Dead Man Talking (18 page)

Her fingers dug into my skin, harder, tighter, and my windpipe closed. Stars burst behind my eyes. It happened so fast, I don’t think I even had a chance to pass out, but the next thing I knew, I was lying flat on the ground and Sammi was on top of me, squeezing the life out of me.

It took all of Absalom’s muscle to drag her off, and the second he did, Delmar dropped down next to me. He put an arm around my shoulders and helped me sit up. “You OK?”

I would have answered him if I could talk. Or even drag in a breath.

Reggie was on the other side of me. He put a bottle of water to my lips.

I sipped. I sputtered. My throat opened and I gasped, hauled in a breath, coughed, and realized that I was covered
with dirt. First things first. I had my image to worry about. Before I did anything else, I brushed the dust off my khakis.

“Don’t try to talk,” Reggie said, at the same time Greer stuck a microphone in my face.

“We’ve got it all on tape,” she said, as breathless as I was, though as far as I could see, she didn’t have nearly the same good reason I did. “It will make great evidence. You are going to press charges, aren’t you?”

Absalom still had a hold on Sammi, who was red in the face and breathing hard. She looked over at the sidewalk outside the fence just as I did, and seeing that Virgil was gone, some of the stiffness went out of her shoulders. She closed her eyes, leaned back against Absalom, and a single tear trickled down her cheek.

And me?

Don’t get the wrong idea. I wasn’t about to go all Ghandi or anything. I would have loved to see Sammi out of my life and locked up where she couldn’t do me—or my clothing—any more harm. But I sure wasn’t going to give Greer the satisfaction of catching my revenge on tape.

I told her
no
with a shake of my head.

The excitement over, a very disappointed Greer stayed around just long enough to watch Delmar and Reggie help me to my feet. I brushed off the seat of my pants, and when Sammi opened her mouth to say something—I hoped it was an apology—I stopped her.

“We’ll talk later,” I promised, each word painful and rasping. I looked down at the mess that was my outfit. “I’ve got to get cleaned up. I’ve got someplace . . . someplace to go.”

And God help me, I headed toward the Porta potti.

After all, I had to shop for a used car, and while I
didn’t want to look too prosperous, I sure couldn’t go looking like I did.

Porta potti aside, there was one consolation in the whole ugly incident: after tussling with Sammi, I was pretty sure that talking to Bad Dog Raphael was going to be a piece of cake.

 

 

 

 

L
et’s make one thing perfectly clear: I hate public transportation. It’s smelly. It’s dirty. It doesn’t run on my time schedule, and as fate would have it, I ended up sitting next to an old guy who smelled like stale cigars and talked to himself.

But I will say this much for it—the bus I got on near the cemetery spit me out right in front of Bad Dog’s Big Car Nation
.

Even if I hadn’t looked up the address, I would have recognized the place anywhere. It was hard to miss that car up at the top of a twenty-foot pole. Or the giant mechanical bulldog driving it, the one that was waving one arm to entice buyers in.

I was there to get an overall impression, both of the Big Car Nation and of its owner, so I stood on the sidewalk for a couple minutes and looked around. My ten-minute bus ride had kept me well within the Cleveland city limits, in a neighborhood where the McDonald’s across the street was built to look like a hacienda in a Zorro movie. There was a same-day check-cashing place to the right of the car lot, and on the left, a convenience store. It had bars on the windows and a security guard outside.

Bad Dog’s car lot took up the better part of one whole block, and aside from that monstrosity of a hacienda, it was the brightest spot I could see in the urban blight that
surrounded me. There was a line of cars parked along the perimeter of the lot, and every one of them was washed and shined to perfection, their attributes screaming from their windshields in red and blue crayon: AUTOMATIC! LOW MILEAGE! NEW TIRES!

Beyond the cars was a cinder-block office. It had a door on one side with a welcome sign above it and another sign below that declared HABLAMOS ESPAÑOL. To the left of the door was a picture window, and inside, I could see a couple people scurrying around. Neither of them was Bad Dog.

