The Sound of Broken Ribs(56)

“Fuck!” Belinda slapped the wall.

Carl deflated. “What now?”

“My socks. They’re still in her throat.”

“Nothing you can do about that now.”

“Why not?”

Carl glared at her. “You really want to dig your socks from a dead woman’s throat?”

“I don’t have any other choice. I’m sure I sweat on them. My DNA is in there.” Belinda made for where Jack was crumpled in the corner but Carl grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her to face him. She overbalanced and plopped down on the firm hotel mattress.

“You listen to me and you listen good.” Belinda had never seen the glowing rage that currently lit Carl’s features like a crimson spot light. Yet he never hollered. Never so much as raised his voice beyond its normal tone. His words were more spat than said. “We are all over this fucking room. Our prints. Our hair. Our DNA. All of it. There is—nothing—we can do. Nothing. Do you understand that? When they find her body”—he jabbed a thick finger in the direction of Jack’s corpse— “they will have something on us. The key here is not to get caught. As long as they can’t match samples, we’ll be fine. I’ve never been arrested. You’ve never been arrested—right?”

Belinda, not sure how to answer that question, nodded, then shook her head, and then nodded again. Didn’t matter. Carl seemed to understand that, no, she had never been arrested.

“Good. As long as we never are arrested, our prints and DNA will never pop up in any database. It’s that simple.”

“I… I guess I knew that, but I’m still scared. That’s all I am these days, Carl. That’s all I’ve been since I hit that damn woman with my car. It’s not fair.”

Carl calmed and withdrew a bit. His presence was no longer so insistent and looming. “Life ain’t fair, Bee. I’m a gay black man. I once saw a movie where the guy said people like me are a minority of a minority. Shit, if we do get caught, they’ll likely give me the chair and you a year with time off for being good white folk. Just the way shit works in this country.”

Belinda couldn’t argue that. Too many times she’d seen news reports about young white rapists getting six months for their crimes while black men who sold marijuana to adults caught life sentences.

“Anyway, what I’m saying is, this—” Carl made a sweeping gesture. “—all of this, will likely be the death of me should I ever go to prison. And you? Well, Bee, they don’t play fair in women’s prisons either. You might not be in there long, but those bitches will turn you out. You’ll be eating ass so long you’ll likely acquire a taste for it.”

“Ew.”

“I’m not joking. Now get up and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Belinda did as she was told. Carl took one final look out the window, said the coast was clear, and the two friends stepped out into the purple of pre-dawn. Belinda thought they couldn’t look more suspicious, what with how they glanced all around and kept looking over their shoulder on the way next door.

Carl stopped in front of their room and patted his pockets. “You got the key?”

Belinda’s heart dropped. “Shit. No.”

“Okay. Okay. No worries. I must’ve left it on the dresser in our room. No big deal. Besides, we’re cool now. As long as no one saw us coming out of the room,” Carl whispered, “we’ll be fine. From here on out, we’re good. You get why I say that?”

She nodded. There had been a brief window between when they left Jack’s room and approached their own that someone might remember them trekking from one room to the other, looking guiltily about, but that time had passed. Either someone had seen them or they hadn’t. At this point, they could stand outside and chat for the rest of the day and never be implicated in the connection with the dead woman next door.

“You wanna come with me to the front desk?”

“Yeah.”

The lady behind the desk wasn’t fat as much as she was solid. She reminded Belinda of the lady coach on one of her favorite television shows—tall, manly, curly brown hair, round face. All she was missing was the track suit. Instead, this lady—who, according to her name badge was a Monica—wore a blue blouse and a jean skirt.

“Can I help you?” Monica asked with a smile that showed off her missing front teeth. All four were gone, top and bottom. The ones in the back were bright white and healthy. Belinda figured the missing teeth had vanished behind the impact of a fist.

“I seem to have lost my key.”

“No problem. Do you have your ID on you?”

“Um…” Carl patted his back pocket. He didn’t pull anything out. Belinda watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed his building nerves. “I must’ve left that in the room, too.”

“Still no problem. I’ll walk down with you and let you in. You can show me your ID then.” Monica beamed. Her smile terrified Belinda. “What room is it?” Carl told her.





Monica, swinging a ring of keys on her index finger, pushed through a pair of saloon-style doors to the right of the desk. She walked outside without waiting for Carl and Belinda, or even so much as holding the door for them. One glaring difference between the east and west coasts was the hospitality. While people in the west were just as kind, they could be ambivalent when it came to etiquette, such as holding doors for people. Or maybe Belinda carried with her more entitlement than was necessary. Either way, the lady did not wait for them.