Shoot the Woman First Page 10

  “What money?”

  “Money I’d give you. Running money. Enough to get away somewhere, get clear. I can help you do that, too. I know a lot of people.”

  Burke dropped the card in his lap.

  “Somebody on the inside made this happen,” he said. “Somebody you know. You remember anything else—a name, a conversation, anything—you call me. Not Marquis, not Damien. Just me. Do that and I might be able to keep you alive. With some cash for your trouble as well.”

  “How much?”

  “Give me a name—one that pays off—and we’ll talk about it.”

  “I’m supposed to trust you now?”

  “Willie, I’m the only one you can trust. Marquis won’t sit still for someone taking his money. Or somebody else standing by letting it happen. Stay around here and you’re a dead man.”

  Freeman picked up the card.

  “This right now,” Burke said, “is where this life led you. There’s no going back to the way things were. You need to accept that.”

  He took two fifties from his coat pocket, tucked them in Freeman’s sling.

  “A name, that’s all I need. Think about it, Willie. And do the smart thing.”

  TWELVE

  Pinned to the front door was a red sheet of paper that said, in large black type, FORECLOSURE NOTICE. Paragraphs of smaller print, then at the bottom, in the same black font, KEEP OUT.

  Crissa rang the doorbell, listened to it sound inside. The house was yellow stucco, the paint sun-faded, the yard full of weeds. Through a gap in the front blinds, she could see a bare floor littered with trash—fast-food containers, cigarette butts, a naked Barbie doll with one arm missing. She tried the door. Locked.

  She’d taken Amtrak from Metro Park to Philadelphia, changed there for the train to Orlando. An hour to Philly, and another twenty to Florida. She’d slept fitfully in her seat, waking every few hours. Leaving the train that morning, she’d carried two suitcases, one with clothes, the other with eighty thousand dollars in banded cash.

  A taxi had taken her to a hotel near the airport. There she’d rented a Ford Fusion for the half-hour drive north to Winter Park, found the address she’d gotten from an Internet database. It was a neighborhood of single-story crackerbox houses with missing shingles, dead lawns, and ten-year-old cars.

  She rang the bell again, then went around to the backyard. Wind-blown trash, yellow weeds, dog droppings. The back windows and door were plywooded over. She felt a vague depression settling over her. She knew neighborhoods like this, had lived in them.

  “That’s private property.”

  She heard a screen door open, turned to see a woman come out onto the back porch of the neighboring house. She was in her sixties, stringy gray hair brushed back, holding a faded housecoat closed with one hand. A small dog barked behind her. She pushed it back inside, closed the screen. The barking kept on, a flat yapping with long pauses in between.

  Crissa took off her sunglasses, hung them from the collar of her T-shirt, said, “Hi, maybe you can help me. I’m looking for the family that lived here.”

  The woman said, “Josephine, hush up,” and the dog growled low, then went quiet. “There’s nobody there now.”

  “I can see that,” Crissa said. “How long have they been gone?”

  The woman stepped down into the yard. “Are you from the bank?”

  “No, just a friend of the family.”

  “And you didn’t know they were gone?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Sheriff’s office put them out. They had some furniture and things, went out on the lawn. It all got picked over. Bunch of vultures around here.”

  “They were evicted?” Crissa said.

  “Took long enough. It’s a shame what was going on there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You say you know the family?”

  Crissa took a breath, deciding how to play it, what to say next.

  “I’m a friend of Larry Black’s. This was his house, right?” Smiling, wanting to keep the woman talking.

  “Larry hasn’t been around here in a long time.”

  “I know.”

  “And I don’t remember ever seeing you here before.”

  “He and I used to work together, up north. What did you mean by ‘what was going on’ here?”

  “This used to be a good neighborhood. Now look at it. Nobody takes care of their property. Half the houses are vacant, yards are a mess. I called the Code Enforcement twice this month, lot of good it did me. They don’t care. They just want us all out of here, so they can take the lots, sell them to a developer.”

  “Things that bad around here?” Not pushing it, letting the woman tell it her way.

  “When Larry lived there, it was different. He’d look after things, do work for me, too, if I needed it. But once he was gone … well, it’s a sin what happened. People coming and going all night long, motorcycles and loud cars. Parties, fights. I had to call the police a few times myself. And that little girl there the whole time, too.”

  “Haley?” Crissa said.

  “That’s the worst part. That child in the middle of it all. As many times as the police were here, I’m surprised Social Services didn’t take her. She’d be better off.”

  “It’s Haley I’m looking for. Do you have any idea where they went?”

  “That motel up by the highway, I’d guess. Same place most go when they get evicted around here, if they don’t have family. They can’t come back here. Bank’s got the house, changed the locks.”

  “How long ago did they leave?”

  “Two weeks maybe. At least. Is Larry coming back?”

  “No,” Crissa said. “He isn’t.”

  “That’s too bad. He’s a good man. Deserved better than he got with that Claudette.”

  The name would make it easier to find her. The house had been listed under Larry’s name alone.

  “You come a long way, haven’t you?” the woman said.

  Crissa blinked, said, “What?”

  “To get here. You look exhausted. You come down from up north?”

