“I’ll take care of my shit tomorrow,” said Monroe, his face ugly, twisted, streaked with dried blood. “Gimme some of that boat, man.”
Ray handed Monroe a lit joint and dipped his index finger into the coke heaped on the mirror. He rubbed some freeze on his gums. He swallowed half his drink and shook a Newport from the deck. Ray put fire to his smoke.
Alan Rogers came out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He had tried talking to Eddie, but he wasn’t certain if he had gotten through. Golden’s eyes had crossed in on each other all the way, and he was lying funny on the bed, like one of those retards Rogers had seen once. There were bruises and shit all around his mouth. And Golden’s arm, it looked fucked for real.
Rogers walked slowly to the living area, where Tyrell stood to his full height.
“How’s our Golden boy doin’?” said Tyrell.
“Not so good,” said Rogers, looking at Ray.
“Did exactly what you said to do,” said Ray, elbowing Monroe, who coughed out a hit of pot treated with Raid.
“He shouldn’t have lied,” said Tyrell. “You ain’t got no problem with the way we been hostin’ him, do you, Alan?”
“Nah, Ty,” said Rogers, trying to smile. “You know we all right.”
“Good. ’Cause you don’t like things around here, you can always think about goin’ somewhere else.”
“Have to get his ride fixed first,” said Ray.
“Get that raggedy-ass piece of shit towed off the highway where he left it,” said Monroe, dropping the joint in the ashtray and resting his hand on the grip of his Glock.
“Go on, boy,” said Ray, motioning toward the dining area. “Make yourself useful and put on some music.”
“Yeah,” said Monroe, picking up his toothpick off the table and fitting it in the side of his mouth. “And quit actin’ like a bitch.”
Rogers went back to the stereo, slipped Trouble Funk’s live album out of its sleeve. He placed the record on the platter, dropped the tone arm onto the vinyl, and turned up the volume. The multilayered go-go sound came forward: drums, then bass, then call and response.
“This shit is live,” said Monroe.
“All the way live,” said Ray, touching Monroe’s hand.
Tyrell went to the bay window, looked at the headlights coming down the gravel drive. The Bronco came to a stop within the arc of the porch light.
“Here come our boys,” said Tyrell.
Tyrell eyed Tutt and Murphy as they stepped out of the truck. Murphy went around the Bronco, dropped the tailgate, took off his jacket, and threw it in the back. He retrieved a pillowcase and set it on the ground, pulled a double-holster gun belt from the pillowcase, and buckled the belt around his waist.
“What are they doin’?” said Ray.
“Officer Murphy’s strappin’ on a couple of revolvers,” said Tyrell. “And now he’s puttin’ on his badge.”
“Fuck’s he doin’ that for?”
“I didn’t know better,” said Tyrell, “I’d say he was gettin’ ready to make an arrest.”
“Fuck you doin’, Murph?” said Tutt, a catch in his voice. “Tyrell’s right there in that window, lookin’ right at us.”
Murphy did not look up at the house. He buckled the gun belt tightly to his waist and unsnapped the holster straps.
“I’m talkin’ to you, man!”
Murphy took his shield from his pocket and pinned it to his polo shirt.
“Murphy! I asked what you were doin’!”
“My job.”
Murphy grabbed the pillowcase off the tailgate and walked toward the house. Tutt fell in beside him.
“You goin’ in like that?”
“Yeah,” said Murphy. “And you better do the same. Don’t want to be fumblin’ with your shit if this goes wrong.”
“But they’ll know.”
“They’ll know anyway when they see your eager eyes.”
They took the steps up to the porch.
Tutt drew his Colt. He pulled back on the receiver and jacked a round into the .45.
They stopped at the scarred door, bass thumping through the bungalow’s walls.
Tutt’s face was ashen in the porch light. “They got that music up loud.”
“Guess we better pound real hard on the door, then.”
The lights went off inside the house. Murphy’s eyes went serene.
Murphy balled his fist, rabbit-punched the door three times.
“I’ll go first,” said Tutt, inhaling deeply.
“No,” said Murphy as the door began to open. “Not this time.”
Tyrell stood in the frame of the bay window. He watched Tutt gesture angrily to Murphy, and then he watched Tutt and Murphy move away from the Bronco and walk toward the house.
Tyrell turned and nodded at Ray.
Ray stood up, taking hold of the table for support, dizzy from the gin and the green. He lifted his .38 Bulldog off the table, opened the chamber, spun it, snapped it shut. He fitted the snub-nose in the front of his slacks, the grip and trigger showing just above the waistband, thinking how bad it looked like that. Always did have that fantasy, too, of drawin’ down on a cop. He hotboxed his cigarette and stabbed it savagely into the ashtray.
Monroe checked the magazine of the Glock, palm-slapped the seventeen-shot load back in the butt. He thumbed off the safety, worked the slide, racked a jacketed round into the chamber, and stepped away from the table.
Tyrell went to the fireplace, where the Mossberg twelve-gauge leaned barrel up against the bricks. The barrel’s heat shield was cool to the touch. Tyrell wrapped his hand around the wood stock of the pistol grip, racked the pump, eased a double-aught shell into the breech. He laid the shotgun on the table so that its grip cleared the edge.
“Alan,” said Tyrell, “turn them lights out, man.”
Rogers extinguished the lights in the room, leaving only the orange strobe of the fire. Monroe fanned out to the right, his finger curled inside the trigger guard of the nine. Ray stood alongside Tyrell.
They heard a pounding on the door.
“Go ahead, Alan,” said Tyrell. “Let ’em in.”
Murphy came through the doorway first, Tutt behind him. Rogers closed the door and stepped back into the darkened room.
Murphy squinted to adjust his eyes. Monroe was off to the left, hip cocked, an automatic at his side, his face a ruined, rubbery mask. Ray stood beside Tyrell, staring at Murphy and Tutt with murderous, laughing eyes. The trigger of a revolver showed above the belt line at the front of his slacks. Ray looked drunk to Murphy, unsteady on his feet. Or maybe he was cooked on dust; the sweet smell of green hung in the air.
“Welcome, officers,” said Tyrell, standing a head above them, two feet away from the round table where a pistol-grip shotgun lay.
The fire threw dancing shadows out beyond the hearth. Tyrell was a black spidery outline, his green eyes wet and luminous in his long pointed face.
“We came for Golden,” said Murphy.
“Yeah?” said Tyrell. “Why the guns?”
“Don’t want any misunderstandings. Want to walk out of here nice and clean.”
“You don’t trust us?”
“No.” Murphy’s eyes went down to the pillowcase in his hand, back to Tyrell. “Let’s get on with it. Got the money right here.”
“All’s I see is some old cloth bag.”
“You’ll see the money when I see Golden.”
“I’ll see it now.”
Murphy dropped the pillowcase, opened it, reached inside and extracted a stack of bills. He tossed the bills onto the table.