The Exiled (9 page)

He stopped at the bathroom, changed back into his own clothes. Clara had moved on to a different machine. She sat with her face inches from the screen, pupils dilated, mouth slightly open. Someone had given her a bucket that looked like a beach pail. Raney watched her transfer the coins from pail to slot.

“Are you ahead?” he asked.

“I won eighty-five dollars,” she said. “I almost can't breathe. I've never won money before in my life.”

“Then it's a good time to quit.”

“One last try,” she said.

She slid in a nickel, pulled. Lemon, kiwi, coconut.

“Come on,” Raney said.

She stood, shook her head as though breaking a trance.

“Did you find anything?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

“Not good enough,” she said. “I want a full report. I earned it on this one.”

“I'll tell you in the car.”

“All right,” she said. “But I'll know if you're holding back.”

The hills below the reservation were steep. Raney kept one foot hovering above the brake, saw Clara's legs lock at every bend. The blue sheen cast by the morning light was muted now; the landscape seemed duller, less alert. Storm clouds to the east, the sky overhead clear.

“Well?” Clara said.

He told her about the view from Adler's window, his penchant for order, his closet full of salmon-colored shirts.

“Makes sense,” Clara said. “He was in and out of prison his whole life.”

Why hadn't the thought occurred to Raney? Because understanding the psychology behind Adler's wardrobe wouldn't lead him to the missing coke? Or because fifteen years in the desert had slowed his faculties?

“And now the hunt?” Clara asked.

“Yes. Adler's probably ditched the Jaguar, so we'll have the marshals and troopers focus on junkyards and chop shops.”

“While you…?”

“Wait. We've got people checking hospitals and morgues for stabbing victims. Forensics is processing DNA from the house. Mavis's computer is with the techs. Something will come back.”

The country leveled off. Clara leaned against the passenger door, one elbow out the window.

“I let Mavis down,” she said.

“Let her down?”

“She was there for us. I didn't even realize she needed help.”

“She kept big secrets,” Raney said.

They crested the summit of a hill on the outskirts of town. Main Street came into view. There was activity now: a cluster of pickup trucks in the megastore parking lot, a scattering of sun-beaten faces strolling between shops.

“Where do you eat around here?” Clara asked. “I can't imagine they feed you at that hotel.”

“The diner, mostly.”

“The diner? That place fries everything in lard. Why don't you let me fix you a real dinner tonight? Daniel has an open invitation with Mrs. Hardin.”

Raney hesitated: Clara wasn't a suspect, was at most a material witness.

“Sounds good,” he said.

“Great. Pick me up at seven.”

“Pick you up?”

“You'll see.”

A
n old-timer was playing solo piano on the stage at Dunham's club, tunes Raney recognized from his childhood—“Moon River,” “I Can't Give You Anything but Love”—songs from albums his father used to play. How long had it been, he wondered, since he'd visited his father's grave? A year, maybe more. It seemed all the images he could conjure of the man came from photos instead of real life.

“This guy's eighty-four fucking years old,” Dunham said. “He played Minton's. He sat in with Miles. Miles fucking Davis. Can you believe it? A living legend. And listen to him now. His fingers may have slowed a little, but he can still kill a ballad. I'll be happy to wipe my own ass at that age.”

You won't live to that age, Raney thought.

The tables were empty; the legend played for Dunham alone. A thousand-dollar check lay in the tip jar.

“Listen,” Raney said. “I shouldn't come along on this one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I told you. I fought Mora in the amateurs.”

“You win?”

“Once by TKO, once by split decision.”

“So what's the problem?”

“He knows who I am.”

“Yeah? I bet he knows who I am, too. Don't worry, we're going to play nice.”

“A payoff won't do it. Mora only cares about one thing.”

“His fifteen illegitimate kids?”

“A shot at a title.”

“You kicked his ass twice. Maybe it's time he moved on to a different dream.”

“He won't see it that way.”

“Enough, Deadly. Take a fucking benzo. And go see if Pierre is done. I had him cook us up something for the road.”

They crossed the bridge and drove up 4th Avenue into Sunset Park, Dunham at the wheel, Raney holding a paper bag filled with potato gnocchi, sautéed asparagus, a double portion of tiramisu. Pierre even threw in a bottle of wine.

“How do you know Mora won't already be there?” Raney asked.

“He works the day shift at a pet-food plant in Red Hook. He's the forklift guy. Then he trains at Gleason's from five to nine. The poor bastard must be dead in his skin.”

“When does he fight Malone?”

“Six weeks. Atlantic City, you and me, front row.”

Six weeks. Rousting junkies was one thing; tanking Mora's career was something else. He remembered Ferguson's injunction:
If you see an opportunity, take it.
But then Meno would just send someone else. That had been Stone's point all along: Dunham was a cog. Remove him prematurely, and the machine would keep churning.

None of which would matter once Mora saw his face. Raney would have to arrest Dunham right there, call for a squad car, tell Stone to postpone his mayoral run.

