Lately, though, Mobley was beginning to wonder if he had made an error in joining up with Ricardo. Mobley had enjoyed a nice quiet run, selling firearms out the back of his warehouse to gangsters, studio gangsters, and plain old dudes who wanted protection for their homes and shops. He wasn’t too worried about someone flipping on him because of the code. At first he was down with Ricardo’s marijuana scheme, but when murder got attached to it, Beano wanted to walk away. Problem was, he couldn’t.
Beano wanted his old life back. To own his detailing business, move a few guns now and again, drive his Cadillac DTS, watch his beloved Redskins on Sundays, party with women and girls in his warehouse when he could, and grow old with some kind of dignity. He wanted a divorce from Ricardo Holley, but he didn’t know how to make it happen.
Mobley was outside standing in his lot, where his employees, a few ex-offenders he was trying to give a break to, were working on an SUV, when Larry rolled in, driving his Escalade. Dickless Larry, thought Mobley, watching as Larry’s window rolled down, seeing that the boy was agitated.
“Where’s Ricardo at?” said Larry.
“Waitin on you,” said Mobley. “In the back.”
Mobley watched with amusement as Larry got out of his ride and crossed the parking lot, trying to Walk Tall with an exaggerated swagger, a presidential candidate in elevator shoes and rolled-up sleeves, an actor trying to play a man. Larry, a tit with no milk.
“Sit down,” said Ricardo.
“I’ll stand,” said Larry.
They were in the main office of the warehouse, Ricardo seated behind his desk.
“You lied to me again,” said Larry.
“No, I didn’t. I kept you out the loop. That’s not the same thing.”
“You’re always twistin your words around,” said Larry.
“I have to, with you.”
“How could you let this shit happen?”
Ricardo shrugged. “Earl thought he had a solution to our problem. I let him give it a go. Looks like the dude he tried to down was better than him.”
“You’re talkin about Lucas.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We got real trouble now.”
“I expect we’ll be all right, son.”
Larry shook his head gravely. “Don’t call me son.”
“You’re my blood.”
“It’s not like I’m proud of it.”
“Neither am I. You look like me, but you ain’t me.”
“That’s for damn sure.”
As they always did, they came to a verbal stalemate. Ricardo leaned back in his chair. “Anything else?”
Larry’s posture slackened. “No.”
“If I need you, I’ll call.”
Larry left the room. Ricardo could only shake his head.
Beano Mobley entered the office shortly thereafter. “Your boy stormed out of here.”
“What can I say? Larry’s a woman.”
“Do I need to be concerned?”
“I got him under control,” said Ricardo. “But I rue the day I tapped that heifer he calls Mom.”
“We all got regrets.”
“Shoulda pumped my nut into a dirty sock instead.”
“You can pick your nose,” said Mobley, “but you can’t pick your gotdamn relatives.”
Feeling philosophical, Ricardo and Mobley met at the bar cart and poured themselves a couple of drinks.
Lucas took a long bike ride late in the afternoon and returned warily to his apartment. There were no patrol or unmarked cars on the street. He had not expected police to be waiting for him there, but he allowed that it might be a possibility. He was certain no one had witnessed the event in the parking lot, and though he had probably left DNA evidence behind, it would only be connectible if he was a suspect. It had been less than a day, but Lucas knew that if the MPD had made him, he would be in the box by now in 1D, being videotaped, answering seemingly polite questions, listening to the psychological head music that D.C. homicide detectives orchestrated so well.
Lucas went inside and took a shower. As the hot water calmed him, he speculated further: Ricardo Holley and his mob knew who had killed Earl Nance, but they wouldn’t give that information up to the law. If Larry Holley was going to do his job as a police officer and turn in Lucas’s name to Homicide, he would have done so by now, but that would also incriminate him. Ricardo could plant an anonymous tip, but Lucas had the feeling that it would be emotionally unsatisfying on his part to set in motion such a cheap and cowardly resolution to what was becoming a game of wills.
If it is a game, thought Lucas, perhaps now is the time to step it up.
He had been hired to get the money or the product back. He had been sidetracked to a degree that he had stalled in achieving that goal. He had seen Ricardo leave his house on 9th with an envelope that appeared to bulge with cash. That same day, he had observed the man who could be Mobley, Nance, the big man driving the Tahoe, Ricardo, and Larry Holley all congregated at the detailing building, which perhaps also functioned as their base of operations. Since Ricardo had taken money there, the meet might have been for the purpose of a payday, set in a place where they could come together to cut it up. He assumed that Ricardo, being the senior member of the group, was in charge. Ricardo damn sure didn’t use a bank. Ricardo distributed the cash from the reserve that he kept at his house. For Lucas, the next step was obvious.
He came out of the shower and dried off with a large bath towel. He put on some jeans, went out to the living room, picked up his cell, scrolled through his contacts, and found the friend he had last seen at the American Legion bar.
“Bobby Waldron.”
“It’s Spero Lucas.”
“Hey, man.”
“I could use your help.”
“You need somethin?”
“For now I need you. I got a tail-and-surveil job.”
“Thought you use Marquis for that sort of thing.”
“His lack of mobility is an issue.”
“I could use the work.”
“You free tomorrow?”
“Affirmative.”
“Let me give you some background.”
Lucas told him some of it. They agreed to meet early the next day.
EIGHTEEN
Bobby Waldron was standing on Emerson, leaning against his Ford Lariat SuperCrew pickup, when Lucas came out of Miss Lee’s house in the morning.
Waldron stood straight as Lucas approached. He wore cargo pants and a white T-shirt whose sleeves were filled with his bulging, Bengal-striped biceps. His left forearm was heavily dotted with shrapnel and ink. His hair, shaved back and sides, said military or police. A chaw of tobacco swelled his jawline.
Lucas wore dark blue Dickies pants, a matching blue long-sleeved Carhartt shirt, and black steel-shanked Wolverine boots. It was too warm for such an outfit, but any discomfort he would feel was necessary.
“My man Waldo,” said Lucas.
“Sir.”
“Knock that shit off.”
“Yes, sir.”
“C’mon.”
They went to the back of the Jeep. Lucas lifted the tailgate, exposing the cargo area, which he had loaded with tools and equipment. Waldron looked at a dark blanket covering several items and the thick pine handle that protruded from its edge.
“What is that, an ax?”
“It’s a sledgehammer,” said Lucas. “Haven’t decided what I’m gonna use so I brought a racka shit.” Lucas reached into a box, handed Waldron a two-way and headset, and a disposable cell. “Use the radio when we’re in range. When we get out of range, use the cell. Here’s my number.” Lucas handed him a slip of paper. “You have the address of his house.”
“I do.”
“Park on Somerset or Tuckerman. Be aware that it becomes one-way on that strip due north. If our man is a creature of habit, he’ll go right to the Safeway after he leaves his crib. He gets his morning coffee at the Starbucks there.”