Tyrell looked at Rogers and then at Ray. “He’s right, cuz. Put it away.” Tyrell turned to Eddie. “Where’s my money at, boy? Say it and be quick.”
Eddie Golden said, “My apartment. In the pillowcase... in my bedroom closet.”
“Where’s that?”
Eddie gave Tyrell the address.
“I got his keys,” said Monroe.
“They open your place?” said Tyrell.
Eddie nodded, and Tyrell gave instructions to his men.
Monroe led Eddie Golden back to one of the two bedrooms set off the hall. The room contained a sheeted mattress and box spring on the floor, with a radiator next to the bed. Monroe stood by the door. He left when Rogers arrived with a glass of water, which Eddie drank hungrily. Eddie lay back.
Rogers didn’t bother to tie him up. He wasn’t strong enough to go anywhere, way he was.
“You be still.”
“Thank you.”
“You better not be tellin’ lies,” said Rogers.
“I’m not,” said Eddie. “Listen—”
Rogers walked away. He closed the door behind him and left Eddie in darkness.
Eddie listened to their voices from the other room. He breathed out very slowly in relief. It was that same feeling he had once when he’d woken up in the recovery room, after this operation he’d had. The feeling that he’d dodged a bullet. That he’d bought time.
And he hadn’t said a word about Donna. Even with the gun pointed at his face, he hadn’t thought once of mentioning her.
Despite the rain and clouds, light filtered in through the windows, and as Eddie’s eyes adjusted he could make out the angles of the room. His arm throbbed less, but the fear and codeine had made him dizzy and sick.
Eddie stared at the ceiling and tried to forget the pain. He had to think of what he could give them next. He needed to come up with a story, something to tell them when they came back empty-handed. Something that would keep him alive.
Short Man Monroe slid his Glock barrel-down into the waistband of his Lees. He sloppily dumped some cocaine into paper, folded the paper, and put it in his jacket. He put his finger in what remained on the table and rubbed some freeze on his gums.
“Y’all ready?” said Monroe.
“We ready,” said Linney.
“Let’s go.”
“We gone, Ty,” said Rogers.
“Call me,” said Tyrell, “and let me know.”
Out in the yard, Monroe and Rogers got into the Z. Linney and Bennet climbed into the Supra.
“Those two know to follow us?” said Rogers.
“Yeah,” said Monroe. “Turn this bitch over, man.”
Rogers cooked the ignition while Monroe fingered the cup between the seats.
“Where go my pills, man?”
“You took ’em all,” said Rogers.
“Damn, I must be lunchin’.”
“You swallowed four back there at the hospital.”
“Sure you didn’t give the rest of my medicine to your girlfriend, so he could feel better?”
“What you talkin’ about, man?”
“Saw the way you brought him water and shit, like you was sweet on him or somethin’.”
“Go ahead, Short.”
Rogers turned the Z around and headed for the road.
“You gettin’ soft on me, Alan.”
“No I ain’t.”
“Yeah you are,” said Monroe. “I got eyes, man. And my eyes can see.”
Antony Ray cut a fat line out and spread it the length of the mirror. He picked up a rolled fifty-dollar bill.
“Careful with that,” said Tyrell. “It’s early yet.”
“Got a lot of catchin’ up to do.”
“That you do.”
Ray did half the line. He threw his head back and shook it. He bent down and did the other half. He dropped the bill on the mirror and lit a Newport from his deck.
Tyrell sat in his chair, facing the window. He watched the cars drive away.
“You know, those two shouldn’t have brought that thief back with ’em, Tyrell.”
“I know it.”
“What you gonna do about it?”
“Have to wait and see.”
“You think he’s tellin’ the truth about the money?”
“Gonna find out, I guess.”
“I’ll find out right now, you want me to.”
“For now, let’s just do things my way.”
“All right. You gotta admit, though, them bringin’ him back here, it does complicate the fuck out of things.”
“Yes.”
“They didn’t even think about how we couldn’t let that white boy walk away once he done been in this house.”
“No, they didn’t think.”
“You don’t mind my sayin’ so, those are some simple mothafuckers you got on your payroll.”
“What you expect, cuz?” said Tyrell. “They ain’t nothin’ but kids.”
Eighteen
Anthony Taylor was bored just sitting in his room with no one to talk to, so he put his Raiders jacket on and walked quietly down the stairs. Not that Granmom or that hustler friend of hers could hear him, the way they had their music up so loud. Sounded like some church thing they were dancing to, but with more of a rockin’ band behind it than the stuff Granmom listened to on that AM gospel station. The singers in the background talkin’ about “I’ll take you there,” over and over again. Whatever it was, Anthony couldn’t get into it, but Granmom and her friend, they were back there in the living room kickin’ up a storm.
Anthony slipped out the front door.
He turned his collar up against the rain. Cloudy as it was, it seemed awful dark out tonight. Anthony avoided Clifton Terrace, where a whole world of bad things could happen. He walked over to 11th and cut south.
On U Street he saw one of Tyrell’s runners using a pay phone, and another standing on the corner near an idling import with limo-tint windows. Anthony went down by Real Right, saw that all the lights ’cept for one or two fluorescents in the back were turned off. Then he remembered that Mr. Clay closed his shop early on Saturday nights.
Anthony crossed the street, stood outside of Medger’s for a few minutes, said hello to an old-timer he knew. But the old-timer had to be on his way, with the rain and all. Anthony got tired of getting rained on his own self, so he found a bus shelter and stayed there until a couple of boys who had Trouble stamped on their foreheads came in with him. They started talking to him kind of smart like, askin’ him if he had any cash money on him, so he walked out of the shelter, not too fast so they’d take him for bad, and kept going down the street.
He was cold and wet and a little bit afraid, but at least things were going on out here. It was better than being at home.
Marcus Clay and Dimitri Karras met at the Dupont store, as they always did at closing time on Saturday nights, and had a beer with the store’s longtime manager, Cheek. Dupont had been Clay’s first store, and it would always be his favorite. It only stood to reason that he had his favorite manager in there, too. Cheek had been with Clay for more than ten years, and for every year of service he had put on five pounds.
After the other stores had called in their figures, Cheek closed Dupont and went to make the deposit. Clay and Karras walked the two blocks back to the Trauma Arms, where they both showered and changed clothes.
Karras defrosted a ham bone he had been saving and made a pot of split pea soup. He grilled a couple of tomato-and-cheese sandwiches, put them together with the soup, and he and Clay had dinner.
They watched North Carolina slaughter Alabama-Birmingham as they ate. The food improved Karras’s condition considerably, though he was annoyed at the outcome of the game. As a Maryland fan, Karras hated Dean Smith the way most Greeks hated Turks.