He swung out and stood, legs cramped after his drive. “This isn’t mine,” he said.
“You right about that, Pancho. He say this ain’t his.”
“Be one thing he know.” The one with corn rows opened the passenger door.
“It belongs to Ted Larson,” Rivera said. “A lawyer.”
The one in the cap had been looking past Rivera to his partner. Now he straightened with the shotgun. “Obiwon, you hear this shit?”
“I hear.” The passenger door slammed shut. “He got contacts coming out his ass.”
“Fucker say this not his.”
“He sound white.”
“Sound like he on the news.”
“Look at this—” The one with the cap reached out with the shotgun and lightly tapped Rivera on the chest.
The other came around the front. He bent in front of Rivera and made a show of looking at his shirt. “He a heavy dude,” he said, and Rivera now saw the gun hanging from his hand. It was small, with a clip and a tubular muzzle. “Fucker’s white,” he said, straightening. “Look at the shoes he got on him. You ever seen a spic look like this?”
“Give him the keys and pop the trunk, motherfucker.”
Rivera handed over the keys. Why were they taking their time? Soon, the elevator would open. He turned and leaned inside, hit the release. As the trunk rose, he understood. They didn’t care, because they were high. Out of control. Nothing he said or did would matter. He ducked back out.
“Was a brother looked like this owned that Beemer last month.”
The one with cornrows laughed. “He still on the curb trying to flag his ass a cab.” The other man laughed. “Still be waiting on a taxi, got his special shoes for his boat—”
“Got his little horse on the shirt.”
“Yeah, he still out there—”
They broke up, stumbling, leaning against each other, unable to stop. This is it, Rivera thought. They might just take the car and leave, but he decided they wouldn’t. They were laughing but hated him, he was sure. Seeing they were still off balance, eyes closed and laughing, Rivera ran.
Dodging right, he aimed for the stairs. In the low-ceilinged chamber, the sound of the shotgun hit him like a second blow. He went sprawling.
“Fuck, you not paying ’tention, look what you done.”
“Fucker trying to run.”
“Where he going? Look at this fender. You fucking up a cherry Jag.”
“Lemme see. Fuck, paint the fucker, nobody going to notice. We driving it out the front or back?”
“The back. He dead?”
The twelve-gauge shell had struck him in the back. Face down on the concrete, Rivera heard footsteps. He felt numb, unable to move. He was not sorry to lose the Jag, but he wanted to know why the one in the cap had called it cherry. It was tan, not red.
“No, he ain’t.”
It was what Mrs. F called an idiom. Rivera felt his wallet being pulled from his khakis. Hands now turned him over and fumbled in his front pockets.
“Motherfucker. We got us a payday.” There was more talk, words shouted, laughter. Now his left hand was grasped, and he was being dragged. With the movement, all at once Rivera felt terrible pain. Dizzy and moaning, he was sure he would vomit.
Two Tone dropped the hand. He raised the Uzi and emptied the clip at the spic’s chest.
The noise sank away. Not so bad when you was high. “He going to need a new shirt,” Two Tone called. He reached over and pulled down one, then the second trash barrel. Garbage spilled over the body, and he jumped back. Drinks and ketchup had splashed out on his warm-up suit. Fuck.
“He got more shit in his bag,” Obiwon called. “Got this little art statue wrapped up. Socks in here feel like cashmere. Some picture shit with a 5 on it.” Dumping trash, thought Two Tone. What the fuck you doing? Happened ’cause you high. He turned as Obiwon spun off in the Jag and cut sharply. Tires screeched and echoed as the car passed down the corkscrew ramp.
Crazy fucker, he thought. Two Tone walked to his Town Car and got in. He lay the still-warm Uzi on the seat, then the wallet. He slammed the door and started forward. But at the ramp, Two Tone braked to a stop. He opened the small notebook, taken from the man’s front pocket with the wad of bills. Stoned but curious, he leafed the pages. Stitch in time, no holds barred, front-loaded, baked into the mix.
He tossed the book on the seat and dipped down the incline.
Chilly and tired, Brenda turned in at the Donegal entrance. As she neared the gatehouse, the guard looked up and waved. The barrier rose. When she passed, he waved again, ghostly behind tinted glass.
Ahead, spotlights under trees had been aimed up into the foliage. It made her think of Halloween as a child, holding a flashlight under her chin to be scary. Here and now, the lights looked frozen to her. Silent and static.
She turned right and lowered her window. So quiet. She breathed in, smelling fresh cut grass. No sounds came to her, only the soft hiss of the car’s tires. But emerging into the light of a street lamp, now came a couple with a dog. They were wearing white sweaters and had white hair. The dog was trotting between them, a schnauzer.
Retirement, Brenda thought. You threw away the clock and walked when you felt like it. The couple watched her pass but didn’t wave. She wondered which dogs fared best here. She supposed long-haired breeds would be miserable, out of their element. Like red-headed journalists from Michigan, she thought.
She turned at her street and saw Charlie’s car. It was parked in front of the villa, not on the drive. Would parking that way lead to a note or fine? Maybe he had parked that way to let her know he was not really here, that he was ready for a quick exit after doing the right thing, and making sure she was safe.
She pulled up the drive. If Charlie were
