Trust Me (10 page)

    O'Clair was more concerned about Cornrow, who was closing in on him, only twenty feet away now. He wore long shorts low on his skinny hips showing three inches of plaid boxer above his waist, his white tank tucked into the shorts. There was a tattoo just below his right shoulder that appeared to be a miniature version of himself, his face but without the rows. He had something on his mind as he walked up to O'Clair, measuring him. Cornrow was O'Clair's height, about six feet maybe a little taller. He was muscular but lean. O'Clair didn't think he was coming to ask him for directions or a donation to his church.

    Cornrow said, "Yo, Cap'n, we goin' take the boat. Give me the motherfuckin' keys."

    O'Clair said, "You talkin' to me?"

    Farmer and Sweatshirt moved up next to Cornrow, standing in a half circle in front of O'Clair now, the Seville behind him.

    "You see any other chickenhead motherfucker standing here?" Cornrow said.

    O'Clair said, "You must have me confused with someone else."

    Cornrow grinned, flashing two rows of teeth, the front two displaying a diamond pattern. "Think so, huh? Who we got you confuse with?"

    "Somebody that's going to let you take my car."

    All three of them grinned now. Cornrow made the first move—came at O'Clair and O'Clair went to the body—nailed him in the gut. Cornrow grunted and bent over, holding his side like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer, and O'Clair threw a sweeping right hand and broke his jaw. Cornrow went down, and O'Clair juked and weaved and stepped in and hit Farmer, flattening his nose against his face, crushing it. He dropped and didn't move.

    Now O'Clair turned ready for Sweatshirt, and a beer bottle crashed into his forehead and shattered. O'Clair took a step back against the Seville, dazed, leaning on the driver's door, blood running from a gash in his forehead into his left eye.

    Bobby came out of the party store, scratching ink off an instant lottery card with a dime. He had a bottle of iced tea wedged in his armpit. He heard glass break. He glanced up and saw the big white guy from the casino, blood on his face, beating the shit out of a black guy in a hooded sweatshirt. Two more black guys were on the concrete parking lot.

    He finished scratching the card, a game called Joker's Wild, and dropped it on the oil-stained asphalt littered with Day-Glo wrappers. Bobby unscrewed the top off the iced tea, took a drink and got in his car, thinking he'd better get the hell out of there while he could.

    It took six stitches to close the cut on his forehead. O'Clair had gone to Providence Hospital Emergency. The waiting room was full of people that were bleeding and moaning. The admitting nurse took one look at him and put him in a wheelchair headed for Triage.

    O'Clair peeled back the bandage and studied it in the rearview mirror, felt the red swollen skin and the prickly ends of the nylon stitches, while he talked to Stu Karp and found out Bobby's cell phone bills went to a PO box in Troy. O'Clair said, you got an address?

    Karen said, "These are the two guys I was telling you about." And then to Bobby and Lloyd she said, "This is Wade."

    Bobby said, "Wade, huh? I've never met anybody named Wade."

    Wade had pale skin and long dark greasy hair. He glanced at Bobby, studying him, his face blank, expressionless.

    "What's that got to do with the price of beer?" Wade said.

    Bobby grinned and said, "What the hell does that mean?"

    "Whatever you want it to," Wade said.

    Bobby looked at Karen and winked. They were in Memphis Smoke, a big open restaurant and blues bar in Royal Oak. It was crowded with drinkers, wall to wall at the bar, and all the tables were taken with people eating platters of ribs and pulled pork sandwiches and washing it all down with cold beer. "The Very Thought of You" by Albert King was coming from the sound system. Bobby and Lloyd sat across from Karen and Wade.

    "Tell me, Wade," Bobby said, "what do you bring to the party?"

    Bobby was grinning now, holding the grin like his face was made out of plastic.

    Wade didn't show any emotion at all. He just stared at Bobby and said, "What I bring is aimed at your acorns, bro."

    Karen heard the click of a pistol being cocked under the table. She glanced at Wade and said, "Take it easy."

    "Fuck with me again, I'm going to blow them off," Wade said, his gaze fixed on Bobby. "How's that sound?"

    Bobby nodded now, losing the grin. He looked afraid.

    "When'd you get out?" Lloyd said.

    Wade said, "Of what?"

    "Wherever you got those tats?" Lloyd said.

    Wade put his hard guy stare on Lloyd.

    "What were you in for?" Lloyd said.

    Wade kept the stare going. "What's it to you?"

    "I did two and a half at Stillwater," Lloyd said.

    Wade said, "What's that, a juvie home?"

    "Juvie home?" Lloyd said. "It's the oldest prison in Minnesota's what it is. The prosecutor wanted to give me ten years for car jacking on account of there was a dog in the car. You believe that?"

    Wade said, "What kind a dog?"

    "A Golden," Lloyd said.

    "I had a Golden once, named Popeye," Wade said. "Used to ride on the back of my Fat Boy. Swear to God."

    "You have a Fat Boy?" Lloyd said.

    "Damn straight."

    Karen sat there patient, listening. She said, "If you want to talk about Goldens and Fat Boys, I'll come back and meet you another time."

    They all looked at her, surprised, but nobody said anything. The cute, bubbly waitress, who'd introduced herself as Stacey, came by with their food and served it.

    Lloyd said, "Wait five minutes, bring me another beer."

    Bobby took a bite of his pulled pork sandwich. "I assume we'll cut the phone line," he said, talking with his mouth full.

    "He's got a security alarm," Karen said. "If you cut the phone line, the police will come." Karen took some of her red beans and drank some beer. "I'll give you the code."

