Untitled (25 page)

  After Moses escaped, he ditched the car he'd stolen and slept with some homeless men under a freeway overpass. The next morning, he'd come to Half's house. Moses went in, but only after he made sure no one saw him enter. Half had given Moses clothes and food and kept him in the basement. All the time, Moses waited patiently.

  He'd been with Half a few days now, and he knew that everyone would think that he was gone. Dake and Nita would think it, and they were probably out of hiding as a result. That's what he wanted. He wanted them to be cool and casual, just to go about their lives. Today, he was going to start his plan.

  Half stepped slowly down the stairs into the dim basement. He was dressed in baggy jeans and a T-shirt that was stained with white powder from making drugs in his kitchen.

  Half was a good-looking man of about thirty or so. And even though he was multiracial, the black part of him seemed dominant, from his tan skin and broad nose, to his dark curly hair. He looked in good health, and Moses was glad to know that after all these years, Half hadn't succumbed to using his own product.

  "He's here," said Half. His voice was thin and scratchy. He had a habit of grabbing his crotch, a mannerism that Moses had seen many times but didn't know where it came from.

  "Tell him you need a gat, preferably a Glock and a pumpaction shotgun and ammo," said Moses.

  "The muthafucka is nervous, you know. Said he just got out of the joint, and he thinks the man is watching him. He checked me for a wire and kept asking me why I wanted the guns, that I wasn't no known shooter." Half grabbed his crotch.

  "Tell him to go fuck himself if he doesn't want to do business with you. Tell him you'll go to Benny Milton or that Kirkland nigga from the west side."

  "I don't know about this shit, Mo'," said Half, grabbing himself again. "This ain't my thing, you know. Guns and shit. You out the joint, nigga, why don't you just go?"

  "Oh, so you just gonna punk out on me now?" said Moses. "If it wasn't for me, your ass would be in a hole over on Six Mile, muthafucka."

  "Come on man, I—"

  "Come on, my dick! I didn't have to do what I did. I did it because I'm a cool muthafucka. I don't like to see a good man get jammed for nothing. And when I need you, you gonna give me this bitch-ass shit."

  Half was scared, and that's what Moses wanted. Half was just a wannabe gangster. He liked the money, the power, and the women, but he wasn't tough or particularly smart. A little intimidation went a long way with a man like that.

  "Look, I'm gonna help you, nigga," said Half. "You don't have to get all upset."

  "Then don't question my shit," said Moses. "Now go and tell him what you need and don't forget the silencer. I'll need it."

  Half left and Moses followed him partway up the stairs. He wanted to make sure that he didn't fuck up the deal. Moses peeked through the old wooden door into the kitchen as Half talked with Lewis Quince.

  Quince was indeed nervous as they talked. His eyes darted around as Half's workers used several microwaves to make the drugs. A little black girl of about seven or so sat in a chair looking out the window watching the backyard. Half was bringing them in young, he thought. Then again, kids were reliable.

  Moses had forgotten how imposing Quince was. He had a face that could only be described as severe. He was much taller than Half and looked down on him with a scowl. Quince didn't seem happy about the pending transaction.

  Quince was also a mean bastard. He'd killed several people that Moses knew of but had never been prosecuted for them. One kid Quince had locked in an old refrigerator and suffocated. He'd also shot an ATF officer and gotten caught, but somehow he'd beaten the rap. He hoped Half didn't piss Quince off, or he'd have to intervene and risk exposing himself.

  "What did you go downstairs for?" asked Quince.

  "I had, uh, some shit to do," said Half unconvincingly.

  "You know what? I think you working for the boys."

  "I told you, I don't work for the cops. Look, if you don't want to sell me the shit, then I'll just—" Half looked confused for a second. He grabbed himself nervously.

  Moses cursed silently as he realized that Half had forgotten the names he'd given him.

  "Just what?" said Quince.

  "I'm gonna go to Benny or that Kirkland nigga from the other side of town," said Half, remembering what Moses said.

