Nameless Night (18 page)

Randy stood still, gulping air. Adrenaline had cleared his vision. His head throbbed to the beat of his heart. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve just as the guy came at him again, on the run, like a linebacker trying to drive him through the wall. Randy timed the rush and brought his knee up at precisely the right moment. The crack of his knee meeting the guy’s chin ricocheted around the room like a whiplash; the click of his teeth coming together served as an echo.

The guy’s legs gave. He was still trying to bear-hug Randy around the waist as the rest of him headed south. Randy pushed him off and stepped over to the side.

“Hey, man,” he started, “. . . no reason we got to . . .”

The guy was sitting on the floor with his tongue hanging out, leaning back against the wall next to the trash can and then . . . he was reaching inside his jacket for something . . . something black and . . . Randy took a long step across the floor and kicked Red Sox as hard as he could, catching him a little farther beneath the chin than he’d intended, driving his lower teeth into his tongue and slamming his head back against the wall with a hollow thud. And then, except for his own labored breathing, the room was silent.

Until Red Sox began to blow bubbles in the thick blood running from his mouth and down over his chin, pip, pip, pip, with every ragged breath.

From the look of it, the guy had very nearly bitten his tongue in half. Randy didn’t bother to check further. Instead he walked over to the nearest stall and kicked open the door. The kid was standing on the toilet with his fist raised to defend himself.

“You better come with me,” Randy said.

“Leave me be,” the kid said.

“Okay,” Randy said. “But you probably better not be here when . . .”

—he gestured toward the floor—“when this guy wakes up.”

Took the kid a minute to make sense of it. He jumped down from his perch, pushed his way past Randy, and approached the unconscious man on the floor the way the wary would approach a sleeping rhino. Satisfied that Red Sox wasn’t going to be jumping to his feet anytime soon, the kid hauled off and kicked the guy in the chest. He was winding up for another field goal attempt when Randy pulled him away.

“Nah,” Randy said. “That’s not right.”

The kid jerked himself loose. “Don’t be talking to me about right, motherfucker. You don’t know a goddamn thing about . . .”

—he threw a hand at the unconscious man—“that motherfucker there . . .” He was starting to cry.

“Like I said, kid, you probably better come with me.” He didn’t wait for the kid to say anything but instead turned and walked away over to the urinals, where he unzipped himself and began doing what he’d come in there for in the first place. The kid was buffeted between his fears. “How’d I know you ain’t some fucking pervert . . . ten miles down the fuckin’ road gonna want a blow job . . . some kinky shit like that.”

“Not my style, kid.”

“My name ain’t kid, motherfucker.”

“What is it, then?”

“Acey.”

“Nobody’s named Acey.” Randy finished up, patted everything back into place, and turned toward the kid. “Well?”

“My mama named me Achilles,” the kid said. He rolled his eyes upward. “Now, what kinda crazy crack ho gonna name a kid a thing like that? See some dumb-ass movie on TV and name a kid some dumb-ass name like Achilles. Bitch out of her mind.”

Randy washed his hands in the sink, then washed his face. Twice.

“Everybody call me Acey.”

Randy dried himself with a stiff brown paper towel.

“Okay, Acey. I’m thinkin’ we better get out of here.”

Acey looked down at the floor again. He shook his head. “Dog. I’m telling ya, we don’t want this crazy bastard following us. You maya got lucky wid him one time, but it ain’t gonna happen twice.”

Randy retrieved his bag and started for the door. “Take his car keys. Take his cell phone. That’ll slow him down some.” He stopped.

“Matter of fact, take everything.” The kid was patting him down as Randy stepped outside.

The sun was a bloody welt on the horizon. The jagged silhouettes of palm trees darkened the flaming vista here and there as Randy stepped around the corner of the building and headed back to the car. One pace and he turned on his heel, stepping back out of sight, just as the kid came bouncing out the door.

Randy stuck out his arm and stopped the kid’s forward motion. He pressed his index finger against his lips. “Cops outside,” he said.

“We’re going to take the Mercedes. Like we’ve known each other for years.”

The kid nodded his understanding.

“Give me the keys,” Randy whispered.

Acey rummaged around in his assorted jacket pockets until he came out with a heavy set of keys attached to an electronic keypad.

