The Sweet Forever
- Автор: Пелеканос Джордж
- Серия: D.C. Quartet #3
- Год: 1998
- Язык: английский
- Год: Little, Brown and Company
- ISBN: 978-0-316-69109-3
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Sweet Forever». Краткое содержание книги:
“Come on, Murph,” said Tutt, making a head motion to the kitchen.
“Right behind you, man,” said Murphy.
Tutt walked around the couch, stepping over Atari wires, and went into the kitchen. Murphy started off behind him but broke away and entered the hall. He passed the bathroom, opened the bedroom door, and stepped inside. He closed the door and looked at the figure lying on the bed.
There was a knock on the bungalow’s front door.
“Short,” said Tyrell Cleveland. “Get back there behind me. I step out the way and signal, you shoot these mothafuckers straight away. Two quick shots to the head. Don’t waste no time.”
Monroe nodded, adjusted the towel so that it covered the barrel.
Tyrell uncoiled himself from his chair. He stretched to his full height. He opened the front door.
Murphy knelt by the mattress. Eddie Golden was on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest. The wrist area of one hand was like a twisted gourd, orange and purple and black. Eddie looked up at Murphy, his eyes jittery and unfocused.
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Murphy.” He pulled his badge from his jacket and put it close to Golden’s face. “I’m a police officer. Tyrell thinks I’m with him. But I’m not with him. I’m here to help you, Eddie. You understand?”
Eddie’s head came off the mattress. “G-g-get me outta here.”
“Can’t now,” whispered Murphy. “Gonna come back for you later on.”
“Not later... now.”
“Eddie, I need to know where the money is. Gonna bring it back with me and trade it for your life.”
“Money’s with Karras. That record store guy—”
“Bullshit. You ain’t talkin’ to them now, you’re talkin’ to me. I know Karras. And I damn sure know Marcus Clay. Those two didn’t take no one off, Eddie. Now, where’s that money at, Eddie? Where’s it at?”
They heard loud laughter from the other room. Eddie winced and fluttered his eyes.
“The money, Eddie. The money, man, it’s gonna save your life.”
Eddie licked his lips, stared straight ahead. “Donna,” he said. “You can’t let anything happen to her.”
“I won’t. I promise you, man, she won’t come to no harm. Tell me where this Donna lives.”
Eddie gave Murphy her address.
“When she gonna be there?”
Eddie told him the knock-off time of Donna’s shift at Hecht’s.
“What’s she drivin’?”
“A red RX-7. An old one—”
“Now listen,” said Murphy. “I’m comin’ back later. Meantime, you let Alan Rogers keep takin’ care of you. And do what Rogers says, hear?”
Eddie nodded.
Murphy went to the sash window, looked through it, judged the distance to the ground. He unlatched the lock, ran the window up and down in its tracks. It made a harsh scraping sound. He walked to the door and opened it. Murphy glanced back at Eddie once more and stepped from the room.
Out in the hall, he saw Short Man Monroe raising a towel-draped hand. He could see the grip of a gun beneath the towel. The two who’d been walking toward the house were on the porch. Monroe was pointing the gun at them.
Nick Stefanos stood on the porch beside Johnny McGinnes, jingling the change in his pocket as McGinnes knocked on the scarred oak door. Stefanos could hear the low thump of bass coming from behind the bungalow’s walls, and as the door swung open he recognized the shout of Kurtis Blow: “It’s tough, like Muhammad Ali./It’s rough, like the Oakland Raiders...”
Once he saw the man standing in the door frame, and those grouped around him, he barely noticed the music at all.
The man before them must have stood six and a half feet tall. His ears and chin were pointed, and his eyes were bottle green. Gargoyle, thought Stefanos, looking at the man.
A young black man, short and muscular, stood behind Gargoyle, his nose packed with gauze and criss-crossed with tape. He held his towel-wrapped hands in front of him. Whatever had happened to him, Stefanos guessed his hands had been injured, too.
A dark-skinned black man, also long of feature, sat at a round table, staring at them with hard black eyes. A very young man stood against the wall, looking down at his shoes. Atop the table was a scale, the kind Stefanos had seen in many apartments where he scored cocaine.
A drug house, thought Stefanos, and they’re not even trying to hide it. He knew then that it was time to go.
“How’s it going?” said McGinnes, extending his hand to Gargoyle, who ignored the gesture.
“What you want, man? This here’s a private residence.”
McGinnes smiled. “Exactly why we’re paying you a visit today. My partner and I, we’re real estate brokers. With Cushion and Pushin’.”
“Who?”
“Cushion and Pushin’. The name’s Richard Long. I didn’t catch yours.”
“I didn’t pitch it.”
Nose-Mask smiled.
Gargoyle said, “Say your name again?”
“Richard Long,” said McGinnes. “Like the actor. One played in The Big Valley? Most people go ahead and call me Dick.”
“Who don’t know that,” said Gargoyle, and everyone laughed.
McGinnes cleared his throat. “Anyway, we’re canvassing the area, seeing if any home owners are looking to put their houses on this seller’s market we’re having now. Way it is these days, you can get more than your asking price. Lot of folks are taking advantage of the situation—”
“Really?” Gargoyle raised his voice. “Seems to me you’d be workin’ off a list, makin’ sure you’re not wastin’ your time callin’ on people like us. And by people like us, I don’t mean niggers. I’m talkin’ about renters, Dick.”
“Nice day out,” said McGinnes, “that’s all. Thought we’d make some cold calls.”
Gargoyle’s eyes deadened. “I don’t think so.”
Stefanos watched Nose-Mask raise one of his hands. He saw the muzzle of a gun peeking out from beneath the towel.
“Let’s go, Dick,” said Stefanos, wanting to run but not able to leave his friend.
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” said Gargoyle, stepping away from the door frame and turning his head back toward Nose-Mask. “Ain’t that right, Short?”
Short Man Monroe could see that the young white dude with the fucked-up jacket knew what time it was. It was all in his eyes, the way they went quick from his partner, one who called himself Dick, back to Tyrell. Trying to get old Dick’s attention, wantin’ to say, Fuck it, man, let’s just buck and run.
Monroe figured he’d shoot the younger one first, blow a hole through his temple as he turned his head. Then the silly-ass one with the shades and the Evel Knievel sideburns and the hair combed slanted-like across his forehead. Do them quick, bap-bap-bap, before they could scream.
Monroe raised the gun to hip level, sighted it best he could. He’d practiced hip shots out in the woods, blowin’ bottles and cans off stumps, and he’d gotten pretty good. Still, it was a tricky shot from here. But if he missed he could chase those two down easy, head-shoot ’em out in the yard.
He curled his finger inside the trigger guard, pressing his palm tight on the Glock’s grip.
The young dude said something, and Tyrell said something back. Then Tyrell stepped off, turned his head back, smiled and said, “Ain’t that right, Short?”