Any Minute Now (24 page)

Kinkaid's gaze wandered off Bluto's face for a moment, as if lost in memories. All at once, his gaze snapped back sharper than before. “Where was I? Oh, yeah. When my father got out of prison he had me meet him somewhere out in a vacant lot in some godforsaken part of the city, never mind which one. At three in the morning, can you imagine? Huh!” Kinkaid sounded as if even at this late date he had trouble believing it himself. “‘Son,' he said to me, ‘I have money stashed. A boatload of it. Some I'm gonna use to make a new start for myself in another part of the country or maybe overseas, who knows? But the bulk of it is yours.' When I told him I didn't want it, he looked more surprised than when the feds came for him three years before. ‘But you gotta take it. It's my legacy, to make sure you'll be okay, no matter what should befall you.' So I told him again because I thought maybe he hadn't heard me the first time. ‘But why?' he said. ‘I don't get it.' ‘That money isn't yours to give me,' I told him. ‘You stole it from people—' ‘Stupid people,' he interrupted. Typical of someone who knew—
knew
—he was always right. ‘People who should have known better if only they'd done their due diligence,' he said. ‘Son, don't you get it, it's like finding a pot of money at the end of the rainbow.'

“I asked him how he could break the law, keep on breaking it until people he didn't know, people he'd never even met, died, and d'you what he said, Bluto? He said, ‘The law doesn't apply to me.' Then he laughed. ‘I keep getting away with murder, son. It's a beautiful fucking world, isn't it?'

“See, it was he who didn't get it. He didn't see what he'd done wrong. You know why? He was a psychopath: he drew people to him, spoke so convincingly they put their faith in him, just like one of those televangelists. He fleeced them like sheep. And now I'm wondering whether you've deluded yourself into believing that following the orders of a psychopath is good and right, that gunning a woman down in the middle of the nation's capital is how you see your life going forward. Because, you know, the moment you pulled that trigger there would be no going back. You'd belong to Luther St. Vincent—you see, I know it was St. Vincent who ordered the termination—body and soul. From that moment on there wouldn't be anything he would ask of you that you wouldn't do, because sure as you're sitting here he'd disavow any knowledge of the murder, which would leave you under the federal truck speeding right at you.”

Kinkaid stood up. Time to let Bluto contemplate his next step. Would he see the error of his ways? Who knew? Well, he bet Preach knew—he'd make book on it. Clever Preach. Kinkaid knew he'd done his best, and that was all he could ask of anyone, including himself.

“It would have been easy for me to pull the trigger, but I'm not that kind of guy. You'll realize that soon enough.” At the door to the cell, he turned back. “You thirsty, Marty?” It was crucial now to switch from Price's field name to his real one. It would underscore for him the potential for change in their relationship. “Christ, I could use a nice frosty Coke. Sound good to you?”

 

22

Jonah Dickerson took one look at Lucy Orteño and felt his heart tumble out of bed. The pulse beating a tattoo in the hollow of his throat made it all but impossible for him to swallow comfortably. He felt in desperate need of a belt of Irish whiskey, preferably a double.

Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “Are you hungry? We can go down to the canteen.”

Lucy shrugged. “Sure.” But she kept her eyes on Dickerson, a tall, wide-shouldered man with light hair and eyes.

He knew he wasn't handsome, at least not by traditional American standards, but there was something about him, as if he were missing some essential element, that seemed to intrigue women. Lucy Orteño appeared to be no exception.

The commissary was three floors down. He led her to the elevator, the car came, and they descended.

“When will Luther be back?” she asked.

“No idea.”

They stepped out into another corridor, this one bustling with men and women whose tunnel vision attested to their busy workaday lives. The commissary, a large, bright space, was at the far end. It was an off-hour, so the place was sparsely populated—just a couple of people at the vending machines, buying snacks to take back to their offices, desks, or workstations.

He ordered them both hamburgers, fries, and Cokes, then chose a table in a quiet corner. He liked the way she ate, baring her teeth, taking small bites, chewing for a long time before swallowing. Nothing put him off more than a woman who bolted her food like an animal.

