The Wolves of Fairmount Park (33 page)

There was a big SUV parked at the curb, and as he got closer a head appeared inside, as if someone had been low in the seat and suddenly popped upright, and Danny froze and watched, halfway across an open area bordered on his right by a chain-link fence. He stood, his hand on the pistol held down behind his thigh, watching the figure in the black SUV. It was a Navigator, the engine loud even when it was just idling, and Danny kept moving forward, his heart kicking up, conscious of the blood moving in his chest and arms.

He got close enough to hear the radio thumping behind the glass, see the silhouette of whoever was at the wheel. It looked like he was talking to himself, shifting his body. Trying to work
himself up to something, maybe, or talking to somebody on a cell phone. Danny's breath was loud in his ears, and he flattened himself in the shadow of the garage, just steps away from the Navigator, and he brought the pistol forward and put both hands on it. Another few feet and he'd be on the car, and he hoped it was Asa. He hoped it was Asa and that he'd do something stupid, make some move.

He closed the last few feet as the figure in the car lifted a pistol, barrel up, still not registering that Danny was there next to the car. Danny was hyperventilating, alert, shifting his eyes quick back and forth between the lit windows of the garage and the SUV, watching for movement, trying to see what was going on in the dark car. Danny saw the pistol and raised his, pointing it at the head in the car and screaming to be heard over the thump and rattle of the radio.

The head swung left, then right, and then jumped when he registered Danny just beyond the door, the pistol going out, but he probably never heard what Danny said, identifying himself as a police officer and telling him to freeze. The first thing he probably heard was the shot and the glass breaking as Danny emptied the pistol through the door, aiming each shot, the shots spaced out with a breath after each one. When the window broke, the radio got loud all of a sudden, something Danny knew but couldn't name, and it was one of those songs about being hard, being invulnerable, a badass.

Danny moved around the car, dropping the clip, but got to the driver's side to see Chris Black drop out of the Navigator, a long, slow fall, grabbing at the seat, blood pouring out of him, trying to say something. The gun spun away on the ground, and
Danny stood over him, the kid shaking his head and smiling even as his eyes filled with tears.

He pulled himself up, one arm hanging limp and blood coming out from under his jersey and splattering on the sidewalk, making a noise like rain. “Jesus, that hurts. Is she okay?”

Danny knelt beside him, pulling the cell phone out of his pocket. “Lay still. The medics are coming. Is who okay?”

The door to the garage opened slowly, and Asa stepped out, his eyebrows up as if he was surprised to find visitors this late. He took in Chris on the ground, Danny with his pistol out, the broken glass and blood running into the street.

“What the fuck,” he said, and then he laughed. “Jesus, Danny.”

Chris Black brought up his dripping hand and pointed. “That's the one. That fucker there. Jesus, I'm feeling bad. Where's the girl?”

Asa lifted one shoulder, let it drop. “Whyn't you shut the fuck up now? Save your strength.”

Chris grabbed at Danny's sleeve. “Jesus, I'm dying. I never went anywhere. I never left this fucking place once. Make sure she's okay?” His fingers tightened on Danny's arm. “I shot those kids. Me and Gerry Dunn. He sent us.”

Asa stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels as if he had better things to do somewhere else. “Yeah, good luck proving that. You piece of shit. Your brother would piss on you right now, you know that?”

Chris opened his mouth, baring his teeth and hissing, and it took a minute before Danny figured out he was laughing. “I shot him, too. Shannon. I put two in his head. My brother. Fucking Shannon. I fucking spit on all of you.”

“You're not helping your case here, rat. I hear you saying you killed a bunch of people in front of a police officer.”

Danny looked up at him. “Shut up, Asa.”

“Do you believe this crap, Danny? You know me.”

“Yeah, I do. Finally, I do. I know you've been bringing me your competitors for a long time. Instead of killing them yourself. You've just handed them to me. Derrick Leon and Darnell Burns. All those words in my ear. All that bullshit.”

“Danny, think about this. You start some shit now it isn't going to stop with me. This looks bad, you know? Not just for me. For you. I go down, what happens to you?”

“I know how it looks.”

“Can't you just . . . be smart?” Asa walked to the street, cocking his head as if listening for something. “This was good for both of us, Danny. You got good arrests, right? The promotions, the shield. Got some bad people off the street. You're going to fuck that up? Why?”

