Not Even Past (7 page)

The bodega must have put on a fresh pot of coffee, because the odor suddenly permeated the air. Behind the two men, a bird landed and pecked at the ground. Donne felt his heart ticking off the milliseconds in his chest.

“So what do we want to do here, boys? Mr. Donne goes, I go with him. We’re … pals.”

The two men looked at each other and seemed to make a wordless decision. He watched the black guy’s muscles relax, and the air seemed between them seemed to change. The two men smiled like customer service employees at a Walmart.

“We will be in touch, Mr. Donne. There’s some business we’d like to deal with. But it’s best handle it between us.”

Donne wanted to ask about Jeanne. He wanted to go with them. But the sweat in his palms and the pounding of his heart stopped him.

The men left, heading back the way they came. Once they were out of earshot, Bill Martin clapped.

“This is the most fun I’ve had in years,” he said. His voice was flat.

Donne checked his phone and didn’t see any texts from Kate. His stomach fluttered and twisted and he thought about texting her. Just to say he was okay. But he didn’t want her to worry. A text would more than likely cause more problems and not ease his nerves.

“They’re in a car about a block and a half down,” Martin said. “They’re not going to go anywhere until we do.”

“Jeanne could be dead by now,” Donne said. “Maybe I should have gone with them.”

“Yeah, then you’d be dead too.” Martin paused. “You know, you’re right. Why don’t you head down the block and take a ride.”

Donne said, “You called me your pal.”

“I didn’t have a better word, and calling you ‘asshole’ would have given them a better sense of who I was.” He looked at his watch. “Or at least given them more information than they had before.”

Martin turned and walked into the bodega.

B
ILL
M
ARTIN
just bought me a coffee.

It was burnt and overly sweetened, but it was bought by Martin and given to Donne without asking. Donne expected tectonic plates to shift beneath his feet and the entire block to get swallowed up into the earth. Martin downed his coffee in one long gulp, as if the heat didn’t exist.

He drank it so fast, Donne almost didn’t notice the tremor in his hand, the way the cup swayed just a hair just before the lip hit his mouth.

Martin tossed the cup into the trash next to the counter and pulled out his badge. The cashier leaned in to take a better look, but it disappeared into Martin’s jacket.

“I need to take a look around,” Martin said the words like it was a fait accompli
.

“I haven’t been robbed. That was two blocks over.” The clerk, a short, round man with a thick Spanish accent laughed. “Cops don’t know nothing.”

Martin exhaled what must have been the sarin gas equivalent of burnt coffee right into the cashier’s face. He recoiled.

“Not about a robbery.”

The cashier wiped his mouth. “You want to buy something?”

“How about health inspection?”

Donne picked up a package of Tastykake coffee cakes and looked at the expiration date. A year old.

“My stuff is fresh!” the cashier shouted. “I run a good business.”

“Then we’ll be out of your way in ten minutes,” Martin said. He nodded at Donne, and they walked around to the back of the store.

Martin made a show of looking at the coolers. He opened one and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade. He twisted off the cap, smelled it, and gagged. The old routine started to come back to Donne. How many times had they done this when looking for drug runners hiding out in the back?

“You have to pay for that!” the cashier yelled.

Martin took a gulp, then spat it onto the floor. Donne turned away from him. This time they weren’t claiming drugs as evidence and snorting or selling half the coke themselves after their shift was over.

“I’m not going to pay for my own poison,” Martin said. Donne could have said the words, right down to the cadence, along with him.

“Fuck you!” the cashier spat.

“You’re not my type.” It was as if Abbott and Costello were doing “Who’s on First?” at a funeral.

Martin tilted his head toward the door that lead to the backroom. Donne’s gut lurched. He wasn’t armed, and he had no idea what was back there. Martin dropped his hand to his waist. His fingers grazed the gun at his hip.

Donne went first. Martin always told him the point man never got shot at in Vietnam. No, the Viet Cong were smart. They didn’t shoot at the first guy that came through; they waited for the rest of the platoon.

Donne was pretty sure Martin never served.

Pushing the door open, he stepped over the threshold. No one shot at him. The only sound was the whir of the engine running the central air-conditioner. To his right were metal shelves, filled with old boxes, waiting to be tossed in the bailer. To his left were pallets filled with potato chips and K-cup coffee packs. And a desk with a computer on it.

Martin noticed the desk first and went to it. Now the tremor showed in both hands. Donne couldn’t remember if Martin had always displayed this tic.

Moving the mouse, Martin clicked through several different screens. Each window got a few seconds of his time before he moved to another one. Occasionally, he’d mumble something that Donne couldn’t decipher. His tone of voice, however, was sharp and cutting.

“Do you want help?” Donne folded his arms. He hid his fists behind his elbows.

“No.”

Donne looked at the small backroom again for something that stood out. Nope, the bailer, the rotten food, and disorganization were the room’s best features.

“You sure? It seems like you’re having trouble.”

Martin clicked a few more times.

“Forget it,” he said. He pushed the mouse hard and it fell off the desk, suspended in air by its wire.

Donne didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped in between the desk and Martin and picked up the mouse. Pressed it down on the mouse pad and started scrolling. Martin had opened Internet Explorer and was stuck on the Yahoo! homepage.

