Swag (27 page)

“You're sure?” Frank said.

“You can reach it from both sides.”

“I mean that we'll take his car. Shit, or if we're going anywhere.”

“I can't see Sportree driving, exposing his plates,” Stick said, “I can't see him letting us drive, meet them. What if we made a stop at the hardware store?”

“If we go anywhere,” Frank said. “That's the big
if
.”

“No, we're going somewhere,” Stick said. “That's the only thing I'm sure of. Probably after it gets dark. And we're going to make it easy for him by acting as dumb as he thinks we are, playing into his hands and giving him a
reason
for taking us out, so he won't have to use force.”

They were walking out of the lot toward the front.

“There's an old Indian saying,” Stick said: “You can't judge a guy until you've walked a mile in his moccasins. I haven't been able to do that, but last night, all night long. I imagined being in that fucker's red patent-leather highheel shoes, remembering everything I could about him—the way he talked, the way he moved, how he's kept himself out of the whole deal. He's not going to have a lot of noise in his place and get blood on his carpeting. We're going somewhere.”

“And I'm supposed to offer to drive,” Frank said.

“Don't forget that.”

“And what if they say okay?”

“We're fucked,” Stick said.

Leon Woody opened the door. He said, “How you doing?” and stepped aside. Sportree was in the doorway leading to the kitchen, pointing a pump-action shotgun at them.

Frank said, “What're you doing?” getting fear and amazement in his voice and not having to fake much of it.

“I want to make sure we still friends,” Sportree said. “Leon's going to check you out, if that'd be all right.”

“I don't get it,” Frank said. Stick liked the dumb look on his face.

Leon did a good job. He felt every part of them where a gun or a knife could be hidden, and felt their coats, under the arms and the lining as well as the pockets. They let him, not saying anything, Frank staring at Sportree.

“Look like they still friends,” Leon said.

Sportree turned with the shotgun and went into the kitchen. He came back out with two bottles, glasses, and a bowl of ice, saying, “Since you all're here.” When they were sitting down and had their drinks, Sportree looked over at Stick.

“What kind of deal they make you?”

“As a matter of fact,” Stick said, “they haven't said a word about a deal. They haven't made an attempt, physically, to get anything out of me either. The way it stands, I'm going to the exam tomorrow with no reason to say a word about anything that's not any of their business. All they got on me, I lifted a doll box off a shelf. If I was conspiring to walk out with it, they have to prove it.”

Sportree got a Jamaican out of a gold-leaf box and lit it, looking at Stick.

Leon Woody said, “They know you part of something else.”

“They got to prove that, too,” Stick said.

“They ain't going to let you go.”

“Then they'll have to make up something, and they'd still have to prove it.”

“You saying you pure and they ain't nothing to worry about?”

“I'm saying I've played this straight so far,” Stick said, “but I'm not saying you don't have anything to worry about. There seems to be a discrepancy in how many Brink's sacks were in the doll box originally and how many were there when I picked it up.”

“Say what?” Leon Woody sounded a little surprised without changing his bearded African expression.

“Five went in,” Stick said. “Three came out sometime before I got there.”

“How you know that?” Sportree asked him.

“Because I can add and subtract,” Stick said. “I think two from five is three. There were two sacks in the box when I looked in it, right before they stuck the gun in my face.”

“This comes as something new,” Sportree said, at ease with his cigarette. “You never mention it before.”

“I wasn't there,” Stick said. “I didn't know how many sacks went in. Frank and I are talking yesterday, not till yesterday he mentions five. I said, ‘Five? There were only
two
.' ”

Sportree smiled and shook his head, his gaze moving to Frank.

“What'd you think, Frank, he said that?”

“What'd I
think
?” He had a good on-the-muscle edge to his tone. “First I couldn't believe it. Then I thought, Shit, somebody's fucking somebody. Guy I thought was a friend of mine.”

“Oh my,” Sportree said, shaking his head again. “It can get complicated, huh? People get the wrong idea.” He looked at Stick. “What the police think?”

“I don't know what they think,” Stick said. “They didn't discuss it with me. Maybe they think it's still in the store somewhere, I don't know. The thing is, we know it isn't.” He kept his gaze on Sportree.

“Yeah, maybe they think it is,” Sportree said, squinting in the smoke, thoughtful. “But I doubt it. See, that's why we have to be so careful—you coming here—man, they could be watching every move you make.”

Frank said, still on the muscle, “I think we're getting off the subject, how we got fucked by a guy I thought was a friend.”

“Frank, did we know Stick was going to get arrested?” Sportree waited, patient, like he was speaking to a child.

“No.”

“So he'd come up here with two sacks, wouldn't he?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think I was going to do?”

“I don't know—shit, I don't get it at all. But you took the three sacks.”

“As a precaution,” Sportree said. “Marlys walked out with them in a box the next day. This was something I thought of after. If she can do it, fine. If they too many cops around, we wait to do it like we planned it. But see, then we have two chances and two's better than one.”

“How come,” Frank said, “you didn't call us after, say you had it?”

“Frank, you never give us your number till the other day. Unlisted, right? Marlys went out there to look for you. Said she couldn't find you. Probably out with those chicks.”

“Shit.”

“Come on, Frank, ain't no scam. We get it, man, we busy counting. Shit, you want to know what eighty-seven thousand look like? You and him supposed to come by the next day. Only he get arrested.”

“
I
came by,” Frank said, “the day after. You never mention it. Shit, we're sitting here talking, you already got it.”

