Joyce showered, dressed and had breakfast in the motel restaurant, first looking out the window from the second floor, scanning cars in the parking lot, looking for Hess. Over cereal and fruit and coffee she paged through the Palm Beach Post. There was another article about the woman murdered in Palm Beach a few days before. This time there was an accompanying passport photograph of the suspected murderer. The article referred to him as Gerd Klaus. But it was Hess. The article went on to say he was considered armed and dangerous. Anyone with information about this man should contact the Palm Beach police immediately.
High-Step was barefoot and Cordell could see the left one was smaller than the right, it didn’t even look like a foot — all mangled and deformed as it was. Cordell didn’t want to look but it was so strange he had to, like looking at the alligator-skin girl at the state fair.
“Hey motherfucker,” High-Step said, “why you lookin’ at my feets?”
“I wasn’t,” Cordell said.
“What you mean, you wasn’t? I seen you.”
Cordell said, “Why don’t you put your special shoe on, you’re so sensitive ’bout your foot.”
“Why don’t you go fuck yourself.”
High was pissed about something, that was for sure. “We gonna talk about the Colombians?”
“Why didn’t you kick me in on the second deal? I was involved they never woulda pulled that shit.”
Now they were getting to it. “You made the intro. I took care of you, didn’t I?”
“Then what you doin’ here? You’s here ’cause you need High’s help. Well this time I don’t want no two hundred dollars, I want half.”
“Half. What you been smokin’?”
“It’s called wise-the-fuck-up weed, motherfucker.”
Cordell looked at him and said, “You’re fuckin’ with me, aren’t you?”
“How much you got right now? Nothin’. I’m gonna get the weed back and the money, and for that I want half.”
“How you gonna do that?”
High-Step was from Detroit, had lived on the same street as Cordell and his momma. High made his money selling firearms, assorted pistols and revolvers. One of his homeboys worked in shipping and receiving at the Anniston Army Depot in northeast Alabama, supplied brand new just-out-of-the-crate M16s.
High’s real name was Carlos Bass, seven years older than Cordell, and successful. Never got busted in the Motor City, moved to Miami after the riot in ’67, police coming down hard on black entrepreneurs involved in illegal activities. High had a house in Coconut Grove with a swimming pool in back, and even with his fucked-up foot always had fine-lookin’ poon hangin’ around.
They listened to Motown tracks on the way to Greaser Town, and when they got there, sat in the car, lookin’ up at an apartment building High said was where Alejo and Jhonny stayed.
“What’re we waiting for, man?” Cordell already impatient. “Let’s go talk at him.”
“How you know he in there? And he is, who in there with him? What I’m sayin’, we don’t rush, we take our time, do it right. Now you met Alejo and Jhonny the kid, but they got two others, can’t think of their names. And they all armed. How do I know this, right? Is that what you’re thinkin’?” High lit a cigarette. “I sold them the guns that’s how I know.”
“What’d you sell ’em?”
“Two Colt .45 Commanders, stainless with black grips, one 870 Wingmaster twelve-gauge, and one Smith & Wesson .38 revolver,” High said like he was reading a sales order. “That’s why I want to know who in the apartment before we go up.”
It was almost one in the afternoon, car runnin’, engine workin’ hard with the air on, Cordell watching the Latin babes go by on the street, young ones in tank tops and short shorts, hard tight bodies, dark hair, long brown legs, and the older bitches with heavy legs and tits down to their waist. Cordell thinkin’ about age, wondering how many years before he got old and fat? His momma was already there but she’d had a hard life, smokin’ rock. Her only exercise, walkin’ to a dope house. Cordell only had fuzzy memories of his father, like photographs out of focus.
After a while, Alejo, Jhonny and two other greasers came down the stairs, all wearing those greaser shirts hangin’ over their pants, High said to hide their guns. They got in Alejo’s Road Runner and drove off.
Forty-five minutes later Cordell saw Alejo’s black Road Runner come down the side street and park. The four greasers got out and walked up the stairs to an apartment on the second floor.
“Okay,” High-Step said. “Let’s get it done.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“What’re we gonna do? That what you mean?”
“Whatever.”
High-Step got out and opened the trunk of the ’66 GTO, came back with something wrapped in a nylon windbreaker, unwrapped it, showing Cordell a short compact sub-machine gun with a skinny black clip.
“I want my money back but I ain’t gonna kill nobody for it.” Cordell looked at the gun. “What you want me to do?”
“Stand outside, make sure nobody come in behind me.” There was a strap on the end High fit over his right shoulder, let the gun hang under his armpit. Put the windbreaker on, couldn’t see a thing. They got out of the car, High wearin’ a white sport shirt with epaulettes under the windbreaker, white captain’s hat with a black brim, and sunglasses, looked like a nigger yachtsman.
They went up the stairs, moved along the balcony, woman pushin’ a baby carriage on the street below, couple seagulls flew by overhead. High-Step was breathin’ hard and sweatin’ when they got to the apartment door. High looked back at him, nodded, knocked on the door, waited a couple seconds, knocked again. Door opened, Jhonny the kid, standing in the crack, eyes on High-Step then looking over at Cordell.
“Yo, how you doin’? My man Alejo at home?”
The kid turned looking in the room, said something in Spanish. Cordell heard a voice say something back.
Kid looked at High-Step, sounded like he said, “I doan thin so.”
“I can see it’s a big place — must have six hundred square feet — Alejo could be in there you don’t even know it.”
Cordell moved up behind High, saw two greasers on a couch looking at them.
Jhonny said, “Give us a moment, uh?”
The kid tried to close the door, but High-Step got his good foot in the way, blocked the door and pushed it open. The kid moved backward into the room. The greasers, alert, reached behind their backs for their guns but didn’t draw them. A TV was on, Cordell could hear the scratchy voice track of a Latin soap opera. And now Alejo appeared, right arm hanging down his wrinkled white pants, smiling. “Señor High-Step, man what you doing here?”
“Never guess what happened. After my man met with y’all the second time, took the woo woo home, somebody come and stole it. You believe that?”
“I can see it happen,” Alejo said. “You friend got this good smoke, people hear about it, and human nature take over, huh?”
“Wasn’t your human nature takin’ over though, right?”
“No, not us.”
Alejo looked at the greasers like he was giving them a signal. High-Step brought out the Uzi, swung the barrel at Alejo as Alejo lost the grin and brought up a sawed-off pump gun, leveled it as High fired a burst from the silenced Uzi that sounded like a BB gun, cut Alejo down and blew out the TV, turned the gun on the greasers as they stood drawing, chewed them up along with the couch and the wall. Cordell saw Jhonny draw, but High-Step was already turning, firing.