Done for a Dime (31 page)

Murchison felt an impulse to suggest something, anything, regardless how bankrupt, at the same time knowing it wasn’t a solution she was after.

“And I’ll tell you what else. This fat-ass nurse down there? I’m desperate, I’m crying, I’m on my knees. You know what she has the gall to tell me? ‘There’s no cure for growing old, dear.’ Like I’m an idiot. Like I’m a child.” She lifted the glass again, shrugged. “But what am I telling you for?”

Nodding toward her glass, he said, “You given any thought to antidepressants?”

Her expression collapsed, the eyes turned cold. Raising her hand, she pointed at him with a bent, arthritic finger: “How dare you say a thing like that to me.”

17

A
s Ferry drove up to the storage locker, he discovered Manny sitting on the pavement out front, his back propped against the wall, knees swaying dreamily to and fro. His bruised eye still swollen shut, he blew a smoke ring into the air, studying its ascent as though it conveyed a secret message. Ferry inferred from all this that the kid had already cooked up and fixed and withstood his afternoon retch and nod. And who saw him at it, Ferry wondered, slamming the van door shut.

“I told you to stay out of sight.”

“You’re paranoid.” Manny tapped tobacco ash onto the pavement. “I’ve seen, like, three people around here since you left.”

Ferry took the cigarette out of his fingers, crushed it with his heel. “Yeah? Well, I took a drive around St. Martin’s Hill, past your little home away from home. Your so-called friends handed you up. Took ’em no time at all.”

Manny trembled a little, but his face glowed with smiling tranquillity. It’s not just the smack, Ferry thought. The work, the smell of diesel fuel, it must have calmed him down.

“Like I said, you should get me out of here.”

“Give me four more hours’ honest labor.” Ferry rolled up the locker door. “I’ll get you as far away as you want.”

He checked the detergent tubs, now filled with the silvery gray mix of ammonium perchlorate and diesel fuel and cut-up strips of aluminum. A flare impaled each tub.

“I figured we’d add the top-off of diesel fuel later.” Manny nodded toward the last remaining nonempty jerrincan. “You know, so they don’t all slosh and spill in the van.”

“Slow us down, messing around with the can each stop. Here.” Ferry picked up the tin snips. “Make a hole in the tub lids, for the flare to stick out. I’ll pour in the diesel now. What spills won’t matter, too little to bother with. We’ll take the lids off as we fire the little fuckers up. Hot as these burn, won’t be a problem.”

Manny went to work on the plastic tub lids, his high slowing him down just a notch, but that made him meticulous. Ferry doled out the diesel fuel, no more than a half inch in each tub. When they’d both finished they snapped home the lids and had a dozen self-contained bombs. Rocket fuel, basically. Things would go up so hot and fast they’d take with them anything in a ten-yard radius almost instantly.

“Let’s pack ’em up.”

They loaded the empty jerricans first, so they’d sit farthest from the rear doors. Then one by one they arranged the tubs—easy to reach, just open the doors and grab. From behind the passenger compartment Ferry dug out a pair of coveralls, a white cloth cap, and a huge pair of rubber boots, handing them all to Manny. “You’re a plumber. Delivering supplies for repair jobs this week. Look the part.”

Manny stepped into the coveralls as carefully as a kid putting on his pajamas. When he got to the boots, he said, “How come so big?”

“Same reason as mine.” Ferry pulled his own boots on. “Keep them from matching our shoe prints from what they find at the scene. Stuff some paper in the toe, you want.”

Ferry packed the rest of the debris from the locker into plastic bags. Nothing left but dust.

“We’ll find a Dumpster for the garbage on the way. Get in.”

Manny climbed into the passenger seat. “Where’s the first stop?”

“Set a decoy.” Ferry turned the ignition key, slid the tranny into drive. “There’s an empty warehouse down around Dumpers in southtown.”

“Could be squatters there.” Manny bit into a fingernail as the van started to move. “I mean, you know, all those warehouses, same deal.”

“I’ve got it figured out,” Ferry said.

•    •    •

Miss Carvela sat in her recliner, Toby and Nadya on the sofa. The room was warm and softly lit. They’d been discussing Toby’s father, reminiscing. At one point, Miss Carvela read aloud the Thirty-ninth Psalm. Dan, sitting by himself near the living room window where he had a view of the street, said, “Were you expecting someone?”

Toby rose, crossed the room, looked out. “Good God.”

