Cut Throat (6 page)

“Yeah. We have your info if we need more from you later.” Then he smiled. “Watch your back.”

“Always,” she said.

She was opening her door when the cop added, “Hey…by the way…thanks.”

“No problem,” she said, then with one last glance up toward the hovering helicopter, got in and drove away.

Solomon was still sleeping when Paloma returned, carrying the items that Maria Sanchez had given her in a basket, along with a chicken she clutched under her arm. The chicken clucked nervously. Maria walked into her bedroom, frowning as she saw Solomon stretched out on her little bed. The mattress was sagging almost to the floor, and he’d gone to bed

without covers or removing his shoes, leaving a dark, dirty streak on the bedclothes.

“Animal,” she muttered, and set the basket down on the floor, then took the chicken out from beneath her arm. Without hesitation, she grabbed it by the neck and twisted violently, quickly separating the chicken from its head. It flopped about on the floor beside the bed, splattering blood and gore in its death throes.

Solomon woke up as Paloma was taking a cross out of the basket. “What the hell’s going on here?” he shouted.

Paloma continued her spell by sprinkling the contents from a tiny bag Maria had given her onto the pooling blood beneath the now-quivering carcass of the chicken.

When she began to chant in a singsong voice, Solomon realized what was happening. He was as cold and vicious as a man could be, yet Paloma had unknowingly hit upon his Achilles’ heel. He was superstitious to a fault, and now he went into a panic at what she was doing.

“Stop! Stop!” he begged, and bounded off the bed, only to find himself blocked from the exit by the blood and carcass of the chicken.

Paloma completed her chant, emptied another tiny bag on Solomon’s feet and then looked up at him. The challenge was in her eyes. Solomon crumpled beneath her gaze. His heart was hammering so hard he could barely hear his own voice, and his legs were trembling to the point that he had to grab at the wall to stand.

“What have you done? My God, woman…what have you done?”

“You came into my home, availed yourself of my body with no thought for my feelings, took my food without invitation and threatened me with harm if I did not do as you wished. You want to know what I’ve done? I want to know what the hell you were thinking.”

Solomon’s eyes were wide, his expression one of shock. He kept looking at the floor, then back up at Paloma.

“What did you do to me?” he begged. She lifted her chin as she met his gaze head-on.

“You will never hurt another woman as you’ve hurt me, that I promise you. Your manhood will fester, then wither. Running sores will cover your body. Worms will devour you as you lie in your grave.”

Solomon dropped to his knees and began to beg.

“Please…please, no, no…Paloma. I’ll leave. I’ll leave right now. I didn’t mean to offend you. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Take away the curse, I beg of you. Take away the curse.”

Paloma threw back her shoulders, taking strength from his weakness.

“It’s too late. I’m a poor woman, and the damage to my person and my place has been done.”

Solomon’s eyes suddenly widened. He held up his hands in a beseeching manner as he scrambled to his feet.

“Wait! Wait here! I’ll pay for the damage. I’ll pay for shaming you.”

His pants were blood-soaked, dotted with herbs and feathers, as he pushed past her and ran from her house. Thinking that he was running away, she was surprised when he came hurrying back. He thrust something into her hands and then began backing out of the house, still begging.

“That will take care of the damage I’ve caused. Take it with my good wishes…just take away the curse. I’m begging you, Paloma. Please, take it away.”

Paloma forgot her sense of injustice when she realized he’d handed her the money—more money than she’d ever seen at one time in her life.

“Will you?” he begged. “Will you take away the curse?”

Stunned by the amount of money she was holding, she was momentarily silenced.

Reading it as another refusal, Solomon thrust another stack of money on top of the first one.

“Please!” he begged.

Paloma’s heart was pounding as she clutched the money to her breasts.

“Get out,” she said.

“Yes, yes, I’m going, I’m going.” He began backing toward the door, his arms outstretched. “The curse. Please, Paloma…the curse.”

“I will remove it…but only when you’re gone.”

He tried to draw a deep breath of relief, but it sounded more like a sob.

“God…oh, God…thank you, Paloma. I’m leaving now, and I wish you a long and happy life.”

“Get out,” she repeated. “Get out and never come back.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m going,” he said, and then turned on his heel and made a run for his car.

Before Paloma could move, she heard the sound of his engine starting. By the time she got to the window, all she could see were the taillights of his car.

She looked down at the money, then back up at the rooster tail of dust he was leaving behind him, and grinned.

“Fool,” she muttered.

Then, realizing she was standing in full view of the streets with an armful of money, she suddenly backed up, slammed the shutters shut and ran to the little niche in the wall where her Madonna figurine was placed. She

picked up the figurine, then lifted the shelf on which it was sitting, revealing a large opening in the wall beneath. With one quick glance behind her, she stuffed her money into the hole, then replaced the shelf and statue.

The scent of fresh blood was strong in the air, along with the foul smell of chickenshit. Still, she couldn’t blame the chicken. If someone had wrung her neck as she had the chicken’s, chances were she would have messed herself, too.

She went back into the bedroom, eyed the chicken she’d just killed, then picked it up and carried it out back and buried it near the corner of her house. Then she went back inside, poured some water into a basin and began cleaning up the mess.

She was going to have to wash her sheets along with the walls and floor, but it was worth it to be rid of Tutuola and his evil ways. Four

Three times during the day, Wilson caught himself about to dial Cat’s number. The first time he chalked it up to habit. The second time, he decided it was a habit he needed to break. The third time, he actually dialed the number and didn’t come to his senses until he heard her voice on the answering machine. He was so startled that he actually stammered what started out to be an apology until he realized he was talking to a recording.

