Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, Laura sat straight up in the bed and, feigning a look of wide-eyed innocence, said, “Oh, my, is that what they mean by a threesome?” It was dark in the room, but I could still see the sparkle in her eyes. I could also see that the sheet had slid all the way down to her waist.
“Tell you what,” I said, as I reached up and did something I knew from experience gave her quite a bit of pleasure. “Why don’t you just concentrate on expressing your gratitude to me tonight, and the next time I see Detective Wilcox and that little cutie, Officer Jeter, I’ll tell them you said thanks.”
And I applied just a tad more pressure.
Laura moaned slightly, with her eyes closed, and said, “Are you sure that will be okay?”
“Perfectly,” I said.
Her eyes opened then, and I could see the laughter in them.
“Well, in that case,” she whispered, as she rolled her body slowly onto mine, “let the thanks begin.”
Chapter 41
I spent the next few days eating, exercising and doing a couple of small jobs for clients who had distinguished themselves in the past by paying their bills in full and on time. I also tried to stay out of T-Man’s way, which turned out to be pretty easy, since nobody seemed to have a clue as to his whereabouts. I called Larretta one night, just to check on her and talk to Anthony. I figured it was okay to talk to him on the phone, since I doubted that T-Man’s technological expertise extended much further than using the remote to change channels, let alone into the realm of wire-tapping. After Anthony said hello, I got right to the point.
“Any sign of T-Man or Rodney?” I asked.
“Un-uh,” he said. “I ain’t seen’em for two or three days, not since they was over at your place.”
There was a pause, and then he added, “I didn’t know nothin’ about that, Mr. Barnes.”
Mr. Barnes. Either his mother was listening or I’d made a little progress with Anthony.
“I never thought you did,” I told him. “Do you know if anyone else in the gang has talked to T-Man?”
“Razor said he talked to him on his cell right after that morning at your place. He said T-Man say anyone even talks about leavin’ the Links gonna get wasted.”
“Other than that,” I said, “any other communication with T-Man?”
“Not that I know of,” said Anthony.
“What about just day-to-day stuff?” I asked. “I don’t know much about gang protocol. Do you guys meet after school every day, use the secret handshake to get into the clubhouse?”
That brought a little laugh from Anthony.
“What I’m trying to get at,” I said, “is if there’s any routine that isn’t being followed now, something different that might help me figure out where T-Man’s gone.”
“Yeah,” said Anthony, “I see where you be goin’ with that, but it ain’t like we all see each other every day, you know.”
There was another pause.
“It do be strange that T-Man be outta sight this long, though. Far as I know, he never goes nowhere outside the ‘hood.”
“Okay, Anthony, thanks. I’ll talk to you again soon.”
“Yeah,” he said, “and maybe next time, I’ll teach you that secret handshake.”
A joke, I thought, as I hung up the phone. An actual joke from Anthony.
* * *
A couple of nights later, after basketball at the Y, Denny and I went to a McDonald’s to get our cholesterol fix for the month. It was one of those Mickey D’s with an indoor playground, and since it was still unseasonably warm out, we decided to sit at a plastic table and chairs in the patio area. The plastic was some hideous shade of purple that clashed with Denny’s navy designer sweatsuit, but he sat there anyway, which I told him I thought was awfully egalitarian of him.
Popping a fry into my mouth, I said, “Anthony says there’s been no sign of T-Man since he and the boys stopped by my place for brunch.”
“Talked to Paris this morning,” said Denny. “He said T-Man and his buddy seemed to have disappeared.”
“Maybe they went on one of those fall foliage tours,” I said. “It’s the right time of year.”
Whatever clever response Denny was about to share with me was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He answered, then listened for a minute or two, and hung up. Pointing at my quarter-pounder, he said, “Wanna make that to go””
I gave him a quizzical look.
“Body,” he said, getting up out his seat. “Beatty Street.”
* * *
Beatty Street runs along the back of Franklin High School and is lined with small, two-story brick homes built mostly in the thirties and forties for lower middle-class families. The homes are very close to each other, often with just a four-foot wide walkway between them, and some are actually duplexes that share a wall. Almost all of the homes have porches with three or four steps leading to the small lawns that separate the homes from the sidewalk. Ironically, location used to be a selling point for the area, with realtors touting the proximity to Franklin, which at one time was regarded as one of the best schools in the city. Then, about thirty years ago, the economy began slowing down and the neighborhood deteriorated a little. Even then, though, the students at Franklin weren’t really a problem for the homeowners. Mainly, you had kids leaving the school at lunchtime to sneak a smoke on Beatty Street, and the office would get a few calls complaining about cigarette butts and empty pop cans littering the street and yards. The teachers on cafeteria duty would routinely go out and herd the kids back into the building in time for their afternoon classes, and the people who lived in the
