Down the hall the bathroom light left a patch on the wooden floor. I tried to steal a look into the far bedroom door but it was too dark.
The bathroom was standard except for the modern, glassed-in shower that Richards and her husband must have installed in the old house. She'd left a fresh towel and a dark blue T-shirt, size XL, folded up on a wicker clothes basket. On top of the shirt was a can of shaving gel and a man's razor. I hurried through the shower and scraped off my stubble while I stood in the spray.
When I came back outside she was still sitting, her chin on her knees, staring into the pool water. But when she heard my steps she got up and met me halfway across the patio and stepped into my arms. Her hair was wet and cold against my cheek and I could feel her shivering against me.
She kept her head down against my chest and I lost track of time and when she finally moved it was not toward the hammock, but instead she laced her fingers into mine and led me back into the house.
Eddie was crouched in the bushes, obscured by the oak tree where the man in the blue pickup had been, watching the Brown Man do his business.
The rhythm was here. The same runners. The same hangers on. The girl with the tears and the ratty-ass mouth was hanging at the end of the block. But this time Eddie was scared. He had seen three police cars on his way here. One, parked in an alley that Eddie often used, had surprised him as he swung the corner. He had jolted to a stop only twenty feet away. But they still had not seen him, or cared if they did, he thought. Still, he had ditched his cart after that, putting it behind a dumpster, and then moved mostly through yards and along fence lines.
Now it was late. The Brown Man would not stay out much longer and Eddie would be stuck without his bundle. The cramps were getting worse. He couldn't keep his eyes from watering or the inside of his mouth from going dry. He reached deep into his pocket and felt the hundred-dollar bill there and when the traffic stopped, he stepped out to cross the street.
The Brown Man saw him coming, raised his head when Eddie was halfway across the street and started shaking it back and forth. Eddie came on.
The dealer hissed at him when Eddie stepped into his swale. His runners had not recognized the junk man at first without his cart, but when they did, they stayed away, having been told not to mess with him.
"Get the fuck outta here, man."
The Brown Man spit out the words and the runners turned their heads at the sound of both the agitation and the strange hint of fear in the dealer's voice.
"You nothin' but trouble, junk man. Take your raggedy ass someplace else to get your shit."
Eddie stopped, confused. He cut his eyes to either side, saw no one who looked like they might be the police and then stared back at the Brown Man. The dealer could not hold his eyes.
Eddie reached into his pocket and held out the hundred-dollar bill, but the action just seemed to agitate the Brown Man more.
"Goddammit, nigger. Put that shit away. I ain't need your money no more. Find some other chump to do your bidness with. I'm serious now," he said, and the runners watched as the dealer slid off his stool and stood up.
Eddie saw the man's hand go to his waistband and watched the gun come out. The Brown Man held it close to his stomach so only he could see it. Eddie had seen lots of guns and had never been scared of them. The hundred-dollar bill was still in his outstretched hand. He had come for what he needed. And Eddie always got what he needed.
"A bundle," he said, stepping forward and looking into the Brown Man's face.
"You fuckin' crazy?" the dealer yelled, this time the fear in his voice scaring his own runners. "You some kinda retard?"
The gun was pointed at Eddie this time, but then the big man's other hand snapped out and swallowed the weapon and pulled the dealer into his chest.
The two men were locked into a tight, hissing dance, and the runners started to jump to the aid of their boss but froze when they heard the gun's muffled explosion. When a second shot sounded, the dealer squealed and fell away, holding his curled hand to his hip.
Eddie looked down at him and then at the gun in his own hand and then turned and tossed the piece clattering across the concrete.
The runners did not move. Not a single light came on along the street. Eddie looked up into the faces of the Brown Man's boys until they backed down and then he turned and limped away, a bloodstain growing at his side.
The feel of her leg moving off mine started me awake. She sat up, and the shift of weight on the mattress was something I had not felt in years. When I opened my eyes I could see the outline of her hip and the curve of her shoulder in the light of a still-lit candle.
Then I caught the muffled electronic ring of a phone.
"It's not mine," she said, turning from the nightstand.
"Then let it go," I said, and reached out to touch her back with my fingertips. The ringing stopped.
"See?"
She was quiet, and raised a single finger.
The ringing began again.
"Shit," I said, getting up and walking naked through another man's house and finding my phone on the porch, wrapped in a bundle of my dirty clothes.
"What?" I snapped into the mouthpiece.
"Your motherfuckin' boy busted my damn hand," came the shouted answer.
"Who the hell is this?"
"I knew they was gonna be trouble. Soon as those dogs from the other side come askin' bout hundred-dollar bills I knew I shoulda kept my mouth shut."
"Is this Carlyle?" I asked, putting it together.
"Don't you call me that," he snapped. "Your got-damn junk man done come over here lookin' for trouble and I shot his ass up."
"He's there? You killed him?" I said, trying now to keep my voice controlled.
"I didn't kill the motherfucker. He come round tryin' to buy more shit and I tried to chase his ass off and the simple motherfucker done grabbed at my piece and it went off into his own damn belly."
"Is he still there?" I repeated.
"Hell no, he ain't here. He ran his ass down the road."
"You hurt?"
"Damn right. Dude's got hands like a damn vise, man. He crushed every fuckin' bone in my hand."
"Alright. Call nine-one-one. Call an ambulance and I'll be right there."
"I ain't callin' nobody. You get that fool's ass or I waste him my own self, know what I'm sayin'?"
"Right," I said and hung up. I was standing on Richards's back porch, naked in the moonlight with a cell phone and a shiver that had just started down my back.
33
Richards called in the shooting to dispatch while we both dressed.
"No report, not even an anonymous call on gunshots fired," she said, pulling a T-shirt over her head and then grabbing her radio and a holstered 9mm from the nightstand drawer. While she locked the house I went out, started my truck and then opened the passenger door when she came out through the gate.
When we got to the dope hole, two patrol cars were spinning their lights, a shift sergeant was on the scene, and the Brown Man was gone. The sergeant was pacing the sidewalk, and the Brown Man's stool was lying tipped over in the grass. I could see another uniformed cop standing on the porch of a nearby house, speaking through a barely cracked front door.
"Good morning, Detective," the sergeant said as Richards approached.
"Sergeant Carannante," she answered. "Anything?"
"Nothing but your call, Detective. Unusually quiet for a Saturday night, but the trade usually ends at midnight or so."
The sergeant was a thick, Italian-looking man with an insouciant demeanor that said he'd seen it all before. He took me in with his eyes and did not bring them back to Richards until he was introduced.
"Uh, Max Freeman," Richards said. "He's been working with us on a case."