Know Me From Smoke, page 16
Royal lifted the gun and shot Phoenix twice in the back.
The duffel dropped against the floor and Phoenix, his gun still loose in one trembling hand, collapsed onto the woman’s body. He struggled for a few minutes like an insect partially crushed, his arms twitching with effort and his head lifting off the woman’s breasts. Moans oozed from between his lips. Finally, he was silent and still.
That’s funny, Royal thought.
To him, it looked like Phoenix and the old lady gangster were making love.
Royal parked the Datsun a block from Stella’s apartment. He locked the car and walked the tree-lined street with the black duffel swinging at his side. How much was inside? Ten thousand or so, he figured. Not much, but a good payday for a couple hours work, even if things went bad. And now Phoenix was out of his hair—that was the real payday. Royal reached the apartment building’s walkway and ambled through the tropical fauna. He stopped at a tall papaya tree and looked at the bulbous, odd-shaped fruit. He didn’t know what a ripe papaya felt or looked like, but he was in a mood that made him want everything he could touch. He pried hard at a papaya, ripped it from its moorings. He carried it up the stairs with the duffel, let himself in, and collapsed on the couch. The duffel and papaya he set on the coffee table.
“Royal, what happened?”
He turned to see Stella, slim in a white nightgown, rubbing her eyes with a fist and squinting to see him in the dim morning light. “Things are going to be better, Stella. I did some chores tonight.”
“What chores?”
“The thing we talked about earlier, what you said before I left.”
“Phoenix?”
He could see she was shivering with the sound of the man’s name, like she was cold and alone. Like she was out in the cold. On a dark corner. In the rain. Royal stood and pulled her into a warm embrace. “You never heard of a dude named Phoenix. I don’t know who the hell or what the hell you’re talking about. You never even heard the name. I mean, who the hell names a kid after a city in Arizona. That’s weird, right?”
“Weird,” Stella said. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve never heard the name before—I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”
“How could you? You never saw or met the man.”
Stella nodded her head against his shoulder. Her shoulders bobbed slightly and Royal squeezed her into his chest. “We need to get some more sleep,” he said. “I’m too damn tired to even think.”
“You got two hours before work,” Stella said. “I can wake you up when it’s time. I’ll get coffee going, have some eggs ready.”
“I appreciate it, lady.” Royal let her go and walked into the bedroom. As he rested his head on the cold pillow, he heard Stella start to grind coffee beans, begin to fiddle with pots and pans. Despite the noise, Royal fell asleep within a few short seconds—it was the sleep of the dead.
Chapter 33
Four Slain In Mid-City Lounge—Killer At-large
Following an anonymous tip, San Diego homicide detectives are investigating a quadruple murder in the mid-city area.
Police have no suspects but the slayings are believed to be linked to a recent increase in gang activity and violent crime in the area. Speaking outside the ‘Drinks and Dogs’ lounge off University and Forty-first Avenues, Detective Frank Pinson said, “The scene is brutal, bloody, and violent. One of the most cold-blooded scenes I’ve investigated.”
The four victims are all suspected of links to organized crime. “I don’t know if it’s one crew,” Pinson said, “Or if it’s a revenge killing. We’ve got three ex-cons, and a woman with various known criminal associates.”
Pinson, citing ongoing investigative tactics, said he couldn’t reveal the time of death or how the victims were killed. Nor would he reveal the victims’ names until next of kin had been notified.
“We got a complex scene to process here,” Pinson said. “I would ask that anybody who has information—even if it’s from the streets—should call Crimestoppers. When we solve cases like this, it’s usually with the help of the public.”
Cherry Wilson, a neighborhood resident who runs and owns La Famosa Taco Shop across the street from the lounge, said the bar was known locally for suspicious activity but never reported to police. “What am I going to say? I don’t like these guys in the bar by my business? It’s not illegal if people are sketchy. I guess now they got what they deserve. I hope the cops find who did it.”
Anybody with information about this crime should call Crimestoppers at 1-454-STOP-CRIME—all tips are anonymous.
