The Cut (Spero Lucas) (21 page)

Mobley was outside standing in his lot, where his employees, a few ex-offenders he was trying to give a break to, were working on an SUV, when Larry rolled in, driving his Escalade. Dickless Larry, thought Mobley, watching as Larry’s window rolled down, seeing that the boy was agitated.

“Where’s Ricardo at?” said Larry.

“Waitin on you,” said Mobley. “In the back.”

Mobley watched with amusement as Larry got out of his ride and crossed the parking lot, trying to Walk Tall with an exaggerated swagger, a presidential candidate in elevator
shoes and rolled-up sleeves, an actor trying to play a man. Larry, a tit with no milk.

“SIT DOWN
,” said Ricardo.

“I’ll stand,” said Larry.

They were in the main office of the warehouse, Ricardo seated behind his desk.

“You lied to me again,” said Larry.

“No, I didn’t. I kept you out the loop. That’s not the same thing.”

“You’re always twistin your words around,” said Larry.

“I have to, with you.”

“How could you let this shit happen?”

Ricardo shrugged. “Earl thought he had a solution to our problem. I let him give it a go. Looks like the dude he tried to down was better than him.”

“You’re talkin about Lucas.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We got real trouble now.”

“I expect we’ll be all right, son.”

Larry shook his head gravely. “Don’t call me son.”

“You’re my blood.”

“It’s not like I’m proud of it.”

“Neither am I. You look like me, but you ain’t me.”

“That’s for
damn
sure.”

As they always did, they came to a verbal stalemate. Ricardo leaned back in his chair. “Anything else?”

Larry’s posture slackened. “No.”

“If I need you, I’ll call.”

Larry left the room. Ricardo could only shake his head.

Beano Mobley entered the office shortly thereafter. “Your boy stormed out of here.”

“What can I say? Larry’s a woman.”

“Do I need to be concerned?”

“I got him under control,” said Ricardo. “But I rue the day I tapped that heifer he calls Mom.”

“We all got regrets.”

“Shoulda pumped my nut into a dirty sock instead.”

“You can pick your nose,” said Mobley, “but you can’t pick your gotdamn relatives.”

Feeling philosophical, Ricardo and Mobley met at the bar cart and poured themselves a couple of drinks.

LUCAS TOOK
a long bike ride late in the afternoon and returned warily to his apartment. There were no patrol or unmarked cars on the street. He had not expected police to be waiting for him there, but he allowed that it might be a possibility. He was certain no one had witnessed the event in the parking lot, and though he had probably left DNA evidence behind, it would only be connectible if he was a suspect. It had been less than a day, but Lucas knew that if the MPD had made him, he would be in the box by now in 1D, being videotaped, answering seemingly polite questions, listening to the psychological head music that D.C. homicide detectives orchestrated so well.

Lucas went inside and took a shower. As the hot water calmed him, he speculated further: Ricardo Holley and his mob knew who had killed Earl Nance, but they wouldn’t give that information up to the law. If Larry Holley was going to do his job as a police officer and turn in Lucas’s name to
Homicide, he would have done so by now, but that would also incriminate him. Ricardo could plant an anonymous tip, but Lucas had the feeling that it would be emotionally unsatisfying on his part to set in motion such a cheap and cowardly resolution to what was becoming a game of wills.

If it is a game, thought Lucas, perhaps now is the time to step it up.

He had been hired to get the money or the product back. He had been sidetracked to a degree that he had stalled in achieving that goal. He had seen Ricardo leave his house on 9th with an envelope that appeared to bulge with cash. That same day, he had observed the man who could be Mobley, Nance, the big man driving the Tahoe, Ricardo, and Larry Holley all congregated at the detailing building, which perhaps also functioned as their base of operations. Since Ricardo had taken money there, the meet might have been for the purpose of a payday, set in a place where they could come together to cut it up. He assumed that Ricardo, being the senior member of the group, was in charge. Ricardo damn sure didn’t use a bank. Ricardo distributed the cash from the reserve that he kept at his house. For Lucas, the next step was obvious.

