“Larry comin, too?”
“Think I’ll speak to him alone,” said Ricardo. “Look here: I’m sorry your boy got his self chilled.”
“He knew the risks,” said White, and he ended the call.
Bernard White sat in a big chair in his Marlow Heights apartment, a crossword puzzle and pen in hand, looking out the window. Thinking of the day ahead, and how empty it would be without his ugly little friend.
Most of the commercial and retail businesses back in the Edmonston industrial section were closed on Sundays, but Beano Mobley kept his place open, because working folks used their free time on the weekends to get their vehicles correct. Also, an open and active business meant less suspicion when one of his side customers came to call.
Mobley had been at the firearms thing for a while. Indirectly, it was how he’d met Ricardo Holley. He and Ricardo had struck up a conversation one night at the club out New York Avenue, the one near the dog shelter that had the best all-ass dancers in town. Ricardo had mentioned that he was looking for a heater, and when Mobley asked him if he was police, Ricardo said, “I used to be, but don’t hold that shit against me.” They ended up bringing a couple of the dancers back to Mobley’s warehouse and partying in the far back room, where Beano poured mid- shelf liquor and Ricardo cut out lines of coke he had copped at the bar. Beano had put Brick and some Cameo, shit he liked from his day, on the stereo and cranked it up. Both of them were on the old side, but that night they tossed those freaks like they were young. The cocaine helped. Ricardo and Beano had the same taste in women-the bigger in the back the better. They liked them young, too.
Their friendship solidified, Ricardo began to talk partnership. He liked the fact that Mobley had real estate, a base of operations, and a gun thing that was recession proof. Ricardo would bring his knowledge of law enforcement and his ambition to the table. Both of them felt it was a good fit.
Lately, though, Mobley was beginning to wonder if he had made an error in joining up with Ricardo. Mobley had enjoyed a nice quiet run, selling firearms out the back of his warehouse to gangsters, studio gangsters, and plain old dudes who wanted protection for their homes and shops. He wasn’t too worried about someone flipping on him because of the code. At first he was down with Ricardo’s marijuana scheme, but when murder got attached to it, Beano wanted to walk away. Problem was, he couldn’t.
Beano wanted his old life back. To own his detailing business, move a few guns now and again, drive his Cadillac DTS, watch his beloved Redskins on Sundays, party with women and girls in his warehouse when he could, and grow old with some kind of dignity. He wanted a divorce from Ricardo Holley, but he didn’t know how to make it happen.
Mobley was outside standing in his lot, where his employees, a few ex-offenders he was trying to give a break to, were working on an SUV, when Larry rolled in, driving his Escalade. Dickless Larry, thought Mobley, watching as Larry’s window rolled down, seeing that the boy was agitated.
“Where’s Ricardo at?” said Larry.
“Waitin on you,” said Mobley. “In the back.”
Mobley watched with amusement as Larry got out of his ride and crossed the parking lot, trying to Walk Tall with an exaggerated swagger, a presidential candidate in elevator shoes and rolled-up sleeves, an actor trying to play a man. Larry, a tit with no milk.
“Sit down,” said Ricardo.
“I’ll stand,” said Larry.
They were in the main office of the warehouse, Ricardo seated behind his desk.
“You lied to me again,” said Larry.
“No, I didn’t. I kept you out the loop. That’s not the same thing.”
“You’re always twistin your words around,” said Larry.
“I have to, with you.”
“How could you let this shit happen?”
Ricardo shrugged. “Earl thought he had a solution to our problem. I let him give it a go. Looks like the dude he tried to down was better than him.”
“You’re talkin about Lucas.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We got real trouble now.”
“I expect we’ll be all right, son.”
Larry shook his head gravely. “Don’t call me son.”
“You’re my blood.”
“It’s not like I’m proud of it.”
“Neither am I. You look like me, but you ain’t me.”
“That’s for damn sure.”
As they always did, they came to a verbal stalemate. Ricardo leaned back in his chair. “Anything else?”
Larry’s posture slackened. “No.”
“If I need you, I’ll call.”
Larry left the room. Ricardo could only shake his head.
Beano Mobley entered the office shortly thereafter. “Your boy stormed out of here.”
“What can I say? Larry’s a woman.”
“Do I need to be concerned?”
“I got him under control,” said Ricardo. “But I rue the day I tapped that heifer he calls Mom.”
“We all got regrets.”
“Shoulda pumped my nut into a dirty sock instead.”
“You can pick your nose,” said Mobley, “but you can’t pick your gotdamn relatives.”
Feeling philosophical, Ricardo and Mobley met at the bar cart and poured themselves a couple of drinks.
Lucas took a long bike ride late in the afternoon and returned warily to his apartment. There were no patrol or unmarked cars on the street. He had not expected police to be waiting for him there, but he allowed that it might be a possibility. He was certain no one had witnessed the event in the parking lot, and though he had probably left DNA evidence behind, it would only be connectible if he was a suspect. It had been less than a day, but Lucas knew that if the MPD had made him, he would be in the box by now in 1D, being videotaped, answering seemingly polite questions, listening to the psychological head music that D.C. homicide detectives orchestrated so well.
Lucas went inside and took a shower. As the hot water calmed him, he speculated further: Ricardo Holley and his mob knew who had killed Earl Nance, but they wouldn’t give that information up to the law. If Larry Holley was going to do his job as a police officer and turn in Lucas’s name to Homicide, he would have done so by now, but that would also incriminate him. Ricardo could plant an anonymous tip, but Lucas had the feeling that it would be emotionally unsatisfying on his part to set in motion such a cheap and cowardly resolution to what was becoming a game of wills.
If it is a game, thought Lucas, perhaps now is the time to step it up.
He had been hired to get the money or the product back. He had been sidetracked to a degree that he had stalled in achieving that goal. He had seen Ricardo leave his house on 9th with an envelope that appeared to bulge with cash. That same day, he had observed the man who could be Mobley, Nance, the big man driving the Tahoe, Ricardo, and Larry Holley all congregated at the detailing building, which perhaps also functioned as their base of operations. Since Ricardo had taken money there, the meet might have been for the purpose of a payday, set in a place where they could come together to cut it up. He assumed that Ricardo, being the senior member of the group, was in charge. Ricardo damn sure didn’t use a bank. Ricardo distributed the cash from the reserve that he kept at his house. For Lucas, the next step was obvious.
He came out of the shower and dried off with a large bath towel. He put on some jeans, went out to the living room, picked up his cell, scrolled through his contacts, and found the friend he had last seen at the American Legion bar.
“Bobby Waldron.”
“It’s Spero Lucas.”
“Hey, man.”
“I could use your help.”
“You need somethin?”
“For now I need you. I got a tail-and-surveil job.”
