ride.” He reached over, put the key in and started the Benz. Marty, DeJuan figured, was halfway to the promised land, let carbon monoxide take him the rest of the way.
Back in the kitchen, DeJuan wondered about a suicide note. Man offs his self—he going to say why—tell his story. But why’s a dude worth all that money going to do it? DeJuan thinking, he could be depressed. Yeah? Depressed about what?—money being the ultimate depression buster.
He decided it had to have something to do with being a Mormon. Did something he couldn’t live with. Like what? He’d have to do some investigating. He sat at Marty’s laptop, went to the Church of the Latter-Day Saints Web site, got an idea.
You were a Mormon, worst thing you could do was murder. And right after that, running a close second, was fornication. DeJuan couldn’t believe that one. Dude gets his self some trim, that’s a sin? What was that about? DeJuan wondering how long he’d make it as a Mormon. Five, ten minutes before they excommunicate his black African-American ass.
He typed out a suicide note, printed it and read it. Sounded pretty good, thinking, he nailed it.
Brethren:
I feel myself sliding into the abyss, so heinous are my sins .
I do not believe Jesus can forgive me for what I’ve done:
smoking marijuana and fornicating with young women .
I’ve betrayed my wife. I’ve betrayed my congregation .
And most of all, I’ve betrayed my Lord and Savior .
I can no longer live with myself .
May God forgive me .
DeJuan liked starting it with the word brethren . Like Marty writing it to all the Mormon brothers, the whole congregation. He also liked the words abyss and heinous and sins of fornication —man, like they right out the Book of Mormon. Only thing looked strange, he didn’t have the man’s signature. He found it in Marty’s transfer folder, Marty in fancy script, saved in different sizes. Picked one and dropped it on the bottom of the letter. Right fucking there. Perfecto.
Teddy was waiting out front in the muscle car when he got back to his crib. Had a two-bedroom townhouse in Royal Oak. Walking distance to bars and restaurants. No gangbangers. No drive-bys. Nice easygoing ’hood.
Teddy came in with a six-pack—dude drank more beer than anyone he’d ever seen—and his girlfriend Celeste who didn’t seem to go with him. Teddy with his Canadian haircut and BO and this nice piece of trim.
Teddy telling him about Jack and the rich lady—woman inherit her husband’s NASCAR fortune and seeing opportunity for all concerned. Teddy said the man’s name was Owen McCall. He finished his beer and popped another one, green longneck bottles of Rolling Rock.
DeJuan Googled Owen McCall and found out he’d built a NASCAR empire and had a fortune estimated at thirty million when he’d died in a bizarre hunting accident. Killed by the sixteen-year-old son. DeJuan decided that maybe there was something to what Teddy was telling him. He looked over at Celeste. She seemed bored, sitting on the couch staring out the window, not really paying attention to what they were talking about. Or was she? He wondered what she saw in Teddy, this fine-looking girl with the creamy white skin. He said, “Yo, Celeste, what do you think?”
She turned and looked at him. “I’d fish where the fish are.”
Teddy said, “What the hell you been smoking?”
DeJuan thought about what she was saying. Get money where the money’s at. Uh-huh. Her brain a couple car lengths ahead of Teddy’s and pulling away fast. Fish where the fish are at—going after Jack’s rich lady. One thing was clear: if it was going to happen,DeJuan was going to have to do it. Teddy left him the rich lady’s address: 950 Cranbrook Road, Bloomfield Hills. That was some high-class living. Now, how was he going to go to Bloomfield Hills, do what he had to do and not stand out, not get noticed?
They got back in the Camaro and Teddy said,
Back in the kitchen, DeJuan wondered about a suicide note. Man offs his self—he going to say why—tell his story. But why’s a dude worth all that money going to do it? DeJuan thinking, he could be depressed. Yeah? Depressed about what?—money being the ultimate depression buster.
He decided it had to have something to do with being a Mormon. Did something he couldn’t live with. Like what? He’d have to do some investigating. He sat at Marty’s laptop, went to the Church of the Latter-Day Saints Web site, got an idea.
You were a Mormon, worst thing you could do was murder. And right after that, running a close second, was fornication. DeJuan couldn’t believe that one. Dude gets his self some trim, that’s a sin? What was that about? DeJuan wondering how long he’d make it as a Mormon. Five, ten minutes before they excommunicate his black African-American ass.
He typed out a suicide note, printed it and read it. Sounded pretty good, thinking, he nailed it.
Brethren:
I feel myself sliding into the abyss, so heinous are my sins .
I do not believe Jesus can forgive me for what I’ve done:
smoking marijuana and fornicating with young women .
I’ve betrayed my wife. I’ve betrayed my congregation .
And most of all, I’ve betrayed my Lord and Savior .
I can no longer live with myself .
May God forgive me .
DeJuan liked starting it with the word brethren . Like Marty writing it to all the Mormon brothers, the whole congregation. He also liked the words abyss and heinous and sins of fornication —man, like they right out the Book of Mormon. Only thing looked strange, he didn’t have the man’s signature. He found it in Marty’s transfer folder, Marty in fancy script, saved in different sizes. Picked one and dropped it on the bottom of the letter. Right fucking there. Perfecto.
Teddy was waiting out front in the muscle car when he got back to his crib. Had a two-bedroom townhouse in Royal Oak. Walking distance to bars and restaurants. No gangbangers. No drive-bys. Nice easygoing ’hood.
Teddy came in with a six-pack—dude drank more beer than anyone he’d ever seen—and his girlfriend Celeste who didn’t seem to go with him. Teddy with his Canadian haircut and BO and this nice piece of trim.
Teddy telling him about Jack and the rich lady—woman inherit her husband’s NASCAR fortune and seeing opportunity for all concerned. Teddy said the man’s name was Owen McCall. He finished his beer and popped another one, green longneck bottles of Rolling Rock.
DeJuan Googled Owen McCall and found out he’d built a NASCAR empire and had a fortune estimated at thirty million when he’d died in a bizarre hunting accident. Killed by the sixteen-year-old son. DeJuan decided that maybe there was something to what Teddy was telling him. He looked over at Celeste. She seemed bored, sitting on the couch staring out the window, not really paying attention to what they were talking about. Or was she? He wondered what she saw in Teddy, this fine-looking girl with the creamy white skin. He said, “Yo, Celeste, what do you think?”
She turned and looked at him. “I’d fish where the fish are.”
Teddy said, “What the hell you been smoking?”
DeJuan thought about what she was saying. Get money where the money’s at. Uh-huh. Her brain a couple car lengths ahead of Teddy’s and pulling away fast. Fish where the fish are at—going after Jack’s rich lady. One thing was clear: if it was going to happen,DeJuan was going to have to do it. Teddy left him the rich lady’s address: 950 Cranbrook Road, Bloomfield Hills. That was some high-class living. Now, how was he going to go to Bloomfield Hills, do what he had to do and not stand out, not get noticed?
They got back in the Camaro and Teddy said,
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