"Donnell, are there any other grown-ups here?" Donnell nodded. "Where are they?" Donnell pointed down the stairs at the end of the narrow hall. "How many?" Donnell shrugged. "You forget how to talk?" Donnell shook his head, giggling. The door to another bedroom opened and a stick-thin black woman called to the boy.
"Donnell, what you doin'? Get outta this hall!"
She grabbed the boy by the collar and dragged him back to his room, closing the door behind him. She leaned against the door, one hand on the knob, exhausted by the effort. A thin black dress, shapeless against her bony frame, hung on her like a sheet on a clothesline. Her eyes were dull, but Mason caught something in her look, the same familiarity he'd seen in the boy.
"Varonda? Is that you?" Mason asked.
"I didn't think you'd remember me," she said. "Be better if you forgot."
"It hasn't been that long," Mason said. "What, nine, ten months? You were charged with possession with the intent to sell. I got you into a diversion program. Donnell was in court with you. That's why I recognized him."
"He's a good boy, but he don't mind me like he should."
"It's hard for a kid to stay in a dark room. Why does he have to stay in there?"
"Only safe place in a crack house like this," she said, looking over Mason's shoulder.
Mason heard footsteps on the stairs as she spoke. He turned in time to see the passenger from the Caprice standing at the top of the stairs, his gun pointed at him again.
"Thought you was never wakin' up," the man said.
"Was I supposed to?" Mason asked.
"Don't matter to me," the man said. "Varonda, you know him?"
"He was my lawyer. Got me into that diversion program."
The man laughed. "You done got diverted all right, girl. Straight back to the fuckin' street sellin' your ass for a rock."
Mason remembered Varonda. She carried twenty more pounds and a glimmer of hope when he negotiated the diversion deal. She was on the edge then, having spent time on the street, but not too much time to get off. Since then, she'd gone back, hustling for crack, wasting her body until there was little left to hold or hustle.
"Fuck you, Tyrone," she said, joining Donnell in his room, shutting out the rest of the world as she slammed the door.
"So, Tyrone, what do you say you and me go out to the ballpark and catch the Royals," Mason said.
"Only thing you gonna catch is this," Tyrone said, waving his gun at Mason.
"If you were going to shoot me, you would have done that last night," Mason said. "Tell Centurion I want to talk to him. We'll work something out."
"Don't know no Centurion," Tyrone said.
"Fine. You don't know him. I do. Give me a phone and I'll call him."
"Don't got no phone and you ain't callin' nobody. Get your ass on downstairs," he said, motioning Mason to go first.
The driver of the Caprice waited at the bottom of the stairs, leading Mason like a slow-moving target with a shotgun wedged under his arm, aiming Mason toward a straight-backed chair in the middle of the front room. A couch littered with remnants of fast food was shoved against the wall opposite a wide picture window covered with a slender sheet of plywood. A whiskey-colored, shorthaired mutt, its ribs riding hard against its skin, burrowed its nose into the cushions, digging for a meal.
Tyrone grabbed a roll of duct tape and a length of rope from the couch, the dog snapping at him.
"Tyrone," the driver said, "quit playin' with that dog. We don't got all day."
"Easy, Richie," Tyrone said to the driver. "I ain't playin' with your dog. That bitch is a killer."
"Just smack that dog, it bites you. That's the way I trained it," Richie said, pointing the shotgun at the dog. Mason took advantage, wheeling, grabbing the shotgun. Richie rammed the barrel into Mason's gut, breaking Mason's hold. "Settle down, man!" Richie said. "You're gonna get all this you can handle soon enough," he added, prodding Mason with the shotgun, backing him into the chair. Tyrone clamped Mason by the shoulder, planting him on the seat. At least, Mason thought, he knew their names.
"Tyrone, Richie," Mason said as Tyrone looped the rope around his ankles and the legs of the chair, binding his upper arms at his sides with duct tape, his hands free but helpless. "Give me a clue here. You want something. You need something. Tell me what it is and we'll work it out."
They didn't answer. Tyrone disappeared while Richie kept the shotgun a dismembering distance from Mason's chest.
"Fellas, be reasonable," Mason said, fighting to keep his voice a notch below pleading. They had to want something, and he was ready to give it to them if they would only tell him what it was. It was hard to bargain with people who acted like they didn't hear you. "Tell Centurion that I don't care what he's doing at Sanctuary. It's none of my business."
Tyrone came back carrying a can of sterno, a bag of white powder, a syringe, and a lighter. He tapped out a measure of powder into a small cup made of tinfoil, added a liquid from a plastic tube in his shirt pocket, and stirred the mixture with his finger. Setting the tinfoil on a three-legged stand, he lit the sterno, slipping the flame beneath the tin foil.
"Hey, guys. Get real," Mason said, seeing his future in the barrel of the syringe, not the barrel of the shotgun.
Tyrone peeled off another strip of duct tape, grabbed Mason's left wrist, taping it to the side of the chair, flicking the large vein in the center of Mason's arm, rubbing the surrounding skin and raising the vein to the surface like a swollen blue ribbon. Tyrone dipped the syringe in the tinfoil, and drew the plunger back, filling the barrel, squirting a drop onto the floor to be certain the needle was ready.
Mason lunged, bucking the chair into Tyrone. "Goddammit! Give me a chance! It's the ledger! I made a copy. I'll get it for you."
It was all Mason could think of, but they ignored him, going about the business of killing him without threat or explanation. Tyrone tore off another piece of masking tape, trying to press it against Mason's mouth as Mason spat at him, whiplashing his head to avoid Tyrone's grasp.
The dog bounded off the sofa, nipping at Tyrone. Tyrone cursed and swiped at the dog as Mason bucked one more time, knocking the chair over. The dog was straddling Mason, Richie grabbing it by the scruff of the neck, escalating the game from dog play to dogfight as the mutt bit Richie's hand, drawing blood and fury. Tyrone was laughing, a giddy screech.
Richie clubbed the dog with the butt of the shotgun. The dog yelped, springing at Richie's trigger hand, the shotgun errupting, catching Tyrone in the gut, blowing him onto the couch, dropping the loaded syringe next to Mason. Richie howled as the dog kept ripping his hand. When he dropped the shotgun, Mason scooted to pick it up, cradling it in the crook of his arm, aiming at Richie.
"Get out or I'll kill you!" Mason shouted. Richie finally broke the dog's grip, clutching his ruined hand to his belly. "Run while you can!" Mason said.
"Varonda!" Mason yelled. "It's okay. It's over. Help me! Varonda!"
Varonda crept down the stairs, Donnell on her hip, hugging her waist. She tiptoed past the whimpering dog, spitting on Tyrone's body.
Donnell sat down next to Mason. "You not dead yet," he said.
Chapter 21
"The practice of law is not about the pursuit of justice," a professor of Mason's once told him. "The practice of law is about the economic resolution of disputes. Justice is too elusive for mere mortals."
Mason thought about his law professor's cynical admonition as he stood next to the open back end of an ambulance. A paramedic wiped blood and brains off him while two others carried Tyrone's body out of the house. Centurion's resolution of his dispute with Mason had run into another harsh reality of the marketplace. Good help is hard to find.