The Victim (36 page)

The Pirates hat shaded his face. In the peripheral glow of a nearby streetlamp, he could make out the words
gangsta killa
tattooed across his throat. On the back of his right hand was the bubble-lettered dollar sign dripping with blood. Not a day over seventeen but he was hardcore Paid In Full.

The passenger door opened and a monster of a man stepped out. He seemed as wide as he was tall, wearing a black T-shirt that came down to his knees. His belly lapped over the waistline of his jeans. He was a good shade darker than the driver. Anton couldn’t make out any tattoos.

The funk of burnt marijuana drifted out of the open car doors. The driver and passenger slowly approached him. Anton doubted they had insurance, but a quick glance at the bumper revealed just a crack. He knew a guy who could even out the dent, patch and paint it for $250 in cash. Cheaper than the deductible.

Anton felt his nerves firing off like live wires. For a moment he thought he could reason with these guys, having left his .38 in the glove box. It was just a fender bender. Only a crazed gun nut would feel the need to arm themselves to exchange a little insurance information.

The two men just stood there, staring. Neither said a word.

The dead eyes of the two men standing before him, the way their fists were clenched into tight balls. The way they swayed back and forth, eyeing him like a pack of lions ready to pounce.

Anton took a step back, but the big one had the reach. His fist came down on the top of Anton’s skull like a bear swipe. His head spun and he dropped to his knees.

He heard cheers and whistles from the homeless standing by.

“
Beat his ass!”

“
Fuck that cracker up!”

Anton scurried to his feet and took a defensive posture, not that it would do any good. His left leg forward, his right leg back. His fists tight, held low in a lazy boxer’s stance. Fight or flight was coursing through his veins.

Anton wasn’t used to the life-or-death mechanics of the body. The physiological way the brain had evolved to deal with the threat of imminent harm. His heart rate had jacked up to almost two hundred beats per minute. His fists were shaking uncontrollably. His knees felt like rubber. He was afraid, that much he knew. But there was a marked difference between physical fear—the nuts and bolts neurology of being scared shitless—and mental fear. The physical meant rapid heart rate, changes in breathing, tension of the muscles. Those were easy to cope with if you could undo the mind’s complete unraveling of itself, that paralyzing anxiety that makes you piss your pants and beg for your own life.

He hadn’t been in a physical confrontation since college but that was bush-league compared to this. Two white frat guys high on beer and testosterone.

He took a deep breath, harnessing his primal instincts. That caveman voice deep within him that controlled the
eat! fuck! kill!
part of his subconscious.

The big one lunged at him. Anton threw a front kick with full force, driving it right between his legs. He felt the big man’s testicles rupture against his shinbone before he crumpled to the asphalt, cupping his groin, screaming a high-pitched shrill.

The smaller one reached behind him with his right hand, no doubt going for a gun. Anton didn’t have time to go for his. He charged in, grasping onto the kid’s wrist, twisting, trying to pry it away from his waistband. A quick left to the temple caught Anton by surprise. The kid repeated the punch twice more with his gnarled fist. His knuckles had been broken so many times they felt like spikes of bone.

Anton brought up his hand to block, losing wrist control. The stainless steel of the barrel caught a glint of streetlight and Anton saw the gun before he could take aim. It was a small piece—a .380—but deadly in the wrong hands.

Anton thrust both hands onto the top of the barrel and bladed his body, turning his shoulders in an effort to break the kid’s grip.

He was small but strong, veins swelling on his forearms.

The ten or so street people tightened their circle, getting a front row seat.

“
Damn, nigga, shoot that cracker-ass bitch!”

“
Shoot that white boy!”

The kid’s finger was curled around the trigger. Anton struggled to keep his hands on the barrel as the kid tried to shake him off.

Anton threw his shoulders, knocking the kid off center. Anton slid his finger underneath the trigger guard and fired.

Pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop…

The slide locked and he knew the clip had been emptied. Rounds pinged off the ground, etching little white pockmarks into the asphalt. The crowd scattered and took cover behind the concrete pylons of the overpass. Anton gained the upper hand, utilized his leverage, and freed the gun from the kid’s grip. He reared back, throwing his elbow behind him, catching the kid on the bridge of his nose. He heard a crack and the kid dropped to his knees.

Anton tossed the unloaded weapon into a tuft of weeds. Three of the spectators dived for it, wrestling over who would get to pawn it.

The kid stood up, wiped the blood from his nose.

Anton backed up, hands up, palms facing forward. “Look, kid, I know Quincy Arrington. I tell him that you’re trying to fuck with me, he’s not gonna be happy.”

“
Fuck you!”

A quick haymaker caught Anton off guard. Before he could react the kid got off a left to the ribs and a straight right that landed plumb on the tip of his nose. His eyes stung and the world became blurry. He felt warm blood trickling above his top lip. Anton blinked the tears from his eyes. He saw the kid rearing back for another right. Anton grabbed his thin wrist with both hands, cranked hard until he felt a tendon pop. The kid yelped in pain while Anton reached for the pen. He yanked it from his shirt pocket and flicked the cap off with his thumb.

