“You like having all your moving parts moving?”
“Come on, Michael. I’m on to something.”
In her eyes I saw visions of those shiny trophies they give to crusading journalists, except this one was covered in seaweed and dripping wet. That was because they’d pulled it off the bottom of Lake Michigan, where they’d found it wrapped around Rita’s neck.
“Does Rodriguez know about all this?” I said.
“No. And he’s not going to find out. Help me work this. Maybe I can keep the mob angle out.”
“Do I have a choice? How close are you to running something?”
“Couple of weeks. Minimum.”
“All right. But you have to agree not to print anything until you talk to me.”
“Fine.”
“Whose baiting the hook for the city?”
“I told you. I’m not sure.”
“Maybe you don’t know all the names. But you got at least one.”
“I might have a middleman.”
“Let’s have it.”
It took fifteen minutes of driving, but I got the name. I even got an address.
CHAPTER 15
Marcus Robinson sat on a flat roof across the street from the Korean’s grocery store, sighted a nickel-plated. 38 on the front door, and pretended to squeeze off a few rounds. He’d talked to Ray Ray for almost an hour. Told him everything the cop had to say. How he said it. Then told him again. Ray Ray took it all in, put an arm around Marcus, and explained that the Fours needed to take care of some business with the Korean that night. Marcus grinned, which made Ray Ray happy. Then Marcus got the gun from under his mattress and headed to the Korean’s shop. Ray Ray had business to take care of. So did Marcus.
Down below a cop car pulled into the alley alongside the grocery store. The first cop got out and walked the area. The afternoon sun glinted off the front of his hat. He nodded to the second, who popped the trunk and pulled out a black duffel bag with gold trim. The Korean’s dope. Soon to be Ray Ray’s.
The first cop banged on a door, and then the Korean was in the alley. He wore what he always wore: dark pants and a blue sweater with mismatched brown and yellow buttons down the front. He had a pair of glasses halfway down his nose and the stub of a cigarette flattened between his lips. One of the cops spoke to the Korean, who nodded. The other hefted the bag up onto his shoulder and carried it into the store. Four minutes later, the cops were back in their cruiser and gone.
Marcus climbed down the fire escape and sat with his back against the building. He pulled seven bullets out of his pocket, loaded four into the revolver, and clicked the chamber shut. He’d only had the gun a week when he and Twist found the dead doper, curled at the edges and lying in the basement of a rock house. Twist didn’t want anything to do with it. But Marcus did. Target practice. He put two bullets in the doper’s chest, and one in the temple. There wasn’t much blood, and Marcus didn’t feel anything inside. Except maybe he’d wasted three bullets. Still, word got around a little. And Marcus knew shooting someone was something he could do.
He walked to the corner of the building and took a look. The mouth of the alley was empty. At the very back was a truck with SILVER LINE TRUCKING printed on the side. Marcus leaned against the wall and felt the dull pain tapping away inside his head. He didn’t know why it was there. Just that it was.
Marcus stuck the gun in his pocket, crossed the street, and banged on the back door. “Hey.”
Marcus could hear the Korean in the cellar, light steps on the stairs, and then he was opening the door.
“Marcus. Where you been? Good boy.”
The Korean’s name was Mr. Lee. None of the chain stores would open up in the neighborhood, so Lee sold them everything from cereal to socks. Charged for it, too. But that wasn’t the Korean’s major source of revenue. For that, you needed to head to his cellar.
“You want money?” Lee rubbed a thick thumb and index finger together.
Marcus shrugged. Who didn’t want money?
“Good boy. Come.” Lee led him to the back of the store and sat him on a stool. The Korean rolled up his pants leg and pulled a fold of twenties from his sock. “Two hundred dollar. For you. Take it. Quick.”
Lee nudged the money toward the boy. Marcus let it sit.
“Why you not take?”
“Why you pushing?”
Lee moved the money again. This time with his eyes.
“That for the last order?” Marcus said.
The Korean nodded. The last order had come in the day before yesterday. Flat boxes. Lots of them. Lots more than they usually handled. Marcus didn’t know what was inside the boxes. Just that it was worth some cash. He slipped the money off the counter and into his pocket. Lee smiled and seemed to relax.
“Good boy.”
“That’s a big order, Lee. Goin’ to the county?”
Lee shook his head. “No. Side order. Very important.”
Marcus ran his eyes around the store. To his left was a shelf full of cans of SpaghettiO’s and cellophane packages of kitchen sponges. Marcus could never figure out Lee’s system for shelving things. Or maybe there wasn’t one. The Korean had turned his back to the boy, counting the rest of the money he’d pulled from his sock. He was talking a steady stream about the order. Something about delivery for tonight. The Korean swatted at a fly, but missed. Marcus watched it land on the Korean’s ear. The street outside was empty. The clock on the wall was broken, stuck at 3:00 p.m. Marcus took the gun out of his pocket and stood. The Korean flicked at the fly again.
“Marcus, I need for you… ”
Lee turned just as the boy fired. The gun was louder than Marcus remembered, and he jumped in his sneakers. Lee fell in one piece, like a small, sturdy oak. He knocked over the stool on the way down and groaned in a way that embarrassed Marcus. Lee grabbed at the boy’s leg and looked up, asking with his eyes if Marcus knew how this had happened. Then the Korean let go and rolled onto his back. Lee had taken the bullet just under his left cheekbone. He was still alive, staring at the ceiling, but couldn’t seem to talk. Marcus squatted beside him.
“Sorry, Lee. But they was going to kill you tonight anyways.”
Marcus rolled the Korean onto his stomach and shot him twice more in the back of the head. He took a heavy set of keys out of the dead man’s pocket, walked over to the basement door, and pushed it open. A run of wooden stairs plunged into the darkness. Marcus hit an overhead light and played his hand along the crooked bricks as he walked downstairs. The room was long and narrow. The boxes were stacked along one wall. Beside them, a forklift and a dolly.
Marcus thought about opening one of the boxes but figured that could wait. Whatever was inside was worth something. Marcus knew Ray Ray’s dope was probably somewhere in the basement as well, but left it alone. The boy was ambitious. Not a fool.
He walked to the very back of the room and pulled at a section of drywall. It was loosely attached and came free with a single tug. The neighborhood always wondered how the Korean moved his merchandise. How he managed to never use the same stash house twice. Behind the drywall was the answer, in the form of an iron door large enough to drive the forklift through. Marcus took out the Korean’s keys and found the one that fit. Then he pushed the door open and turned on the light. Winding away from him was a tunnel made of broken cement and soft dirt. It burrowed into the neighborhood, branching off into a series of smaller tunnels, each leading to a different abandoned building. Lee had made the mistake of showing him the network only a week ago.
Marcus turned back to the forklift. He was about to fire it up when he heard a twinge of sound on the stairs. Marcus snapped the light off and crouched in the darkness. A flashlight flared, painting the cellar in shapes and shadows.
“Come on out, son. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
