All the Lucky Ones Are Dead (31 page)

“I'm almost done. Give me one more minute, please,” Gunner said.

The Digga's widow acquiesced by way of silence.

“The night Carlton killed himself. You arrived at his hotel room about nine p.m., is that correct?”

After a beat: “I think so. Yeah.”

“Had you been at the hotel for some time before that, or did you go straight up to his room immediately upon arriving?”

“I went straight up. Why?”

“Because the two women he'd been with earlier—one of whom you identified for the police by name—left the hotel a good hour before you showed up. Time stamp on the hotel surveillance tapes clocked them out around ten minutes to eight.”

“So?”

“So how did you know they'd been there, Mrs. Elbridge? Those specific women? Surely Carlton didn't tell you?”

Danee Elbridge didn't know what to say. She bit her lip for a moment, then said, “Maybe I was wrong about the time. I seen 'em leavin', so I must've been there earlier than I thought.”

“Or else somebody called you to say they were there. Somebody who might've gotten a kick out of seeing you go over there all pissed off and in a rage, ready to take a knife to Carlton like you had once before.”

“That's bullshit. Nobody called me to tell me nothin'.”

“You got set up, Mrs. Elbridge. 2Daddy's boy Teepee was doing the boss all kinds of favors that weekend, and tipping you off to Antoinetta Aames and Felicia White being in Carlton's hotel room was one of them. The other was sending Antoinetta and Felicia over there in the first place, though I imagine he failed to mention that.”

Danee Elbridge thought it over, no doubt trying to recall what the anonymous voice had sounded like on the phone that night, and said, “You're talkin' crazy, Mr. Gunner.” Clearly having realized he wasn't.

Gunner got up and walked over to the big-screen TV and VCR sitting inside a large cabinet nearby. “May I?” Without waiting for an answer, he inserted the videocassette he'd brought along with him into the VCR's mouth.

“This was something else I had to beg for,” he said, putting the machine in play, then turning the television on. “It's one of the hotel surveillance tapes I just mentioned. I'd been trying all week to get security there to allow me to view this one, but they kept turning me down until last night. Just goes to show you perseverance pays off in the end.”

The tape started rolling and the fifth-floor hallway of the Beverly Hills Westmore Hotel appeared on the television's oversized screen. “This is the hallway just outside your husband's room the night he died. Maybe you recognize it.”

Danee Elbridge said nothing.

“I've cued the tape up to just before the time you left him. You'll notice the time stamp shows it was around nine twenty-five p.m., just over thirty minutes after your arrival.”

On the tape, an animated Danee Elbridge suddenly opened the door to room 504 and stepped outside into the hall, turning her back to the camera to face somebody inside.

“There you are. Your body language alone makes it pretty clear what's going on. You're jumping in your husband's ass with both feet. And who could blame you, considering what he'd just done, right?”

“I don't wanna see this shit! Turn it off!”

“In a minute.” Gunner used the VCR remote to pause the tape just as the image of the Digga's widow turned and started moving away from the door to leave. “There. Through the open door. The Digga wasn't visible up to this point, but if you look close now, you can see him, inside the room.''

“I told you to turn it off!” Danee Elbridge cried, running now to snatch the remote from his hand.

But Gunner held her at bay, forced her to deal with the frozen image on the screen.

“Describe what you see for me, Mrs. Elbridge,” Gunner said. “What does it look like Carlton's doing there to you?”

Danee Elbridge gazed at the television as he demanded, eyes filling with tears of anger and remorse. “He's
beggin
',” she said, her voice a small yet razorlike whisper. “On his
knees
.”

There had been an unmistakable trace of delight in this last.

“That's right,” Gunner said. Chilled to the bone.

“He was always apologizin'. ‘I'm sorry, baby.' ‘She don't mean nothin', baby.' Like that was supposed to make some kinda fuckin' difference!” She thumped her chest with a fist, said, “
I
was the one havin' his goddamn children!
I
was the one stickin' by 'im when other men was promisin' me the world to be with 'em!” She shook her head, began biting her lip again. “But he didn't appreciate that. Oh, no. He had to have me, and every bitch in the world too.”

Gunner gave her a few seconds to compose herself, then said, “So you brought him to his knees that night.”

She nodded.

“How? What did you say to him?”

Nothing.

“Never mind. I think I can guess. I think you told him he was a faggot. That he could screw every woman he wanted for the rest of his life, and it wouldn't change the fact that he'd once gotten busy with a man.”

The Digga's widow was glaring at him now.

“And then I think you told him you were gonna make sure all his adoring fans found out about it. Just for good measure.”

Danee Elbridge still didn't say anything.

Gunner stopped the tape and removed it from the machine. “I told you I came by to ask you the only question about Carlton's death I hadn't been able to answer until now. So I'll let you hear it, and then leave.