When she was halfway through her burger, she put it down, wiped her hands on a paper napkin, and said, “Do you have any idea what kind of a job Luther has in mind for me?”

Dickerson registered surprise. “Up until you said it I had no idea he'd offered you a job.”

Lucy looked at him soberly. “I have nowhere to sleep, either.”

“I'm sure Luther's considered that.”

There was a silence between them. He was starting to feel a bit disconcerted when she said, “Have you ever killed someone?”

Now he looked startled. “God, no. Why d'you ask?”

She shrugged, peered into her Coke as if wanting to lose herself there.

He almost choked on the next question. “Did you?”

“Almost.” She glanced up, met his gaze. “Not quite.” She breathed. “But close.”

“What happened?”

She sighed, sat back in her chair, which, intentionally or not, gave him a better view of her thrust-out breasts. “I ran away from home. Don't ask for details.” She ran a hand through her thick hair, which brought one breast into further prominence. “Anyway, people I was with were doing H—mainlining. One of them was a guy who had been giving me a lot of shit. I hated his guts. This one night, he slipped down, further down than he had been before, I guess. He was on his back when he started to vomit. His mouth filled up and it started to dribble down his cheek.”

Dickerson felt his stomach clench, and he pushed his plate away, his appetite suppressed by incipient nausea.

She took a breath, maybe to distract him, which it did. “So there he was, on his way out of the veil of tears. In a couple of seconds he started to choke, then suffocate. I stood there watching. No one else was conscious, let alone in a position to help him. Only me. I wanted to just stand there and watch—watch the man who had tormented me over and over die. But I couldn't. I turned him on his side, smacked the back of his head, and he was okay.”

She looked at Dickerson with her huge coffee-colored eyes. “To this day I don't know whether I did the right thing.”

“Why d'you say that? Of course you did the right thing—the only thing. You did God's work.”

“Yeah? Well, two weeks later he stabbed a girl to death. The cops caught him, put him away, but so what? Is that any consolation to the girl he killed? I was her only consolation, and I failed her.”

Dickerson shook his head. “But, come on, how could you have known?”

“I knew him,” Lucy said. “I knew what he was capable of. He was a rageful, violent, sadistic piece of shit.”

He wondered why she was telling him this, what she was trying to work out. “Sounds to me you were in a no-win situation. No matter what decision you made that night, you were always going to look back.” He put his hands flat on the table. “I think you need to confess.”

She looked up, alarmed. “What?”

“I mean, you're Mexican, yes? Roman Catholic. So it should…” He paused, thinking of how best to proceed. “It's clear you've strayed, Lucy. Your distance from God has obviously hurt you. My parish church is nearby. I know when I'm troubled it's the place to go to find peace … and to get answers.”

“God speaks to you?”

He laughed softly. “Not in the way you mean. But when I open my heart to God, answers always come.” He nodded. “Come, we'll go together.”

Lucy shook her head. “Sorry, no. I have nothing to say to God.”

*   *   *

Charlie was foraging in the dead refrigerator with her light for something for her and Alice to eat, when her vision blurred for an instant. Seeing the sudden pallor of her arms and hands, she dug into her pocket for the vial of Imuran, popped two pills, and swallowed.

Even through this precursor to another attack of Takayasu's, she was aware that Alice had risen from her seat at the table. On little mink's feet she crossed to the counter where the knives were housed in their wooden rack. Charlie waited until she felt Alice coming at her, knife pointed at her back, before turning.

Grasping Alice's extended forearm, she jerked her toward her, twisted the arm so hard the girl cried out. Charlie took the knife, dragged Alice to the counter, and forced Alice's hand down, fingers splayed.

“What are you going to do?” Alice said in a shaky voice.

“Teach you a lesson in humility. When someone is nice to you, you don't try to stab them in the back.” Wielding the knife, she said, “Which finger do you need the least?”

“What?”

Alice almost fainted. Charlie had to use her hip to keep her on her feet. “Choose, Alice. Or I'll choose for you.”

