Melanie was still watching him. Ordell looked over and she lowered her eyes to the magazine like she wasn’t interested. She’d be listening though, and that was fine. He wanted her to know some things without knowing everything.
“You way ahead of me, Mr. Walker. I had the same thought.” Cedric Walker had been a two-bit fishing guide with a whaler till Ordell showed him where the money was. Now the man had a thirty-sixfoot Carver with all kinds of navigational shit on it. “You understand, the drunk driving alone violates Beaumont’s probation. It wouldn’t matter he had the pistol on him . . . That’s right, they bring up the machine gun charge again. Means he’ll be facing ten years and what he gets for the concealed weapon on top of it. That’s what the bail-bond man said. . . . No, I let him put up the bond. Max Cherry. . . . Yeah, that’s the man’s name. Sounds like one a calypso singer would have, huh? Maximilian Cherry and his Oil Can Boppers . . . What? No, I can’t see it either. They keep him overnight he’s pulling his hair out. I’d send him home to Montego if it didn’t cost me the ten. . . . No, there’s nothing to talk about. Mr. Walker? Melanie says hi.” Ordell listened again and said, “She’ll love you for it, man. I’ll tell her. You be good now, hear?” and hung up the phone.
Melanie, the magazine on her lap, said, “Tell me what?”
“He’s sending you a present. Be in the next delivery.”
“He’s a sweetie. I’d love to see him again.”
“We could fly over sometime. Go out in his boat. Would you like that?”
“No, thanks,” Melanie said. She picked up her magazine.
Ordell watched her. He said, “But you know the boat’s always there.”
Two A.M., Ordell left the apartment and walked up to Ocean Mall, a bar named Casey’s where people went to dance, a restaurant, Portofino, some stores, some fast-food places, not much else in this block-long strip facing the public beach. The parking lot was back of the mall, only a few cars left in the rows, all the places closed. He got in the black Olds Ninety-Eight, found the keys and a .38 snubby under the seat, fooled with the instruments to find the lights and the air, and drove out of there, over the humpback bridge to Riviera Beach, a two-minute trip.
Ordell believed if you didn’t know Beaumont’s house you could ease down these dark streets off Blue Heron till you heard West Indian reggae filling the night, music to get high by, and follow the beat to the little stucco dump where Beaumont lived with a bunch of Jamaicans all packed in there. They’d keep the music on high volume while they maintained their crack binge—only this evening, peeking in, they appeared to be doing reefer, crowded in the room like happy refugees, having some sweet wine and dark rum with the weed. Go in there, start to breathe, and be stoned. It most always smelled of cooking too. A messy place—Ordell had wanted to use the bathroom one time, took one look, and went outside to relieve himself among trash barrels and bright clothes hanging on the line.
From the doorway he caught Beaumont’s eye, Beaumont the one with slicked-down almost regular hair among the beards and dreadlocks, and waved at him in the haze of smoke to step outside.
Ordell said, “Dot ganja, mon, mek everyone smile to show their teet, uh?” bringing Beaumont out through wild fern and a tangle of shrubs to the big Olds parked in the street. “You the most relaxed people I ever met.”
Except now Beaumont was rubbing a hand over his jaw, looking at the car he knew wasn’t Ordell’s.
“There’s a man,” Ordell said, “I never dealt with before, wants to buy some goods. I want to test him out. You understand?” Ordell unlocked the trunk. Raising the lid he said, “When I open this to show my wares, you gonna be inside pointing a gun at him.”
Beaumont frowned. “You want me to shoot him?”
Beaumont was no jackboy. He was Ordell’s front man on some deals, figuring prices in his head, and his backup man other times. Mr. Walker set up deliveries, received the payments, and arranged for getting the funds from Grand Bahama to West Palm Beach. Right now Beaumont was peering into the trunk, dark in there.
“I have to be inside how long?”
“We just going over to the beach, mon.”
Beaumont kept looking in the trunk, his hands flat in the tight pockets of his pants, no shirt, skinny shoulders hunched up some.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t like to be in there.”
“I put up ten thousand,” Ordell said, “to get your skinny ass out of jail. Now you gonna take a stand on me? Man, I don’t believe this shit.” Sounding surprised, hurt. “Nothing’s going to happen, it’s just in case.”
Beaumont took his time to think about it, Ordell listening to the reggae beat coming from the house, moving just a little bit with it, till Beaumont said, “Okay, but I have to dress.”
“You look crisp, mon, you fine. We be right back.”
“What do I use?”
“Look in there. See the trash bag?”
He watched Beaumont hunch in to bring it out unwrapping the brown plastic from a 12-gauge, no stock, the barrel sawed off at the pump.
“No, don’t rack it, man, not yet. Not till we there and I open the trunk. Right then you can rack it, dig? Get the man’s attention.”
Ordell drove back Blue Heron Boulevard to the bridge that humped over Lake Worth and followed the curve north past Ocean Mall, past hotels and high-priced condos with gates, until his headlights showed a solid wall of trees behind a wire fence on his side of the road, MacArthur State Park, and what looked more like jungle on the other side. Ordell picked a sandy place to pull off on the left, all mangrove along here and scraggly palm trees growing wild. No headlights showed in either direction. He got out and unlocked the trunk. A light went on inside as the lid came up, and there was Beaumont hunched on his side with the shotgun, ducking his head to see who was here.
Ordell said, “It’s just me, babe.” He said, “I was wondering did any federal people come visit you in jail and I should be watching my ass.”
Beaumont bent his head some more to see out, frowning.
“You wouldn’t tell me if they did, and I wouldn’t blame you,” Ordell said, unbuttoning his double-breasted sport jacket, the yellow one. He had a Targa on him that fired .22 longs, okay for this kind of close work. Or he could use the one Cujo left him—and decided, yeah, he would.
So now Beaumont was looking at the five-shot .38 snubby Ordell slipped from his waist. Beaumont quick racked the pump shotgun, pulled the trigger, and there was that click you get from an empty weapon. Beaumont had a pitiful look on his face racking the pump again, hard.
The digital clock on the dash read 2:48 as he pulled into the parking lot behind the mall. He used napkins he found on the ground by a trash bin to wipe off the steering wheel, the door handle, trunk lid, any part of the car he might have touched. Walking home along the beach, dark out in the Atlantic Ocean, quiet, nobody around, he could hear the surf coming in and the wind blowing, that was all. It felt good on his face.
* * *
Ordell got home, all the lights were off in the apartment, Melanie asleep, girlish little snores coming from the bedroom. She was hard to wake up if you wanted anything. Simone snored louder, but would stop if you made any noise and say in her sleepy voice, “Come on in the bed, baby.” Sheronda would hear him unlocking the door, turning off the alarm, and would come out of the bedroom with her big eyes asking what he wanted, wide awake.
Melanie had slowed down some in thirteen years. Had become a blowhead and wasn’t as spunky as she used to be. That was too bad. But she wasn’t as apt to surprise you either. As close as Ordell was to realizing his dream of becoming a wealthy retiree, he didn’t need any surprises.
What he needed was somebody to take Beaumont’s place. Not a jackboy. Somebody smarter, but not too smart. Like Louis. He was the one. You could talk to Louis. You could kid around with him and act foolish if you wanted to. Man, they had laughed picking out masks to wear when they kidnapped the woman. He seemed more serious now. Looked meaner than he used to. He could use some more meanness. Maybe prison had done him some good. Louis said he didn’t want any part of whatever it was. But Louis, you pin him down,
he didn’t know what he wanted. Maybe a way to get him, put Melanie on him. Then put her on Big Guy at the
