Damaged Goods (26 page)

Huge recommended a simple white tank style undershirt and dark cargo pants. The pants needed to be hanging lower than Hannibal was comfortable with. Huge's fashionable compromise was for them to be worn over a pair of swim trunks. He completed the look with a pair of black and white shell toed sneakers. Hannibal was stunned to be able to put the whole “costume” together for about thirty bucks.

“Am I cool now?” Hannibal had asked.

“Too cool,” Huge had said, snatching the Oakley's from Hannibal's face. “You said low level hustler, right?” Huge replaced Hannibal's shades with the first pair of black plastic sunglasses he saw on a nearby rack. “Now you got the cheap hustler thing going on.”

Hannibal was at least happy about the undershirt choice. It was another hot day, mid-eighties even with the ocean breeze coming in from the East. But he didn't think the weather was what prompted Fay to allow her knees to lazily drift apart while she smiled at him. He figured he must now fit the profile of the men who qualified for her unsubtle flirting. He nodded a quick thank-you for the offer and turned toward Mariah's stairs.

Hannibal's plan was simple. He would introduce himself to Mariah and come up with some excuse for her to introduce him to Mantooth. If he hung around for a while he would either figure out where Mantooth would hide something valuable or learn that he had already cashed in on the Cooper formula. Whether or not Mantooth had already turned the formula into money would determine his next move.

At the top of the stairs he rapped at the small pane in the top of the door. After the third series of knocks he accepted that no one was home. This was an unexpected wrinkle in his day. Had she been and gone? He could certainly get an update from Fay across the street. He really didn't want to play games with her, but he might not have any choice.

Halfway down the stairs Hannibal found himself faced with another visitor about to climb them. He took her in at a glance: pale complexion, platinum blonde hair hanging past shoulder length, big bosom, narrow waist, long legs. She wore spike heels and a short, white denim skirt. In place of a shirt or blouse she wore a yellow bikini top. Lemon yellow, he reflected, and one more article that he would have given no significance a month ago. A braided leather choker encircled her neck.

The girl paused on the fourth step, looking up at him in surprise. Hannibal did not want to be established as the one who didn't belong there, so he spoke first.

“You looking for Mariah?” he asked in stern voice.

“No,” she said, spinning a key chain on her finger. “I just came back to pick up some stuff.”

Her Nordic blue eyes held questions, but her words and keys had answered his. “You must be the roommate,” he said, holding out a hand. “They call me Smoke.”

“Really? I'm Sheryl.” She offered her fingertips for a barely-there handshake. For an awkward moment they shared the staircase. Then Hannibal stepped aside and waved Sheryl forward. She offered a shallow bow and went to the door. When she unlocked the door Hannibal followed her inside. The apartment smelled like dry dog food. Sheryl looked around, surprised but not resistant. Hannibal crossed his arms and leaned back against the door.

“She's not here,” Sheryl said, waving a hand at the rest of the apartment. Her swirl-patterned nails extended her fingers by almost an inch.

“That's all right,” Hannibal said with a cold smirk. “You're going to take me to her.” Then he locked her eyes in place with his and would not let them go. He stayed in character and tried to project the attitude he had observed during his chat room visits. After a few seconds he could see tiny tremors in her shoulders. Finally she pointed behind herself without moving her eyes from his.

“I, um, have to get some stuff.”

“Then get it and let's go,” Hannibal said.

Sheryl's eyes shifted left and right. Then she darted into the rear of the apartment. Hannibal heard barking and yipping from the unseen room. A dresser or bureau slid across the floor. Then it moved back into place. The dog whined the way small dogs do when an owner rubs them but they know they'll soon be alone. Then came the hurried click of stiletto heels and Sheryl appeared, carrying a medium sized handbag.

‘What's in there?” Hannibal asked.

“Stuff,” she said. When he pushed away from the door she added, “It's for Rod.”

He opened the door. “I'll follow you.”

Halfway down the stairs, Sheryl said, “You might not want to do this.”

“What, meet Mariah? You afraid she's not my type?”

At the bottom of the stairs she stopped and turned. “I know Mariah can be wild, and I bet she gave you a serious come on, but…”

“But?”

“Mariah, she's Rod's girl.”