He came out of the shower and dried off with a large bath towel. He put on some jeans, went out to the living room, picked up his cell, scrolled through his contacts, and found the friend he had last seen at the American Legion bar.

“Bobby Waldron.”

“It’s Spero Lucas.”

“Hey, man.”

“I could use your help.”

“You need somethin?”

“For now I need you. I got a tail-and-surveil job.”

“Thought you use Marquis for that sort of thing.”

“His lack of mobility is an issue.”

“I could use the work.”

“You free tomorrow?”

“Affirmative.”

“Let me give you some background.”

Lucas told him some of it. They agreed to meet early the next day.

B
OBBY WALDRON
was standing on Emerson, leaning against his Ford Lariat SuperCrew pickup, when Lucas came out of Miss Lee’s house in the morning.

Waldron stood straight as Lucas approached. He wore cargo pants and a white T-shirt whose sleeves were filled with his bulging, Bengal-striped biceps. His left forearm was heavily dotted with shrapnel and ink. His hair, shaved back and sides, said military or police. A chaw of tobacco swelled his jawline.

Lucas wore dark blue Dickies pants, a matching blue long-sleeved Carhartt shirt, and black steel-shanked Wolverine boots. It was too warm for such an outfit, but any discomfort he would feel was necessary.

“My man Waldo,” said Lucas.

“Sir.”

“Knock that shit off.”

“Yes, sir.”

“C’mon.”

They went to the back of the Jeep. Lucas lifted the tailgate, exposing the cargo area, which he had loaded with tools and equipment. Waldron looked at a dark blanket covering several items and the thick pine handle that protruded from its edge.

“What is that, an ax?”

“It’s a sledgehammer,” said Lucas. “Haven’t decided what I’m gonna use so I brought a racka shit.” Lucas reached into a box, handed Waldron a two-way and headset, and a disposable cell. “Use the radio when we’re in range. When we get out of range, use the cell. Here’s my number.” Lucas handed him a slip of paper. “You have the address of his house.”

“I do.”

“Park on Somerset or Tuckerman. Be aware that it becomes one-way on that strip due north. If our man is a creature of habit, he’ll go right to the Safeway after he leaves his crib. He gets his morning coffee at the Starbucks there.”

“Right.”

“I’ll be in the lot to make sure this is going as planned. From there you’re on your own. Last time we tailed him he went to a pole-dance club deep down on Georgia. Look for him to go there or some other stroke palace and then over to his spot in Edmonston.”

Waldron spit juice on the street. “Got it.”

“He starts heading back to his house, hit me up.” Lucas looked him over. “You got a long-sleeve shirt?”

“It’s too hot for that.”

“I know you’re proud of your guns, but you do stand out with all your ink.”

Waldron flexed, his stripes expanding. “Whaddaya think?”

“Tony the Tiger’s jealous.”

Waldron issued a lopsided grin. “I don’t have a long-sleeve shirt with me.”

“I’ll get you one.”

Lucas went back into his apartment and returned with a Johnson Motors long-sleeved T carrying a print of Bud Ekins riding his Triumph. Waldron examined it.

“Who’s this guy?”

“McQueen’s stunt double. He jumped the bike over the barbed wire in
The Great Escape
.”

“Cool.”

“My brother doesn’t think so,” said Lucas.

“He’s overeducated.”

They climbed into their vehicles and went to work.

LUCAS WAS
far back in the lot of the Safeway on Piney Branch Road, waiting, when Ricardo Holley, in his white Lincoln, pulled in and came to a stop. Bobby Waldron’s Lariat arrived shortly thereafter. His voice came into Lucas’s headset.

“I’m here,” said Waldron.

“I got you,” said Lucas.

Waldron parked in another far corner. Holley stepped out of the Mark V and crossed the lot. He wore a purple shirt tucked into triple-pleated black slacks and a black bolo tie. His hair was large, puffy, and somewhat bronze in the sunlight.