Danny got out his cell phone, turning to keep both Asa and Chris in his field of view. He dialed the phone, holding the pistol out and down. “You used me like you used these crazy, fucked-up kids. Those people you put me onto were your competitors in the drug business.” Danny pivoted, keeping his back to the street and trying to watch Asa and Chris and the garage. He wasn't thinking clearly, his heart racing from the shooting and confronting Asa. He wasn't controlling the scene.

“Oh, grow the fuck up. You think you know something special? Everybody gets something. Nobody gets out of bed unless they get something. People need shit, and I get it for them, and it doesn't matter. You arrest me, you think what? People are going
to stop using?” Asa moved around behind Danny so that he had to shift to keep him in sight, and he saw Asa's eyes go to the ground like he was searching for something.

Danny looked at his own hands, at the pistol that was still locked open and empty. He closed the phone and started fumbling in his pockets, feeling for the other clip. He wished he hadn't had so much to drink. He said, “You sound like Derrick Leon now.”

“Then he's smarter than I thought.”

“And I know about DeAngelo Barnes. And Darius Williams.” Danny became aware of Asa shifting, reaching for something on the ground.

“Who?” Asa stood up, and he had something in his hands. A gun.

Orlando tore up American Street, jamming his foot hard against the floor and banging through the stop signs. Bennie and Min had a CD in and he recognized it, “Modern World,” Wolf Parade. About a torch driving savages back to the trees, and that sounded right to him. He swerved around teenagers in the street and actually veered by a cop in the street at Berks, the guy sweeping his arms up like a matador making his veronica as Orlando rocketed by, inches away. The engine roared and thumped, started a rattle that grew as he ran north, until he could actually feel it through the foot plastered to the accelerator by the time he blasted through the light at Diamond. He saw the Navigator at the garage and stood on the brakes, jumped out
with Brendan's gun up, and ran toward where the SUV door stood open and shot full of holes, the light inside bright and a chime going because the keys were still in the ignition.

There was somebody slumped against the side of the truck, a big kid he didn't recognize, dark blood moving in a slow current from his legs to the street. The door to the garage stood open, and there was another guy curled in a ball by the door, only this one was still moving, holding a gun up against his chest. He was young, smaller than the hulking guy bleeding out by the SUV and wearing wire-rim glasses. His face was white and he was breathing fast and trying to talk to Orlando, motioning with the gun, his hand red. Orlando moved slowly, hearing sounds from inside the garage and a voice talking, complaining and swearing, and somebody throwing things around.

When he got close the guy by the door reached with one shaking hand into his jacket and brought out a blood-soaked wallet that he tried to open, but he dropped it and Orlando saw the badge and nodded, moving to the left of the door and into the shadow, lifting Brendan's gun to point it at the door.

“I'm a cop,” the guy said, panting. “My name is Daniel Martinez. I've been shot by the man inside. His name is Asa Carmody. Just go around the corner.” The cop tried to grab Orlando's wrist, his breathing ragged. “He's got a gun. Just go around the corner and you'll be okay.” The words slow, spaced by hard breaths. “Take my phone and call the police. I can't get my phone.”

Orlando stood up and the cop tried one more time to wave him back, but he moved to the open door. The garage was big inside, and in the center of the floor were two cases, one filled
with money and one filled with flat brown bricks of dope. He stood quiet in the shadows by the front door and watched Asa Carmody come down the stairs, favoring one leg. He didn't notice Orlando.

“You shot me, you crazy fuck. You shot me. Why the fuck would you do that?” He dragged one leg, smacking it as if it were a misbehaving child. “Danny?” He dropped his voice, as if talking to himself. “Nobody does a fucking thing I tell them anymore. Not that fucking Chris, not you. Not nobody. Where the fuck is Angel?” He dragged his bleeding leg over to the cases and let himself go down hard on his ass, his legs shaking. He had a book and a pistol, and he was sweating. “Oh, fuck. Not yet, goddammit. I'm not done.”

