Irish Eyes (22 page)

I drew a large circle around that set of questions, then started another list at the bottom of the page.

What businesses had been victims of ATM robberies? Were they all in the City of Atlanta, or had stores in other locations also been victimized? How much money had been taken? Was anybody else harmed? And what about Boylan and his boys? Was C. W. right? Was Boylan recruiting cops from the Shamrock Society to an armed-robbery ring? Could one of the Shamrocks have been involved in the hijacking of Bishop’s friend Fiske?

I flipped the page and kept writing. The whole exercise was beginning to feel futile. There were too many jurisdictions around Atlanta, and I had no authority to ask the questions I wanted answered.

The phone rang and I grabbed for it, annoyed at being disrupted. The annoyance vanished when the caller spoke.

“Did you find out about the reward?”

“It’s for real,” I said, forcing myself to speak slowly. “The police say they can’t be certain whether or not Deecie would have to testify. They say it would depend on what she saw.”

“She saw it all,” the caller assured me. “But she ain’t going on no witness stand. She got a kid to think about.”

“Faheem? Is he all right? I understand he’s been sick. If Deecie wants, I could get her help for Faheem. Take him to a doctor.”

“Deecie takes care of Faheem all right. She don’t need you.”

“But I need her,” I said, trying not to sound desperate.

“Hold on,” the man said. And he put the phone down again.

“You still there?”

“I’m here.”

“What kinda car you got?”

“A pink Chevy van,” I said.

“Sissy-ass car.”

“It runs,” I said, getting defensive.

“You know how to get to Shallowford Road and I-85?”

“Yes.”

“You got a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Gimme the number.”

I recited the number twice.

“Get on Shallowford and keep going on past where it crosses 85. About three miles up, there’s a dry cleaner’s on the left side of the road, beside a Minute Mart. You be there, one hour, exactly. Wait there. Somebody will call, tell you what to do next, unless you trying something funny.”

“I’m not trying something funny,” I assured him.

I heard a voice in the background.

“What?” the man said. “Hang on.”

He was gone again, then he came back on the line. “Okay. You need to bring a box of Pampers, toddler size. And a gallon of whole milk, some bread, and some peanut butter. Oh, yeah. Stop by McDonald’s, get four Quarter-Pounders and two large Cokes. You got any wine?”

“I’ve got wine,” I said cautiously. This was some shopping list he was giving me.

“Bring some wine, too,” he said. “You ain’t there in an hour, you don’t talk to Deecie. And if you bring any cops …”

“No cops,” I said firmly.

A
n hour didn’t give me much time to get where I was going. I picked up the diapers and groceries at a convenience store on Ponce. The drive-through line at McDonald’s was five cars long, so I pulled up to a parking space and ran inside to order.

Of course, I got the slow-motion synchronized food servers of all times.

“No fries,” I said, breathing hard. “Four Quarter-Pounders and two large Cokes to go.”

The girl looked puzzled, tapping the hamburger and Coke icons on her cash register keyboard. She stopped and chewed on her thumb, staring down at the keyboard as though it was the first time she’d seen it.

“I’ll give you a five-dollar tip if you get me my food in five minutes,” I said.

She thought about it. “We’re not allowed to take tips.”

“Think of it as a bribe,” I snapped.

Sunday afternoon traffic was light on Interstate 85. I got off on the Shallowford Road exit as my caller had directed. Crossing over the Interstate onto Shallowford was like crossing the border into Tijuana.

Signs on both sides of the road were written in Spanish and English. I saw groups of Hispanic men standing at bus stops or congregated around cars in shopping center and apartment complex parking lots.

Most of the men, I knew, were day laborers, drawn to the Shallowford corridor by good-paying construction jobs around Atlanta’s booming perimeter. Check a construction site in Atlanta and you’ll hear Spanish radio stations, see taqueria trucks parked at lunchtime. Sheetrock crews, brick masons, framers, and roofing crews—nearly all seem Mexican. The apartment complexes along the corridor had become home to the laborers, many of them living six or eight to an apartment, an economy move to allow them to send most of their wages to family back in Mexico.

With five minutes to spare, I found the shopping center with the dry cleaner’s, and backed into the space, so that I faced out, looking at Shallowford.

I slid a hand under my seat, feeling my Smith & Wesson 9-mm lodged there, and patted the pocket of my blazer, where I’d slipped my cassette tape recorder. Then I put my head back and exhaled slowly.

