The Man Who Came Uptown
- Автор: Пелеканос Джордж
- Год: 2018
- Язык: английский
- Год: Mulholland Books / Little, Brown and Company
- ISBN: 978-0-316-47982-0
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Man Who Came Uptown». Краткое содержание книги:
“Enough,” said Ornazian.
Ward laid the Taser down on the floor and walked back over to Tommy.
“Now you need to tell it, Tom.”
Michael Hudson’s eyes were on the house in the pines when headlights came up the road. He watched as a car, looked like a Dodge from the lamps, slowed and pulled into the gravel driveway. Had to be a V-8 from the sound coming out the pipes.
Michael picked up the two-way and keyed it.
“Come in, Number One,” said Michael.
“It’s me. What’s going on?”
“We got company. Looks like our man.”
“We’re almost done here,” said Ornazian. “Handle it.”
Michael dropped the radio on the seat beside him and picked up the steel baton.
After Tommy had given it up, Ornazian went to Richard’s bedroom and moved the boxes of promethazine, codeine, and NyQuil that were stacked in the corner. He then picked up a throw rug to find a cutout in the hardwood floor. He crouched down and pulled on a ring set in a grooved-out portion of the floor. The cutout came up, revealing a framed-out box below.
In the box were an automatic, a revolver, several pieces of jewelry in a paper bag, a rubber-banded stack of cash, and a robin’s-egg-blue box marked TIFFANY AND CO. Inside that box was the diamond-and-platinum bracelet.
They had missed the stash when they tossed the bedroom the first time around. It had been here, under the stacked ingredients of the Lean.
Ornazian pocketed all of the jewelry, the bracelet, and the cash in his tan Kühl jacket. He ejected the magazine of a nine-millimeter Beretta and removed the bullets from the revolver and put those in his jacket as well.
He went back out to the living area to scoop up Ward. It was time to go.
Terry Kelly noticed the car across the road, its front end jutting out of the woods, as he got out of his Charger. Looked like an old Chevy, maybe an Impala. A police package car, or Feds, maybe. There were no residents close by, and there wasn’t any good reason for anyone to be parked in those woods.
Terry knew what Richard would say if he went into the house and told him and Tommy about the car: Dumbass. Why didn’t you check it out?
Terry reached under the driver’s seat and found his gun, a nine-millimeter Beretta he had bought on the street. He pulled back on the receiver and eased a round into the chamber. He snicked off the safety, slid the gun into the side pocket of his jacket, and walked across the road.
He went to the car. The night was dark but he could see that there was no one inside the vehicle and as his eyes adjusted he made out its make and model. It was indeed an Impala, the muscled-out nineties version of the SS. Terry walked into the stand of scrub pine to the rear of the car and examined the animal badge on the trunk’s lid, the chrome pipes. He heard footsteps. His heart beat hard in his chest.
“Don’t move,” said a voice behind him.
Terry turned quickly and in that motion drew the Beretta from his side pocket and pointed it at the man standing before him, just three feet away. In the darkness he saw a tall, bearded man, nearly featureless in the dim light, holding a metal rod in his hand.
Though he held a gun, Terry felt the blood drain from his face.
“I don’t want to die,” said Terry, a quiver in his voice.
“Who said anything about dyin?”
“They sent you here to kill me, didn’t they?” said Terry. “Isn’t that right?”
“Who?”
“The Cherry Hill Road boys.”
“Ain’t nobody send me here. Toss that gun aside so we can talk.”
“I can’t do that,” said Terry.
Michael Hudson looked at Terry Kelly. He wasn’t hard. He was a stupid, confused kid. Michael had been in juvenile lockup and been incarcerated as an adult. He knew enough to see that this boy was weak.
“Do what I say,” said Michael.
“I can’t,” said Terry.
Michael swung the steel baton. It struck Terry in the temple, and he lost his legs. Terry fell to the ground in a heap of deadweight.
Michael tossed the gun into the woods. He got down on his knees and felt the blood on Terry Kelly’s face.
I’m a murderer, thought Michael.
I killed a man.
In the living room, Ornazian told Ward that he had found what they’d come for. Richard was still in the toppled-over chair, conscious but disoriented. His genitals were burned and there was some blood where Ward had pulled out the barbs. He had voided his bowels. Ward had poured water on his face, but he was white as milk.
Ward told Tommy to let the incident go. Warned him what would happen if they went back to the house in Potomac or tried to retaliate in any way.
“Do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
Ornazian and Ward left them there, bound to their chairs.
Outside the house, they crossed the road to the Impala and found Michael seated on the ground beside Terry Kelly.
“He’s dead,” said Michael.
“Put your light on him,” said Ornazian to Ward.
Ward trained the mini Mag on Terry as Ornazian got down on his haunches and pressed his index and middle fingers to the carotid artery in the young man’s neck. Then he found a bottle of water in the trunk and wet Terry’s lips and poured some of it on his bloodied forehead and temple.
“He’s not dead,” said Ornazian. “I’m guessing you concussed him, but his pulse is running strong. He should be all right.”
“We just gonna leave him here?” said Michael.
“He’s lying on a soft bed of pine needles. When he wakes up, he’ll go over to the house and cut his friends loose.” Ornazian cupped his hand around Michael’s biceps. “Listen, you did good.”
“Fuck you, man,” said Michael, pulling his arm away.
They drove off the mountain in silence. At Route 15, Michael headed in the direction of D.C. Ornazian cracked a window to get some air. He was sickened by what they’d done.
“You don’t look so good,” said Michael.
“I’m fine,” said Ornazian.
“Yeah? What’d you do to those guys in that house?”
“We got what we came for,” said Ward.
“That’s all that matters?” said Michael.
“Don’t get all high and mighty, young man,” said Ward.
“After tonight,” said Michael, “I don’t want nothin to do with y’all. Threaten me all you want. I’d rather go to prison than be with people like you.”
“But you’re still gonna take your cut,” said Ward.
Michael’s face was grim in the dashboard light.
Twenty-Five
Sydney had prepared a large breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausage, beans, and mushrooms after Ornazian had woken up just past noon. It was what she called a Full English. He sat at their kitchen table eating ravenously, washing the meal down with juice and coffee.
The dogs, Whitey and Blue, were following Sydney around the kitchen, hoping for scraps. She commanded them to sit, and when they complied, she gave them each half a strip of bacon.
“You’re spoiling them,” said Ornazian.
“I’m spoiling you,” said Sydney. “What time did you get in last night?”
“I don’t know. It was pretty late. That’s why I slept in. When did Gregg and Vic go to their playdate?”