Down by the River Where the Dead Men Go (23 page)

“Nothing. I’ve got to go.”

“You can’t talk to me, not for a minute?”

“No.”

“Don’t do this to me, Nick. You’re going to fuck up something really good.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Bye, Nick.”

“Good-bye.”

I hung up the phone, closed my eyes tightly, said something out loud that even I didn’t understand. When I opened my eyes, the red of LaDuke’s taillights glowed through my screen door as the Ford pulled up along the curb. The clock on the wall read 9:40. I slapped a magazine into the butt of the nine, safetied the gun, and holstered it behind my back. LaDuke gave his horn a short blast. I killed the living room light and walked out to the street.

L
ADUKE HAD PARKED
the Ford under a dead streetlight and was standing with his backside against the car. I went to him, reached into my pocket, and pulled two of the three spansules out. I popped one into my mouth, dry-dumped it, and handed him the other.

“What’s this?”

“Something to notch you up. It came from McGinnes, so it’s got to be good. Eat it.”

“I don’t need it. I’m already wired.”

“I don’t need it, either. But this’ll shoot us all the way through to the other end. Eat it, man.”

The truth was, I did need it. And I wanted LaDuke right there with me. He looked at me curiously but swallowed the spansule.

LaDuke pushed away from the car, went to the trunk, opened it. The light inside the lid beamed across his chest. I
walked over and stood next to him and looked inside. An Ithaca twelve-gauge lay on a white blanket, the edge of the blanket folded over the stock. The shotgun had been recently polished and oiled, but I could see it had been well-used; the blueing on the barrel had been rubbed down where the shooter’s hand had slid along with the action of the pump.

“This ain’t no turkey shoot, LaDuke.”

“I know it.”

“Why the Ithaca?”

“Bottom ejection. I don’t need shells flyin’ up in front of my eyes when I’m tryin’ to make a shot.”

“What, you think you got to aim that thing? For Chrissakes, just point it.”

“I got something else if I want to aim.”

“Put everything in the trunk and cover it. We get stopped, we’re fucked.”

LaDuke dropped to one knee, pulled his snub-nosed revolver from an ankle holster. In the light, I could read the words
KING COBRA
etched into the barrel—a .357 Colt. He dropped it on the blanket, next to the shotgun. I drew my Browning, whipped the barrel of it against the trunk light, shattered the light. We stood in darkness.

“What the hell did you do that for?” LaDuke said.

“I’ll buy you a new bulb. That light was like wearing a bill-board. When we get down to Southeast, it’s gonna be stone-dark. We don’t need the attention.”

I put the Browning and the extra clip on the blanket, covered the guns, and shut the lid of the trunk.

“You coulda just unscrewed the bulb,” LaDuke said.

“I wanted to break something. Come on.”

WE PICKED UP DARNELL
outside the Spot. He got behind the wheel, and LaDuke slid across the bench to the passenger side. I got out and climbed into the back. Darnell looked at me in the
rearview and adjusted the leather kufi that sat snugly on his head.

“Where to?”

“Half Street at Potomac,” I said.

“Back in there by the Navy Yard?”

“Right.” I caught a silvery reflection in my side vision, a flash, or a trail. Fingers danced through my hair and something tickled behind my eyes—the familiar kick-in of the speed. Darnell pulled out from the curb.

“This Ford’s got a little juice,” Darnell said. “I noticed it the other day.”

“A little,” LaDuke said, tight-jawed now from the drug.

I lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply. “We’re gonna go in like we’re knocking the place over. You got that, Jack?”

“Why?”

“I’m thinking we’re going to make like we’re taking the kid hostage, so they think he’s got nothing to do with us. They’ll probably come after us. But I want to make sure they leave the kid alone.”

“How’re we going to get in?”

“I’m Bobby, remember? The aspiring actor. I called earlier in the day, spoke to the man in charge… like that. Assuming I get that far, you step around the corner, show your shotgun to whoever it is we’re talking to, let him know what it means. After that, we’ll improvise.”

“Improvise?”

“You’ll get into it. And… LaDuke?”

“What?”

“We get in there, don’t call me by my name.”

Darnell pushed the Ford down M, made a right onto Half. Off the thoroughfare, the street darkened almost immediately.

“I’m thirsty,” LaDuke said quickly. “I need something to drink.”

“We’ll have a drink,” I said. “Let’s just get this done now. Then we’ll drink.”

“Up around there?” Darnell said.

“That’s the place,” I said. “Drive slow by it, then drive around the block.”

The perimeter was lighted by floods. Three cars, including the Le Sabre, were parked in the surrounding lot. A heavy chain connected the gate to the main fence. As we passed, I could see a padlock dangling open on one end.

Darnell drove slowly around the block and stopped the Ford along the fence of the warehouse across the street, where the white
LIGHTING AND EQUIPMENT
vans were parked. I took the last spansule from my pocket and broke it open. I leaned over the front seat.

“Make a fist, LaDuke, and turn it.”

He did it, his eyes pinballing in their sockets. I poured half the spansule out on the crook of his hand, then poured the other half, a tiny mound of shiny crystal, on mine. I snorted the powder off my hand and up into my nose, feeling the burn and then the drip back in my throat. LaDuke did the same. His eyes teared up right away.

“Goddamn,” LaDuke said.

“Let’s go,” I said.