With one swift uppercut, he jammed the pen up underneath the kid’s chin, nailing his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

He tried to scream but he couldn’t open his mouth. The blood collected and sluiced between his teeth. The big man was still writhing on the ground. The crowd stood back, unsure of what this crazy white boy would do next.

Anton got into his car and sped off.

CHAPTER 38

Mandy lay on the soft mattress of Daniella’s bed, draped in the billowy folds of her comforter. The bathroom door was open. He could hear the spray from the shower cascading over her body. If he sat up he could see the movement of her silhouette behind the steamed-up glass door. Part of him wanted to step inside and take her from behind right there, hot water pelting their skin. Although, he wasn’t so young anymore. He needed a longer break in between sessions.

He propped up the silk pillow against the headboard and reached for the remote on the nightstand. He flipped through the channels on the 42-inch LCD television mounted to the wall above the dresser, settling on
SportsCenter
.

Lately, he had spent so much time here he really felt like he belonged. At times he imagined himself moving in, sharing this bed with her. He wondered
, Could this become something more
?

Mandy had never thought about marriage. Back in his late twenties and into his thirties, he had attended dozens of weddings, friends and colleagues and family members. No event was ever complete without someone asking him when he was going to settle down.

His
abuela
feared only two things—pissing off God and dying without seeing her precious
Armandito
married to a nice Catholic girl.

He was forty-six now, sick of being the creepy guy eyeballing the younger girls at the clubs he frequented. When he was a young cop he could have his pick, but now when they looked at him—the gray in his goatee, the crow’s feet spreading from eyes—they saw an old man. Even if they thought he had money—a facade built upon several maxed-out credit cards—most of them didn’t care. They were young and attractive. They wanted young and attractive.

Daniella was the first woman to make him forget about all of that.

It was more than physical. She understood him. She laughed at his jokes. He knew she felt safe in his arms.

He wanted her all to himself.

He cringed as an image of Anton and Daniella flashed in his mind. He tried to act cool about it but it killed him. In the very bed he was lying in, no less. Part of him wanted to pretend it had never happened. Another part wanted details. Did she bite his lip when they kissed? Did she scream when she came? Did she come at all? How did he compare to Anton in
that
department?

A pang of guilt curled in his belly.

Anton was his friend.

And Daniella was out to get him.

Mandy had tried to rationalize it in his mind. Whatever happened back in Arizona in 2003 was between the two of them. He promised himself he wouldn’t get involved. Yet he did enable her to record his phone calls. He knew how much she was messing with his head. He knew that she had sent the video of the two of them to his wife. He justified it the same way he used to justify making an arrest. You get what you deserve.

Anton had made a decision to drive drunk. In doing so, he killed two young people, one of whom was Daniella’s sister. If she had an ax to grind with him, so be it.

He heard the shower door open.

“
Hey, wanna grab some takeout?”

“
Yeah,” he shouted back.

He heard her wet feet on the tile. She stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a plush bathrobe. She toweled off her hair.

“
Let’s open a bottle of wine, too.” She walked out of the bedroom. “Pinot or Shiraz?”

“
Like I can tell the difference,” he joked. He could hear her giggling.

He loved it when they opened a bottle of wine. One always turned into two. But that’s when things would really blossom between them. Other than Jack and the Miami Beach Police Department’s Internal Affairs Unit, she was the only other person who knew why he had resigned. She knew and she didn’t judge, and above all, she believed him. At least she told him she did.

His cell phone vibrated on the nightstand, skidding toward the edge. He grabbed it and checked the display. It was Anton. Anton never called, he only texted.

“
Digame?”

“
Thank God.” He was out of breath. “Jesus, where are you?”

Mandy shot upright. “What’s the matter?”

“
Two of Quincy Arrington’s boys just tried to kill me.”

Mandy threw off the comforter and jumped out of bed. “Are you fucking serious? Where are you? Let me come help you.”

“
No, no, no. I’m gone now. I’m just driving around. I was able to fight them off. So, this tricked-out Chevy taps me on the bumper. I get out to check out the damage and these two P.I.F. guys get out of the car. I was able to take one down with a kick to the nuts, but the other grabbed a fucking gun.”

Anton recalled the incident at a mile a minute, nearly out of breath by the pace of his own story.

“
Are you okay?”

“
Yeah, I’m fine. I was able to get the gun. Stabbed the fucker in the neck with my pen.”

“
Holy shit, Anton. You call the cops?”

“
No. I realize now that my name’s engraved on the pen. But these boys don’t go to the cops. You know what I mean?”

“
Yeah I know. You got your piece in your glove box, right?”

“
Screw the glove box. It’s in my lap.”

Mandy sighed into the phone. “Can you find somewhere to pull over? I can meet you in a few minutes.”

“
Sure. Where’re you at?”