Keeper (18 page)

The counterman was surly and demanded I buy something. I grabbed a tin of Altoids and gave him a five. He took all the time in the world to make change, and didn’t seem to understand that I wanted quarters. While he played with his register, I looked out the door and saw people leaving the diner. As far as I could see, Barry wasn’t among them.

“I thought you wanted change, man,” the counterman snarled. I went back to him and he gave me my bills first, the change after, coin by coin. I almost asked him if he was on Crowell’s payroll.

Barry stood in the doorway of the diner talking to one of his cronies when I stepped out of the store. I put my back to them at the phone. The quarters were clumsy between my fingers. I dialed the clinic and turned around, waiting for somebody to pick up while keeping my eyes on the front of the diner. Barry was heading back inside, and down 135th I could see the troop of Crowell’s Christian foot soldiers, doggedly putting one foot in front of the other, heads down in the rain.

But Barry hadn’t left yet; he was waiting for something. The diner could have a back door, in which case I was screwed, but I didn’t think that was the planned exit. They had done their tricks and thought they were clean. They wouldn’t be pulling anything more out of their hats.

“Women’s LifeCare, may I help you?”

“Lynn, this is Atticus. Put Sheldon on.”

Delfleur put me on hold fast, and I was afraid she’d thought it was a prank call and cut me off. As I waited, Barry emerged from the diner once more, starting a cigarette, using the building to shield his lighter from the rain. Then he went to the pay phone, and with the smoke dangling from his lips, brought out his walkie-talkie again. What I would have done for one now I didn’t think about; it was lying on my futon at home.

Barry spoke into the radio, then brought it to his ear to listen to the reply. At that point Sheldon came on the phone. “What’s up?”

“What’s it look like there?”

He didn’t waste any time. “We’ve got a small group of the moderates, here, you know, offering post-abortion counseling, but they’re well outnumbered by SOSers. About one hundred of them out front, maybe more. The back alley’s had people moving in and out of it all day; we’ve got maybe twenty-five there, now. Some are carrying backpacks, sacks, looks like they’ve got equipment. Building’s secure, not a whole lot of patients today, seeing as how the doctor isn’t in. We’ve had people shouting at us all day, since the news broke, you believe it? Feminist Majority is here, too, preparing to counter if anything should happen. There are a few ‘We loved Katie’ signs.” 

“Anything else?”

“That FBI guy is here, says they’ve got intelligence that something’s going down. Neither he or I like the Ryder truck that’s been parked across the street for the last two hours. Nobody’s opened it up yet. We’ve got some cops here with hats and bats, and there’s a VW van unloading more people as I speak.”

“I’m looking at one of Crowell’s lapdogs right now,” I told him, watching Barry pick up the pay phone and dial. “He’s just met with a group of protesters and sent them back to the clinic. I don’t know—”

“Hold on,” Sheldon said. Over the receiver I heard him say, “Keep him on the line—keep him on the line, and use the checklist, and find the FBI dude.” He came back to me. “Got to evacuate. Bomb threat.”

I dropped the receiver and the folder and sprinted across the street to where Barry was still speaking on the phone.

“—in the abortuary room,” he was saying. “It’ll blow every fucking one of you into pieces.”

Well, maybe Crowell wouldn’t be polite enough to roll over when faced with my and Bridgett’s double-teaming interrogation, but this wasn’t bad, and it was all I needed. Barry caught me reflected in the window as I moved, but too late. Taking his left shoulder with my right hand, I spun him back around, then drove my left forearm up under his chin, pinioning him against the wall. His face flushed, and he started to bring his fist around to punch, but I put my right knee into his stomach. He would have doubled over if I’d let him, but instead my forearm kept him upright and the air came out of him like foul exhaust, bitter smoke and bitter thoughts. His nose was broken from our first dance, when he had kissed asphalt, so it couldn’t be easy for him to breathe.

The phone swung on its cable, and I could hear a tinny voice asking if he was still there.