They parked in front of a square brick low-rise off the avenue on 43rd Street.

“Looks like the box some other building came in,” Dunham said.

An elderly Hispanic woman sat on the stoop, separating a cart of whites and colors into two baskets. It was the laundry that made him think of it. He popped the glove compartment, pulled out the ski masks—casual, as though he assumed they were part of the job.

“Nah, we don't need those,” Dunham said. “They won't have cameras in a dump like this. Besides, I hate those fucking things. Sweat gets stuck in them and then your head stinks like a cunt.”

“All due respect,” Raney said, “but there's no way this guy doesn't make me.”

Dunham slapped the steering wheel.

“Don't be such a pussy. Mora can't do shit. We've got him over a barrel. But if you want to wear the mask, then wear the fucking mask. Just wash your face after.”

They started for the building. Dunham nodded to the old woman.

“Buenos días,” he said.

“I speak English, asshole.”

“Yeah?” Dunham said. “And I bet you've got a few cats, too.”

Someone had propped open the lobby door with a Spanish-language Yellow Pages. Dunham tapped it with his foot.

“This is what the spics call a doorman building.”

A bank of rusted mailboxes took up an entire wall. Dunham searched for Mora's name, pulled a small nail file from his wallet and picked the lock. Inside, a coupon flyer and three envelopes with plastic windows.

“He owes, he owes, so off to work he goes.”

Dunham stuck the mail back in the box, shut the lid. They took the elevator up five flights. The same nail file worked on Mora's front door. Inside, an efficiency with a dorm-size fridge, a microwave, a Murphy bed folded into the wall. Frayed carpeting. Water stains on the ceiling.

“If rats were human size, this is how big the traps would be,” Dunham said.

Columns of milk crates for a dresser, the top row filled with medals, trophies, an amateur belt. This fight with Malone was supposed to be Mora's break, his first spot on national TV, part of the undercard for a Hearns bout.

“He's disciplined,” Dunham said. “I'll give him that. It's not easy to keep a place this size looking clean.”

Dunham emptied a column of milk crates onto the floor, stacked them in the center of the room, dragged over a pair of folding chairs. Raney set Pierre's meal atop the mini fridge.

“What now?” he asked.

“We have time before he shows. Let's get comfy. Do a little blow, eat some nice food, watch some TV.”

“What TV?”

Dunham scanned the room.

“Jesus,” he said. “Fat cats really do feed on skinny mice.”

It was the closest he'd come to naming Meno.

Take-out tins lay scattered across the carpet. Dunham's high had him jabbering, pacing Mora's three hundred square feet, dropping to pump out a set of push-ups. Raney stuck to the peephole.

Mora got off the elevator at a little after ten, dressed in a wifebeater and shorts, weighted down with a gym bag, a backpack, a sack of groceries. Raney pulled on his mask.

“It's about fucking time,” Dunham said. “I was starting to get jail-cell flashbacks. Take a seat at the table and keep quiet—you're making me nervous. Just be sure he sees your piece.”

The lock turned. Dunham grabbed Mora by the ear, yanked him inside, waved his Glock. Mora dropped the groceries, unleashed a string of expletives in Spanish.

“Yeah, that's nice,” Dunham said. “Hands against the wall.”

“Fuck you,
pendejo
. I know why you're here, and the answer is kiss my ass.”

“You've got it all wrong. I just want to talk.”

“Call me next time.”

“What next time? We're going to get everything nice and settled.”

Mora spat.

“That's your floor, dipshit.”

Dunham took Mora's shoulder, spun him around. The fighter was shorter than Raney remembered, but he'd bulked up: a legit middleweight. He still wore a beard to mask the long scar running above his right jawline, but the tats were new—props to accentuate the muscle. A tiny pair of silver boxing gloves hung from a chain around his neck.

“What am I going to find?” Dunham asked.

“A switchblade in my left sock.”

“Nothing else?”

“Why don't you put down that gun and we'll work this out like men?”

“You know, your English is really good.”

“I'm from Washington Heights,
dipshit
.”

“Like I said, your English is really good.”

Raney watched, wondering what he would do if Dunham turned up in his living room, threatening to kill Sophia unless he took a dive against a fighter whose prime was five bouts behind him.

Dunham tossed the switchblade across the room. Mora turned, eyeballed Raney for the first time.

“This your torture bitch?”

“Nah, nothing like that. He just has a blood condition. Why don't you sit down? I saved you a glass of wine.”

“I'll stand.”

“Come on,” Raney said. “Have a seat.”

“The piece-of-shit coward in the mask talks,” Mora said.

Dunham smacked him hard across the back of the head.

“Easy, suede man. I might turn the tables real quick.”

“Sit the fuck down and let's get this over with.”

Mora took the chair opposite Raney. Dunham crouched between them: a parody of a prefight interview.

“I'll get straight to the point,” Dunham said.

He tucked his gun in his waistband, lifted two envelopes from inside his jacket, dropped one on the makeshift table.

