Authors: Dave White
“Why’s that?”
“I heard you be with Michael Burgess now.” Martin chuckled. “Word travels fast.”
“You know what you doing, I got no doubt.” Jesus patted him on the shoulder. “What do you need me to do?”
“Talk to Donne.”
“But you tol’ me—”
“Yeah, I know what I said. But times change.”
A campus bus rumbled down the street. There used to be a porno shop right on this corner a decade ago. Glittering neon, bright lights. Now it was just a run-down grocery store. No matter how hard you try to keep up appearances, it just gets knocked down again.
“Times change in a day?”
“You know they do. You’ve seen it out here. One minute, someone’s alive, the next . . .”
Two drunk college girls ran down the street toward him, waving, trying to flag down the bus that just passed. They were unsuccessful and slowed into a giggling walk.
Jesus eyed them, reached into his pocket. Martin had seen that look before.
“Don’t you dare,” he said. “Not while I’m here.”
“Shit, Bill, man’s gotta make a livin’.”
“Go talk to Donne. Feed him some information. He quit the case I wanted him to work. I want to get him back on.”
“I thought you hated him.”
“Just do what I said.”
“All right, yo. What you want me to tell him?”
Martin relayed everything he’d planned out. Jesus nodded like he was actually paying attention. Martin knew the guy would only tell Donne half of what he was supposed to.
When he was finished, Jesus said, “Yo, I’ll be there in the morning, when my shift’s over.”
“Jesus Christ. You don’t work a shift,” Martin said, turning his back and starting to walk away.
“Man’s gotta make a living,” Jesus said.
Isn’t that the truth, Martin thought.
As I tried to sit up, Hanover connected with a right cross. I went back down, my eyes closing, stars flashing across the eyelids. Pushing my hands into the carpet, again it was time to get up. This time a boot to the ribs sent me to the floor. Air felt trapped in my lungs and inhaling became near impossible. I heard myself gasp, trying to catch my breath. Learn your lesson. Stay down.
I lay on my back, coughing hard. Hanover wasn’t standing over me anymore, probably confident I wouldn’t be able to get up. Pain in my ribs kept me from sitting, so he was right. I coughed hard and tasted blood in my mouth, like an old penny. I could no longer taste Tracy’s kiss.
Where the hell did he go?
The click of my CD player—a sound I’ve heard a few times—changing CDs answered my question. The Kinks, a CD I’d picked up years ago in a bargain bin, started up. The song was “Sunny Afternoon.” I had forgotten I owned it. Hanover strolled back my way, taking his time, examining an ashtray on the coffee table. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. That was good, I thought. Probably gave me more time to live.
“Nice collection,” he said, the hint of a Mexican accent in his voice. He nodded toward my CD player. “Not many people have the Kinks. At least not many people I talk to.”
“What the fuck?” I managed, finally forcing my way into a seated position.
He grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me up, left-handed. He found the Glock under my jacket. Pulled it from the holster and popped the clip. Then he jacked the barrel and popped out the round. Spun the gun in his hand so the barrel faced downward. He did it cleanly, smoothly, like he’d done it a million times before. He kept his eyes on me. He cocked his arm back, and I knew what was going to happen. I tried to force my way out of his grip, but the gun caught me right on the cheekbone.
I felt like I was floating toward the ground, my brain exploding in pain and light. I hit the carpet hard, felt like I bounced three feet in the air, and hit again.
I rolled onto my stomach, forced my eyes open. Hanover was wearing Doc Martens, shoes I thought had gone out of style at the end of the century. All I knew at the moment was they caused my ribs to hurt like hell. Hanover gave me another kick. Somewhere in the ether, I prayed the bones didn’t crack. And I prayed they wouldn’t puncture a lung, worst-case scenario.
The CD player must have been on random, and the music changed. Oasis, “Talk Tonight.”
“Shit,” Hanover said. “Ain’t this appropriate? We need to talk.”
“Could have fooled me,” I mumbled.
“Don’t think you’re in any position to talk shit.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You’re probably right.”
I put my hands flat against the ground in push-up position. “You get up, I’ll put you down again.”
I stopped where I was, letting air out between my teeth. My head spun and blood rushed in my ears.
“Why were you following me outside of Drew?”
This was bad. He knew I was following him that night and he wanted to know why. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to say, “Your wife hired me. She wanted me to find out if you were cheating on her.” But if I said that, he’d bolt out of here, probably go right after her. And I was in no shape to stop him. Better to keep quiet.
One of the Gallagher brothers pleaded with someone to talk. I didn’t say a word. Hanover was pacing, his Doc Martens leaving imprints in the carpet.
“Don’t make me hit you again. I don’t have time for this shit. You know I can hurt you. Why were you there that night?”
I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I didn’t do anything.
Hanover squatted over me and slapped my cheek. “Wake up, maricon. I’m talking to you.”
If I stayed quiet any longer, he’d either hit me or give something away. I could stand the pain for a while, and assuming I made it until tomorrow, maybe I could
make his visit useful. And if I bought enough time, maybe I’d find a way to take him down.
“You’re not with the cops. I see that. Private investigator, but it looks like you do pretty well for yourself.”
That made me chuckle despite the situation.
“So, who are you working for? Someone who can afford you.”
“Yeah, you should see my hourly fees,” I managed. My face hurt like hell from the gun.
Hanover laughed. He walked my way, stepped on my back to step over me.
“All right. You’re not going to tell me who it is. Tell me what you know about me.”
“Nothing.”
He smiled. “Yeah, right.”
“Fuck you.”
He grabbed me by the collar again, pulling me onto my knees. We probably looked like something out of a Flintstones cartoon, a caveman dragging his would-be bride. Pulled me toward one of the closed windows.