“Make sure you read that whole motherfucking thing, Royal,” Slim Fat Frank said. Turned sideways in the front seat, he pointed at Royal with a half-chewed cigar. “You read that and let me know if anything comes to mind.”
Royal rested his head against the back seat and faced the detective with a plain, bored expression. “There ain’t shit in that article. It’s just four people dead at some dive on University—what can I give you?” He tossed the paper between the two cops. They ignored it.
Skinny Slade ran a finger around the steering wheel. His cheeks balled up above his chin. “You can give us whatever you’re hearing, dumb fuck.”
Royal looked out the window at the construction site across the street. He was still sweating after moving a pile of dirt from one place to another—half the time he felt the foreman told him to do shit just so he’d have something to do. That didn’t bother Royal, he just wished the man would have him do some easier shit. Royal picked at a blister on his right hand, ignored Slade’s declaration. The man was a prick. “I can’t believe you guys are doing this at my job. You know how this looks to my boss?”
Frank said, “He knows you’re a con, doesn’t he?”
“Ex-con. I’m an ex-con.”
“You’re a piece of shit,” Slade said. “Like all the rest of ’em.”
Royal shrugged. “I can’t change your mind. That’s on you.”
Frank turned in his seat. The whole car shook with the big man shifting his weight. “I tell you something that’s not in that article.” He propped the cigar in his mouth, spoke with it bouncing up and down. “One of the victims in that murder is your good pal. Dude who called himself Phoenix. Phoenix Regis Sloane. Born in the selfsame city of the great state of Arizona, did two stints at our finest American institution; that’s federal prison, Royal. And he got his face shot up down in Meh-Hee-Co. I doubt it was an accident. Ugly looking fella, Phoenix was. Still, the way it went down…”
Royal leaned forward in the seat, draped his arms between his legs. “Phoenix is dead, man? Tell me you’re fucking with me.”
“Two in the back.” Slade made a pistol shape with his hand and fired two imaginary shots. “Cold-blooded is what it was.”
Frank nodded. “Cold as a witch’s clit, I like to say.”
“Shit, I didn’t see that coming.” Royal leaned back in the seat and took two deep breaths. “He wasn’t the nicest dude. Not real friendly, you know.”
“You saying you’re not surprised he’s cooling in the morgue?” Frank’s voice was flat, as if he didn’t care about the answer.
These fuckers are playing me somehow, Royal thought. What is it they know? They can’t connect this to me. I didn’t touch anything, and the gun—if it’s got a history—belonged to the Japanese kid from the restaurant. An eyewitness? They got that? Maybe somebody who saw the Datsun in the parking lot? Man, we were there maybe ten minutes—what are the chances of that? Nope. This is them digging for leads, trying to see what I’m holding back, if anything. “I’m saying Phoenix wasn’t exactly a skilled diplomat. He knew how to press buttons. Like, he could get you pissed off in an instant.”
“Took you a long while to get that out,” Slade said.
“I was just thinking about the man. It’s not like he was close to me, but I’m upset the guy got killed. Shit, two in the back? What am I supposed to think?”
“Maybe,” Frank said slowly, “You can think about who might have done it.”
“How the fuck would I know?”
“Maybe if you were there.”
Royal gripped the front seat, yanked down on it. “You don’t even try to pin this shit on me—I wasn’t anywhere near this thing.”
Slade said, “So passionate all of a sudden. Where were you early Thursday morning? Can you give us that?”
“I was sleeping at my lady’s place. Trust me, I was busy with some important tasks, if you know what I mean.”
“What’s her name?” Frank pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket, dug around for a pen. The cigar still hung from between his lips.
“Oh, not this, man.” Royal fell back into the seat again. “My job. My lady. Fuck all that. She lives in a nice little walkup and she’s straight. You are not going to drag her into this because you want to push me—she’s a straight lady who never had a problem with the police.”
Frank and Slade both shook their heads.
“He wants us to leave his girlfriend alone, Frank.”
“He keeps wanting a lot of things, but he’s not giving us shit.”