Chris was dying, he knew it, and couldn't lift his arms anymore. There was a shifting inside the truck and the door behind him opened and the girl climbed out. She dropped to one leg and touched his head and he saw glass in her hair like diamonds. Chris licked his lips and they felt thick and dry. He tried to tell her to find a place to hide, but he couldn't say anything and the pain in his side was like a clamp that kept him from talking or breathing right and he felt sick. She got close to him and looked in his eyes and he thought of the first time he'd seen her.

That night on Roxborough Avenue, Frank Dunn at the wheel stomping the accelerator and Gerry in the back, the radio going
loud while they'd passed a bottle of Jägermeister back and forth. He'd been half in the bag and it had been so fast, so fast. He remembered more of the getting ready. Fitting the long clip into the handle, his hands pinched in the stiff gloves. Trying to steel himself, Gerry making him nervous, clapping him on the back and giving a whoop like a little kid. Pointing the little blunt machine gun everywhere, making Chris wince to think of him back there drunk with a loaded gun.

Frank had to shout over the music, telling them there it is, and then they had the guns out the window, Gerry opening up first and Chris joining in, his finger already on the trigger before he took in the three people standing on the steps in front of the house. Asa had told them to make sure to get whoever was standing out front. Chris knowing what that meant, but expecting them to be the Dominicans or something. Bulked-up gangbangers, or the skinny corner runners. Something else, not three young schoolkids all turning to look at them as the car went by. There was more to this than he understood. He got some of it—they were shooting up the Dominicans' place, and they were pinning it all on Darnell Burns. That was why they had the stamp bags. Shoot up the place, drop the bags, and the cops think it's Green Lane trying to kill some Dominicans over turf. But shooting the kids out front? Why would Asa need that?

It was something he couldn't get hold of later. He knew he did it, pulled the trigger and emptied the gun at them, but something about the drinking or his sweating hands inside the gloves or some trick of his mind made it seem like it was something he'd seen, not something he'd done. It should have been
loud, but he couldn't remember the sound of the gun as much as seeing the spray of yellow light and the gun bucking in his hands, watching the spent shells spill out and rattle down the street as the car moved. He couldn't have seen that, but he had a memory of it.

Dying now, letting go of everything, it was easier than he'd thought it would be. And he knew why Asa had sent him to kill the girl. She'd been stupid enough to get close to Asa, to get pregnant, and that was a death sentence. For Asa, for whatever Asa was, killing Sienna was the only option. Chris could see that now. Being Asa meant being in a kind of pain all the time. He wasn't a man, Chris knew. He was some kind of dark, vibrating energy that Chris could actually see, now he was dying, his mind a desolate building in the dark, the lights going off one by one.

There were just a few memories he could still get hold of, and they were terrible things. The gun in his hands. The sight of the kids falling on Roxborough Avenue, and his own voice in his head. And maybe he hadn't said it, but he'd thought it, and what he'd thought was
Now I'm going to hell.

Orlando watched Asa on the floor, sitting in a spreading pool of blood. He was holding the book up and smiling and talking about his plan. Then his hand started shaking and he dropped the book and went back on his elbows. Orlando walked out into the light in the center of the room and knelt down in front of Asa and the cases holding the money and the flat brown bricks of heroin, pain spreading in hard waves from his spine,
conducted by his bones to his arms and legs and the top of his head, and there were bursts of light at the corners of his eyes.

He had the gun up, pointing, but Asa's hands were shaking and his face was bloodless, the skin going green. Orlando could see sweat standing out on Asa's forehead, and he had the sad and guilty eyes of a dog.

Asa said, “I can't be here.”

“But here you are. Do you know why?”

“The weak always try to stop the strong, but they never can.”

Orlando shook his head. “The strong. You tried to have a pregnant girl killed. You sent men to shoot children down in the street, didn't you?”

“Everybody thinks they know my business. What do you think you know, junkie?”

“You sent the Irishman to kill me. Because I was asking questions. I saw you at that dope house on Shurs Lane. You and him together.” He remembered the man again, lost in his dope dreams. “We got high together and he told me. About killing people and throwing them in the river. I was high, I didn't put it together at first. It's for you, right? He kills people for you. Then you had that Puerto Rican kid kill my girl.” Orlando saw it, saw it the way he sometimes did, like there were lines drawn in the air in front of him. The patterns coming together, the machinery laid bare. Now, though, instead of making him feel powerful and connected to everything, it just made him feel sick and alone.