“Who is it?” Miss Carvela put her Bible aside and turned in her chair to stand, slipping her feet into her shoes. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“Aunt Veronique.”

Toby’s aunt scaled the concrete steps in the twilight, reedy like his father but shorter, pinch-faced beneath a honey-colored wig, wearing high heels and a calfskin car coat. The woman who’d come up to him in the police station lobby, Arlie Thigpen’s mother, followed behind, holding her purse like a bucket.

Dan looked at Toby. “Should I let them in?”

“Sure, I guess. Miss Carvela?”

The tiny old woman shrugged helplessly, stepping forward. “Is there a reason not to?”

“Possibly.” Dan pointed. “The guys down there.”

Down at the pavement, three men looked up, waiting beside a silver BMW parked behind Veronique’s Mark IV. The tallest one had a short-cut natural and wore a putty-colored sport coat over a plaid shirt and jeans. The second was shorter but massive, with a thick head crowned with jeri curls lathered in gel; he wore a black turtleneck beneath a powder-blue suit, a pair of white loafers on his feet. The third wore charcoal slacks and a black blazer, a snow-white V-neck sweater, no shirt beneath, with gold rope chains looped around his neck. A few of the young men still out on the street ventured up, paid their respects.

“Which one’s Long Walk Mooney?” Dan asked as the two women reached the porch. “If you know.”

“I don’t,” Toby said.

The doorbell rang. Everybody looked at everybody else. Dan got up from his chair, but Miss Carvela held him back with a raised finger. “This is my home.” A voice like a plucked string. “I will decide.”

She brushed the creases from her dress, patted the lace at her collar, then stepped to the door. She could have chained the lock, spoken through the tiny space, but chose instead to swing the door wide. “Good evening, ladies. I do not believe I’ve yet had the pleasure.”

Before they could answer, Dan, standing now, said, “Showtime.”

He moved to the door as Toby looked out, saw the three men taking the steps two at a time. He spun toward Nadya, who remained on the sofa, looking lost. She was the reason they’d come. The only witness. He sped to the hallway, found a cordless phone. It had a speed dial function for 911. Back in the living room, he delivered the handset to Nadya.

“Just hit this button if things get out of hand. The police will know just from the call where to come.”

She took the phone from him, nodded her understanding. As their eyes met, he wanted to tell her he was sorry. Instead, he turned and hurried to the door.

Dan placed a gentle hand on Miss Carvela’s shoulder, towering over her. “I’m hoping we won’t have a problem here.”

The three men arranged themselves on the porch with a poorly feigned casual air. “Miss Carvela,” the one in the white V-neck said, like Dan wasn’t there, easing between the two women, who’d yet to say one word. His voice was strangely clenched and high. “Miss Carvela, you know me. Union Elementary, one through six. James Mooney. Kids called me Long Walk.”

“You were called a great many things,” Miss Carvela replied. A withering tone, echoes of detention. “Not just by the children.”

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.” His deference was genuine. He spread his hand at his chest, an apology, an oath. “I mean no disrespect to you. I’m not here to disrespect your home, neither. Let me introduce folks here.” The two women, Veronique and Sarina, stood stiff and eerily dull-eyed as he said their names. The two men—the chunky one in the suit was named Mack Silas; the taller one in the jeans and plaid shirt, Chat Miller—traded stares with Dan. “We have business to discuss with Mr. Carlisle’s son.”

“I have difficulty,” Miss Carvela said, “embracing any concept of business that would include your activities.”

“Miss Grimes, we wish to come in.” It was Veronique. Toby’d never heard her voice so meek, so false.

“Any reason we can’t talk like this, right here?” he asked.

“Cold out here.” It was Mack Silas. His voice came from deep inside his barrel-shaped body, like he meant to be heard throughout the house. “Almost dark.”

“The lady did ask nice,” the tall one added, much gentler, stammering just a little.

Up close they both looked rough-edged but in distinctly different ways. The tall one, Chat Miller, was older than the other two, maybe as old as his mid-forties, with huge, bony hands so scarred and thick with calluses Toby guessed he was a handyman or a carpenter. His face had a high-cheeked, sharp-nosed angularity, with steady eyes and a deep, ugly, hook-shaped scar running from one edge of his mouth to beneath his chin. The thick one, Mack Silas, had his share of scars as well, but they didn’t look the kind that came from work. He had swollen, pebbly knuckles and a gold tooth, plus a flat, shovel-shaped nose and a heavy, low-slung jaw. There was a scent to him, too—junior-high locker rooms, cheap cologne, sweat.

