Rubbed Out (21 page)

“Apparently not.” I thought about Paul calling them dumb. He had seriously underestimated them. So had Wilcox for that matter.

“I'll see what I can find out about the Russians. That can't be too hard.”

I got up and dropped the shades on the living room windows down. Suddenly I felt exposed, having people being able to look in.

“Here's my question,” I said, turning to face George. “Why Manuel? Why not someone else?”

“Simple. Because you care about him. Because these guys know if they have him, you'll do what they want to the absolute best of your ability.”

“I know that. But how do they know that? Whoever took Manuel knows me.”

George picked the glass up and rolled it between the palms of his hand. “Paul knew that you and Manuel were tight,” he said. “He could have told the Russians.”

“Yeah. He could have. Maybe he did. But that doesn't lead anywhere.”

“Meaning?”

“I have another idea.” And I went upstairs and woke Bethany up.

“A
re you sure about this?” George asked as he turned onto East Genesee Street. We were in his car, heading toward the house I'd found Tiger Lily in.

“No, I'm not sure at all. But the kid's a possible link, and that makes him worth talking to.”

I've always thought that if you keep moving and talking to people, eventually you bump up against something that shows you where to go next.

“You don't even know if he lives there.”

“I guess we'll find out soon enough.”

“Do you know how many skinny white kids with shaved heads there are in this city?” George asked. “How do you know that the one Bethany saw Manuel talking to is the one we want?”

“I don't.”

George turned the corner onto Fayette Street. No one was out. We were the only car on the road. At one o'clock in the morning, everyone was home asleep. I lit a cigarette and exhaled. George waved the smoke away with his free hand.

I opened the window a crack.

“Better,” George said.

“I figure if I'm wrong, we're in the same place we were before, but if I'm right, we're a step ahead.”

“Are you sure this doesn't have to do with Calli and Dirk and showing Calli what a putz she hooked up with?”

“I'm positive.” I took two more puffs, lowered the window a little more, and flicked the cigarette out onto the road. Somehow or other smoking wasn't doing it for me anymore. Maybe I needed to change brands. “Does Natalie know you're doing this?”

George took his eyes off the road for a second to look at me. “Where did that come from?”

I shrugged. “I'm curious.”

“I suppose you have a right to ask. And
this
meaning what we're doing now?”

I nodded.

“Yeah. I told her.” He pulled into a parking space right in front of the door of the building the cops had taken Myra out of.

“What did she say?”

He turned off the ignition. “That you're using this as an excuse to get me back.”

“Is that what you think too?”

“No.” George pushed open the car door. “If I thought that, I wouldn't be here.”

“So how does it feel being a father?”

George ducked his head. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“You're going to have to at some point.”

“Maybe, but not now.”

“When are you getting married?”

George took a deep breath and let it out.

“Can we just concentrate on the business at hand?”

“Sure. If that's what you want.”

“It is.”

We both got out. A limb from the oak we were standing beneath cracked from the cold. It sounded like a rifle shot. George and I both jumped.

“Nervous,” George said.

“Yeah. Aren't you?”

“Tough guys don't get nervous.”

“Excuse me, I forget,” I said as we walked by a discarded Christmas tree lying on the side of a six-foot mound of snow. Pieces of tinsel drooped from its branches. The angel on top had lost her wings and halo.

I skirted the garbage bags scattered nearby and followed the shoveled path toward the house. Torn plastic flapped from the upstairs windows. Cut-up black plastic garbage bags covered the downstairs front windows. There was a spotlight on the porch that lit up half the walkway. An old beat-up Pontiac was parked in the driveway. I waded through the snow and touched the hood. It was still warm.

“Someone's home,” I said.

“It would appear so.” George leaned on the doorbell. It played the first couple of bars of the
William Tell
overture.

“Nice to know someone has a sense of culture.” George looked around. “You sure this place isn't a dope house?”

“Pretty sure.”

It did look like one, though.

“Well I hope it isn't 'cause I left my shotgun at home.” George leaned on the bell again.

