In the back of the Mobley Detailing warehouse, past the main office, was the second room, the one Ricardo Holley and Beano Mobley used as a fuck pad and playhouse when they entertained women and girls they brought back from the clubs.
There were two large beds in the room, taking up much of the space. Sometimes Holley and Mobley liked to do it to women in the same room at the same time, like they imagined fraternity brothers would, even though they were both deep into middle age. On the walls were posters of women in thongs and a couple of framed, infamous photographs of Darlene Ortiz in her white body thong, front view and back, holding a pistol-grip shotgun, from the cover of the Ice-T album Power.
Like the office, the room had a portable bar. Atop it were several cognacs that Mobley claimed were expensive but were just top-shelf bottles refilled with rail yak. Also in the room were a beat-up stereo system and a couple of comfortable chairs. A round table strewn with porno mags. A filthy bathroom with a toilet and no shower. A mirror with the Jack Daniel’s logo that was frequently taken off the wall and used to track out lines of coke.
Ernest Lindsay sat in one of the chairs. He was leaning forward and looking down at the linoleum tiled floor, his hands clasped tightly together. The windows had outdoor bars and interior curtains. Through the thin white curtain Ernest could see that it was night.
Fluorescent light fixtures hung from the drop ceiling, but their tubes were not illuminated. A man had come into the room and turned on a floor lamp with a tasseled shade.
“Ain’t you gonna eat that food I got you?” said the man. Tall, with puffed-out copper-colored hair and a long thin nose. He looked strange and familiar, but Ernest didn’t know why.
“No, thank you,” said Ernest. “I’m not hungry.”
It was Chinese from one of those Plexiglas-wall grease pits, and that garbage gave Ernest diarrhea. Even if he wasn’t so nervous he wouldn’t eat it. His mother had taught him early on not to touch it.
“You want a drink?” said the man. “I got liquor.”
Ernest nodded at a dirty plastic cup of tap water he had set on the floor. “I’m fine.”
The man limped toward Ernest and stood over him. He spoke in a soothing way. “Look here, son. You just sit tight and behave yourself, and you’re gonna be fine. I don’t want nothin from you. A man took something from me, and when he gives it back, you’re gonna be free to go. It’s not on me to decide when you walk out of here. It’s on him. Until that time, you’re my guest, hear?”
“Yes.”
After a long silence, the man said, “The color purple.”
“Huh?”
“Do you like it?”
“The movie?” said Ernest, meeting his eyes directly for the first time.
“I’m speaking on your shirt. Purple happens to be my favorite color, too.”
“This is my uniform for school.” Ernest knew the man was trying to act nice, but it was false. There was no kindness in his eyes.
“Don’t expend no energy with the back door,” said the man. “It takes a key to unlock it.” He went to an interior door that led to another room and put his hand on the knob. “You just relax. Knock if you need somethin. My name’s Ricardo.”
He walked out, closed the door behind him, and latched it.
Ricardo.
Ernest’s stomach turned. He felt like he was going to vomit. The man didn’t care if Ernest knew his name.
Ricardo Holley walked into his office, opened his desk drawer, and dropped a ring of keys inside. His son Larry, seated before the desk and in uniform, watched him. Ricardo settled into his chair.
“The boy’s all right,” said Ricardo. “I talked to him in a real nice way. Made him feel comfortable.”
Larry stared at him, disbelief in his eyes. He found it hard to speak.
“Just tryin to keep you in the loop, young man.”
“A little late for that,” said Larry, his voice unsteady.
“We’re men. We make decisions and we act on ’em. We don’t need to form no committees.”
“You might have spoken to me first before you went and did something like this. You and your low-ass crew.”
“I don’t need permission from you to do any goddamn thing. You perform a service for us and you’re well paid. But you’re not my partner. I told you that before. I guess I need to make it clear again.”
“You,” said Larry.
Ricardo got up and fixed himself a brown liquor drink, no mixer, no ice. He brought it back to his desk and sat in his chair.
“Now, let’s talk about this rational,” said Ricardo. “I’m gonna call Lucas. Tell him that he needs to bring me the money he stole in exchange for the Lindsay boy. When he comes, we’ll take him out.”
“What about the boy?”
“What do you think? He saw you, Larry, in uniform, taking that package and puttin it into the trunk of an MPD vehicle. It’s you who brought this on him.”
“This isn’t a marijuana transaction, or receiving stolen property. It’s even bigger than moving guns. This here is a capital crime.”
“It’s not any kind of crime if no one finds out. We’ll do the both of ’em right here and bury ’em in pieces out in the woods somewhere. You don’t even have to get your hands dirty, Larry. Bernard will take care of it. He wants to.”
“I’m out.”
“Uh-uh.” Ricardo wagged a finger at his son theatrically. “That’s not an option. Besides, what are you gonna do? Go to IAB and make a confession? You wouldn’t just lose your job. You’d go to prison, boy. You know you ain’t built for it.”
Larry stood up abruptly. His fists were clenched. Tears had come to his eyes. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t control his emotions.
Ricardo smiled. “Look at you. You about to cry.”
“Least I feel something.”
“I can’t even believe you’re my blood.”
“I wish to God I wasn’t,” said Larry. “I hate you, man.”
“So?”
Ricardo laughed. Larry turned and walked from the room.
TWENTY-TWO
Spero Lucas woke up the next morning without any plans. It was unusual and discomforting for him to have no immediate goals. The euphoria of the money and the satisfaction of having completed his task had worn off, leaving him with an unfamiliar feeling of having been tainted by the job. He’d done this kind of work for a while now, for Petersen and on his own, and his methods had often been questionable and occasionally beyond the law. But he’d never experienced this kind of foul aftertaste. There was dirt in his mouth and he couldn’t spit it out.
It wasn’t the murder of Nance; despite the fact that he could have spared his life, Lucas had convinced himself that he’d acted in self-defense. The retrieval of marijuana money didn’t bother him on the moral level, either. He believed that marijuana prohibition was hypocrisy. He saw nothing wrong with it. He smoked weed himself.
But the violent deaths of Tavon Lynch and Edwin Davis were harder to bear. It wasn’t that he felt personally responsible. They had lied to him, but they were decent young men who had not fully understood the consequences of the game. What touched Lucas like a cold finger on his shoulder was that he had done nothing about their murders. And there was his professional curiosity, too. The question still nagged at him: why had they been killed?
Lucas walked to the living room window and looked up at the sky. It was a glorious day.
