He said, “Hey, this is Marty, can you meet me in the parking lot of Bed Bath amp; Beyond on Sixteen Mile in thirty minutes?”
At first, DeJuan had no idea who this dude Marty was, thinking it was a wrong number, but then he recognized his voice.
DeJuan said, “I’m kind of busy at the moment, can you give me an hour?” It was a shocker. DeJuan would’ve bet his diamond pinky ring he’d never hear from the dude again. He glanced down at the 7-Eleven manager lying on the floor in his green vest, hands and feet wrapped in duct tape-angry sawed-off little dude. Before DeJuan taped his mouth, manager Mr. Richard Ferguson said 7-Eleven would prosecute him to the full extent of the law and did he want to reconsider and turn himself in?
“Yeah,” DeJuan said, “Straight up, I want to turn myself in. You’re such a bad ass, I’m worried.” Did he want to turn his self in? The fuck was wrong with his head?
DeJuan had come in the back door. Walked up, there was a dude named Russ-Russ smoking out behind the store when DeJuan approached, placed the barrel of his SigSauer Nine against Russ’s cheek, said, “Break over, motherfucker, get back to work.”
He dropped his cigarette and DeJuan walked him through the stockroom into an office. There was a desk with a phone and a bank of TV monitors that showed different parts of the store. There was a guy behind the counter working the register.
DeJuan said, “Who’s that?”
Russ said, “The manager, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Tell Mr. Ferguson, get his ass in here, you got an emergency needs his immediate fucking attention.”
Russ grinned. “He’s not going to like this.”
After DeJuan secured Mr. Ferguson, he had Russ show him how to turn off the video cameras. Then he tied Russ up, put him in the stockroom.
He was cleaning out the register-look like about $1,700-when a customer come in, old lady, had something in her hand, coming toward him. He closed the register and turned toward the woman. “How you doing? Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
The woman held up a carton of cottage cheese and said, “I want my money back.” She pulled the top off and pointed to a green circle of mold. “Know what that is?”
DeJuan didn’t like her attitude, old bag coming in getting in his face, fucking with him ’cause she think the customer always right. He picked up the cottage cheese, read the small type on the back, found what he was looking for. “Look here,” DeJuan said. “See, it expire.”
Old lady look like she going to throw the shit in his face, said, “I want to see the manager.”
“He tied up right now.”
“I want my money back or I’m never shopping in this store again.”
DeJuan said, “You promise?”
“What’s your name? I’m going to write a letter.”
“Richard Ferguson. Now, why don’t you take your moldy cottage cheese and your moldy old ass, get the fuck out of here.”
There was a silver Benz, big one, S600 out by itself in the parking lot that was getting busy at one in the afternoon. DeJuan drove by, saw Marty behind the wheel, spun around and parked next to him. DeJuan put his window down and so did Marty, Marty saying, “Get in, let’s talk.”
DeJuan got out, walked around the back end of the Benz and got in the front passenger seat, sat back against the plush leather. Man, it was cold, like a meat locker in there, but Marty look like he was sweating in his Ryder Cup at Oakland Hills golf shirt, DeJuan trying to figure out what color it was-teal or coral some bullshit exotic name like that.
DeJuan looked through the windshield at Bed Bath amp; Beyond in the distance and said, “What’s up? Need help picking out sheets and towels?”
“I want you to kill my wife.” He said it like he meant it. Had a serious look on his face.
DeJuan said, “Love is a bitch, isn’t it?”
“I’ll pay you ten grand, but you’ve got to make it look like an accident.”
“Accident? Nobody said nothing about no accident.” DeJuan pulled the SigSauer, aimed it at Marty, said, “Boom! Was just going to pop her like that, drop her like that.” DeJuan thinking it sounded like lyrics to a rap song.
Marty put his hands up like he was going to catch the bullet, said, “Hey, what’re you doing?”
“Be cool, Marty, not going to shoot you. Only illustrating a point, is all.”
Marty put his hands down now and let out a breath. Looked relieved.
DeJuan slid the Sig back in the waistband of his Sean John denims. He said, “Make it look like an accident, a lot more difficult. Going to cost you more.”
Marty said, “How much more?”
“What do you care? You rich.”
DeJuan found out-following the man-Marty was a Mormon. He wasn’t just your average Mormon either; man was bishop of the temple on Woodward Avenue, looked like a mausoleum, all decked out in white marble.
It occurred to him somewhere in the back of his mind-Mormons were the dudes had all the wives. Part of it sounded good, DeJuan picturing a harem, man. Ladies dressed up, having cocktails, waiting for him to come home. He walk in, check ’em out, pick the one he want to get naughty with. I’ll take Shirela over there with the big knock-knocks, feel like some African trim tonight. Or maybe take Shirela and LaRita, get a doublay on a singlay going.
But part of it sounded bad. DeJuan thinking about all the ladies in the harem on the rag at the same time, PMS hanging over his head like a cloud of doom. No, on second thought, he didn’t want no harem, stick to his current arrangement, pay for what you want, never have a problem.
Marty live on a street called Martell and man they had some cribs in that ’hood. Houses look like small hotels, department stores. He found Marty’s, a modern, single-story place built up on a hill, tennis court out front. DeJuan pulled up in the driveway. Could see the whole house now and it was big, kept going across a long stretch of yard. Man had a four-car garage with coach lights over the individual doors, had an oriental garden with a pond, little pagoda building look like a Chinese restaurant sitting out there.
He knew nobody was home. Marty was at his company in downtown Birmingham, had a whole floor in a big building called Martin Smith Securities. Named after the man’s grandfather. DeJuan checked it out on the Internet, had a whole story about the grandfather going through the Depression with nothing and starting the business with a three-hundred-dollar loan.
Shelly, Marty’s wife, was getting her weekly massage, must’ve had a lot of stress in her life living in this 7,500-square-foot shack, only had help four days a week. Marty telling him her routine: lunch and bridge and tennis and shopping, home between three and four, and telling him it had to be today ’cause the maids didn’t come on Thursday. Or he’d have to wait another week.
DeJuan pulled up in the driveway behind the house, pushed a button in the car Marty told him to push, and the garage door farthest from the house started to go up. He drove Marty’s silver Benz in, pressed the button and watched the door go down. Marty said if DeJuan took his own car people might notice. DeJuan could see his point. Probably weren’t many gold metalflake Malibu lowriders in the neighborhood.
He opened the door to the house, went through the kitchen, reminded him of the kitchen at Brownie’s, where he was a busser, worked his way up to greeter, which was sort of like acting, putting on a fake smile and fake enthusiasm as he greeted people coming in the door-same kind of stove. Remembered the name Viking and the little Viking dude on it. Problem was, everybody was fat and everybody wanted a view of the lake. He’d take these four whales to their table, they’d say, “What about that one over there,” pointing to a table wasn’t bussed yet. Or they’d say, “Don’t you have anything closer to the lake?” DeJuan wanted to say, “Get a carryout, go sit in the water have your meal. That be close enough?”
He liked to watch the looks on they faces as the food came, like junkies, man, couldn’t wait to stuff those perch sandwiches in their mouths.