Shoot the Woman First (18 page)

Back in the car, she tried to steady her breathing. Then she felt the hot rush coming up, got the door open just in time, and vomited onto the blacktop.

*   *   *

When Claudette opened the door, Crissa said, “Get your things together. We're leaving.”

Haley was asleep on one of the beds, fully dressed, stuffed squirrel held tight. Roy sprang up from where he'd been sitting in a corner chair, said, “What happened?”

She ignored him, said to Claudette, “Call your sister. Make sure she's home. We're going there tonight.”

“Why?”

“Not a good idea to stay around town right now. Better we get moving.”

“What did you do?” Roy said.

She looked at him. “What you should have.”

“Oh, shit,” he said, “oh, shit,” and sat back down again.

Claudette hadn't moved. “Did you kill them?”

“No,” Crissa said. “But they won't be back on their bikes for a while. Don't fight me on this. We need to get going.”

Roy had his head in his hands, looking at the floor. “I could have taken care of it. I could have.” He looked up at her. “You really did it this time, didn't you?”

Crissa looked at Claudette, said, “Make that call.”

“It was all settled,” he said. “We had a deal.”

“They didn't come to deal,” she said. “They came to kill all of us, take whatever money they could find.”

“You don't know that.”

To Claudette, she said, “Up to you whether he comes or not.”

Claudette looked at Roy.

“Wait a goddamn minute,” he said. “What do you mean, it's up to her?”

“You can stay in town, all I care,” Crissa said to him. “But I wouldn't advise it.”

“Don't listen to her,” he said to Claudette. “We're not going anywhere.”

“I settled your debt,” Crissa said. “You want to stay around here, be my guest. But in a day or two, they—or more likely some friends of theirs—are going to come around looking for payback. And they'll be looking for you.”

“Payback? Why?”

“You want to take him along,” she said to Claudette, “we'll take him. But my advice is don't.”

“And what the fuck am I supposed to do?” he said.

Haley stirred, opened her eyes. Claudette sat beside her, stroked her hair, didn't look at Roy.

Crissa took an envelope from her jacket pocket. “There's a thousand in there.” She tossed it on the other bed. “Enough to get you away from here. Plane, train, bus, whatever. If you're smart, you'll leave Florida.”

“A thousand? I deserve a lot more than that.”

“You're lucky you got anything. Take it and be glad.”

“Claudette, don't let her do this.”

She looked at him now. “I'm sorry, Roy. But she's right. I've been thinking about it since all this started. We need to do what's best for Haley. She needs to be safe.”

“She
is
safe. She's always been safe with me. What are you talking about? I'd never do anything to hurt her.”

Haley sat up. Claudette put an arm around her. “I'm sorry, Roy. I am. But maybe being apart is best right now. For a while at least.”

He stood. “She put this in your head, didn't she? Turned you against me.”

“It's more than that, Roy. It has been for a while.”

Crissa watched him, ready to get between them if needed.

“I can't believe this,” he said. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“The room's paid for the night,” Crissa told him. “You can stay if you want. But tomorrow morning, first thing, you need to get moving.”

“This isn't right. We're a family. We should be together.”

“A little late for that,” Crissa said.

“This is fucked.”

“Maybe down the road, it'll be different,” Claudette said. “But right now, Roy, we both have some things we need to take care of. On our own. You know that, too. Then maybe later…”

Crissa let that sit, said to Roy, “Take the money or not. It's up to you.”

Haley was curled against her mother now, still holding the squirrel.

“You should get a coat for her,” Crissa said. “It's getting cool out.”

Roy picked up the envelope, opened it, looked at the bills inside. “So this is it,” he said. “After everything I've done.”

“I'm sorry, Roy,” Claudette said.

He closed the envelope, looked at Crissa. “This isn't over.”

“You better hope it is,” she said. “For your sake.” Then to Claudette, “Make that call. I want to get on the road. We've got a long way to go.”

 

SEVENTEEN

Cordell King's apartment was in a redbrick building on the West Side. Five stories, a vacant weedy lot on one side, an empty, fenced-in playground on the other. Burke cruised past, saw a few parked cars, but no one on the street. Everyone at work or in school.