“Hey, man, listen to me. I'm telling you now, ain't I? Because I know I can trust him. But he's in jail, good friend of yours, I don't know what he's going to say. I don't know you two been talking or not. So I keep quiet till the smoke begin to settle and I see where I'm at, see where you and him are at. Okay, now everything's cool. He don't say a word tomorrow, he walk out and we split the kitty.”

“Not tomorrow,” Stick said, “right now. I can still go to trial. I could get ninety days, shit, a year, I don't know. I don't want to come out and not find anybody around.”

“We be here,” Sportree said. “Man, nobody's going nowhere.”

“Today,” Stick said. “Right now. I take care of mine, you take care of yours.”

“I'd just as soon do it now,” Frank said. “I get nervous thinking about that much money sitting someplace, not making any interest.”

Sportree grinned. “How you know it's not in the bank?”

“Shit,” Frank said. “Where is it, under the bed?”

Sportree's finger caressed the little bebop growth on his chin, thinking, making up his mind. He looked over at Leon Woody.

“You can understand they want to see it.”

Leon didn't say anything.

“Well, we might as well drive out there, make them happy. All right with you?”

“They own as much of it we do,” Leon said. “I feel better, though, we wait till it gets a little dark. People won't see us walking in and out of places.”

Sportree looked over at Frank. “We can relax here awhile, have something to eat—”

“Where we going?” Stick asked.

Sportree grinned. “We all going together, man. You'll see.”

27

IN THE PARKING LOT, WALKING
past the cars, Frank and Stick were following Leon Woody. Stick thought Sportree was right behind them. But when he glanced around, Sportree wasn't there, he hadn't turned the corner.

Leon was walking toward his light-blue Continental. Frank said, “Hey, Leon, I'll drive.”

Leon looked around. “How you going to drive, man, you don't know where we going?”

“You tell me,” Frank said.

Stick was thinking, Shit. He wanted Sportree to be here.

But it was all right. Sportree came around the corner, some kind of coat or jacket over his arm. Leon waited for him. He said then, “Frank say he want to drive.”

Sportree looked happy, going out for the evening to have a good time. He said, “Shit, Leon drive. Then we come back, have a drink, get your car. Frank, you ride up with Leon, me and the Stick here will sit in the back.”

Stick saw it, Sportree and Leon looking at each other, quick little look in the dreamy African eyes, telling each other something. They never let down, Stick thought.

They went out North Woodward as far as Norwalk Freight Lines, past the semis lined up in the dim-lighted yard, and U-turned around the island and came back south a few blocks to the Ritz Motel,
VACANCY
in orange on the big, bright-lighted Las Vegas sign. There were heavy-duty truck cabs in there, Macks and Peterbilts, and a couple of vans and a few new-model cars with Michigan plates. The swimming pool was lighted and empty in the half rectangle; most of the units were dark. Leon Woody let the Continental glide quietly into a parking space in the far corner of the rectangle, in front of Number 24, away from the motel office. Leon cut the ignition.

Sportree said, “Hey, shit, listen.” And Leon turned the key back on so Sportree could hear the radio.

Leon got out, taking the motel key out of his pocket. Frank got out. Stick waited in the back seat with Sportree.

“ ‘Feel Like Making Love,' ” Sportree said. “Bob James, hey, shit. Idris, listen to Idris, uh?” Sportree sat there listening. Stick sat there. Sportree wouldn't get out of the car. It was pretty good, it melted over Stick with a nice beat, but it wasn't Merle Haggard and Stick wasn't sure how long he could sit there.

Sportree said, “That's a number, you know it? Man used to arrange for Aretha.” He opened the door and finally got out of the car, then reached into the front for the key and turned off the ignition.

Stick waited.

Sportree looked back at him. “You coming? You don't seem too anxious.”

Stick said, “What? I dropped my cigarettes.”

When Sportree turned, Stick reached under the seat. Jesus, where was it? His hand touched the grip and he got it out, stuck it in the waist of his pants, and pulled the jacket down over it.

They went inside, into Number 24, a big room with a double bed and two twins and a refrigerator that had a cooking range and sink on top. Stick knew it wasn't going to take too much time. There wasn't anything to talk about, nothing to look at, no faking anything. No, it'd be done quick. Sportree had the poplin jacket over his arm. He looked around, as if picking a place to sit down, but he didn't. Frank was standing there, too, waiting for it. Leon Woody went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Stick said to himself, Here it is.

In the bathroom, Leon Woody took a Colt .45 automatic out of the medicine cabinet and wrapped a towel around it loosely. He flushed the toilet.

Stick was ready. When he saw Leon come out with the towel wrapped around his hand, around something in his hand, Stick pulled the Luger, pointed it at him, at the white, surprised look in Leon's eyes, and shot him in the face. Stick turned the Luger on Sportree and shot him twice in the body, dead center, above the jacket falling away and the revolver in Sportree's hand. Sportree made a grunting sound, the wind going out of him, and fell back against a chair, turning it over and going down as he hit the wall.

Stick said to himself, I don't believe it. You've killed four colored guys.

“Jesus Christ,” Frank said. “Holy Christ Almighty.”

Stick got down on one knee over Sportree and took the car keys and another ring of keys from his side pocket. Frank was saying, Jesus Christ.

“We'll leave them,” Stick said, “we might as well. And take Leon's car.”

“We got to get our car,” Frank said.

“You bet we do,” Stick said, “and that ain't all. It's got to be in his apartment someplace.”

Marlys was in the bedroom with the air conditioning going, lying on top of the bed in a short little slip she used for a nightgown, reading
Viva
and listening to Stevie coming out of the bedroom speaker. She heard the door to the apartment open and close and looked over the top of the magazine, waiting.