False Negative (Hard Case Crime) (25 page)

“You gave me crap.”

“Giving ofays crap is what I do.” The smile was a frown again, and didn’t change.

Jordan got in his way as he started back to the car. “No good—”

Heavy hands took Jordan from behind, and lifted him off the ground with his arms pinned against his sides. He didn’t resist. Interviews with Beach routinely ended with a kick in the pants. Beach was at the curb when Jordan was slammed to his knees. The heavy hands arranged a hammerlock, and the crowd parted as Jordan was frog-marched to the Packard. No one interfered. It was Friday night at the Alcazaba, and the real entertainment played out on the street.

Narvin pulled him inside the back seat, squeezed him over the transmission hump to make room for Beach at the door. The third man took the wheel again, cutting into traffic ahead of an ambulance.

“If anyone wants out now,” Beach said, “scram. Kidnapping is a capital crime.”

“You sayin’ if it goes wrong, we all end up dead?” Narvin said.

“It could happen.”

“Who’s dead if it goes right?”

They couldn’t stop laughing. Jordan’s guts tightened. Some joke.

“You couldn’t leave well enough alone,” Beach said.

A woman pushing a stroller made eye contact with the driver before entering a pedestrian crossing. Spotting Jordan, she paused for a second look. The big car ran a stop sign nearly clipping her heels.

“I’m talking to you.” Beach turned Jordan’s chin. “The girl died. So what? Girls die all the time. Some of them I don’t even know. The life she had, I’d be surprised anybody’s aware of the difference.”

“Nothing was well enough.”

“Enough for me,” Beach said. “All I am is a ten percenter introducing girls to men who use them for what they’re for. If there’s breakage, how am I to blame? They’re adult girls, they understand the risks. A good many go in for the rough stuff. Hell, they demand it. I’ll be damned if I let a writer, a fucking nobody, take food out of my family’s mouth by connecting me to terrible things I got nothing to do with.”

“Anita Coburn would be alive today if you weren’t so helpful.”

“You got a one-track mind,” Beach said. Jordan shook his head, tried to as Beach steadied his chin. “One-track to a dead end.”

“Where are we going?”

“We ain’t started yet, and I’m sick of you already. Turn on the radio.” Beach poked the driver. “We won’t have to hear him.”

A white man playing Negro as unconvincingly as Beach spouted jive through the dashboard speaker. Symphony Sid was America’s most important jazz disc jockey, broadcasting from a socialist radio station in New York. After a hep cat intro he cut to a freewheeling Art Blakey drum solo. “Who needs this crap?” Beach said.

The driver spun the dial. Beach said, “Hold it,” for Professor Longhair pounding a tinny piano. Awful noise, thought Jordan,
New Orleans piano for people who didn’t know New Orleans or the piano. Then he had another thought: You’re being taken for a ride in the worst sense of the word, and you’re griping about the background music? What’s wrong with you?

Beach pushed the beret back on his head as his foot marked an awkward rhythm against Jordan’s. “That’s more like it.”

They went over the inlet past Absecon Light, and headed up the coast on empty nighttime roads. The rotten egg smell hanging over the salt marshes made Jordan gag. After a while the breeze shifted, bringing fresh air off the ocean, but Jordan’s guts didn’t stop churning. Miles ahead the Brigantine Light cut the fog. A returning fisherman’s boat played hide and seek in the reeds.

“There yet?” Narvin said. “Why we wastin’ the night goin’ nowhere?”

“Sit back,” Beach said. “Enjoy the scenery.”

A marsh hawk swooped across the hood. Before it veered into blackness Jordan noticed a squirming packet of fur in its talons. The Packard was cruising at an even 50 when Jordan felt a bump. His right leg stiffened as the driver slammed the brakes.

“What’s that?” Beach said. “Squash a bunny?”

“I lost the road.”

Highbeams spiraling in fog were refocused over a frayed tangle of swamp grass. The hood ornament pointed the fastest way into a ditch. The driver cut the wheel sharply, throwing Jordan into Beach’s lap. The big car shimmied, straightened, gained speed again, and lost it fighting for traction. Beach shoved Jordan away as they ground to a halt.

“You put a scratch in this baby, and it’s comin’ outta your pay,” Beach said. “Try rockin’ her.”

The motor growled. The wheels churned soft sand, and the Packard settled deep in the ruts.

Beach hurried out. Two feet from the car he was invisible.
The flame from a match congealed into the orange tip of a cigarette. Jordan watched it through the back window as Beach kicked the tires. “Good and stuck,” he said into Narvin’s window.

