Gone ’Til November (3 page)

“Those are mine,” Morgan said.

The boy rattled the pills in the bottle, then dropped it back in Morgan’s pocket. He nodded at a hallway. “Awright.”

Morgan went down the hall, past a set of stairs with gaps in the railing. A series of linked heavy-duty extension cords snaked down the steps from above. Morgan followed them into the living room.

Rohan sat on an old couch in the center of the room, a scarred-up coffee table in front of him. He was hollowing out a cigar with a razor blade, a plastic bag of marijuana at his elbow. A floor lamp a few feet away was the only light. Next to it a space heater glowed red.

“You boys live here?” Morgan said to him. “You crazy.”

Rohan didn’t look up. He brushed tobacco onto the floor, packed marijuana into the blunt.

“No, man, this the shop,” he said. “Just business here.”

He was in his mid-twenties, wearing an identical North Face coat, a white basketball jersey underneath, black jeans, Timberlands. His hair hung long in braids. Morgan could see the three tattooed paws on the side of his neck. A chromed automatic rested on the cushion to his right.

The boy brushed past Morgan, went over to stand by the heater, the mantel of an old dead fireplace at his back. He stood wide-legged, arms crossed. Morgan could see the butt of the gun in his waist.

Rohan licked the edges of the blunt, pushed them together,
surveyed his work, licked some more. He took a plastic lighter from the table and passed the flame back and forth over the wet edges to seal them.

“How old are you?” the boy said.

Morgan looked at him. “What do you care?”

“Just askin’.”

“Morgan a player back in the day,” Rohan said. “A straight-up OG.” He looked up for the first time. “He be the Trouble Man back then. Like the movie.” He looked at the boy. “You see that flick, Raj? Marvin Gaye music? Dude drive around in a Lincoln Continental, blowing up people’s shit?”

“Nah.” Raj shook his head.

Rohan fired the lighter, got the blunt going. He drew deep, held it out. Raj took it, hit off it, gave it back, the acrid smell of it filling the room. Rohan blew a long stream of smoke to the side, held the blunt in Morgan’s direction. Morgan shook his head.

“This the chronic,” Rohan said. “Not that weak-ass shit Mikey-Mike peddling these days.”

“Where’d you get that from?” Morgan said.

Rohan shrugged, held the blunt out, and Raj took it again.

“Free market these days, yo,” Rohan said. “If the product weak, if the price ain’t right, people gonna go elsewhere. Everyone know Mikey’s weed ain’t been for real since the Colombians got busted. His coke and dope, too. And now he facing his own case. He scraping, and everyone on the street know it.”

“That’s temporary.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But he couldn’t even make the re-up
last time, if I remember correctly. Now I moved a lot of his shit when it was good, and we made mad money together, but things different now.”

Raj handed the blunt back, and Rohan set it on the edge of the table.

“He knows all that,” Morgan said. “He’s working on it. He’s making some moves, get the good stuff flowing again soon.”

“When he do, we talk. If the shit’s good, then we do business. If it ain’t, we don’t. That’s the way things work.”

“You two go way back,” Morgan said. “Word gets around you’re not with him anymore, it’s bad for everyone.”

“You talking about loyalty? It’s about product, yo. Tough enough to make a living as it is, without slinging bad shit, taking people’s money for it, expecting them to be happy because of who it came from. I’ve got a responsibility to my people, you know?”

“I understand. Mikey got a sample of the new stuff, wanted me to lay it on you.”

Rohan looked at Raj, then back at Morgan. “Why you wait so long to tell me that?”

Raj laughed. “Yeah, lay it
on
us.”

Morgan looked at him, and Raj met his eyes, didn’t look away.

“Morgan still be talking that old-school jive,” Rohan said, “but I follow. Like it is, brother. Like it
is
. Where the shit at?”

“In my car. Up the street. I’ll give it to you, you try it. You like it, there’s more coming. You don’t, then that’s that.”

“You still got that hooptee? Cutlass or some shit?”

“Monte Carlo.”

“You oughta shake some dollars loose from Mikey. Get yourself a new ride. That shit be out of style.”

Morgan went back down the hall to the kitchen, saw a gray blur cross the floor and disappear into a doorless pantry. Rat.

Raj came up behind, started undoing the locks.