“Green button opens the doors,” he said. Randy fished in his own pants pocket and came out with the VW key. “Put this in his pocket,” he said to the kid, who snatched the key and hurried back inside.

Randy poked his head around the corner. Looked like they were waiting for backup. A pair of Florida state mounties had the VW covered. They’d used their patrol car to prevent a retreat and had assumed the combat position, arms resting on the top of their patrol car, guns at the ready.

Randy shifted the bag to his left hand and took the kid by the shoulder. Together, they stepped out into the hazy sunshine. As they came down the walk, the cops frantically waved them away from their line of fire, over toward the far end of the lot and the Mercedes. The pair turned and walked quickly in the specified direction. As they approached the car, Randy opened the doors and stood for a moment at the passenger door while Acey belted himself in, all parental-like. He dropped his bag onto the backseat, closed the door, and turned to the cops.

“Guy’s in the bathroom,” he said. “I was just gonna call 911.” The cops relaxed a bit. Randy went on, “Looks like he’s had some sort of fit or something. Bit his own tongue. Y’all probably better get a wagon out here.”

Randy stood still. He watched as one of the cops got on the radio. Watched as they loped up the walk together, guns along their sides. Minute they stepped out of sight, he slid into the driver’s seat, slipped the key into the slot, and started the car.

“You fucking crazy?” Acey said. “You know that man?”

“You do what I told you? You take everything?”

“’Lessen he had it up his ass,” the kid said.

23

Fifty miles disappeared under the tires before either of them spoke. Randy kept one eye glued on the rearview mirror and the other bouncing up and down between the speedometer and the road. Over in the passenger seat, the kid had looked like he was watching a tennis match, rotating his head back and forth like a bobblehead doll.

“You think they comin’?” he asked finally.

“No,” Randy said. “They was coming, they’da been all over us by now.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve been driving the speed limit. Besides . . . your friend back there . . . he’s got no ID at all. He’s got the key to the VW in his pocket. Not to mention the fact that the first thing those cops are going to do is slap him on a gurney and get him to the nearest hospital. Assuming he wakes up somewhere along the way, he’s still gonna have a hell of a time explaining himself with that busted-up mouth of his.”

The kid took it in. He allowed a narrow smile to form on his lips.

“That was smart, dog. That thing wid the key in his pocket.” He nodded his admiration. “That was hella smart.” Randy felt the boy’s eyes on the side of his face.

A minute later, Acey began to empty his pockets onto the console. First a black wallet. Randy picked it up and flipped it open. Florida driver’s license. Chester D. Berry. South Miami address. From the corner of his eye Randy saw the kid set something else down. He adjusted the steering wheel and peeked down. His throat felt like Chester Berry still had him around the neck. An automatic. Nine-millimeter from the looks of it. He picked it up and hefted it in his hand.

“Where in hell did you get this?” he asked.

“Offin him,” Acey said.

“You know he was carrying?”

Acey gave him a “damn you’re dumb” look. “Shit, yeah. Them assholes always packin’.”

“What assholes is that?”

Acey pulled what looked like another wallet out of his pocket. He held it up and allowed the case to fall open. Big gold badge. Miami- Dade Police Department. Detective First Class. Chester Berry. Randy put both eyes back on the road and took several deep breaths, trying to still the rampant beating of his heart.

“You coulda told me the guy was a cop,” he said after he’d calmed down a bit.

“Ain’t no real cop.”

“What kinda cop isn’t real?”

“The pimp kind,” the kid said. “Kind don’t help people.”

“If he doesn’t help people, what does he do?”

“He line himself up, dog.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He’s a rock cop, dog.” Acey looked disgusted. He banged his fist against the passenger window. “Where you think he got this ride, dog? You think cops got the cheese to be buying a short like this?”

“How’d you end up with him?”

“It’s a long story,” the kid said, turning his face away.

“I’m in no hurry.”

The boy continued to look out the side window. They were driving through a low forest, dwarf pines, palmetto, and swamp grass running off in all directions, as far as the gaze could follow. Dawn was done, traffic was picking up. From the corner of his eye, Randy watched the boy’s reflection change from exasperation to embarrassment.

