TWENTY
Burke parked at the curb, looked at the house. It was the right address, the one he’d gotten from Black’s rap sheet. He read the notice on the door, said, “Son of a bitch.”
All this way and no one here. It had taken him a day and a half to drive to Florida. He’d stopped in Kentucky the night before, then driven the rest in one shot. He’d left the Impala in a parking garage in Orlando, rented the Buick from a local agency, not wanting his Michigan plates to attract attention. He’d transferred the two tac bags to the trunk.
It was almost dusk. He got out, went up to the door, rang the bell, heard it echo inside. He tried the knob. Locked. The window, too. He went around back, and the door and windows there were boarded. But the plywood on one window hung loose at an angle. He slid it aside, saw a dark empty room inside, trash on the floor, a bare mattress and a camping lantern, a crack pipe. The room smelled of sweat and pot smoke.
He let the plywood swing back, saw the two nails on the ground. He picked them up. The heads were weathered, but the shafts shiny. It hadn’t been long since they’d been pried loose from the wood.
He went back to the car. He’d go find a room somewhere, get something to eat, come back later, see if anyone showed up. It wasn’t much to go on, but he’d come this far. He’d play the cards he was dealt.
* * *
At nine o’clock, he was back at the house, watching from across the street. The ashtray was full. He’d slept an hour, eaten, and felt better now. It was too warm for the coat he’d brought, so he’d bought a zippered jacket at a store nearby.
At first he thought it was just fatigue, his eyes playing tricks on him. A glow of light in the dark window of the house, bright for a moment, then dimmer.
He lit another cigarette, saw a shadow pass by the window, someone moving around inside there.
He got the Browning from under the seat, tucked it into his belt, zipped the jacket up over it, pulled on his gloves.
He’d wait, let them get their smoke on in there, if that’s what they were doing. He finished his cigarette, then got out of the car, went up the side yard of the house. He could hear TV noise from an open window of the house next door, caught a glimpse of a living room, a gray-haired woman eating a bowl of ice cream, intent on what she was watching, not noticing him as he went by.
The plywood still hung loose. He could hear whispers inside, the hiss and sizzle of a pipe. The lantern was on low, lighting up the floor and the man and woman sitting on the edge of the mattress. He had a ponytail, wore a torn flannel shirt with the sleeves buttoned. The woman was thin and blond, in a dirty tank top and cutoff jeans. When the man handed her the crack pipe, Burke saw the star tattoo on the side of his neck. She fired the bowl with a plastic lighter, drew on the pipe.
He took out the Browning, wanting to get this over with, find out what he could and move on. With his other hand, he pulled back the plywood, heard it crack. It swung free, and the two inside looked up. He pointed the gun at them, said, “Police. Don’t move.”
The woman dropped the pipe.
“Up,” Burke said.
The man stood slowly, unsteady on his feet. He raised his hands. “It’s cool, man. It’s okay. I used to live here.”
The woman stood, too, looked at the doorway.
“No, really, it’s cool,” the man said. “We didn’t break in. This was my house.”
“That so?” Burke said, keeping the gun on him. He looked at the woman. “What about you?”
“I just came here to party.”
“Get out.” When she didn’t move, he nodded at the doorway. “I said go on, get out of here.”
She looked at him, then bolted from the room. He heard her fumbling at the front door.
“What’s your name?” Burke said.
“Roy.”
“Roy what?”
“Mapes.”
“You say you used to live here?”
“Yeah, man. This was my house.”
“Come out here, Roy,” Burke said, “and talk to me.”
* * *
They were sitting at a table outside a fast-food restaurant, Mapes working on his second hot dog. Burke had sent him to the counter with a twenty-dollar bill, told him to get what he wanted. Now Burke smoked and watched him eat.
“What they did,” Mapes said when he was finished. “It wasn’t right.”
“No,” Burke said. He’d heard most of the story on the way here. “You deserved better than that.”
“You’re goddamn right. Can I get one of those?”
Burke put the pack in front of him.
“You scared the shit out of me back there,” Mapes said. “When I saw that gun, I thought it was all over.”
“Sorry about that. Can’t be too careful, right? You want another coney?”
“A what?”