He drove to the end of the block, turned down a side street, and parked. It had cost Burke another fifty, but Rico had run the name that morning, come up with the address. There wasn't much on his sheet; arrests for possession of stolen property, a misdemeanor marijuana offense. If he'd been on the crew that hit Marquis he was batting out of his league. The sheet said he was twenty-four, but in the booking photo he looked fifteen.

Burke killed the engine, lit a Newport. A back alley, just big enough for a garbage truck, ran the length of the block. No cars were parked here, and the ones out front had been empty. If Marquis had the address and had people watching it, they were keeping their heads down. Or they'd already been here and gone.

He got out of the car, locked the doors, and started up the alley. The Browning was a weight in his overcoat pocket.

Overflowing trash cans back here. Broken glass and crack vials on the ground. The rear door to Cordell's building was metal with reinforced glass. Burke flicked his cigarette away, got out the slim wallet of lockpick tools, used the pick and pressure wrench. He worked the lock gently, careful not to break off the pick, and the tumblers gave way with a click.

He put the wallet away, eased the door open, waited. No alarm. He went through into a hallway, pulled the door shut behind him.

To the left, a stairwell. To the right, an elevator and a door marked
MANAGER,
TV noise inside. The hallway ran straight to the front door. He could see the empty street beyond.

He went up the stairs slowly, distributing his weight so they didn't creak. He took thin leather gloves from his coat pocket, pulled them on. At the fourth floor, he got out the Browning, held it at his side.

Three doors on each side, odd numbers to the left, even to the right. He stood outside 410, knocked and listened. There was no sound within. He knocked again, then stuck the gun into his belt, got out the lockpick tools again. He worked the doorknob first, then the dead bolt. Still no sound inside. He put the picks away, took out the Browning, toed the door open a few inches. No chain.

Silence. He opened the door wider. Out came the stale odor of marijuana, and something else bitter and harsh. Sweat and sickness.

He went in, shut the door behind him. In the living room was an orange futon, a spool coffee table with burn marks, an ashtray half full of marijuana roaches. On one wall, a Bob Marley poster. On another, a map of Africa in red, black, and green. Slats of daylight came through gaps in the venetian blinds. The blinds hung unevenly, one side lower than the other. Dust motes swirled in the light.

Beyond the living room was a kitchenette, then a short hallway. At the end, a half-closed door. He could hear faint breathing within, irregular and ragged.

The gun at his side, he moved down the hall. A bathroom door was open on the left. He looked in. The floor was littered with patches of bloody gauze, surgical tape. An empty hydrogen peroxide bottle lay on its side. In the tub, a white towel stained dark with blood.

At the bedroom door, he stopped, listened to the breathing within, then a low moan. He put the fingers of his left hand against the wood, waited another moment, then pushed the door open, and raised the gun.

The room was dim, a shade pulled down over the only window. Light crept in around its edges. A young black man lay in the bed, bare-chested, a single sheet pulled up past his waist. The room stank.

“Cordell … that you?” The voice weak. Burke pointed the gun at him, sidestepped away from the door. No one else in the room.

Burke felt for a light switch on the wall. flicked it on. The man, a kid really, closed his eyes, turned his head away. On the floor lay a vomit-stained pillow and a pair of bloody jeans. A dark hoodie, the left side stiff with blood, hung on a chair.

The kid looked back at him, blinking in the light, said, “Who are you?” Burke put the gun away, came closer. On the nightstand was a bent, burned spoon, a votive candle, a length of rubber tubing and a plastic syringe.

“You a doctor?” the kid said. His eyes were the pale yellow of old bone.

Burke lifted the sheet, and the smell rose up. The kid was naked and had a bandage on his stomach, just above his left hip, soaked through with blood. He was trembling, skin wet with sweat. There was blood on the sheet beneath him, and Burke caught a whiff of ruptured bowel. He covered him again.

“I need a doctor,” the kid said.

“Yeah. You do.” He opened the nightstand drawer. Inside was a blued revolver, two small bindles of aluminum foil. Another piece of foil lay on the floor, open and empty.