Before I could take another step, I was corralled by a middle-aged man with thinning hair and thick glasses. He was wearing jeans and a powder blue sport coat that had seen better days. Then again, I was dressed in khakis that had a smudge of dirt across the butt and a shirt that had a hole in one elbow. If nothing else, my walk on the cemetery wild side was teaching me to be tolerant when it came to fashion disasters.

The man’s nametag told me he was Bud. He stuck out a hand. “You look like a little lady who could use some help.”

I was nice enough not to point out that no matter how thick his glasses, there was no way I looked like a
little lady
. Not to anyone. Instead, I started right in.

“I need a car,” I said, and I was sure to add, “A good one,” so that I sounded serious.

“Price range?”

I shrugged. “It has to be dependable,” I said. “And I don’t have a lot of money.”

“Dependable is not a problem.” His grin showed off crooked, yellow teeth. “How’s about you just come on in and fill out a credit application.”

“Shouldn’t we look at cars first?”

His grin got bigger. “See, that’s the mistake most folks make,” he said. “They get their hearts set on a car, then find out they can’t afford it. You don’t want that to happen to you, do you, little lady?”

I assured him I didn’t, and I followed him inside the cinder-block building, where I sat on a metal chair and filled out a credit application with the pen Bud took out of his shirt pocket. It leaked. When I was done, Bud trotted back in my direction. “You know, Bud . . .” I gave him a simmering little smile. “I was hoping to meet Bad Dog himself.”

Bud’s gaze went briefly to a door across the office marked PRIVATE. It was closed. “He’s a busy man,” he said. “I can help you just fine.”

I kept my smile firmly in place, even when Bud stepped a little closer. “I’m sure you can. It’s just that . . . well, I’ve seen Bad Dog on all those commercials, and it’s like . . . well, I feel like I practically know him. That’s why I came here in the first place. And then when I mentioned it at work . . . people told me . . .” I bucked up my courage and leaned in closer to Bud. He smelled like old socks. I held my breath and whispered, “Somebody said Bad Dog was in prison once.”

Before Bud could answer, a weird thing happened. A red carnation appeared right in front of my face. Surprised, I stepped back and slid my gaze in the direction of Bad Dog’s office. The door was open now, and Bad Dog himself was on the other end of that flower. Close enough to touch, and definitely close enough for him to hear what I’d just said.

I stepped back and looked Bad Dog over. It was, after all, what that bus ride and this nonsense about needing a car was all about. Even if I could come right out and ask if he had anything to do with Vera Blaine’s death, there
was no way he was going to tell me. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t dig, just a little, and size him up while I was at it.

Like he was in the commercials I’d seen, Bad Dog was wearing an expensive suit and a smile that crinkled the corners of his dark eyes. That scar above his left eye should have been gross. Instead, it enhanced his dark and deadly image. His hair was the color of strong coffee. His voice was as rich as Dove dark chocolate. Oh yeah, Mack Raphael was suave, all right.

I told myself not to forget that if everything Quinn said about him was true, he was also unreformed and plenty dangerous.

“Thank you, Bud, I’ll take it from here.” Bad Dog dismissed the salesman with a curt nod then turned a smile on me as sleek as the Porsche my dad used to drive. “Red carnation. Get it? Bad Dog’s Big Car Nation?”

I smiled like I thought it was funny, and when he offered the flower again, I had no choice but to take it.

“I save them for the pretty customers,” he said. “For you . . .” He stepped back and looked me over as carefully as I had just studied him. “Maybe I should have brought out a whole dozen.”

“That’s so sweet!” I sniffed the flower because I figured that’s what I was supposed to do. “I knew you’d be just like you are in your commercials. So—”

“Handsome?” Bad Dog laughed.

Years of dating had done nothing if not taught me how to blush on command. “I was going to say friendly.”

“Yet you’re worried. About my reputation. I couldn’t help but overhear what you said to Bud. You know, about my background. Does that matter when it comes to buying a car?”

“If I can’t trust you . . .” I could twinkle with the best of them, and I pulled out all the stops. “Then I can’t trust your cars.”

Bad Dog laughed. “We’re going to get along just fine.”

