Hell To Pay

“That’s right.”

“Lorenze Wilder. Joe Wilder. Those names mean anything to you?”

“Who?”

“Lorenze Wilder. Joe Wilder.”

“How’d you get my number?”

“Not too hard, once you find out where a person lives. I been followin’ you, Garfield.”

“Man, who the fuck is this?”

“Derek Strange.”

“That supposed to mean somethin’ to me?”

“If you saw me, you’d remember. I was coachin’ the football team that little boy played on. The boy you killed.”

“I ain’t kill no boy.”

“I’m the one you and your partners were crackin’ on, callin’ me Fred Sanford and shit while I was walking to my car. Y’all were smokin’ herb in a beige Caprice. You and a boy with cornrows, and another boy, had a long nose. Remember me now? ’Cause I sure do remember you.”

“So?”

Strange heard a crack in Potter’s voice.

“I followed Lorenze and the boy the night you killed them. I was responsible for that boy, and I followed. Only, you weren’t riding in a beige Caprice that night. It was a white Plymouth with a police package. Isn’t that right, Garfield?”

“White Plymouth? That shit was on the news, any motherfucker own a television set gonna know that. You got somethin’ serious you want to say, then say it, old-time.”

“Maybe you want to say something, Garfield. You kill a boy—”

“Told you I ain’t killed no kid.”

“You kill a boy, Garfield, and you got to have somethin’ to say.”

Save yourself. If you want to live, young man, then now’s the time.

“What, some young nigger dies out here, I’m supposed to cry? I be dyin’ young, too, most likely; ain’t nobody gonna shed no tears for me.”

Strange spoke softly as he closed his eyes. “I want to get paid.”

“What? I just told you—”

“I’m tellin’ you, I was a witness to the murders. I saw the event with my own eyes.”

Strange listened to the hiss of dead air. Finally, Potter spoke. “You so sure of what you saw, why ain’t you gone to the police? Get your reward money and slither on back into that hole you came out of?”

“Because I can get more from you.”

“Why you think that?”

“Drug dealer like you, all that cash you got? Told you, I been followin’ you, Potter.”

“How much more?”

“Double the ten they’re offering. Make it twenty.” Strange squinted. “Since you been insulting my intelligence, might as well go ahead and make it twenty-five.”

“Ain’t even no murder gun no more. And I know you ain’t gonna try and play me the fool and claim you got photographs or sumshit like that.”

“Not photographs. A videotape. I own an eight-millimeter camera with a three-sixty lens. I was parked a whole block back from that ice-cream shop on Rhode Island, but with that zoom the tape came out clear as day.”

“Tape can be doctored. Bullshit like that gets thrown out of court every day. Truth is, you can’t prove a thing.”

“I can try,” said Strange.

More silence. “Aiight, then. Maybe we should hook up and talk.”

“I don’t want to talk about nothin’. Just bring the money. I’ll give you the tape and we will be done.”

“Where?”

“I got a house I keep as a rental property; it’s unoccupied right now. Figure you’re not stupid enough to try somethin’ in a residential neighborhood. I got some business I got to take care of first, so it’s gonna take me about an hour, hour and a half to get out there.”

“Where is it?”

Strange gave Potter the directions. He repeated them slowly so that Potter could write them down.

“You still drivin’ that black Cadillac that was parked outside Roosevelt?”

“You do remember me, then.”