“You got to help me,” the kid said.

There was a closet in the room. Burke opened the sliding door, pushed hanging clothes aside. No suitcases or bags, nothing but blankets on the top shelf. He tapped the walls and floor. Solid.

He turned the jeans over with his foot, saw the bulge of the wallet in the back pocket. He took it out, opened it. Inside were two twenty-dollar bills, a credit card, and a photo driver's license in the name Kevin Ferron, with a West Side address. Burke pocketed the twenties and the license, dropped the wallet on the floor. He'd search the apartment, but knew he'd find no money here. Cordell would have it, wherever he was.

In the living room, he went to the window, parted the blinds, and looked out. Halfway down the block on the opposite side, the black Durango was parked at the curb. He could see the two men inside. He hadn't spotted them on his way here, so if they'd followed him, they were getting better at it. He wondered if they'd try to come up or just sit out there, wait for him. Follow him wherever he went next. Let him do all the work.

He went back in the bedroom. “Where's Cordell?”

“I need that doctor.”

“Tell me where Cordell is, and I'll call one.” He lifted the bloodstained hoodie from the chair with two fingers, dropped it on the floor, pulled the chair closer to the bed. “You're in bad shape. You know that, right?”

Ferron's eyes closed, opened. “Water.”

“You're gut shot, kid. Water'll kill you.”

Burke took an aluminum bindle from the drawer, opened it. Inside was a pea-sized piece of dark sludge. Black tar heroin. He showed it to the kid. “You want this?”

Ferron nodded.

“Let me guess. Cordell gave you the first shot to keep you quiet, right? Then left the rest for you. Raw deal, him running out on you like that. Left you behind, took all that money. That what happened?”

Ferron nodded again, raised a hand weakly off the bed, let it fall again.

“Long time since I've seen anybody do this, but I'll figure it out,” Burke said. “Some things you don't forget, right? We'll get you straight, then we'll get a doctor up here, get you to a hospital. Just tell me where Cordell is.”

“Said he was going to call … get an ambulance.”

“Guess he forgot, huh? How long you been here?”

Ferron shook his head. He didn't know.

Burke went into the bathroom, filled a Dixie cup with water, brought it back into the bedroom. Ferron looked at it. Burke set it down on the nightstand, depressed the syringe, and put the needle in the water. He drew the plunger back, watched the syringe fill, then set it beside the candle.

“Sooner you tell me,” he said, “sooner I can help you out.”

Ferron shuddered. “It's cold.”

“This'll warm you right up,” Burke said. He dropped the heroin into the spoon, squirted in water. “But first things first, right?”

Ferron looked at the spoon. Burke leaned forward, said, “If you're not ready to talk about Cordell, tell me about the woman.”

Ferron squinted, confused.

“Were you part of the crew that took down Marquis's stash? His drop car?” Burke said.

Ferron shook his head.

“But Cordell was, wasn't he?” He squirted the rest of the water from the syringe onto the floor.

“Yeah.”

“And then you two, you took the money away from the others, right? The ones that stole it?”

Ferron tried to wet his lips. “I need that spike, man.”

“You'll get it. One of them was a woman, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How much of the money did she get?”

“Half.”

“How much was that?”

“A hundred and eighty.”

“That what you and Cordell got, too?”

He nodded.

“See, that's just the kind of shit I want to know.” He got out his lighter, lit the votive candle, set the spoon across the rim.

“Now what you need to do,” Burke said, “is tell me everything you know about the woman, everything you heard, everything Cordell said.”

While Ferron talked, Burke kept one eye on the spoon. The water turned dark and began to bubble. “Almost there,” he said.

“I don't know anything else,” Ferron said. “I told you everything.” He looked at the spoon, the vapor rising from it.

“Good enough,” Burke said. He picked up the syringe. “You probably use cotton as a filter, right? But I don't think we need to bother with that this time.” He dipped the tip of the needle into the spoon, drew out dark liquid until the spoon was empty. He tapped the syringe, squirted fluid to clear the needle. He set the syringe back on the night stand, took out the rubber tubing.