Now he was going down to Belize to check on his seven-figure emergency fund stashed in the Banco Central de Belice, the money launderer’s bank of choice. He planned to stay down there awhile. Lie on the beach, drink a few mojitos, sample the local talent, and think things over. He’d make a comeback, no doubt about it. Marion Barry, the former mayor of DC, was caught on tape smoking crack with a hooker. When he got out of prison he ran for mayor again and won with fifty-six percent of the vote. If he could rise from the ashes so could Bobby.
Bobby was at the office packing his carry-on when Hegan came in rubbing his crooked arm. Bobby thought the beaded dreadlocks looked ridiculous on a white guy, like a Japanese tourist wearing a cowboy hat. You’d think the man would have changed his style by now, quit clinging to the past. The days of Hegan the Hatchet Man Swaysie were over. Bobby was bringing him along to Belize. He knew too much and it was better to keep him close. Maybe he’d have an accident, get bit by a mamba, or fall into some quicksand. You never know.
“You ready to go?” Hegan said. “Traffic on the 405’s a bitch.”
“In a minute,” Bobby said.
“We’ve got to get through security.”
“I’ve been on an airplane before. Bring the car around.”
Hegan held his tongue. He’d deal with Bobby soon enough. Let him tap that emergency stash and then remind him who knew what. He wasn’t about to walk away from this mess with a handshake but he’d have to watch himself. Bobby ordered the hit on Cal without a second thought and he’d do the same to him if he got the chance.
“I’ve got to get my luggage out of my car,” Hegan said.
“Who’s making us late now?” Bobby said.
Bobby was looking for his passport when Hegan came backing into the room with his good arm up in the air. “What’s wrong with you?” Bobby said.
Now Charles came in with a gun aimed at Hegan’s head, Bug right behind them. “Whassup, Bobby?” Charles said.
“Did somebody wave a ham samitch?” Bug said. “I thought I smelled something.”
“What is this?” Bobby said.
“You taking a trip?” Charles said, looking at the carry-on. “What you got in there, Cal’s songs?”
Panic skittered through Bobby like a rat along a baseboard.
“Guys?” Hegan said. “Whatever you need to know I can tell you. I was the go-between, nothing else.”
Bobby gave Hegan the look of death. “Look,” Bobby said, “it’s all a misunderstanding. How about we sit down and I’ll explain everything in detail.”
“What do you want to do, Bug?” Charles said. “Do you want to sit down with Bobby, let him explain everything in detail?”
“Sho’ don’t,” Bug said. “I got too much blubber weighin’ me down. I can’t be listenin’ to all that.”
“Well, what do you feel like doing?”
“You know what? I feel like playin’ ball.”
In those initial moments of shock and confusion Bobby didn’t notice Bug had a Louisville Slugger slung over his shoulder. It was an aluminum model with a ventilated leather grip like a tennis racket. Bug took a few practice swings, the gusts ruffling Bobby’s hair and blowing papers off the desk. “Batter up,” he said.
Isaiah watched the news, vaguely dissatisfied. All that commotion and running around and to what end? What was the case about?
“Another story in our news tonight involves record executive Bobby Grimes,” the anchorwoman said. “Mr. Grimes was found crawling out of a dumpster near his office in Century City. Grimes was suffering from a concussion, contusions, and broken bones, and was bleeding internally. He was taken to Cedars-Sinai Hospital and is listed in serious condition. Curiously, when the police asked Grimes about his assailant and the circumstances surrounding the assault, he refused to answer. And there’s another bizarre twist to this story. An alleged hit man who was in a coma because of injuries suffered in another incident woke up today and implicated Hegan Swaysie, an associate of Grimes’s, in a murder-for-hire scheme. The district attorney will be holding a press conference about the case tomorrow afternoon. On a more pleasant note, we turn to the weekend forecast with our veteran meteorologist, Kaylin Kennedy. So how are things shaping up for the weekend, Kaylin?”
Isaiah brooded. A rapper of dubious value to society was saved but it wasn’t as if good had conquered evil. It was more like good had let a lesser evil survive. But Skip was off the streets and that was something, wasn’t it? That crazy son of a bitch was evil. Maybe he was being too hard on himself, Isaiah thought. Maybe. The upside was definitely the bonus money, Flaco’s condo a real possibility now.
Isaiah drove over to see Tudor about a second mortgage. He was parking in front of the building when Cal’s business manager called. He said he had unfortunate news. The bonus check would not be forthcoming. Cal’s lavish spending and tax obligations had finally caught up with him. He was filing for bankruptcy and there was a long list of creditors. Cal owed Dr. Freeman sixteen grand. Isaiah would have to get in line and could only expect a fraction of what he was owed, if anything at all. On the bright side, Isaiah’s per diem check was cut before Cal’s accounts were frozen and should arrive in a day or two. “GodDAMMIT!” Isaiah said, pounding the steering wheel with both hands. All that work and worry, not to mention nearly getting killed, only to get burned for the money, the only thing that made the case worthwhile.
Isaiah took Flaco to the Hollywood Bowl to see Margaret Cho. She was pretty funny, all tatted up and a whole lot finer than that cutout. Isaiah admired her, walking out on that big stage all alone. No props, no special effects, just her by herself facing seventeen thousand people who expected her to make them laugh. Flaco laughed his head off even during the parts that weren’t funny. When the concert ended he waved both arms like he was trapped on a desert island. “Nargret! Nargret!” he said. “I love you, Nargret! I love you!”
Isaiah and Flaco went Section 8 apartment hunting. The places were shabby and depressing. Isaiah told Flaco he could move in with him and Flaco said he’d think about it. He wanted a cool place that had a lot of girls.
Dodson came over to collect his cut of the per diem money. He wanted it in cash, saying his relationship with the IRS was in transition. “Ain’t this a bitch?” he said as he came in the door. “Cal’s got all the money in the world right up until payday. That’s bad luck right there. All you can do is hope some good luck comes along and puts you in the black and by the way, don’t you think I should get a little extra for solving the case?”
“I’d have figured it out sooner or later,” Isaiah said.
“Yes, I understand. Hard to accept that someone whose intellectual abilities you’ve disregarded and disrespected all these years came along and did your job for you. What was that you said? This is what I do?”
“Don’t you have someplace to be?”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You know what they say, what doesn’t kill you might come back later and kill you for real. Here. This is yours.” Dodson gave Isaiah a cashier’s check.