under my considerably thick skin and settled on my heart.

  “Oh, you didn’t have to do this, Mr. Snow,” Carmela said, grinning as she stared at her silver crucifix charm. “You’re young. Pinch your pennies. That’s why Sylvia and I can eat anywhere we want and watch the Netflix in our retirement. Because we pinched pennies at your age.”

  We got burgers at the Basement Burger Bar in downtown Farmington and finished with ice cream at Silver Dairy on Grand River Avenue, where I got a call from Tatina.

  “Oh, my God!” she began. “You’re trending!”

  “I’m what?”

  “Trending! On Twitter!” she said. “And YouTube! Oh, my God! Over two hundred thousand views on YouTube! You and Tomás and another man being arrested at that Mexican restaurant! Some sort of immigration protest!”

  In the background one of Tatina’s friends shouted something.

  “Three hundred fifty thousand views!” Tatina said. “What is going on over there? Are they deporting all the Mexicans? If they are, come here, August! I mean we don’t have to—you know—shack up. Is that how you say it? ‘Shack up’?”

  We talked for another five minutes.

  Gooey stuff.

  Stuff that might tarnish my former-marine, tough-guy image if it ever got out.

  After we disconnected, I found the video on YouTube, much to my embarrassment. Me, Tomás and Trent T.R. Ogilvy being pushed into the back of an ICE SUV while twenty or thirty people surrounded the vehicle while chanting “I am a Dreamer!” and “Stop deportations now!”

  I assumed the person who took the video was a young black man by his phrasing and the tenor of his voice. With me square in the final frame, he ended his narration by saying, “Ain’t this some fucked-up shit? Brotha can’t even get a taco in this town without gettin’ jammed up!”

  Later that evening I stood over Lucy’s shoulder looking at one of her two laptop screens. She was wearing her new yellow lacey-top-thing and new jeans by some high-end French designer. Lines of numbers and clumps of symbols fluttered across both laptop screens. Lucy stared at the cascade of code, occasionally muttering “Yep,” or “Saw that one coming” or “Bullshit.”

  “You’re sure about the origin of the signal,” I said.

  “Were you like this with Skittles?” she said without taking her eyes from her laptop screens. “I mean, did you bug him while he was working? Yes, I’m sure of where the signal’s coming from! Now go be annoying somewhere else.”

  “Thanks,” I said before leaving her room at Carmela and Sylvia’s house.

  Twenty minutes later, I was at LaBelle’s Soul Hole Donut & Pastry Shop.

  “You got some goodies to share, baby?” Lady B said as I gave her a kiss on her cheek.

  “Sure do,” I said. “Everybody here?”

  “Everybody except Elena and Father Grabowski.” Lady B walked me to the back of the shop. “He had some sort of Catholic thing. Y’all just love yo little rules, regulations, rituals and secrets, don’t you?”

  “And incense,” I said. “Don’t forget incense.”

  “Elena thought it best just to hang close with that big-ass brute she married to.”

  “That ‘big-ass brute’ just happens to be my godfather.”

  “Like I said,” Lady B said with a smile. “Big-ass brute.”

  Most of the kitchen, including the floor and the round table where O’Donnell and undercover DEA/ICE captain Foley sat, was draped in plastic sheeting.

  “Gonna paint the walls,” Lady B said.

  “This better be worth it,” O’Donnell said as I sat at the table.

  Foley glanced at his watch. Then looking up, he smiled at Lady B. “You got any of those strawberry-filled Long Johns, Lady B? I feel like a couple of those.”

  “Coffee, too, baby?” Lady B said, grinning.

  “Cup of joe be nice,” Foley glanced again at his watch.

  “Got some place to be?” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Home. In bed. You’ll be glad to know Mexicantown’s catching a break tonight. The team’s in West Bloomfield, rounding up some off-the-radar Muslims and Chaldeans.”

  “‘First, they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Socialist.’”

  “What’s that supposed to fucking mean?” he said.

  I took a seat at the small round table and handed O’Donnell one of the files that had come from the safe. Three very explosive pages.

  O’Donnell opened the file. After a moment the color drained from her face. She whispered, “Jesus,” before cutting her eyes to Foley, then me.

  “Now you understand why it’s better for me to have the safe than you,” I said. I turned to Foley. “You keepin’ an eye on Henshaw?”

  Before Foley could answer, Lady B returned with a plate of Long Johns and a carafe of coffee. Sitting the donuts at the center of the table, Lady B carefully poured Foley a cup of coffee. He grabbed one of the strawberry Long Johns and took a big, satisfying bite.

  “You’re the best, Lady B,” he said, his mouth full of the Long John.

  “Oh, I know, baby,” she said.

  Then she pulled a 9mm semi-automatic gun with suppressor from her apron and fired into the back of Foley’s head. His face slammed down into the plate of donuts. She f
ired a second bullet into the back of his head.

  “Fuck!” O’Donnell shouted. She was on her feet, weapon drawn, aimed at Lady B.

  I did the same, not sure if I was tasting Foley’s blood or strawberry filling.

  “Goddammit!” I shouted, aiming my Glock at Lady B. “What the fuck!”

  Lady B quickly laid her silenced 9mm on the table and raised her hands.

  “Y’all got about sixty seconds,” she said.

  “You just killed a federal fucking agent!” O’Donnell shouted.

  “Fifty-five seconds,” Lady B said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I said.

  “Foley was running the trafficking operation out of ICE. Not Henshaw,” Lady B said.

  “I know that!” I said. “It’s in the file I just handed to O’Donnell! Goddammit, Lady B!”

  Lady B turned to O’Donnell. “Pay outs. Raids. Doctored detention logs. What y’all don’t know is what brings us to the next thirty seconds of y’alls life. He was about a day and a dollar ahead of y’all: Three of his biker buddies is about to bust up in here and kill us all. Way I see it, y’all can read me my rights just before we all get dead—or we can take care of real business.”

  “Where?” I said.

  Her hands still above her head, Lady B signaled that two men were about to breach the back door while one was preparing to come in through the front.

  “We’re not done here,” O’Donnell said to Lady B.

  “Oh, baby, I didn’t expect we was,” Lady B said.

  I gave her a hard look and said, “When this is done, you and me are gonna have a serious chat about why you spoofed my phone.”

  Lady B, in possession of her suppressed 9mm again, moved quickly through the kitchen doors toward the front of the bakery.

  “Go with her!” O’Donnell said.

  “Baby-girl,” Lady B said, “I been coverin’ my own ass for thirty-five years.” Then she said to me, “You stay right here, Young Snow. She gon’ need a second hot barrel when they come through.”

  O’Donnell and I stood on opposite sides of the steel reinforced back door watching as thermite sizzled and burned through the lock.