    Bobby said, "Okay, you've got the code, but that's after we get in. How we planning to do that? Ring the doorbell?"

    "With a torch," Wade said.

    Bobby said, "A torch?"

    "Acetylene," Wade said, "melt the lock in a minute."

    He took a bite of catfish. The plate was close to him edging off the table. His big tattooed arm was positioned in front of it as if someone was going to reach over and steal his food.

    It was Karen's idea to go in dressed as cops. They'd wear blue windbreakers with the word POLICE on the back in reflective yellow type you could see across a dark room. Windbreakers and blue caps that also said POLICE. Go in selling themselves as cops looking for drugs and guns. "It's a diversion. Something to surprise them and give us the advantage."

    "What about masks?" Wade said.

    Bobby said, "We dress up like cops, we don't need masks. It's either or. Think about it. If we're cops, why would we be wearing masks?"

    Wade mulled that over awhile. "Maybe so they don't recognize us," he said. "That ever occur to you?"

    Bobby said, "How they going to recognize us with hats on in the dark?"

    Wade paused, thinking again. "Where you going to get police jackets at? Run over to Wal-Mart?"

    "No, I'm going to go online," Karen said, "and find a uniform supply place." She'd already googled and found americawear.com, The American Law Enforcement uniforms supplier, and ordered jackets and caps for Bobby, Lloyd and Wade. She told them she couldn't go in the house. They'd recognize her in a second. It was Thursday night. They'd hit the Sunday after next. Samir stays home to watch
Desperate Housewives
and
Grey's Anatomy,
and goes to bed. How's that sound?

    Bobby and Wade nodded. Lloyd seemed lost in thought, in his own world. He was eating ribs and guzzling mugs of Rolling Rock, his glass stained with reddish brown fingerprints. He was looking around not really paying attention to the conversation. Stacey the waitress returned and picked up the empty drink glasses and plates. They stopped talking, waiting for her to leave. All but Lloyd, who looked up at her, hands covered with barbecue sauce.

    He said, "I've been watching, you're one quick little thing."

    The waitress smiled and said, "Thank you, sir." She seemed embarrassed by the compliment.

    Karen thought Lloyd was trying to pick her up.

    "I'll bet you're the fastest one here," Lloyd said, "aren't you?"

    "One of them," the waitress said.

    "Well if you're so goddamn fast…" Lloyd got up, farted and said, "… catch that and paint it blue."

    She turned, walked past the table, and Karen heard her say "Asshole" under her breath.

    Lloyd took a step and bumped the table with his hip. "Don't let her take my beer," he said, "I've got to go shake hands with the unemployed." Lloyd walked out of the scene.

    Bobby said, "After a few too many Lloyd turns into Floyd, then Avoid."

    Karen said, "What's the matter, does he have a drinking problem?"

    Getting on his feet, Bobby said, "Not unless they run out of beer." He grinned and moved away from the table, stopped and said, "She comes back, get me another one."

    Wade looked at Karen. "I don't know about those two. You sure they know what they're doing? Sure we can count on them?" "Trust me," Karen said.

    O'Clair pulled into the strip mall parking lot and backed into a space in the last row so he'd have a clear view of a store called Mail Boxes. According to Stu Karp, that's where Bobby had a PO box. O'Clair had said, "Why didn't you tell me that the other day?"

    "You didn't ask," Stu said.

    Behind the strip mall was an alley, but no place to park. O'Clair had checked it out. O'Clair figured if Bobby stopped by to pick up his mail, he'd pull in the lot. He wouldn't be expecting anyone to be waiting for him on Saturday morning. He'd park and go in.

    There was a Blockbuster, a Little Caesars, a Starbucks, a dry cleaners and a CVS Pharmacy. O'Clair got there early, seven cars in the lot, the sun was rising over the strip mall roof, blinding him. He scanned the cars, didn't see a red Mustang Cobra with side pipes and eighteen-inch rims. He put the visor down and adjusted his position, leaning back so the sun was off his face. People were coming out of Starbucks with their designer coffee like junkies getting their fix. He watched a suburban mom in an exercise outfit put her cup on the roof of her Land Rover while she searched for her keys, got in, started the engine and drove off with her coffee still on the roof. Didn't remember it until she was almost pulling out of the lot. She stopped, got out, grabbed it and drove away.

    His forehead itched from the stitches. He stared at his face in the rearview mirror. The skin around the Band-Aid was bruised and turning black and blue. He ripped the Band-Aid off and threw it out the window. Now he felt the prickly ends of the stitches and it pissed him off the way things had gone. If it hadn't been for the gangbangers, he'd be counting his money right now. He got 15 percent of what he collected. More than anyone else because he got results. Bobby owed sixty grand, so he'd make nine, or more depending on when he found him, the vig multiplying by a point and a half each week Bobby didn't pay his debt.

    If Bobby had the money, Samir told O'Clair to make an example of him. Bobby made him look bad, and Samir couldn't afford to look bad. Not in his line of work. If Bobby didn't have the money, they'd take him to a warehouse Samir owned downtown and try to impress upon him the seriousness of the situation.

    O'Clair had worked for Samir since he was released from the Michigan State Prison in Jackson after doing a little less than two years for using a firearm to commit a violent crime. A federal grand jury had indicted O'Clair, then a Detroit cop, for shaking down drug suspects for illegal searches. O'Clair thought it was un-fucking-believable. How could he be accused of violating the rights of someone breaking the law? O'Clair roughed up a heroin dealer named Skunk—'cause he had a little stripe of gray hair in his black Afro—took his dope and his money. Yeah? Isn't that what he was paid to do? His commanding officer had said, "Yeah, but you're not supposed to keep it."