King Suckerman
- Автор: Пелеканос Джордж
- Серия: D.C. Quartet #2
- Год: 1997
- Язык: английский
- Год: Little, Brown and Company
- ISBN: 978-0-316-69590-9
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «King Suckerman». Краткое содержание книги:
“Yeah. Slash-cut ’em and turned ’em out.”
“Ain’t no wonder it’s so loud.”
“One of the loudest on the street.”
“Yeah,” said Clagget, “it sure is a nice sled.”
“Thanks,” said Lucer, squinting at Clagget, not sure if the skinny, toothless kid with the fucked-up face was putting him on.
“Yeah, I mean to tell you, it really is nice.” Clagget took a few steps over to the bike. “You mind if I kick it over?”
Lucer looked at Poor Boy for a moment, then back to Clagget. “I guess it’s all right.”
Clagget smiled. He had seen this in a flick at the drive-in, Angels Die Hard or The Savage Seven, he couldn’t remember which. He never thought he’d get the chance to do it himself.
“I do thank you,” said Clagget.
“Hey,” said Lucer, as Clagget lifted his right leg.
Clagget put his shoe to the flame-painted gas tank, kicked the bike over on its side. It hit the hard ground, bounced a few inches, kicked up a cloud of dust.
“You’re fuckin’ dead,” growled Lucer, moving forward.
Clagget stepped back a couple of feet and swung the shotgun between the two men. “You boys know what this is?”
Poor Boy nodded stupidly, stumbled back a step. Lucer stopped dead in his tracks.
Clagget pumped the sawed-off, pointed the shotgun at the one called Poor Boy. “And you sure do know what that sound is, don’t you?”
Poor Boy opened his mouth to speak. Before any words came out, they all heard the double clap of gunfire and then a woman’s scream from inside the house.
When Wilton Cooper stepped into the living room of the bungalow, he saw three biker types spread out in a loose triangle, all of them holding guns. There was a fat man tapping the barrel of a .44 against his side and a kinky-haired stoner holding a revolver of undetermined caliber and a tall bitch cradling an M16. Fat Man stood in front of the couch, with Stoner standing to the side next to a wood table with smoking paraphernalia on it. The tall Pocahontas-looking freak — she was back in what would have been a dining room, near the kitchen — she had those bright, fearless eyes Cooper had known in certain stickup boys he had run with back in the years past. Of the group, she was the one to watch.
They were just standing there, waiting for Cooper to say something, he guessed. The stereo was cranking, the singer digging out the first verse of the song from somewhere deep in his throat: “You know I smoked a lot of grass, Loooord I popped a lot of pills...”
Cooper moved closer to the group, smiled. “How do?” he said.
“You Cooper?” said Larry.
“It is me,” said Cooper.
“Larry,” said Larry.
Cooper said, “Well, all right.”
Larry nodded to the kinky-haired one with the uncertain eyes, wearing a T-shirt with a cartoon Mexican, some fool thing about pussy written on it. Like wearing that shirt was going to get him some play.
“This here’s Slo Ride,” said Larry.
“Pleased to know you,” said Cooper.
Larry motioned his head behind him, managed to do it without taking his eyes off Cooper. “And my lady, Deborah.”
“My pleasure, baby,” said Cooper.
Deborah had moved back farther into the dining room. Smart girl. Cooper wondered where the fourth one had gone to; out in the yard, Poor Boy had said that a cat named Albert was in the house. Could be back in the kitchen, some shit like that, or maybe out back, moving around the bungalow. No matter. Cooper had faith in B.R., and he knew Ronald Thomas would be on it, too. Cooper would just put Albert out of his mind, deal with him if he had to when the time came.
“Goooddamn... the pusher,” growled the singer from the speakers.
“Turn the music down,” said Larry to Charlie. “I can’t fuckin’ think.”
“That’s okay,” said Cooper. “Used to hear this tune all the time. Had a lot of boys, looked something like you, used to play this all the time, back at my alma mater.”
“Yeah?” said Charlie. “Where’s that?”
“Louisiana State.”
“Angola?”
“The same.”
“Had some bros in there myself.”
“I figured you did.” Cooper dropped the suitcase on the wood table.
“Well, anyway. What y’all say we do our business? Kind of in a hurry to get back to the city, if you know what I mean.”
Cooper opened the suitcase, and Larry stepped over to have a look. His eyes widened: It was a shitload of cash money in there, rubber-banded and stacked. He picked up one of the bundles, flipped through it, made sure there wasn’t blank paper behind the cover bill. He tossed the stack back into the case.
“Looks good,” said Larry. He turned his head. “Hey, Deb, go ahead and bring out the shit.”
Deborah booked.
Cooper stood there, smiling, rocking back on his heels, waiting for the Indian girl to come back with the blow. The solo had kicked in on the song, and the simple-ass mug they called Slo Ride was playing a little air guitar with his free hand. No attention span, thought Cooper, even when an ex-con, stone-nigger gunman was standing right before him. Slo Ride. Slow, hell. Motherfucker was standing still.
The girl came back in the room with a brown paper grocery bag, dropped it on the table next to the suitcase. She moved quickly back to the dining room, stood half in and half out of Cooper’s sight, near the open kitchen door. Goddamn, thought Cooper, was she the only one in this group with a brain in her head?
Cooper opened the bag, reached inside. He pulled free one of the Baggies, felt its weight. The Baggie was cold, near frozen, with several grains of rice scattered throughout the snow.
“We kept it in the freezer,” said Larry, seeing Cooper’s perplexed expression, “so’s it didn’t disappear in this heat.”
Cooper realized for the first time that he was sweating right through his shirt. “It is hot in here, too.” Cooper dropped the blow back in the grocery bag. “Anyway, there’s your money. Two hundred grand, just like Eddie Spags said.”
“What,” said Larry, “ain’t you gonna check out the merchandise?”
“Don’t use it myself, don’t even want to try it for business reasons,” said Cooper. “My boys took your sample for a test run, gave it a passing grade. Besides, if it ain’t right, you know I’ll be back.”
Larry looked over at Slo Ride, shrugged.
Cooper said genially, “I’d go ahead and take the cash, put it in a safe place if I was you. Don’t want to leave all those ducats lyin’ around and shit.”
Larry switched the .44 to his left hand, picked up the suitcase with his right, like Cooper knew he’d do. Yahoo, motherfucker — Mountain Dew.
“Larry,” said Deborah, noticing Larry’s mistake from way back in the room. But Larry couldn’t hear her. The music had absorbed Deborah’s voice.
Slo Ride squinted, scratched the barrel of his pistol along the side of his head. “Hey, Cooper.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m just wonderin’. You left-handed or right?”
“Right.”
“So when you pull them guns you got — when you get in a situation, I mean — which one you pull first?”
Larry looked up.
“Aw, that’s easy, Slo Ride.” Cooper laughed. He looked down at the .45s hanging beneath each arm. He moved his left hand to the right grip, the right hand to the left grip, like he was giving himself a hug.
“Larry!” screamed Deborah, and Larry turned his head.
“You just do this,” said Cooper, still smiling. “Called a cross-draw.”
Cooper pulled both guns from their holsters, squeezed both triggers at once, shot Larry twice in a close-pattern square in the chest. Cooper turned his head at the blow-back as Larry toppled ass over tits and seemed to disappear into the makeup of the room.