“Listen,” he said, stopping in front of the window. He unlocked it and pushed it open. He yanked me to my feet. “I’ll kill you if I have to. I just want to know what I’m up against here. Who are you working for?”
I took a step and made a halfhearted attempt to hit him. I still couldn’t see straight, my face throbbing, my ribs aching. Attempting to throw a punch didn’t help. He stepped out of the way. As my momentum carried me past him, he hit me in the jaw, and I tumbled out the open window.
Gravity took hold and I felt my stomach drop, like riding a huge roller coaster. I think I reached for the windowsill. My hands couldn’t find a catch and slipped away, momentum taking my body. I may have tried to scream. I may have prayed.
Then, suddenly, I stopped. I felt the blood rush toward my head, and the feeling made me light-headed. I couldn’t catch my breath. The pain in my ribs stabbed through my chest.
There was pressure at the waist of my pants. Hanover had me, caught my belt, and hung on. The CDs switched again. Now it was a Stones song, the muffled beat reminded me of “Miss Amanda Jones.”
“I’ll pull you up if you tell me who you’ve spoken to and why you’re following me.”
“I can’t.”
I felt my ass slip off the windowsill. Jesus Christ, he was going to drop me. I clawed at the brick wall of my apartment building. My nails split and my skin tore. I kicked my legs as well. I shook my head back and forth looking for something.
“Hey, asshole. You struggle like that, I’m not going to be able to pull you up.”
I took air in through my nose. Willed myself to calm down, to think things through. On the ground I saw someone staring up at me, a woman who had her mouth covered, the other hand in her pocketbook. I hoped she was searching for her cell phone. Maybe she’d call 911. Though I’d hit the floor as soon as Hanover heard the sirens.
“How do I know you won’t drop me?” I said.
I slipped further as Hanover readjusted his grip. “Because I don’t do business that way,” he said.
“I can’t tell you who hired me,” I said, trying to figure out the best line of bullshit I could. “They’d kill me.” It sounded like the biggest cliché ever, but hanging upside down above Somerset Street, I thought I did pretty well for myself.
“You’re not in a position to be worried about someone else killing you.”
He let me hang there. Below, the woman was speaking into a phone rapidly. She wasn’t even looking up at me anymore, just staring at the oncoming traffic. Finally, I felt my body being dragged back into the apartment.
Once inside, I dropped into a seated position. Rex Hanover crouched over me, his face hovering over mine. As he spoke his breath smelled distinctly of ham. “Kill you, huh? Thanks for answering my question.”
I nodded, still trying to catch my breath. Half-conscious, I wiped at my face with my wrist.
“I want you to give Burgess a message,” he said. “Tell him to leave me alone. And if the rest of his goons are half the pussy you are, I’ll kill them without breaking a sweat.”
I didn’t even see the punch coming this time. I felt it, though. My neck snapped to the right. Then the room around me swirled, faded, and went black.
***
The room was dark and empty. I didn’t hear sirens, I didn’t hear music, I didn’t hear anything.
Taking my time, I forced myself to my feet. I had a strong sense of vertigo, but regained my balance. Everything ached. I lifted my arms over my head and tried to stretch out.
My digital clock read four A.M. Making my way to the bathroom, I took a long hot shower. My brain started to reset itself; I realized I’d learned a lot. I’d taken a beating, but learned things in the process. The name Burgess sounded familiar. I was going to have to do a little research when I got to my office. Hanover also said something that clicked, seemed out of place. “I don’t do business that way.” What kind of business? What was he talking about? The warm water washed over me, searing the cuts and scratches on my hands, but massaging the soreness out of the bruises. I couldn’t think about all of this now. My body craved sleep, and I was intent on giving in.
I put on a pair of boxers, pulled the covers back, and lay down. I shut my eyes and felt like I was falling again, my stomach twisting, panic firing up my nerve endings. I sat bolt upright, which didn’t do much for the pain. I felt exhausted, but I wasn’t going to sleep. I sat staring, adjusting my eyes, trying to focus on nothing, allowing the minutes of the night to pass by. They did, but too slowly for me. I got out of bed and edged my way to the living room.
I grabbed a bottle of Jack from the kitchen and drank myself to sleep.
My head throbbed, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the beating or the Jack Daniel’s. Swimming through the haze back to consciousness, the pain in my temples was the first thing I noticed. The second was the man in the room.
“Jesus!” I said, jumping back in my seat.
“Come on now,” he said evenly, “that’s not how you say my name.”
Wiry and thin, long legs up on my coffee table, Jesus Sanchez relaxed on my couch. He wore a black nylon running suit, Nikes, and had a pencil-thin line of hair across his jawline. Tan skin, dark hair pushed back, he was probably in his midthirties.
Jesus Sanchez, wiseass, drug dealer, and Bill Martin’s number-one informant when I was a narc. I’d only met him once or twice when I was Martin’s partner. Martin liked to keep his informants to himself.
“Jesus, what are you doing here?” I said his name correctly this time. Hey-zeus. “How did you get in?”
“You and me, son, we need to talk.” He leaned back, smiling, cradled the back of his head in his hands.
“Don’t call me son,” I said, getting up. I went down the hallway to my bathroom. Popped a couple of Advil. “How did you get in?” I yelled back to him.
“You left your door unlocked.”
“Martin send you?” I asked.
As I made my way back to the living room, I heard Jesus pull open the refrigerator. “Damn, yo. You ain’t got shit to eat.”
I wiped my face and sat back down. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Word’s out about you.”
“What do you mean?”
He came back into the room and sat down. Relaxed again, hands cradling his head.
“You looking into that dead teacher thing, right?”
“How do you know that?”
“Word is you took some money from some bad people.”
The five thousand dollars. How did Jesus know about that? Word gets around quick. “Who told you about this?”