“You mean one of his girls,” Hannibal said. “I bet you are too.”

“No, no really,” she grabbed his forearm. “Mariah likes to flirt but she's Rod's girl and things could get real ugly if another guy shows up looking for her. Ugly for her.”

Hannibal took Sheryl's wrist to lift her hand from his arm. He held her arm vertically, squeezing and gritting his teeth against the part he had to play. He increased the pressure until she gasped. His voice dropped into a hoarse, grating whisper.

“Listen here, bitch. I will get real ugly unless you get in your car and take me to her. Ugly on your ass. You feel me?”

Sheryl whimpered and gave a series of vigorous nods. Hannibal forced a smile as he released her. She hurried to her car, a white Volkswagen beetle. Hannibal opened the passenger door, waved good-bye to Fay, and settled in next to Sheryl.

Sheryl was a timid driver, which was all right with Hannibal while they traveled through residential areas. Again he rode through the familiar streets and watched the neighborhoods shift. He could pay more attention to his surroundings now that he wasn't driving. Children scampered, streetlights changed and before long, well-tended residences became expensive rental properties. During the drive Hannibal fiddled with her radio until he found a hip-hop station. He couldn't sing along, but Sheryl could watch him bob his head beside her. It would help to establish his character. She didn't talk during their journey. Hannibal wondered if that was due to fear of him or of Rod's reaction when they arrived.

When they reached the two story brick house with the white picket fence Sheryl pulled her Beetle into the driveway. There was off-street parking for three but hers was the only vehicle present. Stepping out of the car, Hannibal noticed
how quiet the neighborhood seemed. It felt deserted, but he suspected that experience had taught Mantooth's neighbors that it was best to stay out of sight. By the time Hannibal walked through the gate, Sheryl had been to the door and was on her way back down the walk.

“There's nobody home,” she said, shrugging. “No point hanging around here, right? Let's go back to my place and party, huh? I got the stuff in my purse.”

Hannibal was sure that “the stuff” was one of the many illegal substances people used to enhance the “party” experience. But he had no interest in sex right then and even less interest in this girl whom he thought of as Lemon. He was wondering how long it would take him to search what looked like a five-bedroom house. Hannibal had not wanted Rod to see his car, in case he wanted to maintain surveillance on the man later, but now he wondered if he should have driven. As it was there was little chance of a quick getaway if one were called for. He was weighing the risk of getting caught rifling Rod's place when a movement down the block caught his attention. He whipped around, scanning the street, but didn't see anyone. Had there been a man back there, peering over the hood of that parked Continental?

Hannibal had lost that feeling of being followed on the long drive down from Washington, but here it was again. Did Huge send backup? No, not his style. Sarge? He could never have tailed Hannibal without being spotted long before now. Was Rod smart enough to post a lookout?

Before Hannibal could even process his own thoughts, a Jeep with an inefficient muffler roared around the corner. The vehicle almost tipped over as the driver, a young white kid with bulbous shoulders, whipped it into the driveway. Mariah hopped out of the back with a bag of groceries. In person, Hannibal could plainly see that she was Hawaiian or from some other Pacific Island. A second girl climbed more carefully out of the topless vehicle. The cherry bathing suit barely covered the important parts of a young black girl with smooth creamy skin and straightened hair. She was thicker than Anita in the thighs and hips, but otherwise the same
make and model. The driver, a transplanted surfer-dude from the West Coast, stepped down and waved to Sheryl.

Rod Mantooth walked around from the passenger's side. His obsidian eyes scanned Hannibal up and down like an x-ray machine. He had a killer smile, the kind you see on torturers in World War II movies. Hannibal stood his ground as Rod moved toward him like an ebb tide. In person, the man was a primal force, raw energy, and suddenly Hannibal understood.

Rod stopped within three inches of Hannibal, craning his bull neck to stare into Hannibal's face with a coarse defiance, which his mild words belied.

“I see Sheryl brought company. And what's your name, dude?”

Hannibal stared back, fighting an unexpected urge to back down. Rod must have expected every dog to tuck his tail when they met. If he thought of himself as the alpha male he would suppose the rest of the world saw him that way too. Hannibal knew he had to show his teeth.

“They call me Smoke. Who the hell are you?”

