“What other stuff?”
“You know. The insurance, when they’re going to pay out, whether the cops are still going to come after me for something about the business.”
“Didn’t they say not?”
“Well”-she shrugged-“if you believe them. But I never signed anything, so I guess they still could.”
Tripp stood up and came around the table, pulling up a chair next to her. He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her toward him, kissed the hollow of her neck, and held himself there for a moment. “You’re just worrying. I love you.”
“I just think what if it’s not her?”
He pulled away. “But it is her. Who else would it be?”
“I know. I know. But it was just way different actually facing her and saying all that stuff out loud. And I also know-don’t think I don’t-that once she’s convicted, it’s way better for us.”
“Hey,” he said gently, “we’re cool. We don’t have to worry about us.”
“But I do. I mean, if he calls me back again.”
“Who’s that?”
“The defense guy. Mr. Hardy.”
“What about him?”
“Well, he didn’t even ask about us.”
“Why would he?”
“Well, you know, because…”
“Because we’re an item?”
She turned to him. “Not because we’re an item, now, Robert. Because we were an item. I mean, then. That’s never come out, and if it does…”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. But something, I’d think.”
“Why?”
“Because it gives me a reason…” She blinked back the starts of tears.
He pulled her again to him, his hand on her neck, whispered into her ear. “You’re just worn down, Janz. It’s been a long haul, that’s all. And it doesn’t matter if you’ve got all the reason in the world to have done him-which, by the way, you did…”
“Don’t say that!”
“All right. But the fact remains, it still doesn’t matter, since I said you were here.”
“But I was here.”
“Of course. But me saying it makes you really here, with an actual alibi, as they call it. You know what I mean.” He put a finger under her jaw, gently. Lifted it so that she was looking at him. “We’ve talked all about this. Lots of times.”
“I know. I’m being stupid, I guess.”
“Not so stupid.” He kissed her. “But really really cute, all upset the way you are.”
She pouted, shook her head. “I don’t feel cute.”
“I bet I could fix that in about five minutes.”
She stared past him through the window into the darkness outside. “He never asked me about us at all,” she said.
“That’s because you and me, we’re not what this is about. This is about Maya killing Dylan, and helping the prosecution prove it. That’s all it’s about.”
“You’re really sure?”
“I’m positive, hon. Absolutely positive.”
Ruiz thought it would have been downright irresponsible, since they had the program in place and working smoothly, to simply abandon the business just because Dylan was gone, along with his steady supply of quality sensimilla. The other long-term employees at BBW weren’t likely to find any other job that gave them a monthly bonus even close to what Dylan had paid them for their loyalty and cooperation and Ruiz was, of course, ready to step in almost immediately once the heat just after the shooting had dissipated.
Now, near midnight, Ruiz was in his ten-year-old Camaro crossing Golden Gate Park’s panhandle at Masonic, on his way to tonight’s meeting with his new source-actually his old friend, Jaime Gutierrez, but who knew he was dealing weed until you looked around?-and pick up some product for the upcoming week. Tuesday was always the night, and earlier on Jaime had left him a text message on his cell with the always different address, same as usual.
So Ruiz had shut down BBW at ten o’clock and swung by his apartment on Parnassus, where he’d picked up his eight thousand dollars cash, which he knew was way too much to be carrying around normally, but it was only once a week and had to be done. He also grabbed the old funky revolver, a six-shooter actually, that Jaime had sold him once they’d done the first couple of deals and it had looked like it was going to keep working.
Of course, Ruiz knew that having a gun hadn’t done any good for Dylan, but that’s because Dylan had gotten complacent over time. Everybody at BBW knew where he kept it at work and how he carried it in his jacket’s inside pocket whenever he was moving either product or money or both. And he was really, at base, such a trusting guy. Made a lot of money, gave a lot of it away, a sweetheart.
Ruiz was smarter. Nobody at BBW knew he even had this gun. Or when he moved the money in and out. Or, especially, when or where he scored his product.
Although, he had to admit, this was the area of the business where Dylan had shown a talent for organization and control, and Ruiz was planning on emulating that model once he could get himself into a bigger crib where he could grow his own in quantity, the way Dylan had done in his attic. Which had meant that Dylan didn’t have to go to these weekly buys that always felt a little sketchy. Dylan hadn’t had to buy; he only sold, and that made everything so much cleaner. Even after all their years together Ruiz never figured out where he’d stored the cash in or around the store. No one ever knew when he’d show up with the product, or leave with cash.
So, the lesson to take home from that-keep all your logistics to yourself, as Dylan had done. The thing to watch for, Ruiz knew, was one of the other guys in the shop getting ideas that he could take over if Ruiz disappeared. Just as Ruiz had. Dylan had never considered that possibility, or at least never showed it if he did.
Oh, well, times changed. Lives changed.
And now in his new life, Ruiz parked on Turk down by Divisadero-the whole area darkened now since this neighborhood, the outer Fillmore, tended to be underserved by the Department of Public Works. Streetlights were not the biggest priority here-it was hard to say if, in fact, there were any other civic priorities either.
Locking the car, checking for foot traffic-none-Ruiz heard hip-hop loud from a block or two away. The wind was light but very cold, and Ruiz pulled his parka up over his chin, hands in its pockets, around his gun in one and his money in the other, and checked doorways until he got to the address and stopped.
It was an old-style apartment building, four stories. The lobby shimmered under dull ceiling fluorescents, their coverings yellowed with age and neglect. Ruiz tried the front door.
Which was open.
How Jaime found these places, he didn’t know.
A large gray cat sat in a litter box just under the mailbox and from the smell, Ruiz was pretty sure it wasn’t the only animal that had relieved itself nearby. Maybe even some humans.
He was looking for 3F, so he pressed the single elevator button, but it didn’t light up. He only waited twenty seconds or so before he gave up and turned for the stairway. The second floor was dimmer than the lobby, but somewhat to his relief the third was brighter. Sweating now with nerves and the exertion of the climb-he had to get going making his own garden grow-he turned out of the stair-well and walked back to 3F, where he knocked twice, then once.
Spy shit. He chuckled at it. Ridiculous.
And in a moment the door opens and here is Jaime, happy as ever, slapping his five, mellow, without a care in the world. Ruiz took a last look behind him on the landing, then stepped in and Jaime closed the door behind them, threw the dead bolt.
An adequate apartment, if a little small-maybe one of Jaime’s girlfriends’. Living room, dining room, kitchen. Furnished in Goodwill, but not bad. Tasteful.
Their usual protocol was they had a beer or two and caught up, exchanged money for product, made sure they were good for the next week, and said good-bye, and this is what they did now. The whole thing took twenty minutes, tops.
And then they were saying their good-byes. Jaime was throwing back the dead bolt, starting to open the door, when suddenly it exploded in on them and they were being backed up by two guys in big parkas. Each carried a gun, pointed straight at Jaime and Ruiz. Both guns had extensions on their barrels.