  "Shit, they can't deliver. Benny caught a drug case, and Kirk, that muthafucka sells them cheap Mexican guns. You'll blow your goddamned hands off trying to shoot one of them things."

  "I'll take my chances," said Half. "Go on, bounce."

  Quince made an annoyed noise, then turned and walked out the door. Half turned to Moses and shrugged. Moses was about to call Half over, when Quince came back in holding a shotgun. One of the drug workers screamed and knocked over a tray of crack. Another ran out of the room. Half threw up his hands and began to back up. The little black girl who watched the backyard didn't even flinch. She looked at Quince, then went back to her job. To Moses, that was the scariest thing he saw. The kid was gone, lost to this world.

  Quince stood with the gun trained on Half and the others, staring at them. For a second, Moses thought Quince was going to shoot everyone in the room, cut his losses because he thought he was being set up. Then he smiled a little and lowered the weapon.

  "When your pants dry, you can check out this one first," said Quince. Then he tossed the shotgun to Half, who caught, then almost dropped the weapon. "It's not loaded."

  "What about the Glock?" said Half.

  "All I got is forties, but they burn." Quince took a black gun from under his shirt and put it on the table. "These pieces are clean and untraceable. I'll take two thousand for the whole set with ammo."

  "What about the silencer?" asked Half.

  "I got it, but it's hard to silence a Glock. It'll work, but you got maybe three, four rounds before it's barking again."

  "Cool," said Half. "Five hundred for all of it."

  Moses was pleased. Half had remembered to haggle. Never let anyone sell you something for the first price. He knew the guns were probably stolen, and Quince was making all gravy on the deal. But Quince's best quality was that his pieces were clean. You use one and get busted, you won't be looking at a fucking double murder. So the price was partially justified.

  "Look," said Quince. "I'm hot after the fed bust. I got expenses, people to pay. I'm not about negotiating. Two thousand."

  "Seven hundred, or get the fuck out," said Half. He grabbed himself again, this time with confidence.

  Quince looked hard at Half. Moses could tell that he suspected something, but he didn't know what. Moses knew Quince would take the deal. He had no choice. He was fresh out of the joint and needed to make deals to get back in.

  "All right," said Quince. "But don't ever get in a jam and need me in the future."

  Half paid Quince and Quince walked out. Half waited until he was sure Quince was gone, then he brought the weapons to Moses in the basement.

  "You did good," said Moses. "Two thousand, that muthafucka was trippin'."

  "I was going to kick his ass," said Half. "Pulling a damned gun on me."

  Moses gleefully loaded the Glock and the shotgun. He practiced whipping them out. The silencer fit, but it wasn't perfect.

  "This silencer is cheap, but it'll have to do," said Moses.

  "So, what's this all about, man?" asked Half.

  "Less you know, the better," said Moses. "Read about the shit in the papers." He whipped out the shotgun and cocked it. He saw Dake's and Nita's faces in the darkness.

* * *

Outside, Quince was walking back to the alley behind the house. Half may have been a lot of things, but he wasn't no shooter. And he was acting crazy, like he was hiding something. Quince suspected cops, but when he came in with the gun, that would have been the end of that game. Still, he had to know what was up. If he went down again, he might not get a sympathetic judge like the last one. Thank God for that old bastard, he thought.

  Quince sneaked around the back of the house. A guard, a kid of about thirteen, kept watch. Quince thought about tak ing him out, but it wasn't worth killing a kid just to see what Half was up to. Soon, the kid walked out to watch the front.

  The little girl sat in a window watching the backyard, so Quince circled around to the side and crossed to one of the basement windows. They were small and covered with dirt and debris.

  Quince knelt by one and tried to get a look in. He wanted to see what Half had going on in that basement. He would have only a few minutes before the little kid circled back.

  Quince peered inside the window. He squinted to see and tried not to make any noise. He saw Half talking to a man who he couldn't see very well. Then suddenly, the man turned. Quince smiled as he saw the face of his old friend and good customer, Moses Jackson.

O
nce again, Marshall was in his office late. Chemin had called again, and he had put her off, still afraid of what she might have to say.