“I can take care of him here.”

“Wanna be sittin’ with his dead corpse when the sun comes up?”

Jordan couldn’t see Narvin’s face. It didn’t stop him from picturing it breaking into a smile.

“How ’bout we bury him?”

“Feel like diggin’ a grave tonight?”

“Let him dig it himself. He the one gonna be usin’ it.”

Narvin showed a gun. Jordan slid out of the car and marched into the reeds. Knotted roots clutched at his ankles, pulled his shoes from his heels. In a patch of sand with little vegetation Beach stopped him. “What you lookin’ for? A pretty view? You ain’t a little boy been brought to play on the shore. Get to work.”

“Ain’t gonna get it done without a shovel,” Narvin said.

“Go on now,” Beach said, “get down and start diggin’ with your paws like the dog you are.”

Jordan fashioned a filthy look for them. It was the bright side of being out on a night when no one could see in front of his face.

Narvin kicked him behind his knees. “You heard...”

Jordan scooped sand. The wind blew it back. A shallow trench grew large under his hands. He steepened the sides till they collapsed.

A story came to mind, a Greek myth about a man in a situation something like the one he was in who couldn’t dig his way out of a hole because the walls kept caving in. Jordan had felt sorry for the Greek because he couldn’t stop the hole from filling in, but would have been happy to trade places with him now.

Narvin rested his foot on Jordan’s back as a four-sided depression took shape around them. The wind shifted, helping to clear the sand away.

“Fella workin’ up a sweat for nothin’,” Narvin said to Beach. “He can stop where he at, and you and me, we’ll build a little castle over him. Nobody gonna see him from the road anyhow.”

“He’s just funnin’ with you,” Beach said to Jordan. “Do a good job here, you’ll come back to the car and dig it out before we shoot you. How’s that sound?”

What it sounded like was the most he could expect. He pushed sand back into the hole while they laughed.

A jagged shell cut his hand. The sand was damp now, and the digging came easy, which was no favor. Narvin dipped his toe in the center of the hole, measuring the depth.

“Watchin’ him’s wearin’ me out,” Beach said. “I’ll wait in the car.”

A root tangled around Jordan’s arm. Tough and fibrous, it was the closest thing to a weapon he was going to find. He moved more sand, but couldn’t pull it loose. It shredded while he worked it from side to side.

“Not too deep y’all,” Narvin said.

“Beach says different.”

“Who you think he gonna tell fill in your grave when you lyin’ in it? You? Stop where you at.”

If this was his final resting place, at least till the next big storm washed his body out to sea, he wanted plenty of room. He kept digging. It was a long shot, but if he made it big enough he might get Narvin to trade places with him.

“Stand by the front,” Narvin said. “When I shoot you, try and fall back on your ass. I don’t want blood on my new threads layin’ out your body, okay?”

Narvin laughed again. Jordan had to admit it was funny. But not that funny. He smoothed the bottom of the hole, and then he stood up.

Narvin pointed the gun where he wanted him. Oh yeah, he was a bundle of laughs. Jordan hit his mark, and emptied a fistful of sand in Narvin’s face.

Narvin spit, but didn’t blink. “What the fuck?” he said. Jordan tossed the second handful in his eyes, brought up his toe into the big man’s crotch.

The gun going off beside his head wasn’t louder than Narvin’s howls. Jordan swiped for it, deflecting the barrel away from his ear. Narvin clouted him with his free hand. Jordan hit back with an uppercut, a glancing blow connecting with more stubble than chin, and pulled Narvin into the grave. Using the big man for a footstool, he jumped out.

The second shot was another miss. Narvin, shouting “You a dead motherfucker,” was last to know. Jordan heard Beach call out to ask if he’d been killed yet. Narvin said, “No, motherfucker gettin’ ‘way,” and Beach, too angry to sound colored, said, “Idiot, can’t you do anything right?”

The voices became indistinct as Jordan ran. Clearer were the tide lapping against the mud, the buzz of insects, a night-hawk’s metallic cry. He had little idea where he was going. On his left was the water. The road was to his right. At his back were two men determined to kill him. A third could almost be anywhere. He ran blindly. Later there might be time to find his bearings.

Lacking structures and trees, the tidal flats were cut haphazardly by shallow drainages. Where the grass grew thick Jordan could have been running over a wet sponge. The going was slower still in the dry sand. Thank God for a moonless night and adrenaline.