“A hot dog.”
Mapes shook his head. “I’m good.”
“So you have no place to go now?”
“Can’t go back to the motel. Don’t have enough money to go somewhere else. That bitch fucked up everything for me.”
“Maybe we can do something about that.”
“What’s that mean?”
“This woman you’re talking about. I think she’s the one I’ve been looking for.”
“Why?”
Burke didn’t answer.
“That’s okay,” Mapes said. “None of my business, right?”
Burke took a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket, folded it and stuck it under the paper plate. “That’s for your trouble.”
Mapes looked at it, then at him.
“Go ahead,” Burke said. “Take it.”
Mapes slid it off the table, put it in his shirt pocket.
“Tell me,” Burke said. “You ever see this money they were always talking about?”
Mapes shook his head. “She had it someplace else. I don’t know where.”
“And she took it with her when they left? All of it?”
“That’s what pissed me off. They could’ve left something for me, right?”
“Should have, definitely. You get a sense how much there was?”
“No, but it was a lot. She had plenty with her to spend.”
Burke watched a stray dog trot through the parking lot, sniff at an overstuffed trash can.
“You ever hear a last name?” Burke said.
“Just Crissa. That’s all. Maybe she told Claudette her last name, but I never heard it.”
Maybe not such a pro after all, Burke thought. Hanging around, telling people she had money for them, when she should be holed up someplace, spending it. It didn’t make any sense.
There was a fading bruise on Mapes’s cheek. Burke touched his own face in the same place, said, “She do that to you?”
“No way, man. If she’d tried to touch me, I’d have beat her ass good.”
“You sure about that?”
“I don’t ever let a woman put her hands on me.”
“She really got to you, huh?”
“I was taking care of shit. I had things all worked out, a plan. And she fucked it all up.”
Mapes sat back abruptly, arms crossed, let out smoke, looked away.
Burke slid the pack toward him. “Keep them.”
“You sure?”
“Go ahead.”
He put them in his shirt pocket. “Why you looking for her?”
“I have my reasons.”
“You a friend of hers?”
“Not by a long shot.”
“Somebody needs to set her straight, you know what I mean?”
“I do. Exactly. Can you help me do that?”
Mapes sniffed. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“There’d be more money, if you’re interested,” Burke said. “Maybe a lot.”
“Whose money?”
“Who do you think?”
“That money belonged to me as much as Claudette.”
“Good reason why we should find it, then. You might end up with a piece of it after all.”
“How?”
“She’s got it. I want it. You help me find it, you’ll get a share.”
“How much?”
“Depends how much you help, doesn’t it? And how much we find. But it’ll be enough to set you up for a while. You can find a decent place to live, not that rathole vacant back there. Get some new clothes, clean yourself up.”
“Get organized.”
“That’s right.”
“What do I have to do?”
“You know where they went, right? When they left here?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Then there you go. Tell me.”
“I’ll do better than that,” Mapes said. “I’ll take you there.”
* * *
Driving north on I-95, Burke watched thunderclouds gather on the horizon. Dark gray at first, then turning black, lightning pulsing inside.
“Gonna storm,” Mapes said.
Burke shifted in his seat. He was tired, but the adrenaline was keeping him going. Mapes had talked nonstop for the first hour in the car, Burke nodding, but hardly listening. Every once in a while he’d shut up, and Burke would look over to see him nodding out. Then his eyes would spring open, and he’d start talking again as if there’d been no break.
It started raining when they passed Daytona, thick drops that spotted the windshield. He watched for signs. He’d turn off on U.S. 1, take it north up along the coast, find a place for both of them to stay that night. He wanted to be awake and alert when he reached St. Augustine.
He rolled his neck to ease the stiffness. He needed coffee and a night’s sleep, but there would be time enough to rest soon. He was closer than he’d ever been before, to the woman, to the money. Before tomorrow night, he might find both.
Mapes began to snore. Burke looked at him. His head was against the passenger window, eyes closed.
Thunder boomed above them. Mapes snorted, didn’t wake. Burke made a pistol with his right hand, touched the index finger to Mapes’s left temple, said, softly, “Pow.”
He didn’t stir. Burke took his hand away, drove on under the black sky.