JJ08 - Blood Money (19 page)

There were
two
booth-style tables in the back corner not far from the deli.
We
were in one of them. No one
was
in the
other.

White ceramic cups of coffee in saucers sat in front of us on the table but Hahn was the only one actually drinking
any.

The only person on
duty,
a middle-aged
woman
with red fro-ish hair was behind the counter, her attention focused on her phone.

“You
think
someone’s
trying to kill all the remaining Suicide Kings or just Lance and Danny? Or just Lance?

Did Danny kill himself ?”

“The ones that are left, what are they in for?”

“Drugs or drug-related robbery for
Jacobs
and
Rollins.
Phillips, conspiracy and fraud. Allen for manslaughter.”

“Who’d
he kill?”

“Sister.
There’s
family money—both were due to inherit.
Now,
just him. It was a boating accident. Prosecutor suspected murder, could only get criminal negligence. Allen had been drinking. Says he
didn’t
mean to kill
her.”

“Whatta you think?”

“I think he did.”

I nodded. “What about the staff members in the dorm? Anything come up?”

“Dr.
Alvarez has had some trouble on the street.

Malpractice stuff. All the cases settled with his insurance, so no convictions, but he
doesn’t
practice anywhere but
here.”

“They
don’t
really care who does the doctoring on inmates, do they?”

She smirked, raised her eyebrows, and tilted her head. “Just a position that has to be filled. Not many successful doctors lining up to
work
inside.”

“Is the same true of us?
We
inside because
we
failed or ran into trouble on the street?”

“True of a lot of people who
work
inside, not all. Some of us just
live
in a small area without a lot
 
of opportunity. Doctor can make a lot more money outside.
Same’s
not true for a minister or nurse or counselor.”

I nodded.

“Though Alvarez is making money—lots of it. He
can’t
practice—or
doesn’t,
but he owns a
clinic.”

“Interesting.”

“Baldwin’s
clean—legal-wise,
anyway.
She does
have
constant man trouble. So many neuroses, so much drama. Donnie
Foster’s
clean.
So’s
Jamie
Lee.”

“What about you?” She
didn’t
say
anything.

She
wasn’t
on the list because I
didn’t
know she
was
down there, but—

I abandoned the thought as a young Hispanic man in a black cowboy getup walked in carrying a gun.

T
he small bell
above
the door had not even caused
Red
to look
up,
and I hoped she would remain oblivious for whatever happened next.

He scanned the store slowly until his eyes came to rest on me.

I waited.

With no weapon and
two
women in close
proximity,
I
didn’t have
a lot of
options.

He moved toward me and Hahn, which meant he was moving
away
from
Red
and the cash register.

He
wasn’t
here to rob the place.
“You
Jordan?” he asked.

He
wore
black jeans, black cowboy
boots,
and a long-sleeve black button-down shirt. A white vest with black stitched designs was open to reveal a horse-head bolero at the top and matching belt buckle at the bottom.

“Yeah,”
I said. “Not the basketball player, the
nobody.”

He smiled. “Only one
M.J.”

“King of pop might not agree,” I said.

He nodded very slowly as he seemed to consider what I had said with far more earnestness than it
was
worthy
of.

“True,”
he said.
“Very
true,
señor.”

“You
consider everything that carefully?” I said. He seemed to consider that.

“
Seriously
?” I said.

He sat down across from me and next to Hahn, but
didn’t
acknowledge her in any
way.
She slid
over
as far as she could.

He leveled the .45 at me, but I only saw it in my peripheral vision. My eyes
didn’t
leave
his.

The pungent odor pouring from his pores mixed with the scent of what I recognized to be a popular body
spray.
The unpleasant alchemical affect was one of aging ethnic food and drugstore deodorizer roasting in a hot
car.

The body spray was advertised to
drive women
wild.

So far Hahn had somehow found the strength to resist. “Pretty calm,” he said. “That come from spending so much time with guys like me?”

“What kind of guy is that?”

“Type
does what needs to be done, amigo—sometimes for other
people.”

“Oh,”
I said.
“An
errand
boy.”
He smiled. “Been called
worse.”

“
I
bet.”

Hahn was obviously scared, but she was holding her own just fine.

Without acknowledging
her,
he lifted her coffee cup and drank from it, wincing as he did.

“That is very bad,
jefe,”
he said.

“Everything here
is,”
I said.
“It’s
sort of their
thing.”

“
Somebody needs to shoot the clown behind the
counter,”
he said.

I looked
over
at Red, who was still unaware that anything was going on, then back at the
cowboy.

“So what errand brings you to this joint? Chicken, pizza, beer?”

“You,”
he said. “I am here for you, jefe. I
have
been asked to gently remind you that you are a chaplain not a . . . Just mind your own business and not that of
others.
Only trouble for you in
it.”

“Others and trouble are my
business,”
I said.

“This is just a warning,” he said. “But you only get
one.”