  It was dark outside, and the team had disbanded long ago. He was happy about the results of the DNA test. They had a solid case now. The test put Mbutu in the killer's crawl space, and no conspiracy theory could refute that fact.

  Their only problem was that they had used the PCR, or polymerase chain reaction test. This was the test used when the sample was small. They only had the one hair. PCR was only accurate to one in a hundred. The restriction fragment length polymorphism, or RFLP test, was accurate to within one in a billion. He would have preferred to use that test of course, but they had to go with the less accurate test because of the size of the sample.

  PCR had been successfully challenged in the courts, so Rashad would try to suppress. Roberta was already working on a response to the inevitable motion. It would be a fight, but one that he would ultimately win.

  He'd spent the last few hours looking at the tape of the assassination. He'd watched Farrel Douglas's head explode over twenty times. It was horrifying, and something else—it was familiar. He didn't know how else to put it. He'd seen the murder before, and he couldn't for the life of him tell where. He watched it again. Douglas stood at the podium, looking handsome and proud, then he grabbed his chest, a second later, his head exploded in blood and tissue.

  "Damn," Marshall said to himself. "What is it?"

  The way the shots came, the way Douglas grabbed himself. It was like some recurring dream, ghostly, frightening, and familiar. Death was something that you never forgot when you saw it live, and somewhere in that anguished part of his memory, a bell was ringing, calling to him to remember.

  He heard a light tapping on his door. His first thought was that it was Bradbury, but when the door opened, it was Jessica, peeking around the door and smiling.

  "Hey," she said.

  "I was just leaving," said Marshall.

  "Me too," said Jessica. She was in another tiny little skirt and a white cotton blouse. Marshall lingered on her a little too long. "I had some stuff here I was taking to my new office. And what should I see, old Marshall burning the midnight oil again."

  "I'll walk you to the garage," he said. He got up and grabbed for his briefcase. He was suddenly nervous and wanted to leave before she could start talking to him.

  He threw some papers into his briefcase, then looked up to see Jessica walking toward him with an unmistakable look of lust on her face. He was transfixed for a second. Was it his mind playing a trick, or was she really doing what he saw?

  "Jessica, what are you doing—"

  "You can leave if you don't want me," she said.

  She moved across the room, coming toward him. Marshall again had the feeling that it wasn't real, that his mind had warped on him. But it was real, and she was almost to him now.

  "Jessica, I can't do this," he said.

  "I know you don't want to. One of the many reasons I want you so much."

  She pushed herself against him. Marshall stood still. He wanted to speak, to move, but he didn't. All he could think of was making love to the young woman. It had been months since he and Chemin had been together. Months without the heat he was feeling right now. Because of that, in that way that only men have, he felt that he
deserved
to have her if he wanted.

  He was suddenly aware of his erection pushing against his zipper with urgency. She embraced him, pulling his face to hers. Her tongue went into his mouth, and he kissed her back urgently.

  His reason was gone. He was so involved in his work, and dodging the wreck that was his marriage, that he'd forgotten that he was human and in need of human companionship. Now, the fact that Jessica wanted him was exciting, vital, and right.

  She pulled his head away and dropped to her knees. She quickly unzipped his pants, and slipped him inside her mouth. The rush of heat took his breath away. He threw his head back, and grabbed her hair. It was good beyond all reason, and that single thought echoed in his brain, pushing back all other logic.

  Jessica got to her feet and kissed him hard. She pulled up her skirt, and he grabbed her ass. Marshall picked her up and sat her on his desk, moving between her legs. He kissed her, his mouth moving to her chest where he was surprised to find that she wore no bra.

  Jessica moaned loudly as he took her breast into his mouth. She fell back on the desk, knocking over the picture of Chemin. Marshall noticed the picture as it fell. He looked at it, then tried to look away but couldn't. Chemin was in his head now, and all of their history poured from his memory. He saw himself courting her, marrying her, then making love to her. All the dark, wonderfully secret things they'd said to each other surfaced inside his mind.