Noiselessly, he switched to a squatting position, still staring down along the barrel into the darkness. Come on, bright boy.
He heard the high-pitched hum of the car whine down as it approached, and the crunch on gravel when it parked on the shoulder a couple of hundred yards away.
He worried the phone out of its pocket, clumsy with his left hand, punched one number with his thumb, and whispered. "Car … Bobby, we might have a situation here. You and Solo get out of the car, get ready to cover me. It probably ain't nothin'."
He winced when the car doors slammed. Maybe that was good, though. He stepped into the open and walked down the trail, at first holding the pistol out. A squirrel scampered across the path, about where the noise had come from. He tracked it, leading just a hair, and then relaxed. He was holding the pistol loosely at his side when he came into the clearing and saw the big Westinghouse. He waved at Bobby the Bad and Solo, and pressed the pistol back into its holster. It clicked into place and he straightened his jacket.
"Problems, boss?" Bobby said. He had the partygun with its big snail clip of buckshot, ready to gun down an angry mob.
"Heard something. Guess it ain't nothin'. Darker 'n I figured." He opened the car door. "Let's get a move on. Fuckin' ATC." He was usually in and out of Nick's before the traffic control switched on.
The Westinghouse scattered gravel in a fishtailing U-turn and surged up the hill. "Get what you're after, boss?" Bobby said.
"Yeah. Had to pop him, though."
"What, the lawyer ?"
"Fuck, no. The junkie." He carefully stubbed the joint in the ashtray. "He knew stuff. Can't trust a junkie." He studied Solo when he said that; no reaction. Could he really think that Willy Joe didn't know about him and his ice?
Most skaters don't think they're addicted. Let 'em go a couple of weeks without. Might be a fun experiment with Solo. Lock him up in that cabin in Georgia for about a month. Then come scrape him off the walls and see what he'll do for an icicle.
Almost twenty years' dealing and clean as a nun's butt. Marijuana and booze, that's nothing. Dropped heroin and cocaine cold turkey at the age of nineteen, when he started dealing for the Franzias.
There was no traffic until the Archer ring. As they went up the ramp they got the ATC warning chime. Solo let go of the wheel and punched in the four-digit code for Nick's restaurant, then two digits for "drop-off." Then he unfolded a Miami newspaper and resumed reading in the middle of the entertainment section.
The traffic wasn't too heavy, but this far out in the country, more than half the cars were gas or LP. The trees nearest the road were spindly and yellowish with pollution. Car owners inside the city limits had to pay an annual "green" tax if their vehicles weren't electric or pure hydrogen, so on still days the city could become an island of relatively clean air inside a doughnut of haze.
"So how'd you do him?" Bobby said conversationally.
"Did himself, fuckin' junkie. He gave me what I wanted, so I give him what he wanted. What he thought he wanted."
"You said he was José y María, right? He didn't overdose on a DD, did he?"
"Nah. There was some kind of mix-up." Willy Joe took the ampoule out of his pocket and held it up to the light. "These are his colors, but it wasn't his DNA. Can't trust nobody these days."
"Bet that was pretty."
Willy Joe shrugged and looked out at the scenery. Maybe it was overkill. No, he was a wild card. Blackmail's worth shit if you got too many people in on the secret. So now it would be just the three of them, and Moore would be doing most of the dirty work, anyhow.
"Wake me when we get there." He pulled his cap down and settled back into the cushions, shifting a little to the left so the holster didn't press into the small of his back.
He replayed the Ybor business in his mind. This might be really good. Maybe put the squeeze on both the queer and his wife? She's gotta know—hell,
He heard the high-pitched hum of the car whine down as it approached, and the crunch on gravel when it parked on the shoulder a couple of hundred yards away.
He worried the phone out of its pocket, clumsy with his left hand, punched one number with his thumb, and whispered. "Car … Bobby, we might have a situation here. You and Solo get out of the car, get ready to cover me. It probably ain't nothin'."
He winced when the car doors slammed. Maybe that was good, though. He stepped into the open and walked down the trail, at first holding the pistol out. A squirrel scampered across the path, about where the noise had come from. He tracked it, leading just a hair, and then relaxed. He was holding the pistol loosely at his side when he came into the clearing and saw the big Westinghouse. He waved at Bobby the Bad and Solo, and pressed the pistol back into its holster. It clicked into place and he straightened his jacket.
"Problems, boss?" Bobby said. He had the partygun with its big snail clip of buckshot, ready to gun down an angry mob.
"Heard something. Guess it ain't nothin'. Darker 'n I figured." He opened the car door. "Let's get a move on. Fuckin' ATC." He was usually in and out of Nick's before the traffic control switched on.
The Westinghouse scattered gravel in a fishtailing U-turn and surged up the hill. "Get what you're after, boss?" Bobby said.
"Yeah. Had to pop him, though."
"What, the lawyer ?"
"Fuck, no. The junkie." He carefully stubbed the joint in the ashtray. "He knew stuff. Can't trust a junkie." He studied Solo when he said that; no reaction. Could he really think that Willy Joe didn't know about him and his ice?
Most skaters don't think they're addicted. Let 'em go a couple of weeks without. Might be a fun experiment with Solo. Lock him up in that cabin in Georgia for about a month. Then come scrape him off the walls and see what he'll do for an icicle.
Almost twenty years' dealing and clean as a nun's butt. Marijuana and booze, that's nothing. Dropped heroin and cocaine cold turkey at the age of nineteen, when he started dealing for the Franzias.
There was no traffic until the Archer ring. As they went up the ramp they got the ATC warning chime. Solo let go of the wheel and punched in the four-digit code for Nick's restaurant, then two digits for "drop-off." Then he unfolded a Miami newspaper and resumed reading in the middle of the entertainment section.
The traffic wasn't too heavy, but this far out in the country, more than half the cars were gas or LP. The trees nearest the road were spindly and yellowish with pollution. Car owners inside the city limits had to pay an annual "green" tax if their vehicles weren't electric or pure hydrogen, so on still days the city could become an island of relatively clean air inside a doughnut of haze.
"So how'd you do him?" Bobby said conversationally.
"Did himself, fuckin' junkie. He gave me what I wanted, so I give him what he wanted. What he thought he wanted."
"You said he was José y María, right? He didn't overdose on a DD, did he?"
"Nah. There was some kind of mix-up." Willy Joe took the ampoule out of his pocket and held it up to the light. "These are his colors, but it wasn't his DNA. Can't trust nobody these days."
"Bet that was pretty."
Willy Joe shrugged and looked out at the scenery. Maybe it was overkill. No, he was a wild card. Blackmail's worth shit if you got too many people in on the secret. So now it would be just the three of them, and Moore would be doing most of the dirty work, anyhow.
"Wake me when we get there." He pulled his cap down and settled back into the cushions, shifting a little to the left so the holster didn't press into the small of his back.
He replayed the Ybor business in his mind. This might be really good. Maybe put the squeeze on both the queer and his wife? She's gotta know—hell,
Similar Books
