Farrow stabbed out his cigarette.
Otis leaned back on the couch, closed his eyes, and picked up the Isleys’ tune where he had left it in his head. He imagined that he was back in California. Frank had called him, and he’d come, but he didn’t much care for the East Coast. His work, it demanded that he move around. Sometimes it seemed like one big circle. Do a job, grab some money, spend the money, do a job… try to stay ahead of the law. Well, what else was he gonna do? He knew the way it would end, too, but it didn’t do much good to think on it. This was the life he had made for himself. He had accepted that a long time ago.
“Look at Rodman,” said Kendricks, pointing at the screen. “That is one genuine nigger right there.”
They had all stopped listening to Kendricks. Farrow picked up his beer and went to the front window of the house. He looked out into the absolute darkness.
They were in a small brick rambler in the woods of southern Maryland. Off 301 somewhere and down a couple of two-lane black-tops, near a place called Nanjemoy, that’s all Farrow knew. They’d stayed here before the May’s job, but Booker Kendricks had been in Lorton then, and they’d been alone. This Kendricks could really get on his nerves. But Kendricks would be all right if anything went down. Farrow knew his history, and his type.
Farrow imagined they could do a job in D.C., and finish their business, in the space of a week or so. Then they could all get on their way.
Headlights appeared down the long dirt road that cut through the woods to the house. As they approached, Farrow could see that these were the lights of a late-model car.
“Here he comes,” said Farrow.
Kendricks pulled a Rossi. 22 from underneath the chair. He locked back the trigger without moving his eyes from the screen.
The headlights were killed out in the yard, and then there were footsteps and a knock on the door. Farrow looked through the peephole and unfastened the dead bolt. He pulled the door open and stepped back.
“T. W.,” said Farrow.
“Frank,” said Thomas Wilson, stepping inside. “Long time.”
TWENTY-FIVE
You remember Roman,” said Frank Farrow.
“How’s it goin’, man?” said Thomas Wilson, nodding at Otis.
He saw that Otis was still dressing sharp. Still doin’ that Nick Ashford thing with his hair, too.
“I’m makin’ it,” said Otis, smiling amiably, reaching over and shaking Wilson’s hand.
Wilson did not let the handshake linger. You could mistake Otis’s easy manner for weakness. He had seen a couple of men make that mistake up in Lewisburg. Roman Otis wasn’t nothin’ much more than Frank Farrow with a smile.
“Say hello to Gus Lavonicus,” said Farrow.
“Gus,” said Wilson. He saw an ugly white giant sitting at what looked like a child’s desk. The giant waved awkwardly and turned his attention back to the sheet of paper before him.
“And this here’s Booker Kendricks,” said Farrow.
Wilson looked at the skinny, greasy-lookin’ hustler with the yellow eyes, slouched in the chair. A pistol hung limply in his clawlike hand. Kendricks did not acknowledge Wilson. Wilson felt it was just as well.
“Beer?” said Farrow.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Get T. W. a beer, Booker,” said Otis.
“Damn, can’t y’all see I’m watchin’ this shit?” said Kendricks. “Starks is getting ready to light it up, too!”
“Get it,” said Farrow.
Kendricks went to the kitchen as Wilson took a seat on the couch next to Otis. Farrow stayed on his feet. He leaned forward and rustled his pack of Kools in Wilson’s face.
“Cigarette?” said Farrow.
“Nah,” said Wilson. “Thanks.”
“This used to be your brand in the joint, I remember right.”
“I gave them up a long time ago.”
Charles convinced me to throw them away for good.
Kendricks returned, placed an open bottle of beer on the cable-spool table in front of Wilson. Kendricks went back to the oversize chair and had a seat.
Wilson sipped his beer, fumbled it as he placed it back on the table.
“You seem a little uptight,” said Farrow, catching Otis’s eye.
“I’m tired is all it is,” said Wilson. “Took me over an hour to get down here from D.C.”
Farrow slowly paced the room. “How is it up in town? Any heat that you can make out?”
“None.”
“Good. Me and Roman were thinking you could set us up again with some kind of thing. Something cleaner than the last time. Less risk.”
“I’m working on it. Been out in the bars at night, listenin’ to people talk. Trying to find out where the after-hours action is these days. I’m thinkin’ a bag rip-off, or a high-stakes game. Somethin’ y’all could take off quiet.”
“I like the way you’re thinking.”
“Get you in and out of town real quick.”
“That’s our intent. We need a substantial payday this time. Roman and Gus here have run into a financial setback. Your cut will be the usual – ten percent. That okay with you, T. W.?”
Wilson nodded.
“Tomorrow we’ll see Manuel and Jaime. You’ve called them, right?”
“Yes.”
“What’d they have to say?”
They said you killed a minister in cold blood down on the Eastern Shore.
“They said to come on by,” said Wilson. “They’ll have a car for you on Monday.”
“I need something with a little muscle. I’ve been driving this piece-of-shit truck -”
“They’re on it,” said Wilson.
“Damn, boy!” shouted Kendricks, jumping up from his chair and shutting off the set. “Can’t nobody in this league fuck with the Bulls?”
“Hey, Booker,” said Otis. “Keep your voice down, man.”
Kendricks dismissed them all with a wave of his hand. “Y’all are just way too serious for a Saturday night. I’m gonna take a walk, catch some air.”
Kendricks slipped the pistol into the pocket of his baggy slacks and put on a jacket. “See ya later, Tall Tree,” he said, smiling at Lavonicus before leaving the house.
Lavonicus blinked his eyes hard, but he did not raise his head.
When the door closed, Otis said, “Hard to believe that man shares a drop of my blood.”
Farrow said, “Where’s he goin’, anyway, in this cold?”
“I don’t know,” said Otis. “But if I owned one of these farms around here, right about now I’d be putting a lock on the barn door.”
“Likes those kickin’ mules, huh?” said Farrow.
“I don’t even think they have to kick to get his fancy. All he needs is the right texture to get him started. You want to know the truth, I wouldn’t even trust my cousin around a rare steak.”
Wilson cleared his throat. “That about it? ’Cause I got to make the drive back into town.”
“Wait a minute,” said Farrow, turning to Lavonicus. “Gus, give us a couple of minutes alone here, will you?”
“Sure.” Lavonicus stood and ducked an arched frame as he entered the hall to the back bedrooms.
“Gus don’t know much about the details of our history,” said Otis. “He don’t need to know, is what I’m sayin’.”
Farrow stopped pacing and looked down at Wilson. “You find out where that cop lives?”
“No,” said Wilson. “Not yet.”
“What about his sons?”
“His sons live with him. That much I got from the papers.”
“Find his address,” said Farrow. “I owe him a visit.”
Wilson nodded and said, “That it?”
“One more thing,” said Farrow. “Want to get this out on the table once and for all, and then bury it.”
“Go ahead.”
“Your pizza chef friend. I want to make sure you’re not carrying a grudge over what happened.”
“I’m not. I told you as much on the phone.”
“Look at me, T. W., not at the floor.”
Wilson locked eyes with Farrow.
“What happened in that pizza parlor was a necessity,” said Farrow. “In a situation like that, when you pull the trigger one time you have to keep pulling it until nobody’s left alive. Charles might have been the most stand-up guy who ever walked down the block, but the cops would’ve broken him, and he would’ve fingered us all to make a deal. Anybody would have. What we did to him was just business and self-preservation. Ours and yours. So I want you to tell me now that you don’t have a problem with what went down.”