No one came to the door.

“The inhabitants of this domicile are, I am sure, all in bed preparing for another productive day,” George said as he stamped his feet to keep them warm.

“No doubt.”

“So whadda ya think?” George said, doing his New York City imitation. “Do we stay or go?”

I pointed to the stairwell. The light was on and through the plastic sheeting I could see the faint shadow of a person coming down the stairs.

“Stay,” George said.

“Maybe he's coming to answer the door.”

“I've always thought you were a closet optimist.”

George leaned back, brought his weight forward, and rammed the door with his shoulder before I could reply. A hairline crack appeared down the door's center.

“Hollow core,” George said. “They don't stand up.” And he brought up his foot and kicked it in. “Bad quality hollow core at that,” he said as he took a step inside. I was right behind him.

I heard the sound of pounding feet and got a glimpse of the sole of someone's sneaker disappearing around the corner into the hall.

“Guess you were right. Guess he wasn't going to answer,” I said.

Of course, if someone were breaking my door down, I wouldn't be answering either.

“Guess not,” George agreed. Then he yelled, “Stop!”

The person kept going. What a surprise. If he had stopped, I would have fainted from amazement. Does anyone, ever, except on TV shows? George and I went after him. He went through the hallway and into the kitchen. When we got there, he was fumbling with the lock to the back door. I finally got a look at him in profile. It was Dirk's kid. I would have slapped myself on the back if there'd been time.

“We need to talk to you,” I told him.

“Fuck you,” the kid threw over his shoulder.

“I'd prefer not.”

The kid didn't turn around. George and I had gotten halfway across the kitchen when he threw the back door open and darted down the steps.

“He's not very polite, is he,” George said as we ran across the yard where Tiger Lily had been chained up.

“No, he's not.”

“And he is the person with whom we wish to speak?”

“Definitely.”

“Good,” George said as we hopped the fence and took off down the street after him. “Because I'd hate to think I was doin' this for nothing.”

“I thought you liked exercise.”

“I like jogging. I like tennis. I don't like this.”

The kid went up a side street, took a left onto Genesee, ran a block, then headed back in the direction of Fayette.

“I wonder if he runs track?” I gasped. I had a stitch in my side. I had to give up smoking.

“He should if he doesn't.” George wasn't even breathing hard. The perks of leading a healthy life. He pointed. “He's going in there,” he said as the kid turned into a driveway between two houses.

We followed him in. The driveway was dark and littered with debris. Suddenly I heard a “Damn,” and turned around. George was on the ground, rubbing his ankle. An overturned baby carriage was next to him.

“I'm fine,” he said, waving me on.

I ran about ten more feet and halted. The driveway branched out into two small backyards and dead-ended in a hurricane fence. Behind it a dog that was doing a good imitation of the Hound of the Baskervilles was hurling himself against the slats with enough force to make them shake. I was willing to bet the kid hadn't gone over the fence. He wasn't that crazy.

I made out a garden shed to my right and four poles supporting a tarp to my left. An old army Jeep was sitting underneath it. The kid had to be here somewhere, hiding in the shadows. I just couldn't see where. I took a couple of steps out of the light and flattened myself against the wall of the house and motioned for George to stay where he was. I preferred to have the kid come to me if possible instead of blundering around in the dark and possibly missing him.

Five minutes dragged by, then ten. I wasn't wearing gloves or heavy socks, and my fingers and toes were aching. I'd just about decided the hell with it, I was going to go in and get that little sonofabitch, when I heard faint rustling sounds coming from the direction of the shed.

Then I heard the crunch of footsteps. They were coming in my direction. I would have said a prayer of thanks if I could have moved my lips. Now I could see the kid's face. He was looking this way and that. His body was ready to move at the slightest sound. I held my breath as he came closer. When he was right beside me, I stepped out and grabbed his wrist.

“Didn't anyone ever tell you patience is a virtue?”

