Marcena would have wanted as much material as she could get for her hot story; she would have tried recording Grobian and Mr. William while Bron loaded the forklift. So maybe she put her pen down near where they were standing.
And there it was, next to a sewing machine, lying against a pair of shears. I couldn’t believe it, casually set out on a tabletop in plain sight. Of course, if you didn’t know what it was you wouldn’t imagine it was a recorder-it was really quite a clever gadget.
I picked it up and examined it under my flashlight. It was not much bigger than one of those fat, high-end pens you see in pricey stationery shops. There was a USB port for attaching it to a computer and downloading it, and little buttons, with the universal squares and triangles of recorders-play, forward, reverse. There was also a screen about an inch long and a quarter inch wide; when I pressed the “on” switch, the screen asked if I wanted to play or record. I hit the play button.
“Her and me, we’re the two best on the team, but Coach, she’s always giving April the breaks.”
The voice belonged to Celine, my gangbanger. The machine was starting from the beginning of the file, the day Marcena had come with me to basketball practice. I was tempted to eavesdrop more on how the team saw me, but I fast-forwarded. Next, I was startled by my own voice: I was talking to the woman next to me at the By-Smart prayer meeting, asking about William Bysen. I forwarded again.
This time, Marcena’s clipped tones came tinnily into the room. “Look, put it in your jacket pocket, here. I’ve switched it on, but it won’t record unless people are talking within about six feet of it, so hopefully you won’t pick up a ton of useless background noise.”
The next noises were smothered scrapings and gruntings, Marcena’s laugh, a slap, mock outrage from Bron. An R-rated recording, oh, well. Then a few starts and stops with Bron maneuvering his truck and cursing at some other driver, and then he was telling Marcena to get behind the seats, to lie down on the mattress back there so the guard at the warehouse gate wouldn’t see her. The guard checked him in; the two knew each other and kidded back and forth. There were similar exchanges all through the warehouse; he was talking to my friend in the Harley jacket about their routes and loads, bragging about April and her ball playing, joining in laments about the Bears and about company management, until Grobian summoned him.
Grobian went over his route and his load for the day, then said, “That supplier in your neck of the woods, Czernin, that flag maker, I don’t know if it’s his Serbian head, but it seems kind of thick, like he’s not getting the message.”
“Hey, Grobe, I did my best.”
“And we showed our gratitude.” That was Aunt Jacqui. “But we-the family-want you to give him another message.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“We want you to give him a message, shut his plant down for a day, but let him know we can put it out of business for good if he doesn’t play ball. A hundred, like before, if you do the job by the end of the week. An extra hundred if you make the message strong enough to force him to come round,” Grobian said.
“What did you have in mind?” Bron asked.
“You’re creative, you’re good with your hands,” Aunt Jacqui used a provocative tone, implying that she wouldn’t mind knowing what he did with his hands. “You’ll think of something, I’m sure. I don’t want to hear that kind of detail.”
Her voice came through more clearly than Grobian’s-she must have been sitting in the chair in front of the desk, while Grobian sat behind it. Was she wearing that black dress whose buttons only came down to her hips? Had she crossed her legs, casually, giving a suggestive flash up the thigh-this could be yours, Bron, if you do what I want?
All at once, I heard voices coming in through the loading area. I’d been so intent on the recording that I hadn’t heard the truck pull into the yard. What kind of detective was I, sitting there like a turkey waiting to be shot for Thanksgiving dinner?
“Jacqui, if you wanted to come along you should have worn proper shoes. I don’t care if your damn thousand-dollar boots have a scratch on them. I don’t know why Gary tolerates your spending.”
Jacqui laughed. “There’s so little you know, William. Daddy Bysen will have six kinds of fits when he learns that you swear.”
I stuffed the recorder into my hip pocket and ducked under the big cutting table. Red-and-white bunting hung over the sides like a heavy curtain-maybe I’d be safe under here.
“Maybe he’ll choke on them, then. I am sick, god damn sick of him treating me like I don’t have the wits to run my family, let alone this company.”
“Willy, Willy, you should have taken your stand years ago, the way I did when Gary and I first married. If you didn’t want Daddy Bysen running your life, you shouldn’t have let him build your house for you out in-what was that?”
I had tripped on a chair leg and banged into the table as I went under it. I held myself completely still, squatting behind the bunting, barely daring to breathe.
“A rat, probably.” Grobian spoke for the first time.
Light flicked around the floor.
“Someone’s in here,” William said. “There are footprints in the ash in here.”
I had the Smith & Wesson in my hand, safety off. I slipped through the bunting on the far side of the cutting table, calculating the distance to the hole in the front wall.
“Neighborhood is heavy with junkies. They come in here to shoot up.” Grobian’s voice was indifferent, but he up-ended the cutting table so fast I barely had time to move out of the way.
“There!” Jacqui cried as I stood and started running toward the front.
She shone her light on me. “Oh! It’s that Polish detective, the one who’s been lecturing us on charity.”
I didn’t turn to look, just kept going, skidding around the tables, trying to sidestep debris.
“Get her, Grobian,” William shouted, his voice going up to a squeak.
I heard the heavy steps behind me but still didn’t turn. I was two strides from the door when I heard the click, the hammer going back. I hit the floor just as he fired. I tried to keep hold of my own gun, but my fall sent it spinning out of my hand. He was on top of me before I could get to my feet.
I grabbed Grobian’s left leg and jerked upward. He stumbled, and had to twist around to keep from falling. I sprang upright backing away from him. My head was wet. Blood was pouring down my hair and neck, into my shirt. It made me dizzy, but I tried to concentrate on him. Jacqui and William were helping him, shining their lights on me; Grobian was a shape in the dark, two shapes, two fists swinging at me. I ducked under the first one, but not the second.
45 Down in the Dumps
My father was cutting the grass. He kept running the mower over me. My eyes were bandaged shut, so I couldn’t see him, but I’d hear the wheels rumbling through the grass. They would hit me, go right over me, and then roll back again. It was so cold, why was he mowing the grass when it was so cold out, and why didn’t he see me? The garden smelled terrible, like pee and vomit and blood.
I screamed at him to stop.
“Pepaiola, cara mia.” His only words of Italian, used on my mother and me both, his two pepperpots. “Why are you lying in my path? Get up, get out of my way.”