“Be back in a minute,” Morgan said.

“Best be.”

Morgan went through the side yard, down to the street. He walked the block to the Monte Carlo. Still no one in sight. He went around to the trunk. Raj watched from the doorway.

Morgan keyed the trunk open, raised the lid so it shielded him. He took the Beretta from under an army blanket, the metal cold even through his gloves. He put the gun in his right-hand pocket, reached into the wheel well, and took out the paper lunch bag there. Inside was a plastic sandwich bag of marijuana. He slipped it into his left-hand pocket, shut the trunk.

More flurries now, wet and thick, the wind blowing them around. A sheet of newspaper flew along the gutter, wrapped itself around his leg. He pulled it loose, let the wind take it, walked back to the brownstone, hands in his pockets, feeling the weight of the gun.

The pain was gone now. He went up the walk and into the side yard. Raj stepped aside to let him through.

Morgan handed the plastic bag over. Raj took it, shut the door, worked the locks. He held the bag up, shook it. A gust of wind rattled the door.

“Looks like the same old shit to me,” he said.

“Fire it up. See.”

They went into the hall, Raj leading the way. Morgan let him get a few steps ahead, then took the Beretta from his pocket and said, “Yo.”

The boy turned, saw the gun, and Morgan shot him twice in the chest, the noise loud in the narrow hallway. The impact bounced him off the wall, left blood there, and Morgan stepped around him as he fell, moved quickly into the living room.

Rohan was already up from the couch, the gun in his hand. Morgan shot him through the left shoulder. His legs tangled and he went down, clipping the edge of the table. The gun fell back onto the couch.

Morgan kicked the table away, held the Beretta on him. Rohan rolled onto his side, gasping. He lifted a hand as if to ward off another shot.

“Cash,” Morgan said.

“Fireplace. Up in there. The stash, too.”

Morgan went to the fireplace, still watching him. With his left hand, he reached up into the flue, felt material. He lifted until it came loose, drew it down and out. A canvas knapsack. It thumped on the floor when he dropped it.

“It’s all in there, man,” Rohan said. “Just take it.”

Morgan knelt, unzipped it. Banded stacks of money, a G-pack of vials. He shook it all out onto the floor. Rohan lowered his hand, pressed it to his shoulder inside the coat, the white jersey turning red.

Morgan stood, pointed the Beretta at him, his finger on
the curved trigger. He nodded at the couch. “If you’re gonna reach for that piece, son, now’s the time.”

Rohan shook his head. “I ain’t reaching for anything.”

“All right, then,” Morgan said, and fired three times. Casings hit the floor. Bits of insulation from Rohan’s jacket floated in the air.

Morgan put the cash back in the knapsack, hefted it, left the G-pack on the floor. A reward for whoever found the bodies.

He decocked the Beretta, put it in his pocket, went around and picked up casings. He had to hunt for the last one, found it under the couch. He was breathing heavy by the time he was done.

When he was satisfied he’d left nothing behind, he went back out through the hallway, picked up the two casings there. Raj lay still, but there were red-flecked bubbles on his lips. Beneath the bloody T-shirt, his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

Morgan left him there, undid the locks on the kitchen door, closed it behind him. Wind pulled at him as he walked back to the Monte Carlo. The street still empty, he opened the trunk, dropped the knapsack inside, shut the lid. He unlocked the driver’s side door, got behind the wheel.

As he pulled away from the curb, he turned the stereo up. The same song, Teddy Pendergrass singing to an ex-lover, telling her how he’d changed.

Morgan made a right onto Lyons, back toward downtown Newark. At the next intersection a crossing guard stepped out
into the street. She wore an orange vest, blue uniform, carried a STOP sign.

He braked smoothly. The guard moved to the middle of the crosswalk, and the kids came across. Fourth, fifth grade maybe. Girls with ribbons in their hair, winter coats, pink vinyl knapsacks, the boys running ahead, laughing.

Last to cross was a girl no older than nine or ten. She turned and looked at Morgan, met his eyes through the windshield. Not smiling.

Don’t look at me like that, little girl,
he thought.
I know what I’ve done.

The crossing guard hurried her along, smiled at Morgan. He raised a hand to her, drove on.

