ROMEO BROCK STOOD on the front porch of his house, smoking a cigarette. His stomach was tight, and his palms carried sweat. He was aware of his fear and he hated it. A man like him, the kind of man he imagined himself to be, was not supposed to feel this way. Still, his hands were wet.
He looked out into the darkness. Night had come just about full. He was hoping to see Conrad walking back toward the house up the gravel road. Conrad, who was strong of body and will, would know what to do. But Conrad did not appear.
Brock had phoned Dunne again after speaking to him earlier, but this time his call went to message.
He thought he heard something from back in the house. It was his nerves talking to him, most likely. Could have been the radio Chantel had turned up loud. He supposed he should go there and check it out.
He stubbed out the Kool he had been smoking on the rail of the porch. He entered the house and did not close the door behind him. He heard his stomach talking to him as he went along. He walked down the hall to his bedroom door. He tried the knob, and it did not turn. He knocked on the door. There was no response, and he made a fist and pounded on the wood.
“Chantel! Open the door, girl.”
Brock put his ear to the door. He couldn’t hear Chantel’s footsteps or anything else except for the radio. The song playing was one he’d heard many times. It was that “Been Around the World” thing. He liked that song, most times. But now it seemed to be laughing at him. Telling him about the places he would never see.
“Chantel,” said Brock weakly. He rested his forehead on the door.
He felt the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his head.
“Don’t move. ’Less you want me to spill your brains.”
He didn’t move. He felt the man behind the voice take his Colt from where he’d put it, under the belt line of his slacks.
“Turn slow.”
Brock did it. A young man with a blue Nationals cap tilted slightly on his head was holding an automatic on him with one hand and had Brock’s Gold Cup in the other. Brock could see excitement in his eyes. He had no doubt that this boy wouldn’t hesitate to kill.
“This way,” said Ernest Henderson, holstering the Gold Cup in his jeans. He back-stepped down the hall, keeping his Beretta pointed at Brock’s middle, and Brock followed. They came out into the living room, and Henderson motioned for Brock to sit in the chair that faced the open door.
Brock took a seat.
“Put your hands on the arms of that chair,” said Henderson.
As Brock gripped the armchair, Henderson flipped the switch of a lamp several times. Soon a tall, handsome man entered the house. He held a Desert Eagle .44 Magnum at his side. He frowned at Brock.
“You Romeo?”
Brock nodded.
“Where my money at?”
“It’s here,” said Brock.
“I said where?”
“In the bedroom at the back. There’s two suitcases —”
“Anyone else in this house?”
“The fat man’s woman is in the bedroom.”
“What about your partner?”
“He’s gone.”
“Go on, Nesto,” said Benjamin, raising his gun casually and pointing it at Brock. “Check all the rooms while you’re back there. Make sure this fake motherfucker ain’t scheming.”
Henderson went down the hall. Benjamin stared at Brock. Brock cut his eyes away. Both of them listened as Henderson checked the kitchen and the room where Conrad Gaskins had slept.
“Bedroom door’s locked,” said Henderson, his voice raised.
“Kick it in,” said Benjamin.
Brock heard the young man try it several times, grunting with each effort. Then he heard the door crack open at the jamb. The young man returned with a Gucci suitcase in hand.
“Ain’t but one,” said Henderson. “Wasn’t no girl back there, either. The window was up. If she was there, she gone now.”
“Open that case,” said Benjamin, speaking to Brock. “Turn it so we can see, and open it up.”
Henderson placed the suitcase at Brock’s feet and stepped back. Brock leaned forward and unzipped the lid. He opened the suitcase, and all of them looked at the women’s clothing that had been packed inside it. For a moment, no one said a thing.
Mikey got the money, thought Benjamin. He got it and the girl and he’s waiting down by the cars. He wouldn’t think of robbing me. Not after what I did for Dink and their moms.
“Chantel,” said Brock. He wasn’t saying her name in anger. He was proud of her for what she’d done. She had fire. And here he was acting the punk. He looked up at Benjamin, a hint of defiance in his eyes.
“Yeah, Chantel,” said Benjamin. To Henderson he said, “Cover his dumb ass.”
Benjamin pulled his cell from his pocket and hit and held the number three, which was the speed dial code for Michael Tate.
He heard footsteps, thinking, Here comes Mikey now. But when he turned, there was a white man coming from the darkness of the porch and walking quickly through the front door. A gun was in his hand, and his gun arm was straight.
“Police!” said Grady Dunne. He shouted the word again. His face was fierce and pink, and he moved the gun back and forth from Benjamin to Henderson. “I’m MPD! Drop your weapons to the deck, now!”
Benjamin didn’t move. He didn’t drop his gun. He held it at his side and looked at the H&K in Dunne’s hand. It wasn’t a police gun.
“I said drop those fuckin guns, now!”
Ernest Henderson kept his Beretta on Brock. He turned his head to look at the man who said he was police. He was blond, and a vein was standing out on his neck. Henderson waited to hear something, anything, from Benjamin. But Ray Benjamin did not tell him what to do.
“Drop your guns!”
Brock looked at the back of Henderson’s neck. He studied the point where his neck met his shoulders. And he thought, That is where I will bury my pick. Directly into that boy’s spine. They’ll talk about me forever and say my name and what I did. How I went up against two guns with a tool made to cut ice. Me, Romeo Brock.
Brock pulled the ice pick where it was taped at his calf. As he expected, the action pulled the cork off the tip as it came free. He stood with the ice pick in hand, raised it, and stepped toward Henderson.
“Behind you, Nesto,” said Benjamin in an even way.
Henderson turned and shot Romeo Brock in the center of his chest. The gun jumped in Henderson’s hand as he shot him again. Brock went back over the chair. His arms pinwheeled through crimson mist as he fell.
Dunne squeezed off two rounds in the direction of Benjamin. The first slug went through Benjamin’s shoulder and blew a fist-sized hole out of his back. The second, high from the recoil, nicked his carotid artery as it tunneled through his neck.
Benjamin fired his .44 through a cloud of smoke and arterial spray at the outline of the man who’d claimed he was police. He dropped, shooting again as he fell and hit the floor. He saw the man stumble against the wall as if thrown. Benjamin closed his eyes.
Grady Dunne staggered toward the door. He looked back at the Number One Male with the baseball cap, standing in the center of the room, still armed. The young man was shaking his head as if he could shake away what had happened.
Dunne tried to raise his weapon. His hand cramped open, and he dropped the .45. He said “God” and held his hand to his stomach, which was wet with blood now pulsing through his fingers. The pain was extreme, and he went through the door and tripped off the porch. There was air beneath him. He touched ground and spun as if he were dancing or drunk and lost his feet and landed on his back in the gravel road.
He looked up at the branches of a tulip poplar and beyond them the stars. He said, “Officer down.” It was a whisper so faint that he could not hear the words himself. He tasted blood in his mouth. He swallowed the blood and breathed rapidly, and his eyes widened in fright. Into his field of vision came the Number One Male. He stood over Dunne and pointed his gun at his chest. There were tears streaming down the young man’s face.
“Nine-one-one,” said Dunne. He felt hot blood spill out of his mouth and pour down his chin.
The young man lowered his gun. He slipped it barrel-down behind the belt line of his jeans and pulled his shirt over the butt.
Dunne heard the boy’s footsteps on the gravel. And then the sound of him running down the road.
Dunne listened to the crickets and stared up at the branches and the stars. I cannot die, he thought. But soon the sensations of sound and sight faded to nothing, and Grady Dunne joined Raymond Benjamin and Romeo Brock in death.