“Where do you get that haircut in this day and age?” said Waldron. “And those clothes. Where do you
buy
shit like that? Seriously.”

“Maybe he’s got a time machine in his basement.”

“Weird-lookin dude, bro.”

“You think so?”

Soon Holley emerged from the Safeway with a cup of Starbucks in hand. He started up the old Lincoln and cruised through the parking lot toward the Georgia Avenue exit. Waldron ignitioned his truck.

“I’m on it,” said Waldron.

“Switch over to your disposable.”

“I will.”

“He starts to head back to his house, you call me, hear?”

“Copy that.”

Lucas watched Waldron follow Holley, Waldron spitting a stream of tobacco juice out the window. PFC Bobby Waldron, 2nd Platoon, 2nd Battalion, 503rd Infantry Regiment, had been stationed at a firebase in the Korengal Valley and had participated in harrowing recon patrols throughout his deployment. Lucas was not worried about his friend. This was butter for him. He’d do fine.

Lucas started his Jeep and drove toward Holley’s residence.

AS THERE
is with nearly every house in D.C., there was an alley behind Holley’s house on 9th. Lucas drove through it, north to south, slowly. He noted the No Parking / Tow Away Zone sign, stopped his Jeep, and took several photos of the rear of Holley’s bungalow. It was bordered by a cheap post fence one grade up from chicken wire that could be easily vaulted. It had a couple of windows that were probably locked and definitely hard to access, and an iron set of steps with a handrail that led to the wooden back door. Lucas saw no
water dish, paw-dug holes, mounds of feces, or any other evidence of a dog. If Holley had one, he would mistreat it, and the animal would be mean. Lucas would deal with that if he had to.

He looked to his right. There was a commercial building on the west side of the alley whose windows faced north; its occupants would have no sight lines on the Holley house. Past the building was the busy Georgia Avenue intersection beyond which Piney Branch would soon become 13th Street.

Lucas drove out of the alley, went around the block, and parked on Tuckerman facing Georgia.

He examined the photographs he had taken on his iPhone. He stowed that phone in the glove box and slipped his disposable into his pocket. On his belt he wore a holster for a Leatherman utility device, which, assuming there was no safe to crack, had all the tools he might need, including a knife long enough to blind someone if properly stuck. He picked up a knit watch cap off the shotgun seat and fitted it on his head.

Lucas got out of the Jeep, went around it, lifted the tailgate, and pulled back the blanket in the cargo area. He looked at the sledgehammer and knew that it was too conspicuous and heavy. Beside it was a Stinger all-steel battering ram used by police that Lucas had bought off a website for two hundred and seventy-five bucks. It was not the monster hydraulic ram he had seen used to great effect on houses overseas, but it was sufficient and weighed only thirty-five pounds. He took it out of the Jeep and proceeded to the alley.

Walking south, he tossed the Stinger into Holley’s yard
without breaking stride. At the foot of the alley he turned and went to 9th, then turned north. Now he was going by the front yards of the houses there. The street was quiet. A woman with a belly hanging over the front of her elastic-waist jeans crossed the street carrying a laundry hamper and went toward her car. She glanced at him for only a moment and walked on. He was a young white guy in a uniform and cap, medium height, solid build, no facial hair, no features to distinguish him, completely unremarkable and unmemorable, going about his business, which appeared to be some kind of official or blue-collar task. He continued up the sidewalk of the Holley residence, hearing the turn of an ignition behind him, going by the security alarm sign that he assumed would be bullshit. Now he was on the porch, hearing the car with the Laundromat-bound woman inside it going up the street.

Lucas stood before the door and pushed a button beside it and did not hear a bell. He knocked on the door and got no response. By now a dog would have come, but apparently there was no dog inside. He looked in the thin vertical window beside the bell, saw the messy interior, saw a plastic box hanging by the wall inside the door that showed a keyboard but had neither a red nor a green light, and he knew that it was a false security monitor that Holley had attached in a half-assed way.