He grunted and brought his arm back to punch me, but George grabbed him by the back of his jacket and yanked him away before he could.

“I could have taken care of that,” I told George.

“I can let him go if you want.”

“No. That's okay.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Hey,” the kid cried. “What about me?”

“Good question.” And George jacked the kid up against the wall.

The kid quieted down. I've noticed George has that effect on people.

He looked from George to me and back again and said, “Why the hell can't you leave me alone?”

“Because I'm drawn to your magnetic personality,” I told him.

The lights came on in the house we were standing next to.

“Maybe we should move before someone calls the cops,” George suggested.

“Good idea.”

“Let's go back to his house.” And he indicated the kid with a nod.

“It isn't my house,” the kid said.

“Shut up.” George grabbed the back of the kid's neck and started marching him down Fayette Street. “What's your name anyway?” George asked him.

“Why you askin?'”

George shook him.

“ 'Cause I am.”

“All right. Quit that. You're making me sick to my stomach.”

“Too bad.” George shook him harder. “Tell me what I want to know, and I'll stop. Otherwise I'll keep going.”

“Okay. Okay. It's D,” the kid said.

“Like in D-E-E? I thought that was a girl's name.”

“Like in the letter D.”

“Is that what it says on your birth certificate?”

The kid didn't say anything.

George gave him another shake. The kid flopped around like a scarecrow.

“Well, is it?” he asked.

“No,” the kid said sullenly.

“Then what is?” George gave him another shake.

“I tole you to quit that,” the kid said.

“Then answer the question.”

“Okay. It's Dirk Junior. Satisfied?”

George grinned. “If that was my name, I'd be calling myself D too.”

The kid didn't say anything. We got to the house and went inside. There were holes cut in the inside walls at random, allowing for a view of the next room without having to walk into it. Someone had ripped up a section of the floor in the living room. In the dining room I looked up and saw the tub in the bathroom through the hole in the ceiling.

“Interesting décor,” George said to me as he pushed Dirk Junior into one of the few chairs that had its stuffing intact. “Is this what they mean by post-modern apocalyptic?”

Dirk Junior scowled. “What you talking about?”

George favored him with a genial smile. “Apocalyptic. Referring to the Apocalypse. The last book of the New Testament. The Book of Revelations. If you read, you'd know things like this.”

“You're really crazy,” Dirk Junior told George. “Hey,” he said brightening. “I know. This is some kind of new TV show, right?”

“Wrong,” George said.

“Then what the fuck you want with me?” Dirk cried.

“Careful,” George said. “Your bravado is showing. Me, I don't want anything with you. She's the one that does.”

I stepped forward. “I understand you and Manuel know each other.”

“Manuel? Who the fuck is that?”

George rapped him on the top of his head with his knuckle. “Mind your mouth.”

Dirk Junior scrunched down and rubbed his head. “That hurt.”

“It was supposed to.”

“You a cop?”

“I was.”

“I can always tell.”

“I don't care what you can tell. I want you to answer her question.”

“I don't know no Manuel.”

George rapped him harder. “To improve your memory.”

The kid moved farther down in the chair. “I could have you arrested for doin' this.”

George came around to the front of the chair and leaned over Dirk Junior. “I've had a long day,” he said in a soft voice. “And I'd rather be home, so believe me when I tell you I'll do whatever it takes to shorten things up here. Now are you going to answer the question or not?”

The kid licked his lips. He looked so pitiful cowering in the chair I almost felt sorry for him.

“Well?” George asked.

“Oh, yeah.” The kid sat back up and snapped his fingers. Now he was Mr. Cool. “Now I remember,” he said to me. “The kid that worked in your store. You shoulda said that in the first place.”

“My error.”

“Damned right.”

“How'd you meet him?”

“We bumped into each other at The Night Watch and got talking.” The Night Watch was a dance club. “He was gonna sell me a palm viper.”

Great. What a good idea. Selling a venomous snake to someone like that. I just hoped that when I found Manuel, he'd be alive so I could kill him myself.