what would set him off. But for now all he could think of was the get-back. Wondering who hated him enough, and who was bold enough, to do something like this to a member of his family. Because that person had to know that he’d signed his own death certificate tonight.
Dewayne picked up the stainless Colt.45 with the rosewood checkered grips that lay on the floor and got up off the mattress. He slipped the gun under his waistband and slanted it so that the butt was within easy reach of his right hand. Then he went down the stairs.
Bernard Walker sat at the card table in the soft glow of the candlelight. There were a couple of Slim Jims and an open bag of chips lying on the table, along with Walker’s Glock. Walker was listening to some go-go, the new 911 PA tape he’d bought off a street vendor, on his box, but the volume was way down low.
“I kept it soft,” said Walker, looking up at Durham, “so you could sleep.”
“I’m up now,” said Durham. “And I got some news.”
ULYSSES Foreman handed Horace McKinley a full magazine. McKinley slapped the clip into the butt of his Sig.
“There we go,” said McKinley, smiling. His gums were spiderwebbed red, and some of the blood had seeped into the spaces between his teeth. “Don’t feel so naked now.”
“Brought you that first-aid shit you asked for,” said Foreman, eyeing the big man’s saddlebag chest. There was a damp burgundy stain on his wife-beater, where his right tit was.
“Gimme it,” said McKinley. He holstered the Sig in his warm-up pants and reached for the white plastic bag that held the gauze and tape. “What I owe you for that?”
“Nothin’,” said Foreman.
“You can take your jacket off, you want to.”
“I’ll just leave it on.”
“Got your shit on underneath, right?”
“You
“Have a seat,” said McKinley. “I’ll be right back.”
Foreman watched McKinley go into a hall toward the kitchen. It was shorter to go through the dining room, but McKinley would have trouble squeezing through the space. Fat motherfucker must have stock in McDonald’s, Burger King, and KFC all at the same time, thought Foreman. He couldn’t understand how a man could let his body go like that.
In the kitchen, McKinley washed himself over the sink. He had water and electric, unlike those Little Orphan Annie motherfuckers across the alley. As he thought of them, he glanced through the back- door window and saw the house on Atlantic, lit by candlelight. Looked like Dewayne Durham and Bernard Walker were having one of those romantic dinners and shit. Now would be a good time to interrupt him.
McKinley made a pad from the gauze and tape. He grunted, holding his flap of nipple flat as he stuck the gauze on his chest. He was still bleeding some. He’d have to go to the clinic tomorrow, maybe get some stitches put on there to hold it tight. But that was tomorrow. He needed to find Mike, warn him to move the boy someplace safe. And he had some business with Foreman, too.
He phoned Monkey Mike but got a dead line.
He went back out to the living room where Foreman sat. He had a seat himself and smiled at the man with the show muscles who, after all those years out of uniform, still looked like a cop. Being a cop was like having those grass stains he used to get on the knees of his jeans when he was a kid. You could never get those out.
“I feel better now,” said McKinley.
“You want a cigar?”
“Never turn down one of your Cubans.”
McKinley slid two out of the inside pocket of his leather, handed one to McKinley, lit his own, lit McKinley’s. They sat there in the living room in the light of the bare-bulb lamp, smoking, getting their draws.
“Nice,” said McKinley. “Look here, I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression on the phone a while back. I was just
“Ain’t no thing,” said Foreman, looking at the spot, still leaking, on McKinley’s chest. “What happened?”
“Someone took advantage of the fact that I was alone here, unarmed, and made the mistake of tryin’ to step to me. I’m gonna take care of that situation my own self.”
“Where’s your boy at?”
“Mike? I’d like to know myself.” McKinley chin-nodded in the direction of Foreman’s leather. “What you holdin’, man?”
“My Colt.”
“That’s a pretty gun, too, got those ivory handles. What else?”
Foreman reached into his jacket and slid the revolver from one of the shoulder holsters. He handed it butt out to McKinley, who weighed it in his hand. He turned the gun, admiring the contrast of the polished rosewood grips against the stainless steel.
“LadySmith Three fifty-seven,” said Foreman.
“It’s light.”
“Yeah, but you could put your fist through the hole it makes. ’Specially on the exit. It’s light ’cause it’s made for the hand of a woman. That’s Ashley’s gun right there.”
McKinley handed the gun back to Foreman, who holstered it.
“How is your woman?” said McKinley.
“She’s good.”
“Bet that pussy’s good, too. I ain’t never had a white girl I ain’t paid to have. It’s all pink anyway, right?” McKinley laughed, reached over and clapped Foreman on the arm, watching his narrowed eyes. “Oh, shit, c’mon, big man, we just talkin’ man-to-man here. I mean you no disrespect.”
Foreman sat back and dragged on his cigar. “Say why you brought me out here, for real.”
“Okay, then. This situation we got, you sellin’ to my competition, I come to the conclusion it ain’t workin’ for me. Two of my boys just got deaded by one of your guns; you
“And they lost two of theirs the same way. I’m sorry those boys had to die, but it ain’t none of my concern. I didn’t pull those triggers, any more than the dealer plunges the needle into a junkie’s arm.”
“Like I said, it ain’t workin’ for
“That ain’t none of my business, Horace.”
“I’m gonna be
“So?”
“What we gotta do now is make that happen tonight. Cement our relationship so we can move forward, man.”
Foreman tapped ash off his cigar. “No.”
“What you mean,
“I mean I won’t do it. You askin’ me to cross a line that I won’t cross.”
“It’s gonna be good for your future, man.”
Foreman kept his tone friendly. “Thanks for thinkin’ of me, but I’m already doin’ all right.”
“I’m not talkin’ about you doing better. I’m talkin’ about you makin’ the right decision