  “I did.”

  “Why are you looking for Haley?”

  “I have something to give her.”

  “From her father?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you see him when you get back, you tell him Enid next door says hello. He’ll know who I am.”

  “All right.”

  “And tell him we miss him around here.”

  “I will,” Crissa said. “When I see him again.”

  * * *

  The Islander Inn was two stories of faded paint and dirty windows, with an old-style neon sign in the shape of a palm tree. A marquee below it read COLOR TV, PHONES and YOUR HOME AWAY FROM HOME. On one side of the motel was a shuttered Sunoco station. On the other, a half-empty strip mall.

  She pulled into the motel lot, backed into a space. There was a fenced-in pool area to one side, but the pool was empty, the concrete cracked. Stone planters lined the street side, full of weeds and cigarette butts. On the corner, a bearded man stood facing the street, holding a cardboard sign that read, in black marker, HOMELESS VET. WILL WORK FOR FOOD. GOD BLESS THE USA. A dog lay curled at his feet.

  It had rained on the short drive here, a downpour that ended almost as soon as it had begun. The sun was out again now, steam rising off the blacktop. To the west, a rainbow arced across the sky. She shut off the engine, and the windshield almost immediately began to fog.

  The motel was L-shaped, maybe thirty rooms, most of those with drapes closed tight. Half a dozen cars in the lot, including a dented Volvo with plastic sheeting where the passenger window used to be. A shiny pickup with a jacked-up frame and a bumper sticker that read EVERYTHING I NEED TO KNOW ABOUT ISLAM I LEARNED ON 9/11.

  Through the door marked OFFICE, she could see a small lobby, a bulletproof window where the desk clerk would be. No one behind it now. She felt the depression again. She’d lived in places like this,
too.

  Two Hispanic men sat on the concrete staircase, smoking cigarettes, They were in their twenties, wore cheap T-shirts with faded logos, jeans, and work boots. An emaciated woman in cutoffs and tank top came out of a first-floor room and stood out on the sidewalk, cell phone to her ear. The men watched her.

  She looked over at Crissa without taking the phone away, then went back to her conversation. A few minutes later, a car pulled into the entrance. She leaned in through the open passenger window, spoke to the driver, took a last look back at Crissa, then got in. The car pulled back out.

  You look like a cop parked here, Crissa thought. You’re making everybody nervous.

  She got out of the car, the air thick with humidity. The men watched her as she approached.

  “Hola,” she said. “Estoy buscando una mujer que vive aquí, con un niño pequeño, una niña.” Telling them she was looking for a woman living there with a little girl.

  The men looked at each other, then back at her. The one on the right, in a Kenny Chesney T-shirt, said, “Policía?”

  “No,” she said. She rested a boot on the bottom step. “Servicios Sociales. Niños y Familias.”

  The one in the Kenny Chesney shirt scaled his cigarette onto the wet blacktop. “I speak English. My name’s Eduardo.”

  “The little girl, she’s about six. She and her mother live here, I think. Last name is Black. That sound like anyone around here?”

  The one on the left, still smoking, said, “Adictos a las drogas.”

  She looked at him. “What?”

  “Metanfetamina,” Eduardo said. “Tweakers.”

  “Sí,” the smoker said.

  “I’d appreciate if you could help me,” she said. Then, so they both understood, “Estaría en su deuda.”

  She took a ten from her jeans pocket, held it out. The smoker looked at it, said, “Diez dólares. No es mucho.” Wanting more.

  “Veinte,” she said. “Diez para cada uno de ustedes. Eso es todo lo que tengo.” She took out another ten, folded the two together.

  “Treinta,” the smoker said, but Eduardo frowned, waved that off. He cocked his head toward the second floor. “I think the people you want, they’re in 216. The father lives there, too.”

  “Father?”

  “Maybe her father. Maybe not. El cabrón. A bad guy.”

  She looked up at the second floor. Two-sixteen was on the short end of the L, facing the parking lot.

  “This isn’t a place for niños,” Eduardo said. “You’d do that little girl a favor, you take her away from here.”

  She set the money on the step between them, said, “Gracias.” They moved apart to let her pass.

  She walked down the balcony to 216, aware the two were watching her. The heavy drapes were drawn over the window. She listened at the door, heard a TV on inside. She knocked. When there was no answer, she put her ear closer to the door. Music and sound effects. Cartoons.

  She knocked again, said, “Haley?” and listened. No response.

  She took out the pocket notebook and pen she’d brought. Claudette, she wrote, I’m a friend of Larry’s. We need to talk. Call me, and added her cell number.

  She tore the page from the notebook, slid it under the door so only a single white corner showed. Then she backed away to the railing, waited. A movement in the curtain, then it was still again. If Haley’s in there alone, she probably won’t open the door, Crissa thought. And that’s a good thing.

  The triangle of paper disappeared.

  She waited two more minutes, in case anyone inside wanted another look at her, but the drapes were still.

  She went back down the stairs, between the two men. “Gracias,” she said again as she passed.

  “Por nada,” Eduardo said.

  When she was almost at the car, he said, “Hey.”

  She turned, looked back.