Hannibal could feel the other four holding their breath while Rod took stock of him.

“I'm the dude who owns the house you're standing in front of, dude. This is my crew.”

Hannibal nodded and jerked his chin at Mariah. “I come looking for her.”

“Oh, you know Mariah?” Rod turned toward her, and she reacted. She appeared to feel something, maybe a jolt of fear. If so, her face said it felt good.

“Not really,” Hannibal said. “Spotted her on the boardwalk a couple of nights ago and it looked like she was a good connection for some… product. She belong to you?”

“That's right,” Rod said, thrusting a hand toward Hannibal. “Rod Mantooth. You want to talk to Mariah, you talk to me.” Hannibal took Rod's fist in his own and endured a fierce, crushing grip. Because he expected it, he managed to keep his hand from being mashed.

“So, I guess you the man,” Hannibal said. “That's cool. I don't know nobody down this way, not yet anyway, so I guess I need to know you. Let's go inside and talk a little business.”

Rod seemed to still be evaluating Hannibal when Mariah closed in on them. Hannibal noticed that her white, spaghetti strap heels were also quite high. Three-inch heels made good legs look great but Cindy had told him they were bad for the feet. These girls didn't seem to mind. Mariah showed small but perfect teeth and ran her fingertips up Hannibal's chest.

“Let's keep him, daddy,” she said over her shoulder to Rod. “I might get bored while you're training the newbie.”

Rod smiled with only one side of his mouth. “We'll see if you earn that kind of a reward. Come on inside, dude.”

They walked through the porch, which was choked with wicker furniture. Crossing the main threshold Hannibal spotted an alarm box beside the doorsill. A small white fixture hung in the upper left corner of the room. A motion sensor, Hannibal knew. Rod certainly didn't want any uninvited visitors.

The house itself was cool inside but that wasn't the reason that Hannibal felt small bumps rising on his skin. He sensed an odd tone, a mood filling the air as if an electric undercurrent connected everyone in the room. Mariah appeared to float free, not at all like the captive woman Sheryl had implied. The blonde boy rested a hand on the back of Sheryl's neck, guiding her steps and making a clear declaration of ownership. The third girl, the one Hannibal still had labeled Cherry in his mind, stayed in Rod's trail, following at a respectful distance. She didn't seem as comfortable in the heels or in the atmosphere as the others were, but her tentative smile expressed a brave effort to show she had what it takes. Hannibal stopped in the middle of the room, looking at no one in particular.

“Hey, Bucktooth. Any of these other people got names?”

A quick flash of anger rose and just as quickly faded in Rod's eyes. “It's Mantooth, dude. My man here is Derek. He takes care of people who can't remember my name right.”

The younger man stepped forward and shook Hannibal's hand. “Derek Steel,” he said through an exaggerated smile.

“Derek Steel?” Hannibal repeated. “That your real name, or you work in porn?”

Derek's face darkened in a diluted imitation of Rod's. “Do it say Smoke on your birth certificate, wiseass?”

“All right, don't get excited,” Hannibal said, already knowing that at some point he was going to have to kick this boy's ass. “Derek it is. Now what about the ladies?”

“I guess you already know Sheryl,” Rod said. The platinum blonde lowered her gaze to smile at Hannibal's shoes. “Mariah, she's the queen bee.” To Hannibal's surprise, Mariah also faced him and lowered her eyes. “The new girl is Missy.” Again, eyes lowered and her head bowed. Derek chuckled and Rod wore a look of pride. Hannibal's impression was that he was fishing for a compliment.

“You sure got them trained good.”

“Ah, a man who knows,” Rod said. “Sheryl, get Smoke a beer.” Sheryl's head bowed slightly again, and she walked as quickly as she could without running toward the kitchen. Like that, Hannibal was accepted. Rod pressed his fists into his waist and made another proclamation.

“You girls get those groceries put away while I show Smoke around the place.”

Rod ushered Hannibal upstairs for a tour. They peeked into three bedrooms with queen size beds and another, Rod's of course, that held a king size bed. Hannibal also noticed the alarms wired to every window. On their way back down a hall they met Sheryl. She was holding a tall mug with both hands. As Hannibal approached her, she presented it to him with a smile and another small bow of her head.