“My mama give me to him,” Acey said after a moment.

“Gave you to him?”

“She owe him money.”

“For what?”

“For rock, dog. What you think?”

“How was I supposed to know?”

“She’s a rock ho. Ain’t nothin’ in a rock ho’s min ’cept rocks.”

“So . . . what were you and Mr. Berry doing in the restroom there?”

“You saw, dog. He was kickin’ my ass, is what we was doin’.”

“For what?”

“For tryin’ to jump out his fuckin’ car.”

“Why in the bathroom?”

“’Cause he doan wanna fuck up his car, man. Whadda you think?”

Randy processed the words and then asked, “What was he gonna do with you?”

“Gonna take me up to Atlanta. Gonna sell me to this pimp he know up there.”

Randy had already decided not to ask another question, but the kid went on.

“Gonna have me work off my mama’s freight.”

The fiery ball rising in the east forced Randy to swing the sun visor around to keep the left side of his head from melting. He reached for the air-conditioning, fumbled unsuccessfully with the controls several times before the kid slapped his hand away and did it himself.

The Mercedes was everything the VW wasn’t: fast, luxurious, roomy, and responsive to the touch. He felt at home behind the wheel but didn’t know why.

Randy asked, “So where you headed now?”

The boy thought it over. “Goin’ to my auntie’s, I guess,” he said.

“Won’t she just call your mama?”

He made a face. “She give up on that dumb ho sista o’ hers years ago. I’m the only fool still hung wid that crazy bitch.” His lower lip began to tremble. He set his jaw like a bass. “Auntie Jean say anytime I get so’s I can’t deal wid it anymores, I’m welcome to crib wid her.”

“Where’s your auntie live?”

“Port St. Lucie.”

“I’ll buy you a bus ticket first chance I get.”

The kid went through his pockets and came out with a big roll of cash.

“Gonna take me a fuckin’ cab,” the kid said.

“That his?” Randy asked.

“Not no more,” he said with a flash of a grin.

“What else you got in those pockets? You got a sandwich in there somewhere? I’m hungry as hell.”

The boy laughed. “Just this,” he said, waving a cell phone.

“Lemme see,” Randy said.

The kid handed the phone over.

“You don’t want to be using this,” Randy said. “He’ll find your butt in a heartbeat, you start using his phone.”

Acey nodded his understanding. “Smart,” he said. Acey glanced down at the wallet, the cash, the badge case, the automatic, and the silencer. “What about this shit here?” he asked. Randy handed him back the phone and pointed at the glove box.

“Put it all in there,” he said. After the kid had shoveled everything inside, Randy bent over and locked it.

“So what’s your story?” the boy asked.

Randy set the cruise control on sixty and settled back into the plush seat. “What story?”

“The story where a couple of cops are bringin’ serious heat on your POS back there. You seen ’em. They was roustin’ your ass hard.”

“What’s a POS?”

“A ‘piece of shit,’ dog. Doan fuck wid me. What’s the deal?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I got time.”

Randy smiled and then told him, sort of like the Reader’s Digest abridged version. Took about five minutes. “So lemme see I got this lined up,” the boy said. “You doan know who the fuck you are.”

“More or less.”

“Mostly more.”

“Yeah.”

“All you got is the address of some crib in Cocoa Beach where this dude you think you might be . . . but you ain’t sure . . . might fuckin’ live.”

“Something like that.”

“Sheeeeet. You even more fucked up than me.”

“Are you capable of forming a sentence that doesn’t include some form of the word fuck in it.”

“Why the fuck would I wanna do that?”

Randy threw a glance his way. The kid grinned. “I’m just clownin’ wid you, dog. Lighten up. Doan be getting brittle on me now.”

“Brittle, huh?”

“Where you goin’?”

“I told you . . . Cocoa Beach.”

“The address, dog. The address.”

“Four thirty-two Water Street, Cocoa Beach , Florida. 32932.”

The kid pushed a button on the dashboard. A panel slid upward revealing what looked like a small computer keyboard. The kid pushed some more buttons. A map and a set of directions shared the screen.

“There you go,” the kid said. “Hundred eighty-one miles.”

“Wow,” Randy said.

“GPS,” Acey said.

“What’s that mean?”

“On Star.”