not the monster hydraulic ram he had seen used to great effect on houses overseas, but it was sufficient and weighed only thirty-five pounds. He took it out of the Jeep and proceeded to the alley.
Walking south, he tossed the Stinger into Holley’s yard without breaking stride. At the foot of the alley he turned and went to 9th, then turned north. Now he was going by the front yards of the houses there. The street was quiet. A woman with a belly hanging over the front of her elastic-waist jeans crossed the street carrying a laundry hamper and went toward her car. She glanced at him for only a moment and walked on. He was a young white guy in a uniform and cap, medium height, solid build, no facial hair, no features to distinguish him, completely unremarkable and unmemorable, going about his business, which appeared to be some kind of official or blue-collar task. He continued up the sidewalk of the Holley residence, hearing the turn of an ignition behind him, going by the security alarm sign that he assumed would be bullshit. Now he was on the porch, hearing the car with the Laundromat-bound woman inside it going up the street.
Lucas stood before the door and pushed a button beside it and did not hear a bell. He knocked on the door and got no response. By now a dog would have come, but apparently there was no dog inside. He looked in the thin vertical window beside the bell, saw the messy interior, saw a plastic box hanging by the wall inside the door that showed a keyboard but had neither a red nor a green light, and he knew that it was a false security monitor that Holley had attached in a half-assed way.
He turned and walked off the porch, retracing his steps. He went back to the alley, and at the rear of Holley’s house he vaulted the fence, picked up the Stinger off the ground, and headed for the back door. He looked to the right and left and saw no one and took the iron steps up to the door. With one hand gripping the rear handle of the ram and the other on the top handle, he swung the heavy steel bar with great force into the door a few inches from its lock, and he felt the door give. The sound did not seem alarmingly loud to him, and he swung the Stinger again, putting his hips into it, and the door splintered and moved, and Lucas kicked the heel of his right boot into the same spot with a grunt, and the door opened and he stepped inside. He closed the crippled door with his back.
Lucas was in a small kitchen with old appliances and a sink filled with dirty dishes. The room stank of unemptied garbage. He placed the Stinger ram on a cheap laminate countertop scarred by burn marks. He walked from the kitchen into the living room and did not stop to look around.
Lucas knew what every burglar knows: people, straight and criminal alike, keep their cash, jewelry, and valuables close to where they sleep.
There was no second floor, only a crawl space. He found the bedroom that looked to be Holley’s by virtue of the fact that it held the largest bed. It was the master; there was a bathroom inside accessed from the room. Lucas went into the bathroom, saw men’s toiletries, long black hair in the sink, a shower stall covered with mold. A tube of mascara and lipstick, no doubt left behind by one of Holley’s tricks.
Lucas went back into the bedroom and surveyed it. An unmade king with no headboard; a cheap particleboard dresser with three drawers, an open cigar box doubling as a jewelry box atop it; a large velvet wall painting of a full-figured woman, naked, on her knees; a poster of the zodiac signs showing men and women coupling in various positions; and a closet filled with shirts, slacks, sport jackets, and shoes.
Lucas drew the blinds and closed the curtains. He got down on his chest and looked under the bed. There was nothing but dust bunnies there. He stood, threw the sheets back, drew his Leatherman from its holster, and pulled from it a small but very sharp serrated blade. He cut the mattress open from head to foot and cut it crosswise and inspected its stuffing and springs. Nothing. He went to the dresser and pulled its drawers one by one, emptying them onto the floor, tossing the drawers in a jumbled heap to the side. He looked in the cigar box, saw several bolos, cuff links, and rings with glass jewels, and he emptied this onto the floor as well. With his hand he swept off whatever was left on the dresser and felt his face grow hot. He removed the velvet painting from the wall, held it aloft, punched his right fist through its center, and dropped it. Lucas heard himself laugh.
That’s for sending the little man.
He went to the closet, which had no door. He pulled all the clothing out by the hangers and tossed it onto the bed. There were many pairs of shoes lined up on the floor, side weaves, fake gators, country-to-the-city, boat-to- America shit, and Lucas kicked them to the side and got down on his haunches and saw the plywood wall in the back of the closet that was obviously false from the way it hung. He got a grip on its edge and pulled it back and he smiled.
There were three ghetto safe-deposit boxes on the floor behind the false wall, stacked on top of one another. Lucas picked up the stack of Nike shoe boxes and put them on top of the dresser. One by one he opened them, and inside he saw banded stacks of cash. Twenties, hundred-dollar bills, tens, and fives.
The cell rang in his pocket. He pulled it and answered.
“Yes.”
“It’s me,” said Waldron. “Our boy came out a massage parlor ten minutes ago. I’m guessing he got his self yanked.”
“And?”
“Seems to me he’s headed back to his house. He just turned off Georgia onto Missouri.”
“I need ten minutes,” said Lucas.
“Copy that.”
Bobby Waldron passed the Lincoln on the right, raced ahead, and got back into the left-hand lane. Now he was in front of Holley. They were on Missouri Avenue headed east. At the red light at the 9th Street cross, Waldron came to a stop. Ricardo Holley braked the Mark V behind him, his left turn signal activated. Waldron, wearing a pair of Bobster wraparound goggles with amber frames, checked the rearview. He waited for Holley to look down at his cell, the modern habitual stoplight behavior, and when he did, Waldron put his truck in reverse and gave it a touch of gas. The Lariat rolled back slowly and tapped the fender of Holley’s Lincoln. Waldron quickly threw the shifter into park and stepped out of his truck.
Holley got out of his Mark and limped forward, his face set in an angry frown. The light turned green and horns sounded as both men walked toward each other. The traffic on Missouri streamed by. Waldron and Holley met in the street, four feet apart. Holley towered over Waldron. Waldron spread his feet.
“What the fuck you think you’re doin?” said Holley. “You backed into me.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Waldron calmly. “You hit me.”
“Motherfucker-”
“That’s not necessary, sir.”
“You-”
“I saw you, sir. You were looking at the screen of your cell phone. When the light turned green you came forward without observing that I was still stopped.”
“That’s not true. It’s not.”
“Is there any damage to your car, sir?”
Holley turned his head and inspected the bumper of the Lincoln. There wasn’t a scratch on it.
“That’s not the point,” said Holley.
“Maybe you’d like me to phone the police.”
“No, I don’t want that.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Motherfucker, I want you to apologize.”
Waldron stared impassively at Holley from behind amber lenses and spoke in a monotone. “I told you, sir. That kind of language is completely unnecessary.”
Ricardo Holley looked at Waldron, his redneck haircut, his redder than red sunglasses, his arms and shoulders stretching out the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt, had a picture of some white sucker riding a motorcycle. Holley had eight inches on the man standing before him, and reach, but the short man had quiet confidence. And with that tree stump build of his, he would be hard to hurt. Still, if he were twenty years younger… but he was not.
“Apologize,” said Holley, because he could not give it up.
Waldron said nothing. Holley’s face darkened and he limped back to his car.
Waldron got into his truck and drove away. Down Missouri, near Kennedy, he phoned Lucas.
“He’s one click away from his house,” said Waldron. “He’s on his way.”
Ricardo Holley pulled up in front of his bungalow and killed the Mark’s engine. He was running a little late for the meeting at the warehouse, what with the extra time he’d spent with that Korean gal, but he decided to come back to his crib and pick up his bottle of high-dose naproxen, which he’d forgotten that morning. The prescription
