“I... I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. And you need to tell me so it doesn’t happen again. Was it the one called Short Man?”
Anthony nodded slowly. “Yes. But... what happens if he comes after me now? What happens if you can’t fix things with him?”
“I’m gonna fix things, Anthony. You don’t have to worry about that. And you don’t need to be afraid anymore.”
“It ain’t just him. It’s everything down here. I wish it was summertime, so I could be with my moms and my sisters, down in the country.”
Murphy smiled at the boy. “You keep wishin’ on it, summer might come sooner than you think.”
“For real?”
“Just might.” Murphy reached across Anthony and opened his door. “Go on, son, you got dinner waitin’.”
“Thanks for the ride, Officer Murphy. Take care.”
Murphy said, “You, too.”
Murphy watched Anthony’s grandmother step aside and let him in the row house. Lula Taylor stayed in the doorway, staring at the black Trans Am idling on Fairmont. Murphy drove away.
Karras, Tate, and Clay were in Clay’s office when the phone rang. Clay picked it up.
“Real Right.”
“Marcus Clay?”
“Speaking.”
“Tyrell Cleveland.”
Clay adjusted the receiver against his ear. “Go ahead.”
“You and me, we need to have a talk.”
“What we got to talk about?”
“You got a white boy works there?”
“Man’s name is Dimitri Karras.”
“He does work for you.”
“So?”
“This Karras, he’s got twenty-five thousand of my money.”
“That right.”
“Boy by the name of Eddie Golden told me. He ain’t talkin’ so good right now, but we been able to put enough together to make your boy Karras for the second thief. Karras took off this girlfriend of Eddie’s, after Eddie took me off—”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Sure you do. Course, we can go back and twist Eddie’s arm a little more, see if he’s tellin’ the truth. Don’t think he’d care for it much. Wrist is startin’ to look like a football right about now.”
“You holdin’ him?”
“Got no choice. And don’t get a mind now to call the police on me, Marcus Clay. I’d have to finish Mr. Eddie Golden quick, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“What do you want?” said Clay.
“A meeting. In your store on U. This evening, after you close. Got a few things to discuss. Might as well do it face-to-face.”
“Who’s gonna be there?”
“Me, Alan Rogers, and Short Man Monroe. He’s been anxious to see you again, after you went and schooled him yesterday.”
Clay thought it over. “No guns.”
“What?”
“No guns.”
“What about y’all?”
“I said no guns. Give you my word.”
“Okay. Have my money ready, Mr. Marcus Clay. We’ll work a trade. My money for Eddie Golden’s life.”
“Don’t kill Golden.”
“Don’t force me to,” said Tyrell.
The line went dead. Clay racked the receiver.
“What was that all about?” said Karras.
“That was Tyrell Cleveland on the line.”
Tate dropped his pencil and looked up at Clay.
“What’d he want?”
“Has it in his head that you got his money, Dimitri. Eddie Golden gave him that notion. You were right: They got Eddie. Cleveland told me they’d kill him if I went to the cops.”
“Who’s Eddie Golden?” said Tate.
“Explain it to you later, Clarence.” Clay looked at Karras. “Cleveland wants to come in and talk to us tonight.”
“And you said what?”
“I said we would.”
“Who’s Tyrell coming with?” said Karras.
“Couple of his boys.”
“What boys?” said Tate.
“Short Man. Alan Rogers, too.”
“I’m in,” said Tate.
“Figured that, Clarence,” said Marcus Clay.
Twenty-Four
So I’m in this bar,” said Johnny McGinnes, “and I order a Leon Klinghoffer cocktail from the tender. ‘What’s that?’ he says.”
“Well,” said Nick Stefanos, “what is it?”
“A Leon Klinghoffer cocktail?” McGinnes grinned. “Two shots and a splash.”
“Funny, Johnny. Okay, so that’s your Achille Lauro gag. What’s next, a Challenger joke?”
“Oh, I got a couple of those, too, you wanna hear ’em.” McGinnes popped the top on a sixteen-ounce can of Colt 45. “Thirsty, Greek?”
“Might make my head feel better.”
“You could take something for it instead. I think I got a couple of TTs in my pocket here.”
“TTs?”
“Tainted Tylenols.”
“Just give me the Colt.”
McGinnes pulled a tallboy from the bag at his feet. He passed the can over to Stefanos, who cracked it and took a long swig.
McGinnes pointed through the windshield. “That him?”
“Uh-uh.”
Stefanos’s Dart was parked on Easley Street, across the road from the back lot of Silver Spring Towers. The baby blue Bronco was parked nose out in the lot.
“We’re just tailin’ this guy, right?”
“Right.”
“Don’t need to paper him?”
“What, you think we’re gonna serve a cop?”
Stefanos produced a Camel filter from the inside pocket of his Robert Hall sport jacket and pushed in the dash lighter. He lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, held the smoke in his lungs.
“This process serving, though,” said McGinnes, “you gotta admit, it’s like cuttin’ butter. See, I got the whole thing figured out... Hey, Nick. Nick?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, you’re not that interested right now. But I can tell by lookin’ at you, every time we get going after one of these guys, you get juiced real quick.”
Stefanos hit his Camel, blew smoke out the open window. “All right, I like the challenge of it. When you find someone it feels like more of an accomplishment than just, you know, closing a deal.”
“Maybe you ought to think about doing it full-time. Since you been so unhappy lately, I mean.”
“That would make my wife real happy. Karen’s already all over my ass, pushing me to get a professional job, like all these other guys my age, got Brylcreem in their hair.”
“Mousse.”
“Whatever. Look, man, I don’t know.”
“Maybe you’re all right, Nick. Maybe it’s your wife that’s got the problem and not you.”
“Yeah, lately I been thinkin’ the same thing.”
McGinnes scratched between his legs. “Makin’ money’s easy. The hard part is finding something you like to do every day. Look at me, Nick; I love what I do.”
“I know it, Johnny.” Stefanos noticed a beefy guy coming out of the apartments, watched him cross the lot and head toward the Bronco. “There’s our man.”
“What is he, the missing link or somethin’?”
“Check out those acid-washed jeans.”
“Dress slacks for today’s redneck.”
Stefanos ignitioned the Dart, pitched his cigarette out the window. He let the Bronco get up toward Fenton Street before he put the Dodge in gear. The Mopar engine knocked as he gave the car gas.
“Gotta get this thing tuned up,” said Stefanos.
“You ask me,” said McGinnes with a slow smile, “it’s the O-rings need to be replaced.”