“Bomb threat, Clarence?” I asked Barry, patting him down with my right hand. He was carrying his radio on his hip and I pulled it off his belt and dropped it on the pavement. His eyes darted to it, then back to me. They were opened wide, the small blood vessels revealed above and below his corneas, and his eyes repeated what they’d said earlier: He hated me. “Moving up from just one murder, huh, shithead? Going for double digits, now? Bomb threat? Is it real? Is it real, Clarence?”

He didn’t say anything. I kept moving my hand, finding his wallet and dropping that, too. I found his gun, exactly where I’d seen it earlier. It was a semiautomatic pistol, a Smith & Wesson, and it slipped easily from its holster. I brought it around to his stomach, shielding the weapon with my body. We locked eyes and listened to the rain for a second or two before I said, “Nice gun.”

My thumb found the safety and I moved back just enough for him to see me flick it off. He did, his eyes going down and then coming back to my face. Hatred turned to terror fed by hatred, and in that moment it could have gone either way—resistance or compliance.

“You wanted a piece of me, that right? How about I take a piece from you, Clarence? You chamber your first round? It’s double action, I pull the trigger, you roll the dice.” I pushed the barrel hard into his stomach, keeping it pressed there, waiting for his answer.

When he didn’t speak I pulled the trigger.

He screamed and his muscles went slack and suddenly I was holding him up in the rain with my forearm and the gun and no help from him.

“Take that as a no,” I said.

He couldn’t speak, shaking, trying to stand, scrabbling at the wet wall. The scent of urine rose off him, suddenly. I took my grip off him long enough to work the slide on the pistol. The round clicked into place loudly, assured, and there was no question this time. I put my forearm back under his throat and he began to sob as I jabbed him again with the gun.

“Now, don’t start crying on me, Clarence,” I said.

“It’s a fake,” he whimpered.

“If you’re lying I’ll kill you.”

“You’ll kill me anyway. It’s a fake, man.”

With the gun as a prod we moved sideways to the phone. I took my left arm off Barry and felt for the phone cord, finding it and bringing the receiver to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Lynn, it’s Atticus. Clarence wants to tell you something.” I pressed the phone against Barry’s face.

“It’s a fake,” Barry whispered.

“Thank God,” I heard Lynn say as I brought the phone back to my ear.

“Call the cops,” I said. “We’re at a diner on a Hundred Thirty-fifth at Eighth.”

When the cops found us we were inside, Barry sitting at the counter, me beside him, his gun off to a side. The manager and waitress, the only people in the place, were concerned until I explained that Barry was a terrorist. Then the waitress spat on him. Barry took it, not moving, sitting in his wet pants, his hands flat on the counter. The manager went outside and came back with Barry’s wallet and the radio. Miraculously, neither had been stolen.

Two uniforms led by Lozano showed up and I rose when they came in, backing away from the counter. Lozano came in angry, harried, and said without preamble, “Mirandize him.”

The uniforms paused for a moment, unsure which of us he meant, then the younger cop went to Barry, and when Lozano made no protest, his partner followed. The pat down was thorough and slow, and the officer who did it made a lot of noise about Clarence’s loose bladder. Lozano glared at me while they cuffed him, read him his rights, and led him out. They read him his rights slowly, taking no chances this time. It was almost satisfying to watch.

At the door, Barry turned, gave me a hard stare, and said, “I’m going to fucking do you.”

I blew him a kiss.

“Shut him the fuck up,” Lozano told the cops. After the door swung closed with a little tinkle of bells Lozano pointed to the Smith & Wesson on the counter and gave me the evil eye and I shook my head.

Lozano said, “How’s the coffee here?”

“Ground fresh daily.”

The manager poured two mugs and we sat at one of the booths. Lozano sipped his coffee silently, and I didn’t feel the need to say anything, so I followed suit. I took the mug carefully when I drank, fighting my shaking hands, hoping Lozano wouldn’t notice. He did, I’m certain, but didn’t say anything. After a minute or two, the manager said, “Hey, you, uh, want this gun, here?”

