Ask the Dice (17 page)

Copperthite knew the specifics nobody else, but Mr. Ogg and me could know. Maybe Copperthite didn't bend the truth. "Where is this little, blue book?" I asked.

"Beats me. He moved it, and I never saw it again, but I've got leverage."

"You think? You just lost it by spilling your guts to me."

"Give me credit, Tommy Mack. My photographic memory allowed me to regurgitate the list, and a pal of mine is keeping it."

"Bullshit. Slime like you doesn't have any friends that solid."

Copperthite played his final ace. "Felicia just saw you back here."

"Your tart? Not the sliver of a chance. Sayonara, Copperthite."

As fast as snapping your fingers or clucking your tongue twice, I shot the crooked bag man with a pair of .22 slugs aft of the ear, and I slinked away like a leopard does on the veldt.

L
ater, after Mr. Ogg got back from his Sunday devil worship, I briefed him at the bungalow.

"Did all go according to Hoyle?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.

I nodded once. "We even chatted a little first."

"You chatted?" My flippant remark tilted Mr. Ogg's shaggy brows above the aviator sunshades. "What do you say to a louse before you whack him?"

"Uh, sports."

"You don't follow sports."

"Every now and then I catch a Nats or Wizards game on the TV. All work, no play makes Tommy Mack an edgy tomcat."

"If Tommy Mack hopes to retain his tomcat nuts, from here on, he better act more like a cool cat. If I order you to go whack the mark, I don't expect you to chat it up first with him. You got me?"

"All right, all right. What's the big deal?"

"I don't like it, so that makes it a big deal to you."

"Look, he felt bad about jacking your money, and he wanted to express his remorse."

“Horse shit.” Mr. Ogg spat on the floor, and the same bad taste filtered into my mouth, and I also spat without compunction. "He was only sorry because I caught him."

"You're a hard as door nails boss, Mr. Ogg."

"Hard, yes, but fair. I don't stab my people in the back or leave them out to twist in the wind, but it flies both ways. In return, I expect the same respect. The douche bag raked off my profits, and he paid the ultimate penalty for it."

"That's the code I've always followed."

"You're a smart man. Enough speeches for one day."

I decided to probe him on the little, blue book. "Do you know how many jobs I've taken care of for you?"

"Must be scores by now."

"I think it might be a good idea to cool it for a while."

"Don't think, Tommy Mack. Thinking is what drowns you in the deep shit."

The son of a bitch had a C-clamp tightened on my balls. Rumors circulated he kept a few bent cops in his fold. He could slip his little, blue book to one of them, and that ended Tommy Mack Zane's illustrious hit parade. My legal representation also went up in smoke. I'd flap in the wind until the Commonwealth's executioner strapped me down to the death gurney, and I hated needles pricking my veins. That's how a punk ass died. A man of my high distinction earned a more honorable death.

"What are you thinking now, Tommy Mack?" quizzed Mr. Ogg.

"Nothing at all, sir. I'm not paid to think, and that's how I like it. I'm just a doer, not a thinker, because thinking drowns me in the deep shit."

He smiled, gave me a Dutch uncle's pat on my shoulder. "That's my boy."

Not,
I thought.

"D
o you still write those poems, home slice?"

"Not so much now, I'm afraid. The Muse can be a cruel bitch."

"Does writing them come natural to you, say, like jerking off, or do you have to work at it?"

"Are you busting my balls again?"

"No bullshit. How did you start out?"

"You're born with the talent much like a jazz trumpeter who takes up a horn and begins to toot the riffs straight from his soul and heart. The result is beautiful music. I pored over the verse written by a few hip poets you've never heard of, and I improved my craft. It's something I like to do, though sometimes I can't polish a turd so I throw out the new poem. Understand me?"

"I can see what you're driving at."

"Lately I've had an itch to write again."

"So, what's holding you back, jack?"

"Just my scatting around the dark city and trying to stay alive."

"That'd do it. When this lets up, you'll get back to your cruel bitch you call the Muse."

"I expect it's so then."

D. Noble and I, strapped into the coupé, fell silent.
Old
Yvor
City
's streets at night lay serene as a lullaby sang at crib-side. Our plan was to stalk and rub out each of Mr. Ogg's dark suits until none were left. All we lacked was the right firepower to get it done. D. Noble had some money and a line on a seller named Askew operating in Adams Morgan who ran illicit gun deals under the table, but his repeated calls there went on ringing.

"My sawed-off 12-gauge is still in the mailbox," I said.

D. Noble had laughed at my story. "Go reclaim your property," he said.

"It was Arky's property first."

"He was a punk ass nobody will miss."

"No argument from me."

D. Noble gave me a quizzical glance as I headed off for the abandoned mailbox. "Have you ever been to the National Cathedral after the day trippers have gone home?"

"Churches and I don't mix."

"I went there as a kid. Mama wanted to tame my wild streak, and she said it'd be a good learning experience. Anyways, not a living soul was around. Spooky place—the leering stone gargoyles freaked me—but it's perfect to do our gun buy."

"We'll buy the guns from the dealer's place."