Donne closed that and looked at the programs on the desktop. Nothing out the ordinary. Microsoft Word, an Excel spreadsheet with inventory numbers on it, web browsers, and Skype. He was stunned this place kept an inventory. Donne clicked on Start, then froze.

Skype.

“We’re looking for an iPad,” Martin said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“That’s a computer,” Martin said.

“Have some more coffee.” Donne squinted and willed his eyes to stay focused. “Don’t you hate computers?”

“That’s why I didn’t realize it wasn’t an iPad at first.”

Donne clicked on the Skype icon. The hourglass appeared on screen for a moment, then then the Skype window appeared. The username and password were saved to the computer, so Donne didn’t have to login.

He counted to ten while waiting for the contacts to load up.

The usual screen full of usernames showed up. Most didn’t have avatars, and were just images of phone handsets. Donne scanned usernames and didn’t recognize any. He scrolled the down the screen and pictures started to show up.

That’s why his gut pitched and for an instant, Donne thought he was going to throw up. One of the icons, one with an avatar was very familiar to him. He recognized it.

It was someone he hadn’t seen in years.

It was Jeanne’s father.

D
ONNE CLOSED
Skype and exhaled.

“Jackson?” Bill Martin’s voice was far away.

He felt his nerves endings firing—like he’d drank too much Coca-Cola. Muscles tensed.

“Donne? You okay?”

“Yeah,” Donne said.

He dropped his arms to his side and closed his eyes. His ears were burning. He opened his eyes again.

Then he burst through the door back into the front of the bodega. He spun on his heel into a rack of potato chips knocking them over and headed down the aisle toward the cash register. The cashier’s eyes went wide as he stared at what must have looked like a madman rushing at him.

Blood pounded in his ears. He slammed into the counter of the register and reached across, grabbing the cashier by the front of his polo shirt. Donne pulled him close and punched the him in the face. The cashier’s head snapped back and blood burst from his nose.

Donne pulled him in again and unleashed another blow to his jaw. The cashier slipped from Donne’s grasp and smashed into the cigarettes and condoms behind him. They clattered to the floor along with him.

Just before he could hop on to the counter, someone grabbed Donne by the shoulder and held him in place. He pulled against it, the fabric of his T-shirt rubbing and stretching against his neck.

“Where is she?” The words thundered from Donne’s mouth.

The cashier looked up at him eyes wide. He had covered his nose with both hands. His mouth was moving but no sound came out.

“Why do you know her father?” Donne could feel his vocal chords straining. “Where is she? How is she alive?”

The cashier shook his head. Blood was dripped between his fingers. His mouth moved even faster.

Donne pulled free and leapt onto the counter. He was about to jump down into the pit with the cashier when his he was hugged around his waist. His body fell backward and he was lowered to the ground. He tried to get his feet under him, but couldn’t and landed on his ass. Hard.

“
Jackson!
” Martin’s voice came into the focus. “Jackson! Stop it. Calm the down.”

“I will sue! I will sue all of you. The police. The state. Whoever the fuck! You punched me.”

Donne shook his head as the cashier rambled. He tried to let the world come back to him. His breath was ragged and felt like it was getting caught in the back of his throat. Trying to scramble back to his feet wasn’t an option. Pain shot down his legs from his tailbone.

“Kid. Jackson,” Martin said again. “Breathe, kid.”

Donne looked up at him and the room spun. He felt like he’d had too much to drink, and his stomach lurched left. Focusing on the plain front of the counter, he forced the contents of his stomach to stay on the inside.

“He knows where Jeanne is,” Donne said.

“Okay.”

The cashier was still screaming. He’d changed his tune from suing everybody to just getting in contact with his lawyer. He also wanted paper towels.

“Get up,” Martin said.

Donne got to his knees and started to push up.

“Not you.
You
.” Martin pointed at the cashier.

“Fuck you,” the cashier shouted.

“Yeah, okay. Listen, get up. Let’s talk.”

The cashier stood. Donne could see him peeking over the edge of the counter. The blood was dripping faster now. Martin tossed him a roll of paper towels from one of the shelves.

“Fix your face.”

The cashier unwrapped the towels and tore them from the roll. He wadded them up and pressed them against his nose.

“Going to be fucking rich.”

Martin nodded. “You haven’t had a customer in here in the last twenty minutes, at least. Why is that?”

The room stopped spinning for Donne. He started to get up again. Martin put a hand on his shoulder.

The cashier spat on to the floor. The wad of reddish phlegm splattered just inches from Donne.

“My friend here,” Martin said. His voice was like a schoolteacher who wanted everyone’s attention. Quiet and calm. “He thinks you know where a friend of ours is.”

“I don’t know anything.”

Martin nodded. “I’m sure. But tell us. Whose computer is back there?”

“It’s mine.”

“Anyone else use it?”

“Just me.” He spit again. It missed Donne but got closer. Donne felt his pulse race again.

“Yeah. I’m sure. Anyone
besides
you.”

“It look like anyone else is here?”

Martin sighed. “Not today. But ever?”

“Go fuck yourself.

“Nice.” Martin put his hand back on Donne and pushed him back to the floor. “Does the name Jeanne Baker ring a bell?”

“My nose is broken. I need a doctor.”

“Yeah, and your lawyer. I know. Jeanne Baker?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Martin let go of Donne and leaned against the counter. He looked left, then right. The cashier didn’t seem to want to move out of his way, but did when Martin stuck his shoulder into the guy’s sternum.