A Better Goodbye (31 page)

Jenny had never slept with someone who was dangerous or anything close to it. She hadn't slept with Nick either, but it was a possibility if she could just learn something about him. But she still couldn't figure out if his last name started with a B or a P. What about that V? Should it be an F?

A few keystrokes later her computer screen glowed with the tortured life of Nick Pafko, the street kid from the northwest side of Chicago who chased his dream as a boxer all the way to the ring, where it died when Alonzo Burgess did. It was an accident, a hazard of the trade, the kind of terrible mistake that other fighters had found a way to get past. But Nick was stuck in the quicksand of tragedy. And here was Jenny trying to decide if she should totter into it with him on four-inch heels.

It rained on and off for three days, which didn't do anything to improve DuPree's mood. Fuck the rain when he'd just had his Beemer detailed and it was almost June and he had work to put in. It was hard enough driving in the goddamn city when it was dry and motherfuckers weren't sliding all over like the streets were covered with ice. Maybe if it rained more, they wouldn't be reacting like they pissed sitting down. Things the way they were, though, the best DuPree could do was to tell himself the dude would be so busy keeping his Rolls in one piece that he'd never notice a brother on his ass.

The Oriental bitch had called him Barry, and DuPree knew he'd had it right in the lobby when he saw the two of them come out of the building, the bitch smiling up at him all dreamy and Barry eating that shit up. DuPree thought their next stop would be the man's love shack, but he kissed her goodbye at her car and went his own way. DuPree was right there behind him with Blanco on Friday night, and then by himself Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. He wasn't even tired by the end of it. The prospect of a big-assed score had him juiced, even if he had to bring his lame white boy Scottie in on it.

Fucking Scottie, whining about the cops just when DuPree was ready to fuck that boxer man up good. Whining like a bitch. DuPree was never going to get past that shit. But that was all right, because he had a surprise waiting for Scottie. Then Scottie could whine all he wanted.

Right now DuPree was pacifying his mind by driving home through Hancock Park, thinking about stealing enough someday to buy one of those get-a-load-of-me mansions right there in the middle of the city. Only problem was, just on the other side of Wilshire it could get rugged, what with gangs more interested in shooting each other full of holes than heeding the call of the profit motive. Maybe he could get himself an ocean view instead, something in Marina del Rey. He planned on giving it some serious thought once he fired up a spliff in his apartment on South Mansfield, the one he'd decorated when he was dating that Ethiopian model, a sleek, long-legged bitch who dumped his ass for an architect. A
white
architect. Not knowing why he'd started thinking about that motherfucker, DuPree headed straight for the bedroom where he kept his stash in a ceramic Buddha with a lift-off top. He was greeted by some unholy shit.

The room had been shredded, bedspread ripped and torn, pillows spilling goose down, curtains yanked from their rods so the streetlight shined in to make sure DuPree got a good look at the wreckage. And here came Blanco, the wrinkles on his face folded into a welcome-home smile, as if that would keep DuPree from noticing the immense turd that sat in the middle of the floor.

“Motherfucker,” DuPree said.

His tone slowed the dog's approach.

“Cocksucker.”

The dog stopped and retreated a step, its smile replaced by a look of shame.

“Goddamn motherfucking motherfucker.”

DuPree wanted to hit him, kick him, beat his head in with a hammer. But from the depths of his rage came a warning signal: Raise a hand against a pit bull and you'll lose it. Motherfuck it. He'd shoot the fucking dog, put a bullet right through one of its pink eyes. He was imagining how much he'd like to see the back of the dog's head splattered on the wall when he thought about his neighbors for maybe the first time ever. They were from India or Pakistan, one of those snake-in-a-basket countries. They dressed funny and cooked food that smelled like his old man's dirty drawers. Ordinarily, no sane brother would have wasted an IQ point thinking about those sandal jockeys. But DuPree knew they'd for sure call the cops if he put a bullet in Blanco, and the thought of the cops convinced him to drop to one knee and act like the chump the dog expected him to be.

“Come here, motherfucker,” he said. “What you acting all shy about?”

The dog looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then caved in the way he knew it would, trotting over, showing off that happy tongue again.

“Shit, you know I take good care of your ass.”

The next day he gave the dog to his old man. Onus DuPree Sr. reacted pretty much the way his son expected him to: “What the fuck I want with a goddamn pit bull?”

“You need a pet,” DuPree said.

“Pit bulls are for common niggers,” Onus Sr. said. “I ain't no common nigger.”

“Just a lonely one, isn't that what you told me last time I was here?”

“You saying this motherfucker can talk?” Onus Sr. pointed at the dog on his front porch, sounding like he wasn't interested in letting it advance an inch farther.

“Why you asking me crazy shit like that?” DuPree said.

“Because the only kind of company I need is the kind that can talk.”

“Well, maybe you can teach him.”

“Don't get smart with me, boy.”

“Yeah, teach him to talk and yell at the neighbor kids and bitch at people that park in front of the house. Or maybe he can just bite them. You'd probably like that better, wouldn't you, you grouchy old motherfucker? You can't sink your own teeth in their asses—can't run fast enough to catch them, fat as you are—but your dog here, he can do the job for you.”

The old man started to smile.

“Look at you,” DuPree said. “Shit, you love what I'm tellin' you. You and this dog going to be tight as motherfuckers.”

“He got a name?” Onus Sr. asked.

“Blanco.”

The old man nodded thoughtfully. “Like this cat I played with in Tampico one winter. Francisco Blanco. Mexican fella. Smoothest swing I ever saw. The Cardinals wanted to sign him and he got drunked up and a truckload of chickens ran over his ass. Chickens. Goddamn.”

DuPree, not knowing what to say, said nothing.

“All right,” the old man told him. “Blanco can stay.”

