The Second Girl(8)

“Man, am I f*cked,” I mumble to myself on my way down.





Six



When I get to Kenyon Street, I find a parking spot across from the house, near where I parked before. I don’t see the Salvadoran boys’ vehicle anywhere. I grab the palm-size binoculars from a zippered compartment of my backpack, cup them between both hands, and peer through them at the house.

The door looks the same as when we left. I zip the binos back into the compartment, then look at the dashboard clock.

Thirteen-twenty hours.

I took too much time taking care of the girl. I’m wondering if the kid, Super Fly, already returned to re-up, but hightailed it out of there after he noticed the door had been pried open. I grab the pill container out of my pocket and twist off the cap.

“Fuck,” I say after I see how many full capsules are left.

What I have here, it won’t last long for me. I twist the cap back on and slip the container back in my pocket.

I open the backpack’s main compartment and pull out six zip-tie handcuffs and a small but very effective stun gun. I clip the zip ties to a small carabiner key chain on the left side of my belt, opposite the gun. My jacket will hide everything well enough. I also put on my Kevlar tactical gloves this time. It’s a bit chilly outside, so they’re less conspicuous than latex and better on my knuckles if I have to go to blows. But first I power down my cell, because I know Leslie will start burning it up with calls soon.

I step out of the car.

I’m more conscious of my surroundings as I walk to the front door of the house. The last thing I want is one of those mopes pulling up while I’m entering. Before I do, I ring the doorbell, wait a few seconds, and ring it again. After that, I knock hard on the door, pushing it halfway open.

I step inside and close the door behind me, sliding the tennis shoe against it with my foot.

“Policía,” I call out.

I don’t hear anything.

I have my thumb on the switch that’ll activate the stun gun while I quickly but quietly make my way to the master bedroom. Nothing else matters right now. Just focus: find the drugs and then move on. I’m going on too much adrenaline to know any better. I clear the kitchen. There’s nothing there, so I continue, clearing the same bedrooms before the master.

The master bedroom looks the same, the bed and the blacked-out window and the nasty clothes. I move to the bathroom and everything is just as I’d left it.

I look out the bedroom window, scan the block. I unlock the window latches and slide it up halfway so I can hear better what’s outside.

The first thing I do after that is lift the bed’s mattress. Nothing but a few porn magazines. I look under the bed. A mess of shit under there—shoe boxes, old socks, underwear, assorted clothing, two thin clear plastic storage containers. I reach under and pull those out first. It looks like there are more magazines inside, but I open them and toss them in the middle of the floor. I pull out the shoe boxes and do the same thing. A couple of them are empty, and the other three contain expensive Jordans. I toss the contents along with the boxes in the middle of the floor.

I look out the window again. No car. The block is quiet.

Back to the room again. I do a slow survey: a cluttered nightstand with a single drawer beside the bed next to me, the door to the closet, the bathroom, a dresser on the left side of the window, black construction-type trash bags that appear to be stuffed with dirty laundry, on the floor near the center of the room, dirty carpet; a large stuffed teddy bear with a red ribbon, likely a gift from one of his girls, sits in the corner to the left of the dresser. I hear a car with a heavy, familiar engine outside.

My heart races for a moment, and I peer through the curtains. Nothing but a UPS truck passing the house and heading east. I focus my attention outside for a moment, then back to the room.

I like teddy bears, so I grab it by the ear and squeeze the fat belly. Doesn’t feel like anything’s in there, but you never know. I pull out my knife, flick it open with my thumb, and gut the thing. I was hoping drugs would spill out, but there’s only white stuffing. I pull it all out until the teddy bear looks like a bear puppet with sad, fallen eyes. I toss it in the middle of the room, then go back to the nightstand, where I pull out the drawer.

A small .38 with duct-taped grip. I like that, so I put it in my backpack, along with a box of live rounds. Always good to have another throwaway gun. You never know. The drawer also contains assorted packaged condoms, two prescription pill containers, and several other loose live rounds that look like 9mm. I take one of the pill containers, look at the label; it reads “OxyContin.” It was prescribed to a “Marianne Oliver,” a name I don’t believe is associated with anyone in this household. I pick up the other one and it also reads “OxyContin” and is prescribed to the same person. More than likely pulled in a robbery, or traded in exchange for crack by someone who burglarized her home. Looks like fifty-plus pills from both containers combined.

“Nice,” I say to myself, and drop them in the backpack.

I hear a car door slam shut.

Looking through the window, I see Jordan Super Fly strolling leisurely toward the house.

I shoulder my backpack, grip the stun gun, and run as fast as I can downstairs to the living room.

I make it to the door just as I hear him shuffling on the porch and saying, “?Cabrón!”