Lozano turned his head and nodded and the manager started to pick it up. “Stop,” Lozano said. It was a bark. The manager stopped, then shrugged and went to the pie case, scrubbing at the glass with a rag and not looking at us. 

The waitress sat down, saying, “Fucking city.” When the manager was finished with the pie case he went to clean the stool Barry had used.

“You touch the weapon?” Lozano asked me.

“I took it off him.”

“You got a witness?”

“No. But he’s got the empty holster, not me,” I said. 

Lozano looked at the ceiling and shut his eyes, saying, “This is turning into one bitch of a day. They kill the girl, then they pull this.” He looked back to the counter, then finished his coffee. “You’re sure the call was a fake?” 

“Absolutely.”

Lozano turned to look full at me, and I tried hard not to look guilty. He raised the mug in his left hand, sticking his arm out as if signaling a turn. '

“Fucking city,” the waitress repeated, and she walked to the coffeemaker and took the pot from the burner, then refilled our cups. Her uniform was powder blue and she wore white nylons with a run on the inside of her left leg.

“What’d you do to him?” Lozano asked, looking again at the counter.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Nothing made him piss on himself?”

“I caught him on the phone making the threat. I took his gun when he tried to fight me. He lost bladder control when he lost the piece.”

“You threaten him?”

“No.”

He didn’t believe me, and his body language made no bones about that. “Why’re you lying to me, Atticus? I thought we were friends, here.”

“We are, Detective. I didn’t do anything to him.”

He sipped some more of his coffee. “How’d you know he’s the one that phoned the threat?”

“I heard him. He told me it was a fake.”

“Did he? Anybody else hear that?”

“Just me.”

“So, you were following this guy? Eight hours after Katie Romero is murdered, you just happen to be following one of our prime suspects, a guy who threw a bottle at Katie’s mother? You just happen to be following a guy you already mixed it up with once? Tell me this isn’t what it looks like, Atticus.”

I explained what had happened, including the meeting with Crowell, to set the stage. I did not tell him about pulling the trigger on Barry. Lozano drank his coffee in silence while I spoke, measuring my words with his eyes on mine.

“Where’s the dick?”

“Jeez, Detective. Don’t you have a better slang term for a private investigator?”

“You prefer peeper? Where is she?”

“I don’t know. She went after Crowell.”

“We’ve spoken to Crowell twice already. You two shouldn’t have gone to see him. And following Barry, that’s loco. What the hell were you thinking? Why aren’t you watching Romero?”

“She’s well covered,” I said.

“Yeah, but not by you, and that’s your job.” Lozano finished his second cup of coffee, putting the mug down hard. “You worry me, Kodiak. If Barry says you used excessive force, if I find one single witness, I’ll rein you in and I’ll rein you in hard.” He stood up, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. He put a five carefully on the table and said, “The girl is dead, and that is rotten, sad action. Don’t make it worse.” 

“Don’t forget the gun,” I said. Outside, the rain had slowed and the streets were dark and slick.

He stared down at the weapon, snapping on a surgical glove without looking at his hands. Then he took the pistol and dropped it into a paper bag provided by the manager.

“This better not be your way of dealing with grief,” Lozano said. “You tell that peeper of yours to come talk to me, get this all straightened out. She doesn’t, I’m going to go looking for her.”

“I’ll tell her,” I said.

“You keep your head straight,” he said to me, and left.

I used the diner bathroom after Lozano left. I stood in front of the mirror, leaning on the sink, for what seemed like a long time. My blood was roaring in my ears.

If Barry had chambered his first round, he would have been dying from a gut wound even as I was staring at my reflection. If Barry had chambered his first round, I would have been on my way to prison, and I wouldn’t be coming back for a very long time. If Barry had chambered his first round, I would have murdered him in cold blood while looking in his eyes, and I would have been happy doing it.