away-both carrying pistols.
Camo said, “I’m going to kill that little fucker.”
The girl said, “Can you keep your voice down till we find him? He could be anywhere in here.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Camo said.
The girl said, “Go ahead, then. You’ve probably already fucked it up anyway.”
Luke held his breath, didn’t make a sound even as an early-season mosquito drilled into his hand, sucking his blood. He wondered where the black guy was, wondered if he was sneaking up right now, about to surprise him.
Luke shifted his weight and the chain rattled.
Camo stopped and said, “What was that?”
The girl said, “What was what?”
“I heard something.”
“No shit,” the girl said. “We’re in the woods. You’re going to hear all kinds of things.”
Camo started back toward the birch trees. Luke ducked down, disappearing in a tangle of alder and held his breath, watching Camo’s feet coming toward him-black motorcycle boots and jeaned legs moving through heavy ground cover. Camo stopped a few feet from his head, standing there, not making a sound. Luke glanced up through the foliage and saw his face, eyes darting, scoping the scene. He held a big chrome-plated automatic in his hand, hanging at arm’s length, Luke below him, right there, and he didn’t look down. Not once.
The girl broke the silence. She said, “Anytime you’re ready. He’s just putting more distance between us.”
Camo turned now and walked back toward her. Luke waited till they were out of sight, saw them disappear in the trees and then waited a few more minutes before he made his move, heading in the direction of the lake, figuring he could run down the beach, break into a cottage, and call the police.
He took off running and was surprised when he came to a clearing-but it wasn’t a clearing. It was a county road cutting across the peninsula a few miles west of the cottages. He was all turned around. He’d gone in the wrong direction.
DeJuan was listening to Keak do “White Ts, Blue Jeans, and Nikes,” scanning the tree line, driving by in Scarface, doing twenty, exhaust of the Malibu popping some rumble. Thinking how fast a situation could change. Thirty minutes earlier he was going to be rich, counting the money. But he wasn’t going to get nothing, they didn’t find the kid, find him quick.
Looking out at the hood he needed a carwash, had pine needles and shit all over his custom gold metalflake paintwork, color called Aztec bullion, motherfucker had real gold in it-straight up.
DeJuan was driving slow, creepin’, glancing at the wall of trees to his right. Saw something up ahead, dude appear coming out of the woods, running toward him, moving his arms like he trying to signal him. Was the kid, and as DeJuan drove up, you should’ve seen the look on the kid’s face, he saw who it was.
Kid took off now, going back in the woods. DeJuan jammed on the brake, skidded to a stop. He grabbed the shotgun off the passenger seat, got out, went after him, running through the trees on this irregular ground, wishing he’d laced up his Nikes.
Caught the dude though, pushed his punk-ass down. Now DeJuan, breathing a little, racked the slide on the shotgun, a semiautomatic Remington Wingmaster twelve-gauge. Said, “Hear that? That’s doom herself talking at you. She saying, fuck with me, fuck with me-don’t fuck with me.”
Little man got the message. Stood up looking scared, shotgun being a powerful communicator. DeJuan noticed the kid had mud on his pants, wondering now how he was going to protect his white leather seats. Had the hides dyed to match his Zegna suit. Connolly motherfucking leather was some high-profile skins. Shit smell like money. Uh-huh.
The black guy made Luke sit on a blanket he got from his trunk, worried, he said, about Luke getting his ride all full of dirt. It was a strange car with these cheesy white seats and the word Scarface inlaid on the wood dash in chrome script.
“Like it? That teakwood,” the black guy said, “come from Indonesia.”
Like he was looking for Luke’s approval.
He reached his hand out, rubbing it over the lacquered surface.
“Feel it, go on.”
Luke stretched his arms out and touched the wood with his cuffed hands. It felt smooth and warm.
“Know what that motherfucker cost?”
Luke turned his head, looking at him.
The black guy grinned. “Twenty-five hundred dollars. Believe that? What they get for custom anymore.”
Luke couldn’t believe it. It was so tacky. Why would anyone pay that much to make their car look like that?
The black guy turned up the stereo.
“Twenty-four Bose speakers. What you think?”
He could feel the heavy thump thump of the base. They were listening to a rap song, the black guy talking to him, but Luke could only see his lips moving the music was so loud.
He turned it down and said, “Know Keak?”
Luke said, “What?” He could barely hear him.
“Keak Da Sneak, motherfucker, you deaf?”
Luke shook his head. Who was Keak Da Sneak?
“Born name Kunta Kinte. Mean ‘warrior’ in Swahili.”
The black guy took a long uneven joint out of a compartment in the console and lit it with a gold lighter. Luke watched him take a deep drag, hold it in till he looked like he was going to explode and let it out, blowing a stream of gray smoke into the windshield, engulfing him in a cloud of hydroponic herb. Luke coughed.
“Yeah, that’s some good shit, ain’t it?”
He extended his arm, handing the joint to Luke. “Want some?”
Luke looked at him through the smoke and shook his head.
“How you going to expand your consciousness, take your little punk-ass mind to another realm?”
He hit the joint again, held it in till his cheeks puffed up, till the smoke came out like it was under pressure. He turned the music up and started singing, rapping with the rapper, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove.
“ Two outs, two strikes livin’ in the ninth innin’, smack over the gate, I hit the plate now I’m grinnin ’.”
He stopped when they pulled in the yard in front of the cottages, shut off the car and it was quiet, Luke’s ears ringing like he’d been to a concert.
“My man, Ted going be thizzing over this. Fool has a temper, as you seen. Don’t say nothing, see maybe I can chill him.”
He was right, Camo was mad. Camo said, “I got mosquito bites all over my neck ’cause of you.”
Good, Luke thought.
Camo came at him but stopped, faking like he was going to hit him.
Camo said, “Lookit him quiver like a little sissy.”
Luke relaxed, let out a breath. Now Camo turned and hit him with a punch that stunned him and he went down. Camo kicked him in the ribs with his steel-tipped motorcycle boots. He looked like he was going to do it again when the black guy came in the room and stopped him.
“Yo, Ted, want to ease up on my man? Time to collect. Don’t fuck with the merchandise. See, he like an expensive vase or something we trying to sell, want it perfect-no chips or scratches and such.”
Camo said, “The hell you talking about?”
TWENTY — THREE
