“Were you?”
Max said, “Don’t even think about it, okay? You could get killed, you could get sent to prison. . . .”
He stopped because she had that look in her eyes again, that gleam with the smile in it that turned him on.
She said, “But what if there was a way to do it?”
They had told Ordell on the phone, third floor east wing and the room number. Half-past eleven Sunday night, all he had to do was wait in the stairwell for the deputy to get tired sitting by himself in the hall and go up to the nurse’s counter to stretch his legs and visit. That’s how easy it was to get to see Cujo. Ordell walked into the semidark room wearing a dark suit and necktie, carrying a box of peanut brittle he set on the bedside stand. He pulled the pillow out from under Cujo’s head, not wasting any time.
Cujo said, “Hey, shit,” coming awake cranky and with bad breath.
Ordell said, “Hey, my man,” laying the pillow on Cujo’s chest, “how you doing? You making it? They treating you all right?”
Cujo said, “What you want?” squinting and scowling at him, mean and grouchy waking up from his sleep.
Ordell said, “Man, they ought to give you something for your breath,” moving the pillow up to Cujo’s chin. “Close your eyes, I be out of here in a minute.” Ordell took a good hold on the pillow with both hands, started to lift it, and the overhead light came on in the room.
Now a fat nurse helper was right there at the foot of the bed saying, “What’re you doing in here?”
Ordell glanced around to see the deputy in here too, an older guy but big, with a belly on him.
“I was fixing his pillow,” Ordell said, “fluf-fin’ it for him so he be comfortable. Turning it to the cool side.”
The fat nurse helper said, “You’re not supposed to be in here. It’s way past visiting hours.” The fat deputy next to her now, watching him with that dumb-eyed no-shit deputy look.
Ordell held his hands out to the sides, resigned.
“I told his mama I’d come visit. She use to keep house for my mama ’fore my mama passed on. But see, I’m Seven-Day Adventis’ and I was out door-to-door collecting for the church all day. You know, for the poor people ain’t got nothing to eat?”
The fat nurse helper said, “Well, you’re not suppose to be in here.”
And the fat deputy said, “Get your ass out, now.”
So Ordell wasn’t able to settle his mind about Cujo. Shit. He left knowing he had a problem on his hands.
16
Sunday evening, early, Ordell had brought Louis to his house on 30th Street in West Palm, introduced him to Simone, telling her to take good care of Louis, he would be staying here a few days. Ordell showed Louis the guest room, the Beretta nine in the bureau drawer he was to bring along tomorrow, and left saying he had to visit a friend in the hospital, “See you in the morning.”
That Sunday evening was an experience.
Louis thought the colored woman might be Ordell’s aunt. Simone asked could she fix him something to eat. Louis said no thanks. She went in her room and Louis sat down to watch
About half-past nine a different woman came out of the bedroom. The one who’d gone in looked like Aunt Jemima in an old housecoat and a scarf tied around her head. The one that came out was twenty years younger, had shiny black hair done in a swirl, dangle earrings, blue around her eyes and big fake lashes, a skintight silver dress and backless heels to match. She said to Louis she understood he was from Detroit. She said she used to know plenty of white boys there she’d meet at the Flame Showbar, at Sportrees, later on at the Watts Club Mozambique, and take them to after-hours places after. She said to Louis, “You do any of that?” He said sometimes he did, he had met Ordell at the Watts Club. Simone said, “Baby, I’m gonna take you home.” The Movie of the Week went off and Motown came on.
Monday morning Louis left the house early, before Simone was up, and had his breakfast at a Denny’s. They were meeting in the parking lot of the Hilton on Southern Boulevard just off the Interstate. Louis arrived to see Ordell in blue coveralls standing by a van parked next to his Mercedes, having a smoke. Melanie was in there listening to the radio, moving her head to the beat. Ordell came over to Louis’s car saying, “Lemme see what you have you so proud of.”
Louis opened the trunk and showed Ordell his shiny guns, the Colt Python and the Mossberg 500 with the laser scope. The Beretta from the bureau drawer was in there too. Ordell
said, “Bring it.” Louis took the Beretta and stuck it in his waist, under his sport shirt hanging out. “And that Star Trek shotgun,” Ordell said. “Big Guy gets a kick out of that kind of shit.”
Louis brought it out in a fold of newspaper, closed the trunk, and followed Ordell over to the back of the van. Ordell turned to him saying, “Simone get you to bone her?”
Innocent, then starting to grin, and Louis knew he’d been waiting all that time looking at guns to ask the question.
“She put on a show,” Louis said. “Yes, she does.” “Did ‘Baby Love’ with all the gestures.” “The choreography,” Ordell said. “You swear
it’s the Supremes, huh?” “It was the Supremes, on the record.” “I mean the way the woman moves.” “She did ‘Stop! In the Name of Love.’ ” “ ‘Before you break my heart,’ ” Ordell said. “She did Gladys Knight.” “With the Pips or without? She does it both ways.” “With the Pips.” “She do Syreeta Wright?” “I don’t know. She did some I never heard of.” “Syreeta was married to Stevie Wonder.” “She was great,” Louis said. “I mean she had
every little move down.”
“She get you to bone her?”
“She wanted me to come in her room.”
“Yeah?”
“Said she needed her back rubbed, from all that moving around.”
“She like her feet rubbed too.”
“I told her, man, I was worn out and had a headache.”
“Yeah?”
“Middle of the night I wake up? Simone’s in bed with me. She says, ‘How’s your headache, baby? Is it gone?’ ”
Ordell said, “You boned her, didn’t you?”
The rear door of the van came open and a black kid wearing a black bandanna stuck his head out saying, “Bread, we sitting here—man, we going or not?”
“Right now,” Ordell said. “Get back in there,” and opened the door enough for Louis to see three black kids crouched in there with guns—AK-47s, they looked like—staring back at him. Ordell said, “This is Louis, the famous bank robber from Detroit I mention to you? Louis, these two cats are Sweatman and Snow, and the mean-looking motherfucker that can’t wait is Zulu. They call me Bread, huh? Short for Whitebread. Hey, you all think up a name for my man Louis here,” Ordell said and slammed the door closed. He said to Louis, “They love me. You know why? ‘cause I’m from Dee-troit and that is a no-shit recommendation, man. You from there with these homeboys, you
Melanie came out of the Mercedes in her cutoffs and a halter top, a frayed knit bag hanging from her shoulder. She said, “Hi, Louis,” without making eye contact and stood with her arms folded while Ordell said he and Louis would go in the van with the jack-boys and Melanie would follow them in Louis’s Toyota. Louis asked why his car? Ordell said, for coming back. Like that explained it. Louis said, “Whatever you say.”
On the way out Southern Boulevard toward Loxahatchee, Ordell talked about the jackboys loud enough for them to hear him in back, calling them crazy motherfuckers and asking if they had ever heard of