“No detective,” Slade said, “he is not.”
“My, oh my.” Frank said. He sighed. “We know where she lives, Royal. Shoot, maybe I already know her name. You ever think of that?”
Royal shook his head, bit a hangnail on his index finger. He watched his boss point at something and direct two guys with shovels. After a second, the man looked across the street at the dark-tinted sedan with Royal sitting in the back seat. In a low voice, he said, “Phoenix was close with a guy named Markie. Lived at the halfway house with us. They shared a room. He dead, too?”
“Nope,” Frank answered. “Nobody by the name of Markie—as far as we know—is dead.”
“Well, there you go,” Royal said.
“You see how easy shit can be?” Slade looked back at Royal, lifted an eyebrow. “All this time talking shit, and you had some information for us.”
Royal settled his eyes on the man, watched him for any sign of weakness.
No, he thought, Slade’s a tough cookie. And so is Frank. I guess I need to think about how to get away from them too. He said, “I don’t know what Markie did to go to prison. He’s kind of a hot-head though. You can be sure of that.”
“He have a piece?” Slade asked.
“How the fuck would I know?”
“We’re just asking,” Frank said. And then, “I think your boss is looking for you, Royal. You better get back on the clock.”
Royal looked across the street and saw his boss standing on the curb, hands on his hips. His angry tan face was scrunched up, his eyes pointed right at the sedan. “Shit,” Royal said. “Everybody needs me for something.”
Chapter 34
“You know, Checkers,” Stella said, “sometimes I wish I didn’t need people in my life—sometimes I wish I wasn’t even a person.”
Checkers watched Stella from behind his electronic keyboard. The first thing he'd done when he saw Stella was ask how it was going with her new guy. But he didn’t do it with the joy a person might expect—Checkers seemed suspicious of Junior, off-key in the way he asked about him.
Stella did not understand this. But she knew Checkers well enough not to question him. She shrugged the question off, answered as if all was well. But in her stomach, an empty feeling kept growing.
Like cancer, she thought. Like internal bleeding.
They were rehearsing songs in a dive bar off Thirty-Second Street, a new place where they were going to do Tuesday night gigs. Nice to have another mid-week thing for both of them. But that empty feeling kept getting bigger and bigger. So, she came out with it: “You ever have that? A time you wish you weren’t a person? A time you wish you were…I don’t know, any damn thing but what you are?”
“Stella, I never had a thought like that in my life,” he said. “I mean, I’m me. I’m Checkers. I play the piano. I drink red wine. I like a nice steak. I lay out in the sun when I can. And, well, I still miss my wife. But one day we’re going to see each other again, and that’s fine.”
“See, that there,” Stella said. “That.” She pointed at him and paced the stage. She was conscious of his eyes following her back and forth. “You wish you still had that love. You wish—”
“I’ll always have that love, Stella. It doesn’t go away.”
“Okay, okay. But it’s not the same. It’s something different, and even if you still have something, part of it, a kind of love, you don’t have the real love—the kind that you can touch. The kind that touches you.”
He shook his head and played a quick, rockabilly chord progression. “Stella, I think you are talking yourself in circles. I just asked you about your man. Is it going good, or bad? That’s all.”
Stella stopped pacing the stage. She brought a finger to her mouth and chewed on it for a second. “What did you think of Junior? Tell me the truth; I want to hear what you think.”
“He made me uncomfortable, Stella. What can I say? And his friend—”
“Phoenix.”
“Yeah—I didn’t like the friend. Weird eyes on the man.”
“Phoenix is gone.”
“Oh, they’re not friends anymore?”
Stella paused, felt her breath catch. She managed to say, “He’s just—gone.”
Checkers sighed, plucked lone notes on the keyboard. “I can tell you what I think, Stella. But you and me both know that doesn’t make me right. I got no special wisdom. I’m just a piano player looking for gigs. Have been all my life. Shoot, even when I was a kid, I was looking for gigs. I got lucky with my wife: We fell in love fast and easy and it lasted a long time. Cancer wasn’t the end of that, it was just another part of it—and it keeps going, even after losing her. We still have each other, but it’s different.”
