Underbelly by Gary Phillips Page B

goal but then brightened. “Or he wants to sell the head for money.” A selfish reason was okay to deride.
    â€œTo who?”
    She lifted a shoulder. “Talmock’s head’s gotta be worth something to a university or a collector. These kind of people pay big money for a baseball card with Ted Williams picking his nose on it so there must be a market for something like this artifact.”
    Magrady wondered if his head would ever become an artifact … when he croaked homeless crack zombies would use a rusty hacksaw to remove it from his body and place it in a clear plastic box with a light inside of his hollowed out skull. They’d use his noggin as a nightlight to find discarded crack pipes containing minute residues of the enslaving rock. “His sister’s office is over at USC, that policy project of SubbaKhan’s.” He stopped himself before admitting to her it was from that office he’d swiped the cassette tape. He didn’t think she would object but if she didn’t ask, he didn’t have to tell.
    Bonilla said, “She takes this gig to snatch the head back?”
    â€œHell if I know.”
    â€œOkay, so where’s the head now?” She then added before he could respond, “Savoirfaire gets killed ’cause he had it?”
    â€œWhat the hell would he have been doing with it, Janis? He wouldn’t know it was valuable.”
    â€œWhat if he was holding it for ransom?”
    Magrady considered this. “But Floyd came to me to get that clown to back off.”
    â€œBecause Floyd had borrowed money from him. At least that’s what he made it seem to us.”
    â€œYeah …”
    â€œBut what if it wasn’t?” Bonilla countered. “He put you against Savoirfaire to put him on you. Maybe he was going to slip it to him where to find you after you locked horns as he came after you, Floyd would burglarize his house to get the head back.”
    â€œI’m pretty sure being a paraplegic cuts down on your breaking and entering opportunities, Janis.”
    â€œHe had help, butthead.” She playfully socked him. “His sis.”
    â€œCome on, she’s got this square job.”
    â€œBut she could be working on the inside.” She snapped her fingers, getting animated. “What if SubbaKhan has the head?” She stood up, pacing about. “Nakano has a private art gallery up in Malibu. Invitation only. We should go up there and see if the head is on display.”
    Magrady chuckled. “They ain’t hardly going to let you in there, Mother Jones.”
    â€œHow about your sorry self? Shit.”
    â€œHere’s what I think,” not deigning to acknowledge her dig, “Floyd needed me to get Savoirfaire off his ass ’cause he was going after the head and knew if homeboy was on him he might mess that up or take it from him once he stole it back.”
    She held up an index finger. “You’re saying Floyd is after someone else who has the head?”
    â€œYeah, the guy who found it. Assuming it was a construction worker or laborer on the Emerald Shoals site. When did it break ground?”
    â€œTwo and a half years ago,” she answered. “But you don’t know who that is. And if he had it once, then say he turned it in to SubbaKhan, how’d he get it back?”
    â€œWhat if he didn’t turn it in? Could be he kept it and showed it to Floyd.” Then it occurred to him. “He could be the sister’s boyfriend. Only he’d said ’they’ didn’t know what they had.”
    â€œIt could still mean he was referring to the sister and the boyfriend or maybe the boyfriend and a buddy.”
    A charge surged through Magrady. He felt as if the door was finally creaking open, if only a sliver. “I need to find the sister. Let me use the phone, will you?”
    Bonilla checked her watch. “Go ahead, McGarrett. I need to get going anyway.”