“Don’t look like a mack to me,” said Ward.
“That’s today’s pimp,” said Ornazian. “You know where you find guys wearing outrageous clothes, carrying walking sticks, and shit like that? At Halloween and frat parties.”
Theodore triggered a motion-detector light as he stepped up to his door.
“He got those security lights around back too?”
“Yeah,” said Ornazian. “So what? His house backs up to woods. Anyway, we’re gonna be inside quick.”
“Are there dogs?”
“No dogs.”
“I hate fuckin with dogs.”
“I crept around that house many times. He has no dogs. Trust me.” As Theodore entered his house and closed the door behind him, Ornazian said, “Okay.”
Ward had disabled the dome light of the Vic. They exited in darkness and went around to the rear of the car, where Ward popped the trunk. He fired up a mini Maglite he had produced from his jacket and put the butt end of it in his mouth, illuminating the trunk’s interior.
In the trunk was a great deal of weaponry, ammunition, and hardware, as well as various restraint devices. From a box, Ornazian and Ward pulled lightly powdered nitrile gloves, favored by auto mechanics, and fitted them on their hands. Ward unrolled a blanketed 12-gauge Remington pump-action shotgun, then lifted a Glock nine out of a case. He released its magazine, checked the load, and seated the magazine back into the gun. The Remington 870 and the Glock 17 were common police firearms. Ward fitted the pistol into the dip of his slacks.
“The Special’s you,” said Ward, nodding at a .38 revolver that was a version of the MPD sidearm Ward had carried when he was first in uniform.
“You know I don’t want it,” said Ornazian.
“It’s for show,” said Ward.
Ornazian broke the cylinder on the .38 and saw that its chambers were loaded. He slipped the gun in the side pocket of his lightweight jacket, then grabbed a friction-lock, retractable baton from a large steel toolbox and put it in a back pocket of his jeans. Ward handed Ornazian a package of women’s stockings. Ornazian pulled a stocking down over his face and Ward did the same. Finally, Ward put some plastic cuffs of varying lengths in his jacket, picked up the shotgun, cradled it, and shut the trunk. He nodded at Ornazian.
They moved to the side of the house, watched through windows as its interior brightened, waited for the bathroom light to come on, and stood outside its window for several minutes until they heard the sigh of pipes followed by the faint drum of water running in a shower. Ward followed Ornazian to the backyard. A security light flooded the area and Ornazian stepped into it, unfazed. He calmly used the steel baton to break the window of a rear door. He reached inside the broken window, unlocked the knob, and flipped the arm of the dead bolt.
They entered the house and walked through an odorous kitchen to a living area with a wide-screen television, a table holding game-console controllers and stroke magazines, and a matching set of large leather furniture. The house was rank with crushed-out cigarettes and the skunk-smell of weed.
Down a hall were a couple of bedrooms and, at the end, a bathroom door. Behind it, Theodore showered. Ornazian scouted the bedrooms while Ward stood in the hall, the shotgun resting on his forearm.
Ornazian found the bedroom where Theodore obviously slept and switched on the bedside lamp. The nightstand’s top drawer had a keyhole on its face. A smartphone, presently charging in a wall outlet, was on the nearby dresser. There was a wooden chair on which Theodore most likely sat when he put on his socks and shoes. An open closet showed many shirts, top-buttoned and neatly hung on a wooden rod. On the carpet of the closet, Nike sneaks and Timberland and Nike boots were paired, neatly aligned, and set atop their corresponding boxes.
Soon the sound of running water ceased. Ward, positioned outside the bathroom, pointed the shotgun at the door, fitting its butt in the crook of his shoulder, his finger inside the trigger guard. Theodore stepped out of the bathroom, still wet, wearing only a bath towel around his waist.
“Fuck is this,” he said, getting a look at the man before him holding the shotgun dead-on at his chest.
Ward racked the pump for drama. “You don’t know?”
“You fixin to rob me,” said Theodore. It wasn’t a question. He was trying to remain cool but his face had lost some color.
“Correct,” said Ward, jerking his head toward the bedroom on the left. “In there.”
Theodore walked into the bedroom and Ward followed. Ornazian had drawn the .38 and was holding it by his side.
“Drop that towel,” said Ward. Theodore did not comply and Ward said, “Drop it.”
Theodore pulled the towel free and dropped it to the floor. He stood naked before the men who held the guns. He was bird-chested and inadequately muscled.
“For a man who runs women,” said Ward, “you don’t look like much.”
In truth, there was nothing wrong with Theodore. He was all there, more or less. But Ward knew that a naked man was a vulnerable man. He was simply stripping him down further.
“Sit on that chair,” said Ward. To Ornazian he said, “Cover him.”
Theodore took a seat on the wooden chair. Ward placed the shotgun on the bed as Ornazian pointed the pistol at Theodore. Ward used the plastic cuffs to bind Theodore’s wrists in front of him and the longer ties to secure his ankles to the legs of the chair.
Ward looked at Ornazian, whose eyes said, Go ahead. They had discussed the plan in the Crown Vic. Ward had interrogated prisoners in Nam, and he had questioned countless suspects in police stations all over the District with, one could assume, often unorthodox tactics. Ward had experience. Ornazian was happy to let him lead.
“I see you got a lock on that nightstand,” said Ward. “Where the key at?”
“In the drawer below it,” said Theodore.
“Course it is,” said Ward. He knew that everyone, straights and criminals alike, kept their money and valuables in their bedrooms, close by, within reach.
Ward opened the lower drawer, saw condoms, lubrication, loose change, and a key wrapped up in a piece of tissue paper. He used the key to unlock the upper drawer. Inside that drawer was a semiauto Beretta, an extra magazine, and rubber-banded stacks of cash. Ward pocketed the gun and the magazine, fanned through the cash, and tossed the stacks on the bed.
“Where’s the rest of your money?” said Ward.
“That’s all of it,” said Theodore, staring straight ahead.
Ward went to the closet, pulled the shirts aside, and looked behind them. Then he got down to floor level and checked the shoeboxes. All matched up except for a fresh pair of Jordans sitting atop a box with the brand name Stacy Adams. Ward pulled this box out from under the sneakers and looked inside. More money. Stacks of it.
“You tryin to bankrupt a man,” said Theodore.
“Is that all of it?”
“You cleaned me out.”
“All the money you make, and this is it?”
“I got overhead,” said Theodore.
“The pimp’s lament,” said Ward.
Ward took the money off the bed and put it together with the money in the Stacy Adams box. He went to the dresser, unplugged the iPhone from its charger, and dropped the phone in Theodore’s lap. It slipped off his thigh and fell to the floor.
“After we leave,” said Ward, “you can figure out a way to pick up your phone and hit up one of your girls or whoever. You got a toolbox somewhere in this mess. Won’t be hard for someone to cut you free.”
“I ain’t gonna forget this.”
“Don’t speak. Let me tell you how it’s gonna be.” Ward handed the shoebox to Ornazian and picked up the shotgun. “You will forget it. What you need to do now is, you got to put a Band-Aid on your pride and move on. ’Cause if you try to find out who we are, if you ask your neighbors if they seen a car out front tonight, anything like that... if I go down in any way, if I get locked up, even if I die of natural causes? Someone gonna step out the shadows one night and murder your ass. Do you understand me, Theodore?”