“You don’t think I should be with another man, after Virgil. After all these years. Decades. It has been two decades and you don’t think—”
“I didn’t say that.” He stopped playing, leaned back on the piano bench and shook his head at her. “Didn’t say that or even imply it.”
“You got sucker punched when your wife got cancer, and doesn’t—”
“That was not a sucker punch, Stella. Don’t you dare say that to me. Those words.” Checkers stood. He was a small man and he wavered on the stage as he adjusted his blazer and bow tie. “Not one damn moment with my wife was a sucker punch. See, since the day I met her, all my life has been a blessing. Because that’s the day I was born. It wasn’t a sucker punch the day I watched her die, my hand in hers, and it wasn’t a sucker punch the day we put her in the ground. All of that’s a blessing, dammit. All of that is a blessing for a man who was nothing before the day he was born—his real day of birth. Now, I’ve played a lot of songs with you, Stella. We did a lot of gigs now. I’ve seen you up, and I’ve seen you down. And maybe, to sing the way you do, you need to see the world from the wrong end of a fist, but you can’t only see it from that side. Sometimes you throw punches, Stella. Sometimes you slip blows, you know? A sucker punch is only a sucker punch if you let it land, dammit. If you don’t get that,” Checkers straightened his collar, tugged at the too-long sleeves on his blazer, “you don’t get a damn thing. And you’re going to go to the grave like that—confused and messed up and never having love. I’ve never been sucker punched in my life. I make sure. I can’t afford a sucker punch—life is already too damn tough to add that in. Keep thinking the whole world is against you, and that’s what it is, Stella. You make your own enemies in this life.” Checkers grunted, grimaced at Stella trembling before him on the stage. “I’m going for a cigarette,” he said. “Maybe, while I do that, you can think yourself outside of a circle. Get yourself back on solid ground.”
Stella didn’t watch Checkers walk out or look down at her own shaking hands. Nope—she stood there trembling, a trim cocktail of a woman in tight blue jeans and a rose-colored cardigan, still slim in her late forties, a lounge singer in love with an ex-con. Not that alone, but a lounge singer in love with an ex-con who was, she imagined, a murderer.
And what did that make Stella?
Stella noticed the man when she turned down the walk. He was a tall figure in a second-hand suit, well-groomed and sort of bulky around the mid-section. Not fat, Stella thought, but going soft because he doesn’t have much time for the gym. He was peering at the apartment mailbox listings next to the gate and checking them against a notepad in his hand.
As she came down the walk, Stella said, “Can I help you, mister?”
He turned and smiled at her, a welcoming half-funny smile. “Yes, please. I’m trying to get in touch with Miss Stella Radney. She lives here, but she’s not answering her phone. I was going to leave a note, but I can't seem to—”
Stella dug into her purse, pulled out her cell phone and saw she had two missed calls. “I’m Stella Radney. I’m sorry about that. I had a rehearsal and I didn’t have my phone set to ring.”
She held out a hand and they shook.
“I’m Ford Jensen, Miss Radney. Do you remember my call from a few weeks ago? I called about your husband’s killer.”
“Murderer.” Stella called it what it was.
“That’s right. Your husband’s murderer.” Jensen shifted uncomfortably in his scuffed dress shoes. “May I come in for a few minutes, Miss Radney?”
Stella sighed, ran her tongue behind her upper teeth. Checkers told her that she needed to slip life’s sucker punches. What exactly did that mean? It can’t mean avoiding the truth, she thought. “Call me Stella. Come in for a drink, but only the one—I’m not about to give the government all my booze.”
Jensen sipped his drink with a little finger dangling in the air. Stella got the sense he didn’t drink much. And he sure as hell didn’t drink much around women. The DA had a wimp on the case. “You prosecute criminals?” Stella raised her eyebrows at him sitting on her couch with his legs crossed. Jensen wasn’t a man conscious of acting tough—too preoccupied, maybe. That was what Stella thought. “You keeping us safe?”