"Can't. He'll balk at us seeing his digs," said D. Noble.

"Well, I can't see our purchasing guns in the shadow of a cathedral."

"Yeah, now it weirds me out, too."

"Let the gun dealer tell us wherever it makes him feel comfortable."

The right streets took me to the mailbox where I popped it open for a hasty peek inside. I used my lighter to see. Only the empty screw-cap flasks of Night Train and Wild Irish Rose greeted my sight. They were a lousy trade for the sawed-off. What did I expect? I cuffed the coupé into drive, and we made tracks. D. Noble grabbed his jangling cell phone. His mama asked when he was making it home, and he used that deferential tone he only took with her that it'd be soon. After he got off, I snickered, and he didn't ignore my derision.

"Fair warning, Tommy Mack. Don't say it."

"Mama's boy."

"I'm just watching out for her."

"Mama's boy."

"Enough already. At least I don’t write poetry."

"All right, peace. Buzz Askew in Adams Morgan again."

This time they connected. Listening to his side of their conversation didn't encourage me. D. Noble said "thanks,” punched off, and looked my way. "Askew is cleaned out. The gun market in D.C. is going gangbusters, but he's got an
Annandale
contact who might set us up."

"So, get in touch and let's do a deal tonight."

D. Noble called the seller—Danny Something Or Other—and he agreed to let us peruse what armament he stocked in house. D. Noble told him that was fine and asked for directions. Fifteen minutes later, the mission-style lamps outlined the paved driveway curving up to a two-story farmhouse. By daylight, I expected to see a white clapboard edifice with a red tin roof and weathervane of Chanticleer cawing for rain.

I pegged Danny as the scion from one of the original
Annandale
families. They'd raised field corn, slopped shoat hogs, and siloed sweet sorghum where the chic boutiques, designer sneaker stores, and upscale bistros now peddled their overpriced crap I never bought. The native Texan in me favored seeing the field corn, shoat hogs, and sweet sorghum. I flipped off the ignition key, and the coupé's headlights on the Hummer parked in front of us fizzled out.

"Danny is cool, but he's also…"

I didn't like the way D. Noble's voice had dribbled off. "You'll want to finish your sentence. What's this about Danny?"

"I've heard Danny is a little wild."

"Wild? Look, out with it. We're going inside to handle loaded firearms with him. How bat shit crazy is he?"

"He's stamped a little rough at the edges. Just leave it to me."

"Take it away then."

D. Noble guided us from the coupé to walk over the gravel driveway to the farmhouse door where he rapped his diamond-encrusted ring on the panel. Danny had to be nearby. The door swung free, and the outspill of interior light engulfed us. I elbowed D. Noble in the ribs, a cue to announce us before Danny cut loose and left the pair of black dudes on his doorstep headless.

"Danny? I'm D. Noble, who just phoned you. You invited me and my friend Tommy Mack here to do some business."

The voice was hoarse. "Come in."

D. Noble flitted his eyes at me, and I nodded at him, but he stalled.

"It's your party," he said to me. "Be my guest and go first."

I shouldered my way past D. Noble and gained the shadowy mud room. My over-the-shoulder glimpse saw D. Noble a step behind me. A row of old shoes and goulashes lined the newspaper placed on the floor. The washer and dryer were newer than mine. Danny reached near my height and weight in his denim jeans and a floppy tank top. He wore shiny, black combat boots. His steely blue eyes fastened on me.

"You got the guns?" I asked him.

He nodded.

"Guns for sale, I mean."

Again he nodded.

"We're going up against the mob boys."

"How many?" asked Danny, gruff.

"Six, maybe seven, or it could be a few more even."

"
Alamo
odds," said Danny.

D. Noble shrugged. "That's why we're counting on you, Danny."

"I see. You seem like decent guys, and I'm not terribly busy. What if I throw in with you and even up the sides a little?"

D. Noble cast his wary eyes at me, and I gave a just perceptible headshake:
no way
.

"But this ain't your dogfight," said D. Noble. "Why do you want to get involved?"

"Believe it or not, I'm bored," said Danny. My eyes just glared, so he elaborated. "You see, a couple of days after Christmas, Mom died from ovarian cancer, and I was left alone. All the sudden, I faced this void of empty time. I grew despondent and moped around the house, but I've always had my weaponry for my fun." He gave a throaty laugh. "Who knows? In ten years I'll look back on this caper and get a cheap thrill by remembering it."

"If it's fireworks you crave, you've hit the right pop stand," said D. Noble.

"We still have no guns, D. Noble," I said.

"No, but Danny has our guns, don't you, Danny? You the man—"

"Lady."

Mouth left drooping to catch mosquitoes, D. Noble paused, then said, "I beg your pardon?"

"You mean, I'm the lady, not the man. Big difference."

I'd missed seeing that one coming, and D. Noble still went gape-mouthed.

"When did you go from a he to a she, Danny?" he asked.

"You're misinformed since I've always been a she."

"This is a first. I always keep my genders straight."

She ignored his boast and directed her frank gaze at me. "What's your preference, Tommy Mack?"

"Sawed-off 12 gauges if you've got them."