The room went stone silent.
"What you want, Wallace?" said Moses in a booming voice.
"Do it!"
Without a moment's hesitation, Moses pulled the trigger.
It was almost simultaneous – Wallace falling face-first to the floor and the loud crack of the hammer against an empty chamber. But his head was intact. Raw nerves and emotion had caused his collapse.
Moses popped open the cylinder and let the two unspent rounds drop to his feet.
Levon shouted, "Meet the newest GD!"
The gang went wild. They were suddenly all over Wallace, slapping him on the head and body, screaming and yelling in his face – all a form of congratulations and praise.
Levon pulled Moses into another room, leaving the gang to celebrate. It was time to get down to business. He closed the door and locked it. They were in a bedroom with no bed – just a table, a few chairs, and a wall of tall metal lockers. Levon opened the one on the far right with a key, removed a packet, and tossed it onto the table in front of Moses.
"Your new ID," he said.
Moses opened the packet and inspected it. There was a Social Security card, a Georgia driver's license and voter registration card, and two credit cards.
"Miles?" said Moses, making a face. "My new name is Miles Becker?"
"I set you up in twenty-four hours, and this is the thanks I get?"
Moses grumbled, but he didn't protest. He tucked away the IDs and said, "What else you got?"
Levon opened another locker. It was loaded with weapons – handguns, rifles, even an Uzi. "I assume you dumped the piece you used to waste that trooper," said Levon.
"You assume right."
"What do you like?"
"Nine-millimeter," said Moses.
"How about a Glock?" Levon said, as he laid it on the table with two ammunition clips.
"Glock is good," said Moses.
Levon went to the next locker. This one had two locks on it. He opened them both and pulled a cardboard box from the top shelf. He placed it on the table and opened it. The inside was lined with green plastic. He punched a hole in it, just big enough for Moses to see the contents.
"This is the best shit we got in six months," said Levon. "We cut it three times and it still kicks ass. Your boys in Miami know their trade."
"We aim to please," said Moses.
"I'm serious," said Levon. "Filthy Mexicans have been killing us in Atlanta. Latin Kings got way too much turf. Eighteenth Street is here, too. Last week I seen two old guys – must have been in their forties – all the way from L.A. Tacos are makin' a push here. But you keep this up, and we'll cut their balls off."
"There's plenty more where that came from."
Levon made the hole in the bag a little larger. "Wanna sample?"
Moses shook his head. "Ain't touched that shit in ten years."
"Twelve for me," said Levon. "Not one brotha' I grew up with back in Robert Taylor Homes did the shit and got outta Chicago's South Side alive."
"Guess that's why we're the old men in this business."
The celebratory noises from the media room were getting louder. The two thirty-something-year-olds exchanged knowing smiles, as if to acknowledge that most of those flunkies would be lucky to see seventeen.
Moses' cell rang. He didn't recognize the displayed number of the incoming call, but he answered it anyway. It turned out to be the right decision.
The caller was Jefferson – the correctional officer at TGK.
"Holloway dropped the ball," said Jefferson. "Knight's alive and well"
Moses took the news without any display of emotion, trying not to tip off anything to Levon. "Anything else?"
"Yeah," said Jefferson. "I hear the prosecutor is dropping the charges against Knight for helping Reems escape. He'll be on the street today, tomorrow at the latest."
"Got it," said Moses.
Jefferson hung up. The entire conversation had lasted only thirty seconds. Moses felt his anger rising, but he said nothing as he tucked the phone away in his pocket.
Levon said, "Something wrong?"
Moses thought for a moment, then looked at Levon and said, "I'm gonna need some cash."
"How much?"
"Enough to set me up in Miami for a few days."
"Miami? You going back already?"
"Yeah"
"What for?"
"It's like they say" said Moses, his expression turning deadly serious. "You want something done right, you do it your fucking self."
Chapter 36
Jack spent the night at his abuelas house.
It surprised people that a guy named Jack Swyteck had an abuela. Most shocked of all were folks who met him in a bar or at a cocktail party and, tongue loosened, spoke to him gringo-to-gringo about the damn Hispanics taking over south Florida. Jack's mother was born in Cuba. She was a teenager when Castro came to power and her parents spirited her away to Miami under the Pedro Pan program, a humanitarian effort that allowed thousands of Cuban children to escape the dictatorship and live in freedom. The vast majority of families were ultimately reunited in the States, but Jacks abuela couldn't get out of Cuba until Jack was in his thirties, long after his mother had died giving birth to him. Abuela made it her mission to Cubanize her grandson.
The results had been mixed. On their most recent trip to an espresso bar, Jack wanted a cafe mocha instead of a cafe cubano, which was embarrassing enough to Abuela, but then he drove the dagger straight through her heart by ordering a cafe moco – which in espanol meant "coffee booger."
"Buenos dias" said Jack, as he entered her kitchen.
Abuela was standing at the counter spreading queso crema on sliced strips of fresh Cuban bread. The strips were for dunking in cafe con leche, and from the first time Jack had tried it, bagels and cream cheese just didn't cut it anymore.
Jack gave her a kiss and smiled as she called him mi vida – literally, "my life" – a term she used only with Jack, and which pretty much summed up the depth of her feelings. He took a seat at the table. Abuela placed his breakfast in front of him and started to wipe down the counter.
"Sit with me" said Jack. "I can clean up."
The way she looked at him, it was as if Jack had said, "I can have a sex change." Abuela was definitely old school.
Jack dunked his first strip of pan y queso, trying not to think too vividly about Theo and Trina waking inside his house on Key Biscayne. Theo had been released from jail late yesterday afternoon. Anyone who thought make-up sex was great had obviously never experienced just-got-out-of-jail sex. There was nothing better, according to Theo, even if the term of incarceration was only a few days. Who was Jack to argue? Theo's problem, however, was Uncle Cy in the next room.
"Dude, I need your place tonight," Theo had begged him.
"Find a hotel."
Jack might as well have said, "Buy Trump Tower." For Theo, it was the kind of response that didn't compute between friends. Like an idiot, Jack had handed over the keys and planned to spend the night at his grandmother's.
Abuela had been awake since 5:00 a.m., the radio tuned to a Spanish-language talk show. Jack understood Spanish much better than he spoke it, so he listened. An old woman carried on about pochos, a pejorative name for second-generation Mexicans who knew only as much about their heritage as the George Lopez Show could teach them and raised children who didn't speak a word of Spanish.
Abuela switched off the radio, and Jack prepared himself for the Cuban version of a well-meaning lecture. But she surprised him.
"You do not mention Rene once since you are here," she said. Her English was roughly on the level of Jack's Spanish, so she often stuck to the present tense.
"I didn't?" he said.
"No. How is she?"