The Best American Mystery Stories 2006
- Автор: Дивер Джеффри, Хантер Эван
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
- ISBN: 978-0-618-51746-6
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Best American Mystery Stories 2006». Краткое содержание книги:
“I need some lemonade!” he screamed.
Braddock began to mock him. Fat Tommy burrowed himself deeper into his thoughts. The cops kept hammering away at his story. He shut his eyes. He was only pretending to listen, nodding yes, yes, goddamn it, yes, or gazing up at them with a mournful, wounded look in his eyes.
Vargas turned off the tape. Dockery and Braddock pushed their chairs back from the cone of white light that made Fat Tommy look like a Vegas lounge fly sobbing under a microscope. The scraping of their chairs was like an utterance of disgust, and they meant it to be that. It sent shivers up their own backs, and sent a chilling thunderbolt of fear down the back of Fat Tommy O’Rourke. Vargas cut a rebuking glance at Dockery and Braddock.
“It’s late,” Vargas said, looking around for a clock. They had started this session just before two P.M.
Braddock pulled out his watch bob and flicked it open. To view the dial, he swept his hand through the cone of light that seemed to enclose Fat Tommy in a brilliant Tinker Bell glow and the watch flashed like a little arc of buttery neon framed in white.
“Almost six A.M. Sixteen goddamn hours and not a peep from this shithead,” Braddock said. He smacked the back of Fat Tommy’s chair.
Dockery felt around in his pant leg for his pack of butts and stood up. ‘Just a little longer, sport, and you’ll be home free, bearin’ off in yer cell,” Dockery said.
“Yeah, bearin’ off in yer cell...” Braddock repeated.
“I need a piss break,” Fat Tommy said as politely as he could, then added with a smile, “and a big glass of lemonade.”
“Good idea, asshole. Think I’ll go drain the lizard,” Dockery said and looked at Vargas. Vargas nodded and Braddock and Dockery went out.
Fat Tommy sobbed on. He was still crying when Braddock and Dockery came back in laughing. They both held huge cups of lemonade and they were eating fresh Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Braddock tossed a half-eaten doughnut in the trash.
“I’m starvin’, officer. I’m sleepy. I don’t know about no murder,” Fat Tommy tried again. He shut his eyes right.
“Pale-ass pussy,” Braddock muttered. “Yer gonna fry for this. Why don’t ya quit yer lying?”
“You said I could have water. I need some water,” Fat Tommy asked again.
“You know the game, Fatboy,” Detective Dockery broke in, from somewhere behind him. “Yer startin’ to piss me off.”
“You can have water, Moises, after you tell us how it went down. Understand?” Vargas said. “That’s our deal.” Vargas turned on the tape.
Fat Tommy didn’t understand. The sharp questions droned on like wasps attacking just above his head. He was sleepy. He wanted water. He closed his eyes and took a breath and asked again for the thousandth time, “Please, officer, can I have some water or some lemonade?”
“It’s detective,” Dockery said.
“Listen here, detective,” Tommy assented, his big voice gravelly and frail, “I don’t deserve this beef. I don’t know nothin’. I didn’t see nothin’. Got a wife an’ family to protect. Was goddamn Cut who fount Simpson. Didn’t even know he was a cop. Ya gotta believe me. I wouldn’t be mixed up in none of this if...”
The room went dead quiet.
Fat Tommy eased his eyes open and peered sharply down along the tear-dappled lids. He strained to see or hear the shuffling shoes of the cops pacing in front or behind him. He could see nothing and could only hear what seemed to be his own heart galloping away down in the pit of his stomach, thu-thump, thu-thump.
“Cut? You never mentioned any Cut,” Dockery said after a while.
Fat Tommy could feel the life draining from his chest. He slowly opened his eyes. He began to hyperventilate and for the first time he could feel the jheri curl gel deluxe begin to drip against his collar.
“Tell us about this Cut,” Vargas said. “He got a last name?”
Fat Tommy felt his mouth moving. He couldn’t make it stop. “Cut... um... Cut Pemberton... I think,” his voice said.
“And...?”
He tried to think of innocent words. He tried to stall and think of what Bea would want him to say. “I didn’t know him that good,” he said finally.
“Go on,” Vargas said. “What’s he look like?”
Tommy tried to think of other faces, but all he could see before him was that goddamn Cut. “Gots a cut ‘cross his ear, go straight ‘cross his lip, like he was wearing a veil on one side of his face.
“Yes...”
“Said he got it in a fight with a cracker when he was in the marines. But I heard he got it in prison.”
He held his breath and tried to stop his voice from speaking again. He couldn’t believe what it was saying, betraying him, snitching on him.
“OK... go on.”
His mouth burst open again.
“He can talk Spanish,” Fat Tommy’s voice said, gasping.
“Go on,” Dockery said. “Cut...”
Tommy’s whole body seemed to slump. Special Agent Braddock smacked his chair hard and Tommy sat bolt upright. “Well, Cut was the onliest one that did it,” he said.
“Go on,” Braddock prodded. “Cut was?”
“What?”
“He said: Cut was...?” Vargas said.
“Um... Cut was... one of them red, freckly niggahs from Georgia...”
“Yes.”
No one spoke for a moment, then Fat Tommy’s voice said, “Spotted like a African cat. I didn’t even know him good...”
“Um-hum.”
“Wore plaits standing all over his head.”
“Plaits? Really?”
Fat Tommy grinned, he couldn’t help himself. “My Bea used to call him BuckBeet, ‘cause he looked like a red pickaninny. That used to piss him off, ‘cause of Buckwheat, you know?”
“Yes... Cut...”
“Yeah, Cut. First I knew of him... two years ago... when I was staying on Glen Oaks off Paxton... him and Karesha — my wife’s sister — and my Uncle Bunny banged on my duplex at ‘bout two in the morning looking for some crack.”
“You mean Bunny Hobart — the second-story man?” Dockery broke in again.
The detectives had two tape recorders going now, but Dockery never trusted electronic equipment and was transcribing everything Fat Tommy said on a yellow legal pad.
“Yeah, that be him,” Fat Tommy said with a deep sigh. He slumped back in the hard metal chair, trembling as he recalled the scene. “Uncle Bunny knew Cut from the joint. Cut had just got out and was chillin’ with Karesha... Cut was already dressin’ like a Crip, all blue, talking shit. I could tell he was trouble. He used to strong-arm young Gs and take their stuff.”
“And Bunny told him you were the big-time coke man,” Braddock said. It was not a question.
Such a wave of woe swept over Fat Tommy as he contemplated all of this that, softly, he began to weep. His whole bright life was passing before his sad eyes: there were pinwheels of light; a whole series of birthdays; his stint as a fabulous dancer; his wife, Bea, again, his kids — Little Tommy and infant Kobe — cuties! cuties! He didn’t deserve this. And too, there was his old job as assistant manager at the Swing Shop — twelve years ago now — all those great records: Tupac, NWA, Biggie, KRS-One, Salt ‘N’ Pepa, shit, even Marvin Gaye. He knew them like the lines in these hands that now stared up at him, glazed and dotted with sweat.
“I was getting out of the business. I was getting out,” Fat Tommy explained. “It was Cut that fucked up all my plans. He wanted to impress the big-time talent... I was only staying in ‘til he could get on his feets.”
“What big-time talent?”
“Columbians? La Caja Crips?” Vargas pressed him.
“It was them goddamn Columbians that tolt Cut about Simpson,” Tommy confessed. “Cut came up with the idea of setting the guy up. He told us he was a snitch — not no cop! I tried to talk him out of it; I tried to reason with him...”