It was just after three o’clock. Three young Mexican girls strolled past the laundry, their long dark hair whipping about in the gray afternoon breeze. I could hear their laughter through the van’s rolled-up windows.

Five minutes was just long enough for a chill to settle over me. I turned up the collar of my blazer and started the van so I could run the heater. Another five minutes passed, and then another.

Was the whole thing a hoax? I craned my neck, looking up and down Shallowford, seeing nothing remarkable. The cell phone rang and I jumped.

I flipped it open.

“Get out of the van and walk toward the street.” It was the same voice I’d heard before.

“What about the diapers and food and stuff?” I asked.

“Leave the keys in the van. Somebody will get the stuff.”

“Leave my car unlocked in this neighborhood? I’m crazy, but I’m not stupid.”

“You want to talk to Deecie or not?” he asked.

“Yes, but—”

“Walk to the road. You can carry the cell phone in your hand, so we know it’s you. Get out of the van right now, or forget about it.”

I looked around. I wanted to take my gun, but I was afraid he was watching and would see me bend down to get it.

“All right,” I said. “I’m getting out.”

“Good,” he said. “Walk fast. Right to the curb.”

I gave my van a last longing look. It was cold outside, the temperature hovering just above freezing, and I’d been in such a rush I’d forgotten to grab a heavy jacket.

I crossed a strip of brown weeds and stood at the edge of the street, feeling small and vulnerable.

“A car’s gonna pull up. We’ll open the door. Just get in. Don’t say nothing. Don’t ask nothing.”

“How do I know it’s you guys?” I asked. “I’m not in the habit of getting in a car with strangers.”

“Just do it,” he said.

Cars passed, a pickup slowed down, honked the horn, and a guy leaned out the passenger side. “Hey, bay-bee!”

I flipped him a bird, then put my hands in my pockets.

A faded yellow Cadillac with tinted windows slowed and stopped at the curb. The back door opened. I swallowed hard, and got in.

The driver kept his back turned to me. A guy in the front seat turned around. He was young, black, with a round face shaded by a Braves baseball cap. “You’re doin’ good,” he said, his smile revealing a chipped front tooth.

I recognized his voice. He was the caller. I held up the cell phone. “Nice talking to you.”

He held up his. “Likewise.”

“Are you William?” I asked.

“Could be. You leave the van unlocked?”

I nodded. “I hope your buddy picks it up soon. I need my wheels.”

“He’s right behind us,” William said.

“How’s Deecie?” I asked.

“Scared. Real scared.”

He handed me a red bandana. “Tie that around your eyes. You don’t wanna know where we’re taking you.”

“Come on,” I protested. “I’m not interested in turning Deecie in. I told you that. I want to help her and Faheem.”

“You wanna help, you put that on and quit asking questions,” he said.

The bandana smelled like cigarette smoke. I sat very still, with my hands folded in my lap. We drove in silence for maybe ten minutes, in what direction I couldn’t say.

“Turn here,” William told the driver. The car swayed to the right. “Slow down. Yeah. Go all the way around the back.” The car slowed, and I felt it go over what felt like a speed bump. “Keep going,” William coached. “See where I’m pointing? Pull over there. Give one beep, so they’ll know it’s us.”

The horn honked once, lightly, and the driver cut the ignition. I heard the front door open and close. Then my door opened. A hand took mine and guided me out of the car. I stood unsteadily.

“Hang on to my arm,” William instructed. “Nice and slow.” I linked my arm in his and we inched forward. “Three steps up,” he said, pulling at my arm. “Then two steps forward. Okay, now I’m opening the door, and you’re gonna step over a threshold and then stop,” he said. I did as I was told, taking mincing steps. I didn’t like this worth a flip.

I heard a grating metallic sound, felt warm air against my face. He propelled me forward three steps, and then stopped. The door closed behind us. He pulled me forward and I stumbled, nearly tripping, until he yanked me to an upright position. “Damn, girl,” he muttered. He reached over and pulled the bandana off. It took a moment for my eyes to get adjusted to the light, not that there was much of it.

We were in some kind of storeroom, cement floored, with high ceilings. Crates were stacked against walls, the lettering was in Spanish.

“In here,” William said, jerking his head to the left.

