A skateboarder said, “Dude, are you serious?”
Dodson had forgotten about Cal. All he wanted was for Isaiah to say I don’t know. “What are we doing now?” he said.
Isaiah slowed the car to a crawl, horns honking behind him. “Cal said, ‘There it is, Bug.’ Had to be the address.”
“Every building on the block got an address,” Dodson said.
“Right after that Cal saw a parking space but Bug said he couldn’t park there. Why?” Isaiah’s eyes zeroed in on a fire hydrant. “That’s why!”
Shit, Dodson thought. Almost had him.
Isaiah pulled over and they got out of the car. There were office buildings on either side of the street. A clock on the Fidelity building said 11:17. The appointment was probably for eleven. After the morning rush but before lunch.
“Which building?” Dodson said. “They all look alike.”
“Cal said, ‘What’s all that bullshit?’” Isaiah said, turning in a circle. “What bullshit?” He stopped. A tar carrier and a truck were parked in front of the Amos Center, a crane extending from the truck to the roof, scaffolding over the entrance. “That one,” Isaiah said. He took off, Dodson trailing behind. Son of a bitch.
Skip had his forehead on his forearm and his forearm on the steering wheel. The kids and the rapper were rapping.
I’m announcin’ my bouncin’, got her face in my fountain
I’m all up in her plumbin’, my second comin’ and comin’
I’m cocainin’ and drainin’ and runnin’ a trainin’
My Genghis is Khannin’, I’m spawnin’ and yawnin’
the new day is dawnin’ and I still got that longin’
Bonin’, bonin’, bonin’ ’til the break of dawn
Bonin’ ’til my trumpet swans
Bonin’ ’til my seed is gone.
Bonin’, bonin’, bonin’ ’til the break of dawn.
“Seriously?” Skip said.
Isaiah and Dodson entered the lobby of the Amos Center and crossed to the elevators. “Skip needs isolation to kill Cal,” Isaiah said. “The roof.” The elevator doors opened. They got on and Isaiah immediately got off. “Go on up,” he said.
“Where’re you going?” Dodson said.
“I want to see what offices are vacant. Skip might be using one. Just go.” The doors closed.
Isaiah knew Cal wasn’t on the roof because he never got on the elevator. There was no cologne smell in there but there was in the lobby so he was here and he wouldn’t have taken the stairs in his condition. Skip could have lured Cal into an office on the first floor or into the parking garage but that made no sense. There were cameras and people going in and out. In fact, it made no sense killing Cal anywhere in the building. Isaiah had that prickly feeling on his scalp. He was the one who put Cal at risk and if Cal got killed it was his fault. Marcus would haunt him for all eternity. Why here? Isaiah thought. Why in the Amos Center? There had to be a reason… unless there was no reason… unless this wasn’t Cal’s final destination.
Dodson rode the elevator up, the car stopping at every floor, people getting on and off. He had the sneaking suspicion Isaiah had gotten rid of him, thought he’d be in the way, disrespecting him once again. And what if Skip was on the roof with Cal? What was he going to do without a strap? He could not go up there but if Cal got shot Isaiah would blame him and if he did go up there he might get killed. Was twenty-five percent of fifty thousand dollars worth risking his life? He knew what Cherise would say. Dead people don’t need money, Dodson. Don’t be a fool. Cherise was hard on him but she’d brought him to his senses any number of times. Yeah, he’d get off on the next floor and tell Isaiah to go fuck himself.
At long last the rapping stopped. Skip could hear the kids laughing and congratulating themselves, probably doing that stupid handshake and bumping shoulders, their voices loud off the cement walls. A few moments later the pack of them came skating out of the garage. The rapper was in there alone. Skip wanted to go in and get him before anything else happened but the kids were rolling right at the Corolla, filling up the alley. Skip honked the horn and lunged the car at them but they kept coming. Fuck you, dude, yeah, come on and run over us. Yeah, bitch, run us over. They banged their fists on the hood. What are you doing in there, jerking off, you fucking loser? A kid in a hoodie and a cap that said PLAN B hawked a loogie on the windshield. Skip could hardly keep from shooting him.
Finally, the kids moved on. Skip stepped on the gas and the car rattled and died. “I don’t fucking believe this,” he said. He got out of the car and walked quickly toward the garage entrance, the Glock at his side. He could hear the rapper right around the corner.
“I have been misled,” the rapper said. “Brian has misled me.”
Isaiah came running out of the Amos Center. He tried to turn back for the door but it had already closed. He was trapped in the vestibule.
“This must be my lucky day,” Skip said. He grinned, the twinkling eyes like death stars. He walked toward the smart-ass, aiming the gun at his face. He’d planned to use the multi-impact rounds on the rapper but this would be better. Splatter this prick all over the alley, nothing left for his family to see, pieces of him in the coffin. Shoot the rapper with the Beretta.
“What have you got to say now, asshole?” he said, cupping his ear. “What’s that? I can’t hear you. What did you say? Please don’t shoot me and I won’t be a smart-ass anymore?” Skip wished he would beg or cry or piss himself, anything besides stand there and look at him. “I knew I’d get you,” Skip said. “I knew I would.”
Isaiah was more furious than scared. This piece-of-shit killer about to put a bullet in his heart. His life didn’t flash before his eyes but Flaco did. The boy’s face lighting up when he saw Margaret. And Marcus, coming out of the bathroom with that big sunny smile singing “The Way You Do the Things You Do.”
“Ready to die?” Skip said.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Isaiah said.
Skip never saw the eighty-pound roll of roofing paper falling out of the sky. He crumpled like a Red Bull can stomped into the pavement. The Glock went off. Thirty-three multi-impact rounds hitting the Corolla in 1.65 seconds.
Isaiah looked up at Dodson peering down from the roof. “I got tar all over my Pumas,” he said. “That muthafucka owes me for a new pair of shoes.”
Cal came out of the parking garage and blinked a few times, not sure his eyes were working right. What was Mr. Q doing here? Weren’t they just talking on the phone? Did he have something to do with Brian Sterling? Why was that car all shot to shit and who was that white boy lying on the ground with a gun and a big roll of black paper? Was that Brian Sterling? Was Brian Sterling dead? “I don’t understand,” Cal said. He put the back of his wrist over his eyes and started to cry. “I don’t understand.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN One Damn Bullet