I nodded. Hightower knew me. Better than Lloyd did.
"Anyway, later, at lunch, this other boy, big white kid, one of those skinheads, he reaches over, takes the cake right off my tray. I start across the table at him when I hear Hightower whisper, 'Chill, Lloyd. The Man!' and I see one of the guards coming down the aisle. The white boy smiles at me. Then Hightower tells him he wants to settle this later, come to the shower room after gym. Bring his shit. The white boy says this ain't Hightower's beef. Hightower says anyone messes with me, they got him to deal with. I reach over, take my cake back off the white boy's tray. Then I help myself to his piece too. Nobody says nothing. I did it right, Virgil?"
Virgil's smile was sad. "Like you been doin' it all your life, son."
The kids came back inside. Virginia sat down at the piano. Started pounding out the jangle-line of some country-blues song. Like her father. Junior sat next to his sister, his little hand on her shoulder. Rebecca watched over them. Virgil opened a beer for Lloyd. The kid left it untouched in front of him, knowing it was Virgil's way of telling his family Lloyd was a man now. Sacramental wine, not for drinking.
I knew it was time for me to go.
59
IT WAS LATE afternoon when I got back to the motel. Night work coming up— I lay down to rest. Slapped a cassette into the tape player Virgil left me. "Got some of your girl on this, brother," he told me.
Judy Henske's voice charged out of the speakers, dominating the dingy room the way she overworked every club she'd ever played. Her early stuff. "Wade in the Water." Making the gospel song into a blue-tinted challenge. When they say a prizefighter hits and holds, they're talking about a dirty tactic. Like we taught Lloyd. Henske, she hits and holds those notes until they turn into beauty past what you can see with your eyes. What you feel. What she makes you feel. A channel to the root.
There was more on the tape. Bonnie Raitt. Henske's spiritual sister, like Henske was Billie Holiday's. "Give It Up." Working that slide guitar like the critics said a woman never could.
When Raitt got to singing "Guilty," I felt Belle's loss so hard I couldn't get a clean breath. I'd paid off her debts, but it didn't set me free. My soul jumped the tracks and it took a monster and a witch to save me.
It wasn't just a sex-sniper I was looking for in Indiana.
60
I DRIFTED IN and out of sleep. Dreamed I was back in prison. The Olympics were on the TV in the rec room. 1972. The cons watched Olga Korbut twist herself into positions the Kama Sutra never imagined. Talking about what they'd do to her if they had her for a night. The little Russian girl was winning hearts all over the world, dancing and prancing, wiggling her teenage butt, waggling her fingers in special waves, smiling like she'd discovered purity.
The senior member of the Russian gymnastics team was a dark-haired beauty who'd been the leader for years— until right then, when Olga burst out. Lyudmila Turischeva. A proud woman, she knew it was time— time for the cubs to challenge the pack leader. When she walked out onto the mat, her shoulders were squared, chin up, eyes straight ahead. Arms moving at her sides like a soldier's. She knew she was up against it— the crowd was Olga's.
The other cons watched her hips, disappointed. I watched her eyes. She did her exercise perfectly. No flash, the fire banked. Then she turned and walked off, head high, going out with class.
A woman, not a girl.
I woke up knowing what I'd recognized in Blossom as she walked by.
61
I DIDN'T NEED the real estate cover anymore, but I dropped by Humboldt's office just to keep the extra cards in my hand. He was out "viewing some properties." I left word that I was still around, still looking into our project.
Used the car phone to call Sherwood. Held on while they looked for him.
"This is Sloane. Did you speak to my friend?"
"Yes. Last night."
"Now a good time to come and see you?"
"A very good time."
"Okay. I'll pull up outside the station in about fifteen minutes. We'll go for a ride and talk, okay? I'm driving a…"
"I know your car. I'll be out front."
He hadn't seemed surprised I didn't want to sit around a police station— I guess he had talked to McGowan.
62
SHERWOOD CLIMBED in the front seat, adjusting his bulk comfortably. "You show them a credit card, they'll rent you anything these days, huh?" Letting me know.
"Anyplace special you want me to drive?"
"You want to see where it happened? That last one?"
"Yeah."
"Take the left at the corner."
I followed the cop's directions until we came to a sign that said Naval Reserve Center. A couple of more blocks to the beach. A black man came over to my window, wearing a guayabera shirt, metal change-maker at his waist. "Two bucks for nonresidents," he said.
"Rest it, Rufus," Sherwood rumbled.
The change-maker looked across me to Sherwood, turned away without a word.
I pulled into the parking lot. Lake Michigan spread out before us. Only a few people on the beach, half a dozen cars in the lot.
I killed the engine, flicked the power window switch, lit a smoke. Waited.
"This is it" he said. "Victims were parked just about there"— pointing at the corner of the lot closest to the dunes. "We figure he took a position somewhere up around there"— pointing again. "No use trying that trajectory stuff— too many bullets."
"Kids still park here at night?"
"Yeah, they do. But over on the other side. Where there's no cover."
"Wouldn't need much at nighttime."
"No," he agreed, sadly.
I scanned the scene. A thousand places to shoot from, stationary, unsuspecting targets who couldn't shoot back, the cover of night. Surprise. A human-hunter's paradise.
"McGowan, that's your friend?" Sherwood asked.
"My friend. Not my brother, not my partner, okay? We've done some things together over the years."
"Want to know what he said about you?"
"Up to you."
"He said you got felony arrests for everything from hijacking to attempted murder."
"Not everything."
"Okay, he was clear about that. No rapes, no sex cases."
"No narcotics, no kids."
"Right."
"So now you know."
"He said you may have been a firearms dealer at one time. There's an FBI file on you for that. You took a federal fall for interstate transport, but it was only a couple of handguns. That's where you met your man Virgil, right?"
I nodded. That was back when the state joints were using the federales as a dumping ground, transferring cons all over the country. Bus therapy, they called it. They moved the Prof for preaching— race war is more to prison authorities' taste than brotherhood. I never did find out why Virgil came down as well.
"And a CIA file too— still open. Suspected mercenary."
"I was in Biafra," I said, watching him closely, "not Rhodesia."
"He told me. Said you cleaned up a real mess for them a while back."
I dragged on my smoke.
"He said you make a living working the edge of the line. Finding missing kids, stinging kiddie-porn dealers, roughing off pimps."
"Any of those on your protected list?"
"No."
"So?"
"So you're a criminal. Not just an ex-con like your pal Virgil. A working criminal."
"McGowan tell you I know anything about freaks?"