A door on the left was slightly ajar, spilling light into the
stockroom. The sign on the door said “Ladies.”

Deecie was seated on a cracked green plastic sofa, a red plaid sleeping bag wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was uncombed and stood up wildly from her head. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she sipped from a large McDonald’s Coke. So my van really had made the trip.

There was a portable playpen shoved in the corner of the bathroom, up against a grungy sink. Faheem lay on his stomach, head turned to the side, fast asleep.

“How ya doing?” I asked, giving her a smile.

She shrugged, held out the McDonald’s bag to William. “You didn’t tell her about the pickles.”

He took the bag, peered inside. “Pickles ain’t gonna kill nobody.” He pushed the door of the toilet stall open and sat himself on the commode, gesturing for me to sit on the sofa beside Deecie.

“Bucky,” she said softly. “Is he dead?”

“No. He’s still alive, if you can call it that.”

She lifted the edge of her Quarter-Pounder, removed the pickles, and dropped them in the paper sack beside her. She took a test nibble of the hamburger, paused, then attacked it as though she hadn’t eaten in a week.

I made myself wait until she’d polished off the hamburger, wadded up the foil wrapper, and disposed of it. William sat on the commode and had his lunch, keeping his eyes on me all the while he was eating.

“Deecie,” I said finally, thrusting my hands into my jacket pockets and turning on the tape recorder. “Will you tell me what happened that night? Who shot Bucky?”

Her eyes darted toward William. He nodded.

She blotted her lips with a paper napkin. “Only time that night it got quiet. Bucky came in, told me hi. Then he went over to the beer cooler. He opened the door and stood there looking. I knew what he was looking for. That beer he likes.”

“Harp,” I said.

“Yeah. He usually took a six-pack home with him the nights he worked,” Deecie said. “But man, we were busy all night. Sold a ton of beer. ‘Cause it was St. Patrick’s Day. We
were out of all the imported beer. Molson, Moosehead, Heineken. And I told him that. So he says, ‘Never mind, I bet there’s some in the walk-in cooler in the back.’ So I buzzed the buzzer that unlocks the door, and he went on back there.”

“Did you go with him?” I asked.

“Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head no. “I told you, we’d been busy all night. That old Greek, if he catches you leaving the register, he’ll fire your ass in a New York second. Bucky went on back, and I stayed out front.”

“Wait,” I said. “Weren’t you in the store alone?”

She rolled her eyes. “I thought I was. Pete came in about six. He took the big bills out of the register and put them in the safe in back, then he told me the security guard wasn’t coming in. So I’d be working alone, and was that a problem? I’d worked by myself a couple times before, and I wasn’t scared. I knew where the panic button was, and cops come in there all the time, ‘cause they’re all buddies with Pete. And the police department is just down the street, right?”

I nodded agreement.

“After Pete left, my aunt come in the store carrying my baby,” Deecie said. “Faheem was cuttin’ up bad. He was really sick. And my aunt, she said she couldn’t get no sleep with him cuttin’ up like that. She wanted me to come home and take care of him. But I couldn’t leave the store. Pete woulda fired me for sure. So I told her leave him with me. He cried for a while, but after he had a bottle, he settled down some. He slept the rest of the night. Good as gold. He woke up right before Bucky come in.”

“But other than Faheem, you were alone?”

“I’m getting to that,” she said. “After Bucky went in back, a guy came in the store.”

“Who?” So I had dozed off while Bucky was in the store.

“Just some old guy. He was asking me about scotch, and I don’t know nothing about scotch. I sold him a bottle of Dewar’s. He paid cash and left. Next thing I know, Bucky comes bustin’ out of the storeroom. He’s got the beer in his hand, and a funny look on his face. He walked right past me, like he didn’t even see me there. So I yelled at him, ‘Stop, thief,’ like a
joke, right? And he starts to say something, but all of a sudden, the storeroom door opens again, and this guy runs out. He’s got on a stocking mask, like I told you. That part was true, swear to God. And he screams something like, ‘Stupid motherfucker.’ And Jesus, he’s got a gun!”

Deecie’s face twisted in agony. Tears ran down her cheeks. “And Bucky turns around, like he’s gonna run, but the guy just shoots. He shot him right in the head,” she said chokingly. “I never seen nothing like that. I was screaming and screaming. And the guy walks up to Bucky, puts the gun right behind his ear and shoots again.”