The snow was sticking now, the wind driving it against the windshield. He switched the wipers on, listened to them thump, turned the music louder, Teddy still pleading:
Miss you, miss you, miss you.

She found him sitting at the bar at Tiger Tail’s, a shot glass and Heineken in front of him, Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” coming from the jukebox.

“You played that, didn’t you?” she said.

He turned. “Hey, Sara.”

She took the stool to his right. Althea the barmaid saw her, came over.

“Evening, Deputy Cross. Guinness?”

“Please.”

Billy sipped from his beer, toyed with the empty shot glass.

“What was that?” Sara said.

“Peppermint schnapps.”

“I didn’t think anybody over sixteen drank that.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty awful. But it gets the job done.”

Althea came back with the pint of Guinness. Billy pushed a wet twenty toward her. She took it, moved away.

“Hard to believe you’re still on your feet,” Sara said. “You get any sleep today?”

“A little.”

Althea brought the change. The Guinness was colder than Sara liked, but dark and strong. For a while, she’d taken to black and tans, mixing it with a lighter beer. She drank little these days, though, and when she did she found she preferred the Guinness straight. It always surprised the men she met, the few she drank with.

“They give you a hard time this morning?” she said.

“Boone from the state attorney’s, he’s okay. Used to be a deputy down here, you know that?”

“No.”

“Yeah, bottom of the ladder, just like you and me. Made his way up to undersheriff under Hammond. When Winston ran for state attorney, Hammond put a block of votes his way. Flip side was if he won, Winston had to take Boone. Before your time, I guess.”

“He rewarding him or getting rid of him?”

“Maybe a little of both. Boone’s a good man, he’s just a little . . .” He took a sip of beer. “Ambitious. He and Elwood did the interview together. Videotape, the whole thing.”

“Who’s writing it?”

“Boone, I think.”

“What’d he say?”

“That it looked like a clean shoot. What else could they say? It was. Part that bothers them is I was the only person
there to say one way or another. At least the only one still breathing. They talk to you yet?”

“No,” she said. “Elwood called me. I’m meeting them tomorrow. I won’t have much to add, though, except what I saw when I got there.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“About what?”

“That you had to be there, take the call. I didn’t even know you were on.”

“When you called it in, I was closest to your ten-twenty. I just wish I’d gotten there sooner. It might have gone a different way.”

He looked at the clock over the bar. Almost ten. “Kind of late for you to be out, isn’t it? Who’s watching Danny?”

“JoBeth. I was worried about you. Figured I’d drive past just in case. Saw your truck.”

She turned on her stool, looked around the bar. Two Mexicans—or Guatemalans more likely—playing pool in the alcove in the back. A couple of booths on the far wall were occupied. She saw Angie, the dispatcher, at one, with two men Sara didn’t know, a pitcher of beer on the table between them. Angie was laughing, waving a cigarette. She caught Sara’s eye, saw who she was with, and turned away again.
Great,
Sara thought.
Maybe coming here was a mistake after all.

There were a handful of serious drinkers at the bar on either side of them, a couple of whom Sara recognized. She’d met most of the hardcore alcoholics in St. Charles County, either booking them for DWI or helping pull them out of their overturned pickups.

Billy signaled to Althea, pointed at his shot glass.

“How many of those you have?” Sara said.

“This is my third. Was my third, I mean.”

“Better take it easy. You’ll pay for it in the morning.”

“I’m paying for it now.”

Althea came down, poured from the bottle, took his money.

Billy raised his glass to Sara. From the jukebox came Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns and Money.”

“Now this, I
know
you played,” she said.

“More than once.” He sipped the schnapps. “ ‘Dad, get me out of this.’ ”

“Is Lee-Anne around? Maybe you ought to call her.”

“She’s down with friends in West Palm. She’s coming back in a couple days.”

“She know what happened?”

“She knows.”

“And she’s not coming back sooner?”

“Soon enough,” he said and drank.

She sipped Guinness. In the mirror behind the bar she could see Angie in the booth, talking to the men but looking toward her every few minutes. Sara suddenly wanted to be somewhere else.

“So what happened?” Billy said. He’d turned to her.

“With what?”

“With us.”

“Ah, Bill.”

“It’s one of the things I regret most, you know. Out of everything. Not being able to make it work.”