Moses was on the stool in front of him again. Hardy raised his eyes. “I’ve got an idea,” he said.
“Treat it carefully. It’s in a strange place.”
Hardy pulled his glass up, cradling it between his hands. “Rusty’s got a monster vig payment, right?”
Moses nodded.
“Okay, he comes into a lot of this insurance money, he knows Louis Baker is getting out of jail and has threatened to kill him. Maybe he even starts fantasizing maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Louis did kill him-that would at least get him out from under the vig-”
“So he sets himself up to get killed? Get serious.”
Hardy shook his head. “He sets himself up to look like he’s been killed. The whole thing’s a scam. He just wants to look dead, get the loan sharks off him.”
“Why doesn’t he move, disappear?”
“Because you don’t move away from mob money. They find you, I don’t care where. It’s an honor thing. But if you’re dead…”
“If you’re dead they don’t look…”
“Right. Give me some coffee, would you? And get rid of this.”
Hardy watched Moses move, filling a few other drink orders at the bar as he passed, pouring his coffee. Hardy got his darts out from his jacket pocket and opened the leather case on the bar. He rubbed his fingers over the worn velvet inside.
One other thing the Shamrock did right was make great coffee. Ninety percent of it was served in what they called Irish coffee, which made Hardy puke. Three good liquids combined to make one bad drink. But when you wanted a cup of coffee, the straight stuff couldn’t be beat.
“I don’t know, Diz, there’s lots of holes. Why’d he come see you?”
“Because I tie Baker to him. If I’m not in it, who finds out about Baker?”
“Weren’t his prints at Rusty’s place? That ties him to it.”
“I don’t know, Mose. It’s not as good as me, an ex-D.A., making sure everybody knows Baker had a motive, was fresh out of jail, you name it. Plus, because I’m running now too, I try like hell to get Baker put away, and did it, too, didn’t I?”
“He was coming after you.”
“I’m not saying he wasn’t. Look, if Rusty’s going to get out from under his vig, he’s got to be dead, not MIA. I’m his corroboration. Without the threat, he’d just be a missing person, wouldn’t he? Now, with me helping him, he’s presumed dead.”
“His blood was on the bed, Diz. And why did he buy a gun he was never going to use?”
Hardy leaned over the bar, his elbows almost in the trough. “Rusty was the great American lawyer. Never lost a case. You can bet he’s a very thorough guy who wanted his scam to work. And you know what genius is, Mose? It’s endless attention to detail.”
Moses went to pour a drink.
Hardy fingered his darts, sipped his coffee. Tried to picture Rusty Ingraham at the bottom of the ocean.
Couldn’t do it. Not anymore.
Chapter Twenty-two
Lace removed a board from the side of the stoop at the place Samson mostly stayed. The sun wasn’t quite up yet, but he hadn’t been getting any sleep to speak of anyway, and he wanted some darkness.
Jumpup, he’d gone ’til things chilled out over to his cousins at Hunter’s Point, but Lace lived here and he wasn’t leaving. This be his home turf and, he starting to think, woe betide the man who fucks with it.
Fighting his fear of rats and whatever else might live in there, Lace reached his hand far into the dark hole under the steps. He patted the ground inside, his teeth chattering. He hoping nobody hears it inside.
Nothing.
He sat, arms now tucked into his pits, huddled in the jacket, letting the fear subside.
It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be wrong.
The shaking still there, he forced his hand again into the cold and silent space. Retraced what he’d just done, making himself feel the stones, the chunks of rotting wood, a piece of moldy cloth that felt like a dead animal. Reaching back, up, to the front, seeing the yellow rat eyes about to snap at him, take a finger, give him the rabies. He closed his eyes, feeling.
Way in, up in the front, wrapped in the freezing oily animal cloth, he felt the package. The gun felt heavy in his hands.
The strip of light in the east hadn’t widened by a hair and he was walking now, the board back over the hole, in place, his pocket heavy, shoelaces trailing around by his feet.
Over to the Mama’s, around to the front door by the street, away from the view of the cuts. No one around. Nothing moving.
After some knocks he heard somebody moving inside. Then, enormous in a white housecoat, Mama opened the door a crack. Seeing it was Lace, she let him in.
“What time it, child? You all right?”
Lace closed the door behind him and waited for Mama to sit on the couch next to the dim light before he came over and sat at the other end. He noticed that the window over the couch had been covered over again with cardboard. She pulled a knitted cover up over her body, tucking her feet under her giant thighs.
“Now,” she said, “what you doing?”
Lace took the gun, still wrapped in an old shirt sleeve, out of his pocket. He started pulling it out from the cloth. “We gotta tell somebody,” he said.
The Mama wasn’t taking her eyes from the gun.
“This the piece killed Dido, Mama,” Lace said. “Ain’t no Louis Baker kill him. This Samson’s piece.”
The Mama nodded. “Who we fixin’ to tell about it? You want to put it down?”
Lace had it unwrapped. “It’s loaded still,” he said. He turned the barrel toward himself.
“Don’t!”
He froze. “What?”
“Just put it down! Put it down! Thing go off by itself then what? Put that thing down! On the floor!”
He leaned over and laid it down.
The Mama let out a breath, another one. “They’re dangerous, guns. Where you get that one?”
“It’s Samson’s. It was Samson’s.”
“You said that.”
“And that means Louis, he didn’t kill Dido.”
“Child, I knew that. Louis never hurt nobody anymore. He just want to set up house. ’Til they don’t leave him alone.”
“But he run.”
“You run, too, child, they come after you.”
Lace put his back up against the cushions. His red-rimmed eyes suddenly burned-up all night waiting for his chance, light enough to see where he’s going, dark enough to get away.
He was safe here with Mama now, and Samson didn’t have the gun. He had it. Seemed that ought to change the way things felt.
“You know, Mama, runnin’. Don’t that make them think you did it, too?”
Bundled in her blanket, her big head bobbed. “That’s right.”
“So Louis run and he saying he did it?”
“But he don’t run and they take him down for it.”
“But now he run and they got him anyway.”
“That often the way, child.” She made a clucking noise, shifting her bulk, impatient. “This ain’t be the news. You go bad with the law, he keep you bad. Don’t matter what you do, you the first body they come at.”
“But they got Louis for Dido, and he don’t kill Dido. This gun prove that.”
“All right,” the Mama said. “What?”
“So we let it on to the Man.”
She labored to pull herself up. “Here’s what happens then. You listen up now. The Man come here and you talk about Louis and that gun there. Then he say, ‘Interesting, and how come it be you now holding this piece?’ And next you know you down there next to Louis. You like that?”
“It won’t be…”
She leaned forward and rested a meaty hand on his thin leg. “There ain’t nobody with Louis more than me. He don’t kill Dido and maybe it come out, but it don’t come out with you going to the Man. He just resent you interferin’. You got a problem, you best take care of it yourself.”
“And Louis…?”
“Louis take care of hisself, too.”
“Seem like I ought to talk to someone. Get some help. Help Louis out.”