Scott hadn't expected DuPree to call. He thought he'd have to be the one to pick up the phone after the thing with the dog and Nick. Fucking Nick, didn't he know he wasn't supposed to get all hairy-chested when it was DuPree he was talking to? Scott would have to straighten him out, teach him about the goddamn chain of command. Coco, too. But the thought of chasing off his best moneymaker and a guy who, to be blunt, scared him shitless was more than he could deal with at the moment. Good thing DuPree had been cool about it, but he still had to have been pissed. Scott hadn't exactly had a McQueen moment, that was for damn sure.

Anyway, DuPree made the call and Scott tried not to say yes to a meeting so fast that it sounded like he was queer for him. Now DuPree was on the other side of a corner table at Aunt Kizzy's, a soul food joint in the Marina where there was no other soul that Scott could see. DuPree had asked the woman at the door if they could keep some space between them and the other customers; said he had some music contracts to talk over with his pale friend. Scott had been here with DuPree once before, on a Saturday when Little Richard strutted in on high heels fresh from his Seventh-Day Adventist church, looking so weird around the eyes that he had to be wearing mascara. This was where L.A.'s black bourgeoisie came to get in touch with their high-calorie roots, and Scott was all for it, tucking into his meatloaf and macaroni and cheese, promising himself he wouldn't order peach cobbler for dessert and knowing his promise meant nothing.

For DuPree, who picked at his fried chicken, this was obviously about business, not pleasure. He said he'd been following the dude from the other night, the one Coco had been so worried about missing. Couldn't help himself when he saw the dude's Rolls.

“He drives a Rolls?” Scott asked.

“Man, you got to start paying attention to your clientele,” DuPree said. “No telling what kind of fish those ho's of yours got on the line.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like this dude, he's living up there in Laurel Canyon, just off Mulholland. Nice place—modern, lots of glass—but it hangs off the side of the hill, you know, looks like one good earthquake would send it sliding. Man, that shit jangles my nerves.”

“I hear you,” Scott said, though he didn't believe DuPree's nerves ever got jangled and, to be honest, didn't agree with him. Scott would have donated a testicle to a network executive who was missing one if it meant a house in Laurel Canyon.

“But we're not burglars, so what the fuck, right?” DuPree said.

“Right,” Scott said, liking his use of “we.”

“We're businessmen seeking opportunities, and the first thing I notice is this motherfucker—”

“Barry.”

“You got it. This motherfucker Barry looks like he has himself a wife and kids that visit weekends. I mean, he's getting his nut with your Oriental cooze one night, and the next motherfucking morning, there's the wife and kids pulling into his driveway, climbing all over him, lots of kisses and hey, Dad, let's get our asses to Chuck E. Cheese.”

“And you want to blackmail him,” Scott said. “Put a tape recorder in the room when he's with Coco, maybe walk in taking pictures when they're—” He stopped when he saw DuPree looking puzzled. “What?”

“That bitch give it up for you?” DuPree asked.

“She didn't for you?” Scott asked him back.

They both knew the answer instantly.

“Goddamn,” DuPree said.

“Maybe she's got it sewed shut,” Scott said.

“We can fix that shit.”

“Fuckin' A. But first we got some blackmailing to do, right, bro?”

“Fuck, no.”

“What, then?” Scott asked, hoping he hadn't stepped on his dick.

DuPree gave Scott a no-parole stare. “If you'll shut your damn mouth and listen, I'll tell you.”

“I'm listening.”

“All right,” DuPree said. “We rob the motherfucker.”

Scott wanted to grab a gun and get to work. He also wanted to get the fuck out of there, run, and never look back. Scott wanted to ask DuPree if it was normal for an apprentice criminal's instincts to be heading in two directions at once. But Scott also wanted DuPree to keep talking, so he uttered not a word.

“We're going to put a gun to his fucking head and make him open his goddamn treasure chest,” DuPree said. “'Cause he got one, this motherfucker. You see that bag of his? That leather briefcase? It must have cost him three grand.”

Scott shook his head, still afraid to speak.

“Oh, that's right, you're too busy with that Hollywood shit to check out all the money walking through your door, just begging to get taken. But I got your back on this one, man. See, I bump into motherfucking Barry when I'm leaving out of your trick pad the other night, me and my dog that started all that unnecessary drama. And I see his briefcase and I just got to know what's inside. I mean, I'm curious that way, understand? So I start following this motherfucker, not just up to his house but all over the fucking city. Do you have any idea how fucked-up traffic is on Sunday? Even when it's not raining? Makes me understand why I like working nights—at least you got a shot at getting some-goddamn-where. But I stick with the motherfucker, all right? I persevere, just like my pops taught me. And you know where the motherfucker keeps going back to? Even on Sunday? The motherfucking diamond district.”

“He sells diamonds?” Scott asked, unable to contain himself any longer.

DuPree shut him up with a look.

“Better than that,” DuPree said. “I think maybe the motherfucker's got something illegal going on. Stealing them, smuggling them, fencing them—some kind of shit that's got him down there when every other place is locked up tight.”

“That's good for us, isn't it?” Scott asked cautiously. “If it's illegal, there's less chance of him going to the cops when we . . . you know.”

DuPree smiled. “You been wasting your time acting and shit. You're forgetting your dinner, too.” He pointed at the feast that had grown cold on Scott's plate.

“That's all right,” Scott said. “I want to ask you, shouldn't we know for sure what he's up to before we move?”

“You're not afraid of the unknown, are you?” DuPree was still smiling. “I mean, you're not going to tell me that now and break my heart.”

“Fuck no.”

“So we're just going to roll with it. See what's in the briefcase, maybe let motherfucking Barry take us downtown to meet his friends. All in all, just generally terrorize his ass and walk away with a serious goddamn score. You're up for that, aren't you?”