Darnell gave me one last look, and then we were out of the car. LaDuke popped the trunk, reached inside, pulled back the blanket. He holstered the revolver on his ankle, picked up the shotgun, cradled it, dropped extra shells in his pocket. I found the Browning, switched off the safety, and put one in the chamber. I slid the gun, barrel down, behind the waistband of my jeans, covered it with the tail of my shirt. We crossed the street.

The gate was a slider. I pulled the chain through the links. LaDuke pushed the gate along a couple of feet and the two of us slipped inside.

We moved quickly across the lot, over to the side of the building, where there was a steel door behind a flatbed trailer. Above the door, a floodlight blew a triangle of white light onto a
two-step concrete stoop. LaDuke and I flattened ourselves against the brick side of the building, outside the area of the light. LaDuke rested the butt of the Ithaca on his knee.

“I’m all right,” he said, though I hadn’t asked him.

“Good,” I said. “I’m going to go up on that stoop now, ring the bell.”

“I wanna
move
, man.”

“That’s good, too. LaDuke?”

“Yeah.”

“This goes off right, you won’t have to use that shotgun. Hear?”

“Let’s do this thing,” he said.

I stepped up onto the stoop, rang a flat yellow buzzer mounted to the right of the door. I rang it once, then again, and waited. Moths fluttered around my head. My bottom teeth were welded to my top and it felt as if someone were peeling back the top of my head. A lock turned from behind the door and then the door opened.

A wiry white man stood before me, his long brown hair tied back, knife-in-skull tattoos on thin forearms, the veins throbbing on the arms like live blue rope. He had a slight mustache and a billy-goat beard, and almond-shaped, vaguely inbred eyes.

He looked me over and said, “What?”

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Bobby.”

And then LaDuke, wild-eyed and chalk white, jumped into the light, a frightening howl emanating from his mouth. I stepped aside and the man stepped back, reaching beneath the tail of his shirt. The almond eyes opened wide and he made a small choking sound; he knew it was too late. LaDuke swung the shotgun like he was aiming for the left-field bleachers. He hit it solid, the stock connecting high on the wiry man’s cheek. The man went down on his side, all deadweight hitting the floor, no echo, no movement. When he found his breath, he began to moan.

LaDuke pumped the shotgun, pointed it one inch from the man’s face.

“Don’t talk unless I tell you to talk,” LaDuke said. The man closed his eyes slowly, then opened them. He stared blankly ahead.

We were in a long hall that had thin metal shelving running along either side. Paints and hardware sat on the shelves. I found a rag and dampened it with turpentine. Then I went to an area where there appeared to be several varieties of rope and cord. I took a spool of the strongest-looking rope and walked back to LaDuke, picking up a cutting tool—a retractable straight-edged razor used by stock boys and artists—along the way.

“What now?” LaDuke said. He was sweating and his knuckles were white on the pump.

“Go ahead and ask the man some questions.” The man’s face had swelled quickly; I wondered if LaDuke had caved his cheekbone.

“What’s your name?” LaDuke said.

“Sweet,” the man said.

“Okay, Mr. Sweet,” LaDuke said, “this is a robbery. We know about the business you’re running here. We’d like all the cash money you have on hand. First we want to talk to your associates. Where are they?”

The man closed his eyes. “Straight down the hall”—he winced at the movement in his own jaw—“Straight down the hall, then right. To the end, last door on the right. Metal door.”

“How many in the room?”

“Four.”

“How many guns?”

“One.”

I cut a long length of rope, then a shorter one. I tied Sweet’s hands to his feet, behind his back. Then I stuffed the rag into his mouth and wrapped the short length of rope around his face. I tied it off behind his head and slipped the razor in the seat pocket of my jeans.

LaDuke sniffed the air. “What’s that, paint thinner?”

“It won’t kill him,” I said. “It’ll make him too dizzy to move much, though. Come on.”

LaDuke took the barrel away from the man’s face, rested it across his own forearm. I pulled my Browning, picked up the spool of rope, and gave LaDuke’s shirt a tug.

We walked quickly down the hall, our steps quiet on the concrete floor. At the end, we made a right and went down a hall no different from the first. I had to jog a few steps to keep pace with LaDuke.

“I could run right through a fucking wall,” he said.

“You’re doing fine,” I said. Just as I said it, we reached the last metal door on the right.

We stood there, listening to male voices behind the door; under the voices, the buzz of a caged lightbulb suspended above our heads. I looked at LaDuke and placed the spool of rope at my feet. LaDuke managed a tight smile.

I stood straight, knocked two times on the door.

Footsteps. Then: “Yes?”

“Sweet,” I said with an edge.

The knob turned. When the door opened a crack, I put my instep to it and screamed. Something popped, and the man behind the door went down. LaDuke and I stepped inside.

“This is a robbery,” LaDuke said.

I made a quick coverage. The man on the floor: heavy, bald, and soft, holding his mouth, blood seeping through his fingers, repeating, “Oh, oh, oh…” A black man, mid-thirties, sat on a worktable set against a cinder-block wall. He watched us with amusement and made no movement at all. Two shirtless actors stood in front of a tripoded camera, in the center of a triangular light arrangement, a spot and a couple of fills. The first actor, who wore a tool belt around his bare waist, could have been the star of any soap, some housewife’s idea of a stud, all show muscles, his plump mouth open wide. The second actor, the only one of them with the nerve or the stupidity to scowl, was a young black man, thin and long-featured—Roland Lewis, no question.