“Don't!” Alice cried, trying and failing to work her hand free. “Please don't! I'm sorry!”

“Okay,” Charlie said. “My choice.”

She lifted the blade above Alice's hand and brought it down hard and fast. The girl screamed. The knife blade buried itself in the counter so close between Alice's first and second fingers it drew blood from the vee of the webbing.

“Oh, my god!” Alice sobbed. “Oh, my god!”

Charlie let her go, and she slid to the floor in a spent jumble of limbs. Crouching down beside her, Charlie showed her the knife, the very tip crimson with her own blood.

“Alice,” she said softly, “if I were to give you this knife now what would you do with it?”

The girl looked up at her out of red-rimmed eyes. A nerve in her cheek was spasming uncontrollably. “Nothing,” Alice said in a voice as tiny as one of Zhangyiyuan's magnificent tea leaves. “Nothing.”

*   *   *

The Federalist Club occupied a handsome Florentine Renaissance building on the corner of I Street and 15th Street, NW. It was designed around the turn of the nineteenth century by the same firm that had designed St. Matthew's Cathedral several blocks away near Connecticut Avenue.

Luther St. Vincent, addressed as Mr. Washington by his fellow Alchemists, was already seated in the clubby library when Albin White walked in. Groupings of high-backed chairs were scattered across the carpets at discreet distances from each other. A fire roared in the stone fireplace, as it almost always did, except during the insufferable summer months. An oval table at St. Vincent's right hand held an old-fashioned glass of Scotch and a small jug of branch water.

“Good evening, Albin,” he said as White took a chair catty-corner to him.

“And to you, Luther.” White did not have to signal; a waiter made his presence known. White ordered a lager, and the waiter retired, after informing the gentlemen their table was ready any time they chose to move to the dining room.

The two men chatted amiably until the beer arrived, along with a bowl of mixed nuts. White looked around at the few occupied seatings. “When did they start letting women into the club?” he said, sipping his lager.

“That's very funny, coming from you.”

White frowned. “I didn't mean it to be funny.” He drank some more beer. “Did you ever wonder why there are no females in the Alchemists?”

“Frankly, Albin, I never thought about it.”

“What could we possibly get, Luther? A beast, who'd try to impose her will on us, or a looker who'd surely be as lily-livered as Adams and Jackson are proving to be.”

“I admit the looker might be distracting.”

White grunted. “Especially to someone like you.”

St. Vincent eyed the other for a moment. “A man like you, with your—what shall we say?—unorthodox tastes, has no business chiding me.”

White finished off his lager, licked his lips. “Well, this is going well, isn't it?”

As if by an unspoken agreement, the two men rose and made the short walk to the dining room. The wainscoted corridor was adorned with portraits of great patriots and conservatives from America's past. The dining room, though elegant, was a tad fusty for White's taste. He could still imagine the uniformed Negroes bowing and scraping to the white members as they lived to serve, just like plantation slaves.

They were shown to a table for four, in the far corner, close to the leaded windows looking out onto the rose garden. Menus were set before them, further drink orders were taken, and they were left alone.

“I called earlier,” St. Vincent said, picking up the menu. “I had them make fried chicken as a special.”

“I hate fried chicken,” White said, determined not to be baited.

“No, you don't. You love fried chicken, and the version they make here is spectacular.” He put down the menu. “That's what I'm going to have.”

“Suit yourself.”

St. Vincent smiled as their drinks were delivered. “We're not ready yet,” he told the venerable waiter, who all but clicked his heels before he withdrew. He took a sip of his Scotch.

“I'll be having the chef's salad.”

“You poor bastard, Albin. Spiteful in everything you do, even toward yourself.”

White reached for a roll and, in doing so, knocked his drink off the table. The glass fell to the parquet floor, shattering with a sound to lift every head in the room, even the one or two ancients, dozing over their Dover soles.

“Oops,” White said, staring at St. Vincent.

Not one but two waiters hurried over to clean up the mess.