I glance at the tabletop, smirk, and look away from her to retrieve my cigarette. It's subtle, but I believe I have made my point. It's the same point I told her before I made her come: she doesn't know me, doesn't know my demons.
When I look back to her, she's smirking, too. Fair is fair.
We break the contact as Freddy joins us. She looks to the table and I eye him sideways as he hesitates at the head chair. Perhaps she didn't warn him that she was putting him on the spot. That she would do such a thing, I believe it without ever asking. Finally he sits without pomp.
He, too, is shirtless, skin and bones that he is. He's wearing his glasses, which is as rare a thing for him as gallivanting around shirtless is for me. My gaze snags on an ugly bruise around his left eye. The coloration suggests that the bruise isn't fresh.
Probably he already had it when he rolled in yesterday morning, and before he left again in the early afternoon. I won't ask what happened – I don't actually care – and he won't mention it, but those shades of purple and green are foreboding.
He glances my way, long enough to take in the details, but not long enough for eye contact. He's scanning the room like he would during a deal, weighing me up, noting the scene. Freddy always holds himself with the attitude like he dares you to say something, like he wants you to step out of line. Usually I ignore him. Today I kind of want to cross the line.
Our games don't normally clash, his unfeeling mask to mine, but today both of us are raw. My peaceful image is not the only one that has cracked. For as much as Freddy and I have always left to silence, we've spent a lot of time around each other. I've seen this guy scan a bar-full of people, never make a sound or crack an expression, and still be the one to anticipate the cheap shot that waited for us outside. It was a set-up, a deal that almost went to shit, that was nearly a double-cross. Except they didn't anticipate Freddy.
He left those guys bleeding on the pavement, by himself. That was the day that solidified in me both a respect and a distrust of Frederick. He doesn't feel like most people. Sometimes he's just a machine, acting on input, and that's more unnerving than anything else about him.
And right now, he's more on edge than I've ever seen him. That does not sit well with me.
Maria finally gives him her attention. I've been waiting for it and it leaves her wide open. She won't show Freddy a false face. So I watch the same tension string from him to her, through the lines of her jaw and the muscles of her shoulders. Always there's something deeper between them. I always saw it. So did Charlie.
Slowly, Freddy's eyes roll back to me. His features are stern, almost reluctant. That's when it occurs to me that whatever plan they're about to lay before me is already set into motion. They're just including me. Goddammit if I can't read them, just when I wish that weren't my specialty in all this. And I'll be goddamned if it doesn't sow a seed of resentment in the holy of holies of my emotions.
Freddy produces something from under the table, a piece of paper, presumably from his shorts’ pocket. He unfolds it and spreads it out over the table. It's a map of New Orleans. I would recognize those lines anywhere. He's so calm, so matter-of-fact with his actions. Sometimes it's easy to forget that Freddy held rank, in some other world, when he stood opposite of me. Of us.
Or maybe it's that I wish I could forget.
My scanning eyes almost miss the movement of his hand as my gaze goes instinctively to the Quarter. Almost, except his fingers close around my smokes. My hands ball in response, but he's not even looking at me, the cocky prick.
He sets the box down on a black X drawn in the Ninth Ward and he says, “Gram's next shipment comes in two days from now, at three in the morning. There's a cluster of old warehouses here, at North Galvez and Raynes.”
My rattled nerves ease a little when I realize he's just setting the scene, even if part of the scene is in the Ninth Ward. I settle against the chairback and banish the emotion in my expression. Maria is a stoic mirror of me, those honey eyes already searching the map for another X.
Freddy doesn't disappoint, wouldn't in this rare moment of spotlight. He draws a pistol, a 9mm Smith and Wesson, modest for him. The piece is flat black and its presence triggers anxiety in my gut. Just as quickly, he pops the magazine free and cocks the chamber open.
As he sets the gun down on the outskirts of the other side of the map, he says, “The delivery details will be handled by the supplying outfit. Their delivery vehicles are stored at a garage, here” – he taps the gun – “a couple blocks from the Superdome.”
Freddy sits back, lets his hands linger on the arms of the chair. Still, he's staring at the map. I wonder how many times he's rehearsed this. Or maybe he didn't at all. He doesn't seem like the type to rehearse anything in his life, but he's so focused despite his obvious edge, I wonder.
His words so far have been straightforward, but they are shadowed by a memory. Charlie, a beer in hand, grease on his arms and face, the hood of the Caddy propped open. That's when he told me