“But only if your prices are good. And your cars are dependable. And that means, really, I need to know about—”

“Prison. Yes, of course.” Bad Dog made a gesture with one arm that invited me to walk with him. I did, and he led me outside. “Sedan or SUV?” he asked and that was that—the subject had officially been changed. “Color? Is it important? Yes, of course, color is always important to a woman. I’ve found that the more beautiful a woman is, the more she cares about color and style. I think that means you must care very, very much.”

I was supposed to be flattered. If there wasn’t that whole drug empire/murder/prison thing to consider, I actually might have been. The way it was, I could see I was going to get nowhere fast with Mack Raphael. Not if I wasn’t clever, and very, very careful.

“Sedan,” I said. “Red if you have one in my price range. I’d prefer American made, leather seats if at all possible, a moon roof, and I’d rather not have a gas guzzler. I’m all about saving the environment.”

“Of course.” He led me to a maroon Ford. No moon roof and it had more than a hundred thousand miles on the odometer. Raphael opened the driver’s door. “Get in, why don’t you? Try it out. We could take it for a test drive.”

We could, but being that alone with Mack Raphael was not in my game plan.

I slid behind the steering wheel. “It was Central State, wasn’t it?” I asked him.

“If you know so much, why do you need me to confirm it?”

“Fair question. But like I said . . .” I skimmed a hand over the dashboard. It was spotless. “I can barely afford a car, and I can’t afford one at all if it isn’t going to last. If you’re not honest—”

“As the day is long!” He held up one hand, Boy Scout-style.

I smiled as if I was satisfied. Right before I asked, “How long ago?”

He thought he was home free. Which was why his expression clouded. “Before you were born.”

“I’m older than I look.”

“I was there from ’82 to ’90.”

And Vera Blaine had been murdered in ’84, I reminded myself. I also told myself not to lose heart. If Bad Dog could run drugs from inside the prison, surely it couldn’t be hard to arrange a hit and the frame-up of a warden he hated.

“I was a kid then,” I said. I ran my hand below the edge of the front seat, found the little lever, and moved the seat back. “It must have been terrible.”

He knew I wasn’t talking about the height of the last person to drive this car. “It was an education. Prison always is for those who are smart enough to see it that way. Believe me, I learned a powerful lesson. That’s why I’m an honest businessman today.”

He smiled down at me.

I smiled up at him while I wondered how I could tippy-toe my way back into a topic as delicate as a lengthy incarceration. Have no fear, I would have found the words.

If Absalom hadn’t shown up.

“There you are.” He strode through the line of parked cars like he had every right to be there, and when he got over to the maroon Ford, he glared. “Told you, woman, we don’t need no new car. The one you got, it’s good enough for you.”

“Family squabble?” Bad Dog looked sorry to find out I had a significant other. “Perhaps I should let you two talk privately.”

“Don’t need to talk.” Absalom reached into the car, grabbed me by the arm, and hauled me out. “We ain’t buying a car. Not today.”

I shook him off. “That doesn’t mean I can’t look.”

“Means you’re wasting this good man’s time. And you got work to do back at Monroe Street. Crazy woman works in a cemetery,” he told Bad Dog. “Which only goes to prove how really crazy she is.”

With no choice but to go along with Absalom, and itching to find out what he was up to and why he was there, I was about to walk away. Bad Dog stopped me, one hand on my arm. “Monroe Street. That’s not just any cemetery. Isn’t that the cemetery where Jefferson Lamar is buried?”

I blinked—actually, I batted my eyelashes—and asked, “Who?”

Bad Dog put a friendly hand on my back. “Just a name from the past. And not important. I hope when you both decide you need a car, you’ll come back to see me. Promise?”

I did, and with a straight face, too.

And I kept that straight face firmly in place until Absalom and I crossed the street and walked into the Mc-Donald’s parking lot.

“What the hell was that all about?” I asked him.

“You ain’t askin’ the questions today, I’m askin’ the questions,” he growled. “Like what the hell you doin’ tanglin’ with a man like Bad Dog?”

“We weren’t tangling. We were talking. About buying a car.”

“Except you don’t need a car.”

“And you—” He led me over to where my Mustang was parked. “How—”

Absalom opened the door and got behind the wheel, and I got in on the passenger side. “What—”