  “If you come back, be careful,” he said. “Especially at night. There are bad people here. It’s not safe.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.

  * * *

  Back at the hotel, she showered, had dinner in the restaurant, drank a second glass of wine after the waitress cleared the table. Through the big window, she watched the sun set, the clouds turn violet.

  On the table, her phone began to buzz. A 407 area code. When she answered, a woman said, “Who is this?”

  “Claudette?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend of Larry’s.”

  “I saw your note. What do you want?”

  “If this is Claudette, then you know what I’m talking about. We should meet. I may have something for you. But we have to talk first.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Better we do it in person.”

  “Come to think of it, I don’t know any Larry after all. Don’t come by here again.”

  “Don’t hang up,” Crissa said. “You’re being careful, I understand. I used to work with him.”

  Silence on the line. Then, “Where?”

  “Different places. With mutual friends. Detroit. Houston.” Leaving that last one out there, wondering if it meant anything to her, if she knew what had happened there.

  “What’s your name?” the woman said.

  “When we talk. Tomorrow.”

  “You say you’ve got something for me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “When we talk.”

  Another silence. The woman thinking it over, the hook set.

  “You know where I am,” she said finally. “Bring what you got,” and ended the call.

  THIRTEEN

  The woman who opened the door had been pretty once. Midthirties, blond hair cut short. But she was too skinny, the black T-shirt hanging loose around her, Crissa remembering then what the two men had told her. She wore low-rise jeans, two inches of skin showing between pants and T-shirt, a pale scar where a navel ring had been.

  Crissa looked past her. Two-sixteen was an efficiency, a small living room with pullout couch, club chair, bureau, and TV. A short hallway that led to a kitchenette. A closed door on either side, bedroom and bathroom, she guessed. She could smell stale fried food, and a faint chemical odor she couldn’t place.

  “Claudette?”

  The woman kept one hand on the door, ready to close it again. “I never got your name.”

  “Crissa.”

  “Crissa what?”

  “Can I come in?”

  The woman looked past her, along the balcony, then at the lot below.

  “I’m alone,” Crissa said.

  The woman looked at her, then held the door open wider. She went in.

  “Claudette Black?”

  The woman nodded, fished a bent pack of Marlboros and a cheap plastic lighter from a jeans pocket, got one out. “How’d you find me?”

  “It wasn’t hard.”

  She lit the cigarette. Crissa looked around. There was a talk show on the TV, the sound turned down. On the bureau alongside the set was a scuffed DVD player, a handful of disc cases, knockoff DVDs with faded black-and-white inserts. The first ones were animated children’s films. The last two were porn discs.

  “What did you bring?” Claudette said.

  “Nothing, this time.” She looked around. “Is Haley here?”

  “Larry never mentioned anyone named Crissa.”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “He told you about Haley?”

  “A little.”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Crissa didn’t answer.

  The woman blew out smoke, turned to the hall. “Haley!”

  When there was no answer, she said to Crissa, “She’s not good with strangers.” Then, louder, “Haley, get out here. Now!”

  One of the doors opened, and a little girl came out. She kept her eyes on the floor. Her long dark hair was matted and dull, with a single blue plastic barrette on one side. She wore jeans and a pink Minnie Mouse T-shirt, yellow sneak
ers with blue flowers. She had a yellow earbud in each ear, held a pink iPod tightly in her hand.

  “Come here,” Claudette said. “I want you to meet someone.”

  “Hello,” Crissa said, and when the girl looked up at her, she saw Larry’s pale blue eyes. Something tugged inside her.

  “How are you, Haley?” She held out her hand. “My name’s Crissa.”

  The girl took a step back, looked at her mother.

  “Get those things out of your ears,” Claudette said. “Be polite.”

  Haley took out the earbuds, carefully wound the thin cord around the iPod, looked at the floor again.

  Crissa crouched, hands on her thighs. “What are you listening to there, Haley?”

  “My songs.” She wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  “What songs?”

  “My sing-alongs.”

  “Can I see?”

  She reached for the iPod, but Haley took another step back, said softly, “It’s mine.”

  “I know it is. I’m not going to keep it.”

  “Go on, Haley,” Claudette said. “Don’t be a little bitch.”

  Crissa looked at her. “What did you say?”

  “She has to learn.”

  Haley held out the iPod. Crissa took it, saw the front casing was cracked, the screen blank, knew from its lightness there was no battery inside.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “From Daddy’s friend. He said I could keep it.”

  “Then you better hang on to it.” She handed it back, brushed a strand of hair from the girl’s eyes. “What’s yours is yours, honey. No one’s going to take it away from you.”

  She looked at Claudette. “Let’s talk outside.”

  They went out on the balcony. Crissa rested her elbows on the railing, looked down at the lot below, took a breath, trying to hold down her anger. This is none of your business, she thought. It never was.

  Claudette came up beside her. “What is it you’ve got for me?”

  A boy and girl, maybe seven or eight, were chasing each other around the fenced-in pool area, laughing. The sun was high and bright, but there were gray clouds to the west, darkening the horizon.

  Crissa let out her breath slow, turned. “At the moment, I’m thinking I don’t have anything for you at all.”