Narvin, not far behind, said, “Stop where you at, motherfucker.” While Jordan had been thinking, Narvin had been running fast. Jordan ran harder. Where had thinking ever gotten him?

Near the water the grass thinned, and the damp sand allowed him to open his stride. His lungs burned as they sucked air through the residue left by millions of Luckys. Coming down in a hole his knee buckled, but the crack he heard was from dry
brush, not cartilage. He was running easily when he stumbled into cold water.

He was up to his hips in a ditch that returned the tide to the sea, ankle-deep in a soft bottom with the consistency of quicksand. The first rule for anyone caught in quicksand, as he’d learned as a nine-year-old at the Saturday serials, was not to struggle. A gunshot kicking into the bank suggested the rule didn’t apply here, and he exhausted himself slogging to dry ground. He wished the wet, sandy shoes pinching his feet on Narvin, who was splashing through the ditch with a string of “Dead motherfucker” and “Worthless motherfucker” on his lips.

Narvin had fired off four bullets, and was down to two. Unless his gun was an eight- or nine-shooter. Or he had extra bullets, or a second gun. Did Beach have a gun, too? Jordan stopped thinking about it. It was the best idea he had.

A splintered hulk half-buried in the sand tripped him up. Barrel-shaped, bigger than a rowboat, it was probably a round-bottom skiff. Gasping wind, he listened for Narvin. No motherfuckers from the big man chugging like a steam boiler about to blow.

Jordan was too tired to move. What he had strength for was to squeeze between the broken timbers and hold still. A brilliant idea—unless Narvin had it, too, and put a bullet through the wood. He forced himself back on his feet. Just an idea.

One foot followed the other, then did it again. His second wind would kick in soon, and he’d leave Narvin in the dust. He pushed himself on drunken legs. The wind parted the mist, and a yellow eye reflecting moonglow brought him up short. Had Narvin circled around? Had Beach freed the Packard, and cut him off? He said, “Boo,” and a doe bolted for the road.

Narvin shot again. The sand kicked up where the deer had been, and Jordan ran after it. What kept Narvin in the chase? What had Beach promised for the scalp of Adam Jordan? And
for coming back without it? Another bullet exploded some clam shells into fragments that stung his ankles. Number six.

“C’mere,” Narvin said. “Only playin’ with you.”

Jordan pumped his legs, alarmed at how little ground they covered.

“Quit tryin’ to get ‘way, an’ you can rest long as you want.”

The gun hit him between the shoulders. He looked back as Narvin shortened the gap. He was still waiting for his second wind. Maybe he’d missed it.

They were eight feet apart. Four. Three, Narvin clawing at his back. Jordan dipped his right shoulder. Narvin veered right as Jordan cut to the left.

“Motherfucker stop.”

Narvin was on his heels again before they’d covered thirty feet. He snagged Jordan’s collar, gathered cloth, tightening his grip, was reeling him in when Jordan broke free.

“Gonna wish you
was
dead.”

A surge of adrenaline gave Jordan a short lead. Narvin put his head down, and matched him stride for stride. Again Jordan lowered his right shoulder. Narvin, guessing left, fell behind as Jordan broke right.

The boiler hissed and sputtered. If Narvin didn’t smoke, Jordan was counting on other bad habits taking a toll on his stamina. Seven feet separated them. Four again. Less. Then Jordan was ten feet ahead, fifteen.

He was out of adrenaline. There wouldn’t be more. But when he stole a look the big man wasn’t moving. Narvin’s chest heaved as he lifted a foot and put it down in almost the same place. Then he bent over with his hands on his knees, and puked his guts.

Jordan managed not to. He couldn’t run, so he walked. Narvin jogged after him, stopping to heave again.

“Why you makin’ this hard?”

“What will you do if you catch me?” Jordan said.

“It’ll be quick. What else you want?”

Jordan could walk, or he could talk. He didn’t have breath for both. He moved off dragging his feet, and when he turned around the next time Narvin hadn’t budged. Wouldn’t be budging any time soon.

Jordan stopped to rest. Crouching, he fell over in the sand. Narvin coughed, and said, “When I get my hands on you, gonna wish you was never born.”

Jordan had been wishing something like that since he was put in Beach’s car. But not now. Narvin wasn’t going to lay a finger on him tonight. Jordan flattened his palm under his lips, prepared to blow him a kiss. Why make it personal? He picked himself up, and quietly walked away, moving easily as his second wind kicked in.