The Second Girl(47)

I allow him a couple of seconds, and he says, “There was this older guy who came by to play cards once. He wasn’t Latino. I don’t know his name, but they called him Peque?o Diablo when they talked about him in Spanish and Little Monster when they talked to him.”

“What’d you call him?”

“Sir, I didn’t call him f*cking shit. I didn’t mess around talking to him.”

“But you think his nickname was Little Monster.”

“That’s what they called him to his face.”

“Describe him.”

“He was short, much shorter than me, but built. I mean, he looked seriously dangerous. He was African-American and had cornrows.”

Sounds like someone I knew when I was working narcotics. He was one of Cordell Holm’s boys. Called him Little Monster ’cause that’s exactly what he was when he had to act as an enforcer for Cordell. If he’s still working for him, then that’s likely one of the main reasons Cordell has been able to hold on to his position longer than most.

Looks like something good mighta come out of beating this kid down.





Forty-two



I can’t spend any more time here with this kid. At this point, I’m confident he’d let me cut off his dick in order to survive. That’s a thought. I don’t like it messy, though. So what the hell do I do with him?

“You see that river, well, if you wanna call it a river. River makes it sound like it should be something tranquil. It’s nothin’ but filth. For me, far from tranquil, ’cause I like to fish, but I’d never fish this river. You look at it, boy, ’cause I put one in the back of your head you’ll be a part of that river. Part of what makes it filthy. I’m not finished with what I have to do, because I have to find my girl. So you better believe me when I say if you f*ck that up and do something stupid like call the police, or, even dumber, any of the boys out there who you’re working with”—I wait a moment, think, watch the muddy surface of that river barely move. Then: “I’ll kill you, Edgar.”

I snatch him by the hoodie and push him face-first on the ground. I press my knee with good weight on the small of his back until he grunts. I search his coat pockets again, pull out a nice little wad of cash. I search his pants pockets and take his iPhone and eight small zips, each containing a dime’s worth of weed.

I sit him up and then help him stand. I shove him against the car and squeeze his balls until he squeals like a little girl.

“Naw, nothin’ there,” I say, but still hold on. “You need to understand that this is real.”

“Please. Please, I understand. I won’t say—” He starts to cry.

“Shut up. I don’t wanna hear all this crying, just a simple yes.”

“Yes.”

I pull him back up and open the door. I help him to sit and then buckle him in. I toss the cash and his little knife on the floor at his feet, but keep the weed and his wallet.

I walk around and get in the driver’s side and start the car, but before I drive, I search the contents of his wallet and find his driver’s license. I grab my notebook and write down all his information.

“I’m not going to even ask you if this is a good address. It doesn’t matter. I got your date of birth, your Social, everything I need to find you. And I can find you.”

I search the wallet again, but this time for some folded papers I saw, along with a couple of cards. One of the cards is an ID for access to a community pool. The other one is his student ID. The addresses match. I find two torn pieces of paper. I unfold them.

The first one has “Justine” and a phone number written on it. I recognize the number and obviously the name.

The second paper just has a phone number with a Virginia area code.

“Who is this for?” I ask.

He looks at it briefly and says, “Just a dude that buys an ounce of weed from me once a week.”

“What’s his name?”

“Robbie. I don’t know his last name.”

“You’re quite the businessman, huh?”

He doesn’t answer.

I keep the pieces of paper, return the IDs to his wallet, and toss it on the floor at his feet.

I check the contacts in his iPhone, but it doesn’t power up.

“What’s with this?” I ask. “A businessman whose cell phone doesn’t work?”

“That’s why I was going to the car, to charge it.”

I see the charger cable hanging out of the center console. I plug in the phone, but it still doesn’t have enough juice to power on. I leave it plugged in and set it in a cup holder.

I drive.

Rush hour fires me up. I can’t imagine being one of those commuters. Poor saps. This is their life, twice a day, five days a week. I’m not even halfway to South Run and I’ve been driving for an hour and a half. I’m about ready to jump outta my skin.

It’s dark by the time I pull into the parking lot. Sign in front says it closes at dusk. There are still a few cars in the lot and lights on in the rec center. Staff is probably closing up shop, or maybe the rec center is still open and it’s the park that closes. I don’t know, but just in case it’s all closed up I wanna make this quick; some bored cop could decide to check it out.