“Then could you be a little more specific?” I said. “I got a lot goin’ on right
now.
It’d
be embarrassing if I got killed for stopping the wrong
thing.”

“Let us just say it
involves
issues of life and death, which is a good thing for you to
remember.”

When he glanced back at Red, his eyes came
alive
for the first time. “Goddamn, but I like
gringo
redheads.” He glanced back at Hahn. “I mean no offense, señorita.”

“You
delivered your message,” I said.
“Any
particular reason
you’re
still here?”

He seemed to contemplate that for a long moment, rubbing a thumbnail against his smooth jawline as he did.

“You
see this?” he said, lifting the gun. “This lets me do whatever I want. Stay where I want for as long as I
want.”

He held the gun like they did in the
movies.
“You
ever shot anyone?” I asked.

He
didn’t
respond.

“It’s
harder than it
looks,”
I said. “Even at a target, but especially at a living human
being.
And to kill a man.
It’s
like nothing
you’ve
ever known.”

“The hell kind of preacher are you?”

“The convict kind,” I said. “But I
wasn’t
always
that.”

He nodded
appreciatively.
“Explains a lot.
Well
. . . is what it
is.
Just remember what I said.
Okay,
amigo?”

He stood and moved
away
quickly.
A moment later, he was out the door, the small bell jingling causing
Red
to look up for the first time.

“You
okay?” I asked. Hahn nodded.

“Sorry
about all that.”

She shook her head.
“It’s
okay.”

Without thinking, she started to take a sip of her coffee, but I stopped
her.

“His prints are on your
cup,”
I said. “Safe money says
he’s
got a record.”

“I
f he
Hispanic,”
Merrill said, “possible he connected to Miguel Morales? Like maybe it
was
about him?”

We
were standing in front of the convenience store in the nearly empty parking lot.

“Could
be,”
I said. I
hadn’t
considered it, but I should
have.
“Couldn’t find a connection between him and Lance but . .
.”

“What about the other Kings?”

“Didn’t
even know they existed at the
time,”
I said.

“Need to find out now we
do.”

The night was dark and
damp,
grayish clouds intermittently obscuring a small wedge of moon.

Hahn had gone home.
Red
remained oblivious.

In my right hand was a paper bag with the coffee cup the gunman had touched in it.

Hahn had been shaken up when she left, but she
was
more
angry
at my persistence in asking what she was doing in
Danny’s
dorm
the night he was killed, than anything else.

D
riving home later, my phone
rang.

“Hey.”

It took me a moment to place the soft, sad
voice.
It was Cheryl
Jacobs.

“Hey.
How are you? I was going to call to check on you, but—”

“I’m struggling.
Would
you mind . . . I mean . . . Is there any
way
. . . Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Of course.”

“Sorry
to be a
bother.”

“Absolutely
no bother at
all.”

“Nights are the
worst.
I do okay during the
day.
Get through. But . . . when the sun sinks . . . so do
I.”

“I understand,” I said. “I’ve been
there.”

“I
have
no one
now.
There’s
. . . no one. A
mother’s
supposed to die before her son.
He’s
supposed to be at my funeral with his wife and kids there to comfort him, supposed to console himself that I had a long life, that
it’s
the natural order of
things.”

I
wasn’t
so sure the natural order of things helped all that much. I thought about Mom, about how difficult I was finding her imminent death.

Thou
know’st ’tis
common; all that live must die.
You
must
know that your father lost a father. That father lost, lost
his.

A hollow argument. At least Hamlet found it
so.

Convention, tradition, the natural order of things offer little consolation in the devastating face of deep grief.

I nodded, though she
couldn’t
see me, and continued listening, and I was struck by how much of my life I spent doing those
two
things. Nodding and listening. Listening and
nodding.
Wasn’t
much else to do most of the time—particularly in situations like
this.

“In my entire life I’ve never wanted to die
before,”
she said.

“You
do now?”

“I
do,”
she said, and paused for a moment before continuing, letting her
words
hang there in the dark, damp night between
us.
“Don’t
worry,
I’m not . . . I
don’t
mean . . . I’m not really considering it. I’ve just never even had the feeling
before.”

“I understand.”

“You
ever felt like killing yourself ?”

“I’ve never had that exact feeling,
no.”

“I now understand a little better what Danny went through. I
couldn’t
at the time. And I
couldn’t
do anything for him. Just got him a good counselor and kept loving
him.”

“How many actual attempts did he make?”

“
A
few.
Not sure
exactly.
Some may’ve been accidents . . . or . . . I
don’t
really
know.
But he got better, got past all that, and . . . I just hope he
didn’t
sink back down into . . .
You
don’t
think he did, do you?”

“I
don’t.”

“It’s
so cruel . . . I mean if someone made it look like . . . they must’ve known he had been . . .
You’re
so easy to talk
to,
so nonjudgemental and understanding. I feel like I can tell you
anything.”