“There's ten grand in there. Double what we offered last time.”

“Fuck you twice as hard.”

“You sure? You could buy yourself a nice TV.”

“Where would I put it?”

“How about a bigger pad?”

“Man, enough with the clown act. Just show me what's in envelope two.”

Dunham stood, rubbing his palms together.

“I'm trying here,” he said. “But I'm starting to take a personal dislike to you. You don't want that.”

“Step from behind that gun. Then we'll see who wants what.”

“Fine,” Dunham said. “It'll be more fun this way.”

He tossed the second envelope on Mora's lap.

“Open it.”

Mora pulled out a thick sheaf of paper, unfolded pages of maps and itineraries: the location of his kids' schools, the routes they took home, the places where their mothers worked. Mora shrugged, folded the pages back into the envelope, handed it to Dunham.

“You think I give a shit?”

Dunham leaned inches from Mora's ear.

“I'll kill every one of those kids,” he said. “I'll do it myself. And if the mama's a piece of ass, I'll fuck her first.”

“Man, go for it. Please. What you got in envelope two will save me ten times what you got in envelope one. Hell, you even missed a kid. You want his address?”

“This isn't a game,” Raney said. “Spare yourself a lot of pain. Take the ten grand.”

“Why is the retard in the mask playing good cop? Don't you got it backwards? Yo, I'll take that glass of wine now, bitch. This shit's worth celebrating.”

“You're bluffing,” Dunham said. “I'm not.”

“Man, I'm the same as you,” Mora said. “The only life I give a fuck about is my own.”

“Let's put that theory to the test.”

Dunham stepped behind Raney, tore off his mask. He pushed the muzzle of his Glock hard against Raney's skull.

“You recognize your pal Dixon here?”

“Dixon?”

Mora's face went soft. He looked confused, even hurt. Raney mouthed the word
cop
. He kept mouthing it until Mora caught on.

“Yo, Dix, man. How can you fuck me like this? What's this psychopath into you for?”

“Joey,” Raney said. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Shut up.”

To Mora:

“Take the ten grand or I swear to God I'll do him right here. I'll do him and be back in an hour with your oldest kid's cock.”

Take it,
Raney mouthed.
It's okay. Take it.

Mora leaned back.

“Like, fuck it, man,” he said. “Fuck it: I can use the cash. For real.”

“Good boy,” Dunham said. “Just remember—third round, no later. Say it back to me.”

“I dive in the third.”

“That's smart, because if the bell rings for a fourth, your life won't be worth shit.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

Dunham lowered the gun.

“Let's go, Deadly.”

The stoop granny had company now, was part of a small crowd gathered around a parrot in a bamboo cage. People were laughing, listening to the bird fire off a pattern of staccato squeals. Dunham stopped to look.

“It's the rats,” a man said. “He imitates the rats.”

“Fucking hell,” Dunham said.

They drove south on 3rd Avenue. At the first red light, Raney slammed the gearshift into park, pulled out his gun and shoved the barrel against Dunham's cheekbone.

“You like it?”

“Jesus, Deadly. There are cars all around us.”

“I don't give a fuck. You try that shit again and you better fucking pull the trigger.”

“Relax. I never would have done it. It was an act. I thought you knew.”

“An act?”

“Yeah, and it worked, didn't it?”

Raney hesitated, thought: The badge will protect you.

“So what's it going to be?” Dunham said. “You going to kill me right here?” Raney felt the blow fading, felt suddenly on the verge of sleep. He pocketed his gun, stepped out into the center lane of traffic. Cars honked and swerved. Raney cranked up a middle finger.

“Come on,” Dunham said. “Get in. No hard feelings.”

“I'll catch the subway.”

“It was an act, Deadly. I thought you understood.”

“I didn't like it.”

“I know. I got it. It won't happen again. Are we square now?”

Raney shrugged.

“I'll cool down,” he said.

“So get in. It's Friday night. The clubs have their best girls working.”

“I need some air.”

“You're too serious, Deadly.”

“I'm as serious as I need to be.”

“But I'll see you tomorrow?”

“Like I said, I'll cool down.”

He watched Dunham drive off, felt his legs quiver. Act my ass, he thought. Mora saved his life. Dunham had doubts. Maybe he'd researched Mike Dixon's amateur record, noticed Mora wasn't listed.

He walked over to 4th Avenue, scanning for Dunham's car. In the subway, he bought a token, sat on the platform, thinking, letting trains go by. His mind was muddled. He needed a fix. He wondered if it showed on him, if any narco strolling by would glom his habit.

He waited fifteen minutes, then walked back through the turnstile. Above ground, the neighborhood was still alive, or was maybe just now coming alive. Friday night in the barrio. Warm, muggy. A party on every stoop. Competing boom boxes. Cabals of old men playing cards in front of bodegas. Kids chasing each other with foam pistols. Gossip on fire escapes. Everyone seemed to know everyone else.