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:
“No,” said Murphy.
Tutt relaxed. Murphy was with him all the way.
“The money will keep them busy,” said Tutt. “But you know what we’ve got to do.”
“I know.”
“Then you and me are square on this.”
“Yes.”
Tutt smiled. “Like you were, buddy. Been waitin’ a long time for you to come back around.”
Murphy relaxed his tightened jaw. “We’re gonna need help. Was thinkin’ about Rogers. He can bring Golden out, get everybody together in one room. He’s the weakest of the bunch. Won’t be hard to convince him we’re gonna cut him in.”
“We can’t cut him in, though, Kevin. He’s one of them.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll beep Rogers,” said Tutt, “clue him in.”
“Let me talk to him, Tutt. You’re not exactly the right guy to be talkin’ Rogers into anything. He can relate to me.”
“You handle it, then.” Tutt looked at his watch. “Meet me at O’Grady’s in an hour.”
“Make it two. I got some things to wrap up.”
“All right, partner. See you there.”
Tutt racked the phone and looked down. His hand wasn’t shaking anymore.
Murphy placed the phone back in its cradle. He glanced across the room. Wanda sat on the edge of the bed, her old Kmart housedress hanging loosely over a faded cotton sleeping shirt, pink slippers on her feet. The TV set threw colors on her face.
The laugh track swelled, Wanda’s laughter riding above it. “Oh, Kevin! That Punky Brewster girl is so cute tonight!”
“Want something to eat, sweetheart?”
“Had a grilled cheese before you came home. I’m feelin’ kind of sleepy. Gonna watch Silver Spoons, and then I’m gonna take a little nap.”
“Don’t sleep too long. You’ll be tossin’ all night.”
“I won’t.”
“Wanda?”
“What?”
“I’m goin’ out tonight. Got some police business I got to take care of with Tutt.”
Wanda’s eyes stayed on the television screen. “Okay.”
“Picked up something for you at the market today. I’ll bring it to you before I go.”
“Thanks, Kev.”
“Love you, girl.”
“I love—” Wanda’s hand jerked to her mouth. “Kevin, this little girl is fuh-nee!”
Murphy changed into a pair of jeans, running shoes, and a short-sleeved polo shirt. He walked from the room.
Murphy wrote a one-page letter in longhand, standing at his workbench, and signed his name. He sealed the letter in an envelope and addressed it to George Dozier in care of Marcus Clay. Murphy had little respect for his superiors and none for the suits in IAD; Clay’s endorsement of Dozier, and Dozier’s rep, had sealed things in his mind.
Murphy lifted the pillowcase from where it sat heaped at his feet. He set it next to the box containing his father’s church lottery tickets and dumped the lottery tickets into the pillowcase. He dropped the last stack of banded money in as well.
Murphy brought his S & W Combat Magnums down from the shelf, took them out of their cases, and laid them on the bench. He picked up one of the .357s and turned it in his hand: six-inch barrel, squared butt, checked stock. The stainless steel satin finish winked in the overhead light. He thumbed back the grooved hammer, sighted down the barrel, and dry-fired at the wall. He opened the box of Remington rounds and located the bullets with the Xs etched in their heads. He broke the chambers of the guns and loaded six hollow-point dumdum bullets into each. He wrist-snapped the chambers shut.
Murphy found his gun belt. He buckled the belt to his waist and slipped the guns into the holsters, one on each side, steel scraping leather on entry.
He turned to the wall, where he had taped a Jesus card he had picked up at the Jarvis Funeral Home on the night of his brother’s wake. Murphy raised his hands, his palms facing the paper icon, and closed his eyes. Standing there, his guns heavy on his hips, he prayed.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want...
Murphy unbuckled his holster belt and dropped it in the pillowcase. He got a good grip on the load and headed up the stairs.
The TV was still on in the bedroom. Wanda was asleep on her back, her arms folded across her chest. Murphy turned off the set and walked across the room. He placed a red-and-white package of chocolates on the nightstand, next to her lamp. He knelt beside the bed.
“Brought you some Turtles, baby. Your favorite.”
Murphy ran a hand through Wanda’s coarse, dirty hair. He brushed dandruff off her housedress. He kissed her on the side of her mouth, her breath warm and sour on his face.
Murphy got to his feet and looked down at the husk on the bed. He switched off the light.
Short Man Monroe studied Tyrell, slumped in that big chair of his, running one of his long fingers down his cheek. Big man like Tyrell, it was strange seeing him look so weak. The call from Chink Bennet’s aunt, it seemed to take time off Tyrell right in front of Monroe’s eyes.
Alan Rogers stood against the wall, looking down at his shoes, smears on his face where he’d tried to wipe tears away. Rogers was nothin’ but weak; Monroe could see that now. You had to be hard, realize that death was just another day-to-day reality of the street.
Now Antony Ray? That was one hard nigga, boy. He’d snorted, laughed shortly, said something about “those simple-ass mothafuckers” when Tyrell had gotten the call. Now he was over by the table, doin’ a line through the tube of a ballpoint pen. Havin’ no feelings at all, it was something to reach for. No feelings meant no fear. Bein’ that cold, it could keep you alive.
“Alan?” said Tyrell.
“Yeah, Ty.”
“Tomorrow morning you send some flowers over to the funeral home, hear? I’ll put a couple hundred in an envelope, you run it over to Jumbo’s moms and Chink’s aunt.”
“Can’t believe it,” said Rogers.
“One of those accidents,” said Tyrell. “They just got in the way of some niggas doin’ some mayhem in one of them shops.”
Ray dropped the pen casing on the mirror, rubbed his nose. “Figures fat boy got smoked in some food store.”
“Wouldn’t of happened,” said Monroe, holding up his Glock, “he’d been carryin’ his gun.”
Monroe looked at Ray for approval. Ray’s eyes, heavy lidded with pin-head pupils, smiled.
“Seems like all our shit’s just flyin’ apart,” said Tyrell.
“Can’t let it slip away altogether, cuz,” said Ray.
“Heard that,” said Tyrell, rising from his chair. “We best get on our way.”
Monroe released the magazine of his nine, checked the load, slapped it back inside the butt. He slipped the Glock barrel-down behind his Lees.
“Thought you said no guns,” said Rogers.
“Did I, Alan?” Tyrell eased himself into his leather jacket. “Yeah, well. Fuck all that.”
Ray laughed. “Wisht I was comin’ with you.”
“Need you to stay here and take care of our boy, Antony.”
“Oh, I will.”
“Give him water,” said Rogers, “he asks for it. Last thing we need’s another death on our hands.”
“Yeah,” said Monroe, “take care of Alan’s other girl.”
“Come on,” said Tyrell. “Let’s go.”
Rogers said, “Gonna take my Z, Tyrell, that’s all right. Need to do somethin’ after.”
“Fine.”
From the window, Antony Ray watched the two cars drive away.