“Dumped he here roundabout darktide,” he said. “Darktide, it were, hearing me a car, an gave me a peek. Fast peek, ain’t watching long. No headlights. No moonlights. Ain’t seed it much. But hearing me a voice. Man voice. Hearing the trunk close.”
He looked at Slick’s corpse, or what there were of it, wrapped in plastic hangin between Roley an Winchuk. “Hearing a thud. Car drives off.”
Terrible nodded his thanks. “Drive off fast? Only one voice?”
“One voice. No tires squealin or whatnot.” Unk bowed. “Be all.”
Terrible nodded again. So two people—only one talked, aye, but who’d he be talking to iffen he were on his alones?—dumped Slick there at low tide, which would be just before dawn if he had his knowledge right. Which maybe he ain’t, of course. He’d have to check.
And whoever it was doing the dumping either figured he weren’t seen, or ain’t gave a fuck iffen he was, causen he ain’t bothered to take off fast.
Which sounded like it were planned, not panicked. People panicked and killed somebody, they were terrified of being seen and caught. They fucked up, made mistakes, ran around tryna hide. But people who planned murders, they didn’t worry so much. They studied, hunted around for places to dump the body, set on times to do it when almost nobody be up to see or hear.
Meant good chances they knew the docks, too, knew how the dock-people had theyselves such a superstition about darktide. Bad luck, so they thought. They ain’t gone out during it. They ain’t liked it when the tide came in, neither, but then Terrible felt the same way. The air felt weird when the tide come in, like charged with electricity.
Weren’t the time to start thinking on it. Unk had already gone back inside, so Terrible pulled two twenties from his wallet and held them out to the woman. She stepped forward like she were walking on jagged glass, every step real hesitant and scared, and tugged them out of his hand from arm’s length.
Terrible tipped his head toward Unk’s house, seeing the paper over the window gapped on the side. So Unk were watching, would know he had lashers coming. “Pass he one, dig?”
The dame nodded.
Behind her the crowd started shifting. Time to get gone. He could stay longer, aye, but better to save that for when he needed it. Best thing to do in that part of town was get in fast, get out fast. Hand out a few lashers or a few broken bones, depending; enough of both so they didn’t forget who he was.
He gave Roley and Winchuk the nod to toss the body into the back of the truck, and watched them get in the cab theyselves. Time to go.
Time to start trying to find out who killed Slick Michigan, and more importantly why.
Bump’s annoyance came through loud and clear when Terrible walked into the red living room. Always hurt his eyes a little at first, afore he got used to it. He weren’t real happy with the pictures on the walls, neither, dames with their legs spread and all, but weren’t his place to say on it. He just tried not to pay em too much attention.
Not that he ain’t liked seeing dames without any clothes on. Coursen he did. Nothing prettier in the world than that. He just ain’t necessarily wanted pictures like that on his walls, ain’t necessarily liked having em all stare at him whenever he were in that room.
Bump paced up and down the floor, his gold toe-ring flashing with every other step. His cane leaned against the couch; he wore loose black pants and a blue button-front shirt, and his eyes were bloodshot. Looked like he’d been up all night celebrating something. Terrible wondered when he’d left his house last.
“Be Slobag, betting,” Bump said, without stopping he pacing. “Fuckin betting him behind this one, yay, tryna take heself over, gots he—”
“Naw.” Interrupting Bump wasn’t always the best idea, but he really ain’t wanted to see this one turn into an all-day tirade. There were lots of tirades could be had on Slobag—always tryna grab more territory from Bump, always tryna sneak past Forty-third, always causing trouble—but Terrible weren’t in the mood. Especially when he ain’t guessed this one was Slobag, at all. “Ain’t thinkin so. Thinkin be some else. Slick all cut up, dig, ain’t just were shot or whatany, like that kinda killing. Lookin like … like be personal, maybe. Or got some other reasoning’s behind it. An Slick ain’t work near the borders, neither. No reasoning I see why it’d be him them went for.”
“Maybe Slick be fuckin spyin.”
Terrible shrugged. “Know Slick gots heself a rep, likes the dames already got men, dig. Maybe one of them catch up to he. Ain’t be the first time he been in trouble over it.”
Bump waved his hand. “Maybe. Maybe you got it right, yay, got the fuckin recall now on that. Only I ain’t wanting counting Slobag the fuck out, yay, ain’t wanting fuckin forget on he. You give it the check-on, you get onna street.”
That one wasn’t too bad. Calmed down fast that time. Good thing, too, causen what Terrible was about to say wouldn’t make Bump happy. “Also … had the thinkin could be magic, dig. Them making sacrifices cut bodies up. Like be some ritual or whatany like that.”
“You just fuckin sat there gave me how it probably some fuckin dude ain’t liked Slick fucking he woman. Which one it fuckin be?”
“Just sayin, is all.” He pulled out a smoke and lit it up, spent a few seconds arranging the ashtray to give himself time to think how to put it. Damn it, he should have thought on it more in the car, gave himself time to get the words right. “Ain’t know which it is. Were thinkin … maybe oughta give Chess a ring-up, ask her take a look. Just for certain, dig.”
Silence. He kept staring at the red carpet, tryna pretend there were nothing more to his thought than wanting to make sure they had everything covered. Aye, that was the reason, true thing. He wouldn’t ask on bringing Chess in iffen he were certain what or who got Slick. But he knew Bump wouldn’t see it that way, not after some of the comments he’d made over the last month and a half.
Sure enough, when he glanced up Bump was watching him, arms folded, leaning against his desk. “Thinkin be magic? Or thinkin be a fuckin excuse spend you some time with the ladybird?”
“Ain’t needing an excuse.” He shrugged as he said it, like it ain’t mattered. “Wouldn’t say iffen I ain’t think it could be something.”
Bump held out his hand. “Lemme have a look-see on them fuckin photos again.”
The camera sat in Terrible’s bag, at his feet. He dug it out and handed it over without meeting Bump’s eyes. Maybe he were wrong. The only evidence he had that it could be something to do with magic was his own suspicion. Maybe he was just wishing it causen it’d be a chance to see Chess more.
He already saw her a fuck of a lot more than he’d ever expected, or hoped. Almost every day. Never would have seen that one coming; iffen he’d been asked two months past he’d have said she may have been the prettiest dame he’d ever met but she seemed like one of the bitchiest too. But turned out she weren’t a bitch at all. She was fucking amazing, and iffen he could spend all his time with her he would.
But he didn’t think that were why Slick’s death had him thinking. He just didn’t. Something on this one were setting off alarms in he mind, makin him feel like … like something was wrong. Something starting that weren’t good, wouldn’t end well.
Bump flipped through the images on the camera, the pictures Terrible had taken an hour or so before in the cooler. “Just looks like fuckin slices to me, yay? Come fuckin on, Terrible, you done worse damage than that you own fuckin self, you done, specially you lose you fuckin temper. You fuckin knowing that.”
“Aye.” He did know that, ceptin he ain’t lose he temper with knives, not since he were a kid. “Only, some of them patches missing, were thinking maybe were shit carved into he skin.”