Mooney, in contrast, with his choirboy voice—and despite the chains and shirtless V-neck—seemed almost gentrified. Except for the eyes. They were deep-set, a mesmerizing amber color.

“Miss Carvela. I promise, word of honor, we come to talk. Nothing but.”

Miss Carvela turned around. Toby met her gaze. Seeing concession, he reached out, touched Dan’s arm. “Let me.” He stared at his aunt, who looked off, then addressed them all at once. “My girlfriend’s inside, holding a phone. One false move, she connects with the police. That good? If not, leave now.”

Mooney smiled in a way that made Toby uneasy, agreeing too soon. His two sidekicks just stared; the women looked numb. Dan eased back and Mooney didn’t wait. He slipped past everyone with graceful speed, spotted Nadya on the couch, and went straight for her, reaching inside his coat. Nadya stared at him like he was death itself. As though sensing the wrongness of it himself, Mooney stopped halfway in, removed not a weapon but a picture from his pocket, and held it high for all to see.

“I’d like her to check this out. Okay?” Turning this way, that.

Toby took it from him. “Who’s this?”

“Just show it to her, if you would.” He made a “scoot” gesture with his hands. “Go on.”

Toby crossed the room, handed the picture to Nadya.

Mooney said to her, “Tell me who that is.”

Nadya studied the picture, clutching the phone. “I don’t know.”

“You never seen him,” Mooney said.

“No.”

“Not once. Never.”

“She answered you,” Toby said. “What’s your point?”

“My point?” He gestured across the room at Sarina Thigpen. “Young man’s mama right there. Boy’s name’s Arlie. He’s a good boy, ain’t nobody’s idea of trouble.”

Sarina made two steps forward, her eyes red. She seemed uneasy on her feet, not from fatigue so much as misery.

Nadya greeted her with a self-conscious nod. “I heard the detectives mention your son’s name, ma’am. They asked if I knew who he was, I said no. They asked if I saw him shoot Mr. Carlisle. I didn’t—”

“Thank you,” Mooney said in a loud whisper.

“I didn’t see anybody shoot Mr. Carlisle.”

“Then why won’t the police release my son?” Sarina’s eyes ballooned with outrage and fear.

“I don’t know.”

Mooney folded his hands, put them to his lips. “Arlie ain’t but nineteen.”

Dan stepped in. “That the extent of your business? If so—”

Mooney stopped him with a look. “Just a minute. Hold on now.” He stuck out a hand. “Name’s James. You are?”

It took a second, but Dan reached out for Mooney’s hand, shook. “Dan.”

“Pleasure. But no, the extent of my business, as you put it—more to it than that.”

Toby’s aunt finally made way into the room and dropped into a chair as though afraid she might collapse. She sat, eyes closed, breathing like she’d run. Mooney glanced at her briefly, his brow creased.

“People I know,” he said, turning back to the room, “they been telling the rollers all day they know who shot Mr. Carlisle. They
know
. This deadbeat named Manny. Been hanging around the house next door to Mr. Carlisle’s.”

“I saw him last night,” Nadya said.

Everybody froze. Mooney said, “One more time?”

“I saw him—”

“You just said you
didn’t
—”

“Not at the house. I saw him at the club. Where Toby was playing. At least I think it was him. There was a fight, he tried to control Mr. Carlisle. Mr. Carlisle didn’t like that.”

“A
fight
?”

“Yes.”

Arlie’s mother stared at Nadya like she’d just confessed to the killing herself. Mooney edged closer to her. “And you told this to the heat.”

“Who?”

“Po-lice.”

“Yes.”

“What you just said.”

“Yes. Yes.”

For the first time, a genuine ugliness rose up in Mooney’s face. “Mother
fuckers.
”

“James Mooney, you are in my home, you will control your tongue.”

He snapped to with an instant deference, stonily sincere. “Miss Carvela, I
am
sorry.”

Arlie’s mother said, “They know this, you told them, they know who shot Mr. Carlisle. Why won’t they let Arlie go?”

“Trumped-up drug charge,” Mack Silas said, voice again booming, too loud for the room.

Mooney added more quietly, “Ain’t sellin’ drugs for me, Miss Carvela. All long ago. My past life.”

Nadya swallowed. “I don’t know, ma’am. Why they’re holding your son, ma’am.”

“It’s not up to her what the police do,” Toby said. “Believe me, we’d love to have some effect on what the police do.”