“The police officer?”
“He stopped right beside me and looked straight into my eyes. I’m certain he knows who I am. He drove past me in his squad car last week when I was surveilling a house on Twelfth. Got my plate numbers, most likely. Him and whoever he’s in with probably know where I live.”
“What now?”
“I blew it,” said Lucas. “Let’s go.”
Larry Holley had been let into the cinder-block building by Beano Mobley, who told him that his father was waiting for him in the office. Earl Nance and Bernard White were standing by their Tahoe, parked beside the Lincoln in the bay. Nance was smoking a cigarette, grinning at Larry as he approached. Larry did not acknowledge either of them as he went back to the office and knocked on the door. It opened, and Ricardo Holley stepped aside to let his son pass.
“Son,” said Ricardo, regarding his offspring in his off-brand jeans, white T, and billowing windbreaker. The boy had no style.
“We got a problem,” said Larry.
“Come on in and set.”
Ricardo limped across the office and had a seat behind his desk. Behind him, the gun case and the door that led to the second office. There was cash money on the desk, stacks of it in twenties, tens, and fives. Larry eyed it warily.
“I said have a seat.”
“I’ll stand.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Thought you said we were done with those two.”
“Nance and White? I said we were done with ’em for now. Anyway, they’re here for the same reason you are.” Ricardo’s eyes went to the money, then back to Larry. “To get paid.”
“I thought they been paid.”
“You know I like to parse it out a little bit at a time. Y’all might go on a spendin spree, attract some unwanted attention. I wouldn’t like that.”
“You’re actin like you’re the bank.”
“I am.”
“What about the rest of it?”
“What’s left is safe at my spot. You don’t need to worry. It’ll come to you eventually. Your father ain’t gonna let you starve.”
“ Now you’re my father,” said Larry.
Ricardo smiled. “You said you had a problem.”
“ We do,” said Larry. “It’s that Lucas dude. The one who’s been camped out on Twelfth? I just saw him walkin down the road, not far from this shop.”
If Ricardo was shaken he did not show it. “So?”
“What you mean, so? ”
“What’s he gonna do? He’s not police. You are. You see what I’m sayin?” Ricardo gestured with his hand as if he were shooing away a fly. “I don’t want you to worry over this. You ran his plates. You gave me his address. You did your thing and now I know where to find him. Let me take care of it.”
“I told you, I don’t want no more violence.”
“Neither do I. I was thinking of setting up a meet. Whatever Lucas is looking for, it’s got to involve money. That’s true for every man, right? You of all people should know.” Ricardo picked up a rubber-banded stack of cash and tossed it forward on the desk so that it landed within reach of Larry. “Speaking of which.”
Larry hesitated. He picked up the cash and shoved it inside his windbreaker.
“Buy something for yourself,” said Ricardo. “Maybe some new vines.”
Larry looked at Ricardo, Bama material, wearing all black in the middle of the day, rayon shirt and slacks, looking like Zorro, telling him how to dress.
“Somethin funny?” said Ricardo.
“Nothin is,” said Larry.
“You were grinnin.”
“Don’t lie to me again,” said Larry. He walked from the room, closing the door behind him.
“Mother fuck you,” said Ricardo, staring at the door. The light had left his eyes.
Lucas and Marquis dropped the rentals off at the lot on Sligo Avenue, then went to their own vehicles, parked near a corner Spanish market. Lucas took the radio and headset from Marquis, stowed it in the back of the Jeep, and pulled two water bottles from the cargo area. He handed one to Marquis. The two of them stood in the street and drank deeply.
“What’s our next move?” said Marquis, wiping off his chin.
“You’re out,” said Lucas. “I don’t like where this is going, and I don’t want you involved with it anymore. I’ll settle up with you for today when I get my cut.”
“That’s not why I asked. I know you’re good for the money. I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“No doubt. But that look you got right now? I seen that in your eyes before. April twenty-six, two thousand and four, to be exact. In those houses on the edge of the Jolan graveyard.”
Lucas nodded. “That was some day.”
“The hajjis was comin in by taxicab and flatbed trucks. Must have been hundreds of ’em, wearing them checkerboard scarves.”
“Kaffiyehs,” said Lucas.
“You took point. I see that flashlight attached to the barrel of your M-Sixteen. I see you leading the way into those dark rooms, and the muzzle flash of those AKs, the walls just shredding from the rounds. I still dream all that.”
And I see you sparing no one, thought Marquis. Emptying your mag into the heads and chests of the ones you put down. But then we all did that. When you kill a man twice, you know he can’t get up and shoot at you again.
“It was somethin,” said Lucas.
“All those bullshit movies about adrenaline-junkie soldiers and marines? I never served with anyone like that.”
“Neither did I.”
“It wasn’t about thrill seekers. It was about emotion. We had a bond, man.”
“We still do.”
“But you can’t say more than one or two words about it.”
“What’s to say? We don’t have to talk about it, because both of us were there. To try and talk about it with someone who wasn’t there… what’s the point?”
“So, again,” said Marquis, “what are you fixin to do?”
“I’m going back to that detailing shop on my bike. I can slip in there easier on two wheels. Take some photos, shit like that.”
“You don’t have your squad anymore.”
“I won’t take any unnecessary chances,” said Lucas. “I want to live.”
Marquis held out his hand. “Two-One, Luke.”
“Two-One.”
They tapped fists.
SIXTEEN
Lucas changed into black shorts, padded in the seat and lined with spandex leggings, a gray poly shirt that wicked, and gray shoes with steel-shanked soles. He carried his bike, an aluminum frame, gray Trek, down the