“If a man goes up on a ledge to kill himself, Mrs. Elbridge, but somebody pushes him off before he can jump—is that still suicide? Or is it murder?”

t w e n t y

“O
H, YEAH
, I
REMEMBER THAT MOVIE
,” W
lNNIE
P
HIFER
said. “
Tick
…
Tick
…
Tick
…”

“Which one was that again?” Mickey asked.

“He was a newly elected sheriff in a racist southern town,” Gunner said. “George Kennedy was the old sheriff he beat out for the job.”

It was early Monday evening just before closing time, when no one needing a haircut was ready to get one, and Gunner and the two barbers were the only people in the shop. Winnie had started talking about movies, and somehow the Jim Brown film Gunner had seen earlier in the week on television had become the subject of discussion.

“George Kennedy?” Mickey asked.

“Yeah, you know,” Winnie said. “The one who was in
Cool Hand Luke
with Paul Newman.”

“Oh, yeah. Him. Now I know the movie you're talkin' about.”

“Gunner's right. It was good.”

“He died at the end, right?”

“No,” Gunner said, shaking his head.

“He didn't die in the end? Jim Brown?”

“Not in that one,” Winnie said. “At least, I don't remember him dyin'.”

“He didn't,” Gunner said. “He lived.”

“Jim Brown? The football player?” Mickey asked.

“Yes, Mickey. Jim Brown the football player. How many other Jim Browns do you know?”

Mickey took a seat in his own chair, said, “Well, only reason I'm askin' is 'cause that's highly unusual, an early Jim Brown movie where the man didn't die at the end. Made twenty-two pictures when he first started out, and they killed him in damn near all of 'em. Think about it,”

Gunner and Winnie did.
The Dirty Dozen, The Dark Side of the Sun, Butterfly
…

“You might have a point there, Mick,” Gunner said.

“Not might. I
do
. They killed that brother every chance they could get.” He paused. “But I guess that's only right, considerin' all the white men he killed playin'
football
.”

He busted up laughing, and Gunner and Winnie did likewise. You only had to see Brown play once to understand the meaning of the joke.

They were still chuckling about it when the bell over the front door sounded, and two mismatched black men stepped in from the street. Winnie took one look at the ebony-clad pair and began to frown, while Mickey stood up from his chair and readied himself to throw down.

“How you doin', Mr. Gunner?” Bume Webb's delivery boy Jessie said, smiling as was his wont. His larger partner, Ben, just nodded behind him, his trademark Kangol hat—a blue one this time—affixed as if with glue to the top of his head.

“Let's get something straight right now, boys,” Gunner said, staying seated. “I'm not going for any rides today.”

Jessie laughed, Ben smirked.

“You know these guys?” Mickey asked.

“The one with all the teeth is Jessie. The bigger one with all the personality is Ben. They go by ‘J and B,' but don't tell 'em that's cute. Ben will rip your face off.”

“Damn right,” Ben said.

“They work indirectly for Bume Webb. And if they came all the way over here to invite me to go see him again …”

“Naw, naw,” Jessie said, shaking his head. “It ain't like that at all.”

“It isn't?”

“No. Thing is—”

“I've got it. You two are big 2DaddyLarge fans looking to give me some grief about his boy Teepee getting busted yesterday.”

The NYPD had picked up 2Daddy's overzealous henchman out in Brooklyn the day before, and as half the world knew by now, was holding him on murder charges for extradition to Los Angeles.

“Who, him? That little—” Jessie cut himself short, glancing over at Winnie, and said, “Naw. This ain't about him either. It's about you and Mr. El. Mr. El came to see Mr. Trevor this mornin', told 'im you weren't workin' for him and Bume no more.”

“That's right. My case is closed. What about it?”

“Mr. Trevor made some calls. To make sure you ain't breakin' out early on 'im.”

“And?”

Jessie looked back at Ben, took a fat yellow envelope from his partner's hand. Handing it to Gunner, he said, “Mr. Trevor says even though things didn't work out the way Bume thought they would, you did an all right job on his behalf. So…”

Gunner accepted the envelope, lifted the unsealed flap to peek inside. “How much is this?” he asked shortly.

“Mr. Trevor didn't tell us that.” Jessie winked. “But it looks like about ten G's to me.”

“Holy Jesus,” Mickey said.

“Mr. Trevor says thanks. From him
and
Bume.”

Gunner thumbed through the bills in silence, trying to feel all the strings he feared were attached.

“Gunner, if you're thinkin' what I think you're thinkin' …” Mickey said.

“You're gonna give it back, right?” Jessie asked. “'Cause you're too noble to take it, some shit like that.”

Gunner looked up at him and grinned. 'Tell Trevor I said he's welcome. Bume too.”

“Now you're talkin',” Mickey said.

Less than five minutes after Jessie and Ben were gone, Gunner was on the phone booking a flight to Chicago to see Yolanda McCreary.

First-class all the way.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1999 by Gar Anthony Haywood

This edition published in 2012 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media

180 Varick Street

New York, NY 10014

www.mysteriouspress.com

www.openroadmedia.com