follow it to the pickup, collect a million
dollars. He could spare the fifty if he had treasure coming. Still,
it was hard to let go, and hard to give in to such a cheap grifter.
Why hadn’t he sewn the fifty into his jeans like he’d meant to?
Maybe because he couldn’t sew, and it wasn’t the kind of thing he
could ask Saida to do for him.
And then he had a sudden impulse to
slap this woman hard, this confident little hippie who thought she
had nothing to fear from a man twice her size. Marcus had never
come anywhere near hitting a woman before. He’d had a few fights
with Saida, where she’d ripped into him pretty good, but even at
full volume, he could never think of anything but how crazy she
made him and how much he loved her.
The woman in buckskin was right: he
wasn’t going to hit her. The last thing—the absolute last thing—he
needed right now was a woman yelling at him in the parking lot. He
handed her the fifty.
“ Here, I’ll let you keep
your change,” she said and tossed him back his coins.
He reached up to protect himself as if
the nickels and dimes were dangerous. They fell to the
ground.
“ It’s just money, dear,” she
said, and then she threw her baby headfirst into the back seat.
Marcus gasped, and the woman laughed at him again.
“ Don’t tell me how to raise
my child, okay?”
There had never been a baby, just a
loaf of white bread wrapped in blankets. Why she’d hold it like a
baby, alone in a parking lot was a question he couldn’t answer. She
locked the truck and headed for the restaurant, and he walked right
to the brown Toyota and stuck the tracker back near the bumper,
more or less where it had been on the first car. He gave it a few
rough pats—it would hold.
CHAPTER 22
Whenever Top wanted to meet Duane it
was either a very good thing or a very bad thing. Duane guessed
that this was not going to be a good thing, but at least Top met
you somewhere reasonable, like New York or Boston. Duane made sure
to get there early. He sat at a bar in lower Manhattan at three in
the afternoon. It was populated mostly by young men who looked like
they worked on money all day. There was a lot of unnecessary
posturing. They had to sit in a way that it made it clear how tough
they were. In the wrong mood, this would be the absolute worst
place for Duane to spend an hour idly drinking. Anyone who even
thought of talking to him would end up with a shoe in his mouth.
Duane hated these guys, but at the same time they sort of had it
figured out, didn’t they?
So maybe Top had something really
great to tell him. Maybe Top was going to announce they were
opening a legit Wall Street branch of the organization, and Duane
was going to be the vice president of accounts. No, there would be
a few cheap insults and some unrealistic requests, but at least Top
wasn’t having him killed tonight. You don’t ask someone to meet you
at the center of the world to do that kind of thing.
Top came in like a doctor: late with
no apologies. But at least he was ready to get right down to
business. He ordered a single malt and then turned to
Duane.
“ When was the last time you
heard from Tony Braxton?”
“ Not since last week—when I
saw him.”
“ So exactly what time did
you last see him?”
“ About ten.”
“ You left first or he left
first?”
“ I left first.”
“ And he was in a
bar?”
“ Yeah. It was called
McPhail’s. I can find the address pretty easily.”
No reason to lie about what Top
already knew. He was looking at Duane very carefully, probably
using tricks of lie detection that he’d gotten from some manual of
leadership and domination. Duane could read faces better than
anyone without using silly tricks. Top relaxed his gaze.
“ You ever sell any gold?” he
asked.
“ Not since I was a
kid.”
“ What do you
mean?”
“ I mean that I came into
some jewelry a few times when I was young.”
“ No. I’m not talking about
snatching chains and selling them at
dollars. He could spare the fifty if he had treasure coming. Still,
it was hard to let go, and hard to give in to such a cheap grifter.
Why hadn’t he sewn the fifty into his jeans like he’d meant to?
Maybe because he couldn’t sew, and it wasn’t the kind of thing he
could ask Saida to do for him.
And then he had a sudden impulse to
slap this woman hard, this confident little hippie who thought she
had nothing to fear from a man twice her size. Marcus had never
come anywhere near hitting a woman before. He’d had a few fights
with Saida, where she’d ripped into him pretty good, but even at
full volume, he could never think of anything but how crazy she
made him and how much he loved her.
The woman in buckskin was right: he
wasn’t going to hit her. The last thing—the absolute last thing—he
needed right now was a woman yelling at him in the parking lot. He
handed her the fifty.
“ Here, I’ll let you keep
your change,” she said and tossed him back his coins.
He reached up to protect himself as if
the nickels and dimes were dangerous. They fell to the
ground.
“ It’s just money, dear,” she
said, and then she threw her baby headfirst into the back seat.
Marcus gasped, and the woman laughed at him again.
“ Don’t tell me how to raise
my child, okay?”
There had never been a baby, just a
loaf of white bread wrapped in blankets. Why she’d hold it like a
baby, alone in a parking lot was a question he couldn’t answer. She
locked the truck and headed for the restaurant, and he walked right
to the brown Toyota and stuck the tracker back near the bumper,
more or less where it had been on the first car. He gave it a few
rough pats—it would hold.
CHAPTER 22
Whenever Top wanted to meet Duane it
was either a very good thing or a very bad thing. Duane guessed
that this was not going to be a good thing, but at least Top met
you somewhere reasonable, like New York or Boston. Duane made sure
to get there early. He sat at a bar in lower Manhattan at three in
the afternoon. It was populated mostly by young men who looked like
they worked on money all day. There was a lot of unnecessary
posturing. They had to sit in a way that it made it clear how tough
they were. In the wrong mood, this would be the absolute worst
place for Duane to spend an hour idly drinking. Anyone who even
thought of talking to him would end up with a shoe in his mouth.
Duane hated these guys, but at the same time they sort of had it
figured out, didn’t they?
So maybe Top had something really
great to tell him. Maybe Top was going to announce they were
opening a legit Wall Street branch of the organization, and Duane
was going to be the vice president of accounts. No, there would be
a few cheap insults and some unrealistic requests, but at least Top
wasn’t having him killed tonight. You don’t ask someone to meet you
at the center of the world to do that kind of thing.
Top came in like a doctor: late with
no apologies. But at least he was ready to get right down to
business. He ordered a single malt and then turned to
Duane.
“ When was the last time you
heard from Tony Braxton?”
“ Not since last week—when I
saw him.”
“ So exactly what time did
you last see him?”
“ About ten.”
“ You left first or he left
first?”
“ I left first.”
“ And he was in a
bar?”
“ Yeah. It was called
McPhail’s. I can find the address pretty easily.”
No reason to lie about what Top
already knew. He was looking at Duane very carefully, probably
using tricks of lie detection that he’d gotten from some manual of
leadership and domination. Duane could read faces better than
anyone without using silly tricks. Top relaxed his gaze.
“ You ever sell any gold?” he
asked.
“ Not since I was a
kid.”
“ What do you
mean?”
“ I mean that I came into
some jewelry a few times when I was young.”
“ No. I’m not talking about
snatching chains and selling them at
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