“Damn it to hell,” he mumbled, then disconnected and dropped his cell phone back in his pocket. He stomped out of the restaurant where he’d been eating lunch, slammed his butt into the driver’s seat of his car and then hammered his fists on the steering wheel in mute frustration.

After a few moments the hopelessness of his situation passed, leaving him with an empty, helpless feeling. He sat within the silence of his vehicle, watching the sun go down on Dallas, and for the first time wished he’d never met Cat Dupree. A dark gray sedan pulled into the parking space beside him, interrupting his thoughts. He took one look as what appeared to be a happy family of five got out and headed toward the restaurant, then he leaned forward, started the engine and drove away.

LaQueen had locked up and was already gone when he stopped by the office, although the lingering scent of her jasmine perfume was a faint reminder of her presence.

He picked up his messages, taking note that, for once, there were no failures to appear to deal with. He sat down at his desk and started returning the calls, leaving some messages of his own, then left some paperwork on LaQueen’s desk to be filed in the morning. He was getting ready to go home when his gaze settled on a picture hanging on the wall. He stared at it until the edges blurred and his eyes burned with unshed tears.

Home.

It had been a long time since he’d thought of his childhood home that way. For him, home was his apartment in Dallas and the place in that picture was where he’d grown up. But it was his unreturned feelings for Cat that reminded him of how shallow his life was here. He’d been at this job, in this city, for the better part of his adult life, yet if he left tomorrow, there would be fewer than a handful of people who would even note his absence. For whatever reasons, he’d neglected his personal life, choosing to chase bail jumpers and the almighty dollar. It was more than humiliating to accept that he’d found someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with who wasn’t even willing to spend an entire night with him.

Cat was still on his mind as he reached across the desk, picked up the phone and punched in a series of numbers. When he heard the first ring, he began a mental countdown of the number of steps it would take someone to get to the phone sitting on the old sideboard in the hall. His answer came on the fourth ring, and unconsciously, his tension eased as he heard her voice.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom, it’s me, Wilson.”

The lilt in her voice was proof of Dorothy McKay’s delight in hearing from her oldest son.

“Wilson! How good to hear your voice, son. What’s up?”

Wilson smiled to himself. It was typical that she would get straight to the point.

“Not much…just the same old thing. How are things there?”

“Oh, you know…your dad’s arthritis is an ongoing complaint, and your brothers and sisters keep me busy chasing grandbabies.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. Did Charlie’s boy, Lee, make the basketball team?”

Dorothy laughed. “Oh sure…you know Lee. He’s more like you than his own father. When he sets his mind to something, he doesn’t stop until he’s done it.”

Wilson sighed, trying not to think of how he’d missed the boat in this thing called life.

Alice heard the sigh and, like the mother she was, knew there was more behind the phone call than just “checking in.”

“Wilson.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s wrong?”

He flinched. As long as he could remember, she’d always known when something was wrong before she ever heard the words.

“Nothing’s wrong, Mom. I just called to say hi. Oh…heck, I’m still at the office and my other phone is ringing. I’d better go. Tell Dad I called, okay?”

“Yes, I’ll tell him,” she said, then added, “I love you, darling.” Wilson closed his eyes. “I love you, too, Mom. Take care.”

He hung up, ignoring the fact that he’d lied to her about another call, then locked up and headed for home.

It was dark by the time he reached the parking lot of his apartment building. The temperature had dropped to freezing, and the security light

where he normally parked was out. He got out, tripped on an empty beer bottle someone had thrown out, then managed to regain his footing. Cursing the lack of light and the person who’d tossed the bottle, he headed for the building.

There was a puddle of something in the corner of the elevator as he got inside, and from the faint scent, it was probably spilled beer, which just added to his mood. Sidestepping the mess, he reached his floor and got off with his head down, heading for the door at the end of the hall. Once inside, he slammed it, automatically locking himself in, bent over to pick up the mail that had been dropped through the slot, then stalked through the rooms, turning up the thermostat as he passed it.

He showered, grabbed an old T-shirt and a soft pair of sweats, and headed for the kitchen, going through his mail as he walked. Nothing but bills, which he laid aside. Maybe something hot for dinner would change his mood. After heating a can of soup and downing a sandwich, he called it quits. Food was in his belly, but he still felt the emptiness.

He put the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, then turned out the light in the kitchen. He moved into the living room without intent, glanced toward the darkened television screen, then instinctively walked to the windows and pushed the curtains aside.

Night in a city was a world of its own. A different set of citizens emerged to walk different streets. Darkness could be a friend, sheltering the weary from a long, endless day, or it could be something to fear, knowing that there were shadows through which the eye couldn’t see, leaving a person vulnerable in so many ways. For Wilson, the darkness just intensified the isolation in which he lived.

It was something deeper and older than time that made him look toward

the west—toward the part of the city where Cat lived. He stared at the blinking lights and moving traffic until the lights all blurred together, and while his head said no, his heart still said yes.

At that point his phone rang, pulling his focus from the window. He walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Wilson, it is me, LaQueen. Are you watching your television?”

Wilson frowned. LaQueen never called him at home, and certainly not to ask what he was watching.

“No. What’s wrong?”

“Turn it on to Channel 4 and see for yourself.”

She hung up as Wilson was reaching for the remote. He hit the power button and watched as the screen came to life. It took a few moments for him to catch up to what the storyline and film they were showing was about. He was still trying to figure out why LaQueen thought a police chase on I-35 was something that would be of interest to him when suddenly what the journalist was saying sank in.