“When a girl has a different boyfriend one right after another, she’s a slut. So I hardly ever saw her sometimes. She’d stop in to check mail or change clothes or whatever, but she’d sleep out a lot of nights.”
“Do you have names for any of these guys?”
“It wasn’t any of my business, and I didn’t care and I didn’t
“It doesn’t sound like you liked her.”
“She was just a roommate.”
“Can I look in her room?”
Tiff shrugged. “It’s through there.”
She led him past a bathroom down a short hall, opened a door. A tiny bedroom. Clothes piled on the bed and behind the door. No pictures on the wall. Spartan.
Stubbs opened dresser drawers, pushed the clothes around. Nothing.
“What are you looking for?” Tiff acted like somebody who didn’t want to seem interested but was.
“I don’t know.” Stubbs looked under the bed. “Anything helpful.”
“She didn’t have a lot of stuff,” Tiff said. “All the furniture is mine.”
Stubbs circled to the other side of the bed. He’d tuned the girl out. He sat on the bed, ran his hands between the mattress and box spring. His fingers hit something.
“Can I get a glass of water?” He rubbed his throat. “Dust.”
“Sure.” She left.
Stubbs pulled out the book. It was a journal, fake-leather bound, lined blank pages like they had in most bookstores. He thumbed through it quickly. It was half journal and half poetry notebook. Some of the entries had dates. Many didn’t. He closed it and shoved it in his jacket pocket.
Tiff returned and gave him the water.
He gulped, smacked his lips. “Thanks.” He handed the glass back to her. “I guess that’s all. Nothing here.”
“Sorry.”
“Just routine. Had to give it a try.” He took a business card out of his wallet. “My number’s on here. Give me a ring if you hear from Annie or find out anything useful. Her folks are worried.”
“Okay.”
He gave her a final wave as he left the duplex. He slouched into the Dodge and pointed it toward a TGI Friday’s he’d seen on the way into town. He’d have a beer and go through the journal.
A thread, that was all he needed. The little start of a trail to follow.
twenty-one
Jenks, DelPrego, and Lancaster stood around the hood of DelPrego’s pickup in dreary silence. Jenks quietly puffed a Philly Blunt. They were parked in front of Jenks’s garage apartment. The neighborhood was still, most everyone at work or school.
DelPrego fingered one of the ragged bullet holes in the hood. “They shot my truck.”
They lapsed back into silence. Lancaster shifted from one foot to another.
Jenks sucked deep on the cigar, held the smoke in his lungs, then let it out in a long gray stream. He looked at DelPrego. “You ran me over, you dumbass.”
“Yeah.” DelPrego’s grin was a bit forced. “Sorry about that.”
“This is pointless,” Lancaster said abruptly. “Sherman, if you’re smart you’ll flush that stuff down the toilet and never think about it again.”
Jenks nodded, puffed, scratched his chin, and considered the gym bag still in the bed of the pickup. Lancaster was right, but Jenks just couldn’t bring himself to do it. A hundred grand of coke. There had to be a way he could turn a buck on the stuff. He might have to go to Tulsa to make some kind of deal or maybe OK City.
“I want to go home.” Lancaster looked pointedly at DelPrego.
DelPrego asked Jenks, “You need a ride anyplace? I’m going to take him.”
Jenks continued to stare straight ahead. “Go ahead. See you in class.”
DelPrego and Lancaster climbed into the pickup. DelPrego leaned out his window. His wide grin was genuine this time. “Cheer up, Sherm. We’ll think of something.”
DelPrego backed out of the driveway, Jenks still staring at his shoes and absently smoking the cigar. The truck was already two blocks away and turning the corner when Jenks’s head snapped up. He ran after the truck, waved his arms. “Wait!”
They didn’t hear, kept driving.
The gym bag was still in the back of the pickup. Shit. Jenks flicked the stub of the cigar into the street. Anyway, he’d call Wayne. Tell him to bring the bag in, hide it in back of a closet or something and get it from him later.
He climbed the stairs to his apartment, unlocked the door, and went in.
Quick, strong hands grabbed him. A punch in the gut. Jenks coughed air, doubled over. The hands shoved him to the floor, and he landed hard.
“What the fuck!” Jenks looked up. Red Zach towered over him.
Jenks felt his stomach heave. “Oh, shit.”
“You’re damn right, oh shit. I should bust a cap in your black ass right here.”
Zach wore a lime-green suit with a black shirt. Two of his bruisers flanked him, thick-necked sons of bitches with shaved heads and dark glasses. Spoon Oliver sat on the bed. He sported two swollen eyes and a split lip. Zach’s boys had worked him over good.
“I want my goddamn coke,” Zach said. “Or you’re one dead nigger. You’re already in for two broken legs.”
“Zach-”
“Shut the fuck up.” Zach kicked Jenks hard in the ribs.
Jenks glanced at Spoon, but Spoon wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Your boy ain’t going to help you,” Zach said. “He gave you up quick. We had to pop him a few times, but he was only too happy to talk. He told us all about Sherman Ellis and your damn-fool fucked-up idea to come here and pose like a college boy.” Zach laughed without humor, a grim chuckle. He shook his head. “Like you could make these folks think you was college educated.”
Zach squatted next to Jenks, gathered a fistful of Jenks’s shirt. He pulled Jenks close and spit in his face. Jenks winced like it was acid. Saliva ran down the side of his nose.
“Anything I can’t hold with, it’s an uppity nigger thinks he’s better than the rest of the folks from the hood.” Zach let go of Jenks. “You’re nothing. You hear that? You stick with me and let me guide you, you could have been something. But now you’re nothing.”
Zach stood, straightened his jacket. He pulled a fat, silver revolver from his belt and thumbed back the hammer, pointed it at Jenks’s head. “I want my coke, you dumb shit.”
“I can call-” Shit. Jenks remembered Wayne DelPrego’s phone had been cut off. “I can get it. Damn, Zach, you know I wouldn’t-”
“Shut your fucking mouth, nigger.”
“I’m just saying, you got to let me explain about-”
Zach lifted his foot and stomped his heel across Jenks’s mouth, mashed his lips against his teeth. Blood smeared down Jenks’s chin. One of his lower teeth was loose.
“Save the bullshit. You’re close to being a dead motherfucker, Harold Jenks. Now save your life and get my fucking cocaine.” Zach pressed the barrel of the pistol against Jenks’s head. “Or am I saying something too hard for you to understand? I think I’m saying some pretty simple shit here, but let me know if I’m going too fast for you.”
“I hear you,” Jenks said. His lips throbbed. “But it’s not here.”
