Sofar this boy THREE-J wasn't doing them much good. He took them out to Pontiac, way past the GMC Truck plant to an old rundown property where they used to have pit bull fights and all they did was shoot a dog.
Art did. The man holding it on a leash. Art pointed his gun at the pit bull and asked the old colored man with gray hair, was Orlando hiding out here? The man said, "Don't shoot my dog." And Art shot it. The dog's name was Sonny. Art said, "I shot him 'cause you didn't answer my question." Carl said, "Couldn't you think of a better name for a vicious fighting dog?" The man said that was its name.
The old man turned out to be Orlando's granddaddy. Art asked him where Orlando was. Art said he'd count to three and the old man said, "He's staying in Detroit on Pingree, 700 Pingree between Second and Third. Now get outta here."
Art said he almost blew him away to teach him a lesson.
Three-J didn't say much. Carl was sure he didn't believe they were cops and didn't care. Art told him their names. It meant Art would shoot him before they were through and they'd put in for the reward. It didn't bother Carl, he didn't see Three-J as much of an asset. Three-J liked Tenisha's mama and she wasn't bad. Carl asked Art, surprised he hadn't asked him before, if he'd ever fucked a colored girl. Art said, "Sure, haven't you? Don't tell me you never had any colored poon." So they talked about different colored girls they'd had until Jerome said wait, was these regular bitches or ho's? It turned out they were whores. Three-J asked what was a ho like, since he never had one. Carl saw the boy thinking he was smarter than they were. If he didn't care they weren't cops but carried guns, he knew they'd try to get rid of him once they found Orlando. He didn't say much, no, but the colored boy was ready, keeping his eyes open, wasn't he?
They were coming back now in the Tahoe, on Woodward out in Oakland County, twenty miles from downtown Detroit.
Art said, "There's an OPEN HOUSE sign. Carl? The next right."
These two white guys were cuckoo.
They turned down a street of fairly new homes, big ones with lawns and young trees, down to a house that was open for inspection. Art took the OPEN sign hanging from the regular FOR SALE sign in the yard and brought it inside with them and handed it to the real estate man in his suit and tie grinning at them, the man saying, "Well, thank you. How did you know I was just about to close?"
"You see us come along," Carl said, "you'd be closing if you just opened."
It was going on seven, becoming dusky out.
Carl put his hand on Jerome's shoulder saying to the real estate man, "This boy wants to buy a house out here. You got anything against selling to coloreds?"
The real estate man frowned like he's never heard of such a thing, telling them no, of course not. He said the house was listed at a million one-ninety-nine. Carl asked what he would take and the real estate man said well, the people were in Florida, anxious to sell, he believed they might go as low as nine-fifty.
Art said, "You got any tape?"
The real estate man said, "I think I saw some in the kitchen," went out there and came back with a roll of silver duct tape saying, "Can I ask what you need it for?"
Art said, "To tape your mouth shut."
Jerome watched them sit the real estate man in a dining room chair and tape his arms to the arms and legs to the legs of the chair, the man not saying shit, but his eyes open wide watching them. As Art was about to tape his mouth shut, the man said, "Please be careful you don't cover my nose, too, okay?"
He should never've said it.
Art covered his nose and Jerome could see the man couldn't breathe, his face turning red as he pulled against the tape holding him to the chair.
Jerome watched Carl shake his head. Carl said, "Goddamn it, Art, the man can't fuckin breathe." Taking his time, cool about it.
Art said, "Fuck him."
Carl pulled the tape off the man's nose and mouth, let him suck in air a few times and put the tape back on over his mouth.
"Look around," Carl said to Jerome, "see if there's anything you like."
The two went upstairs.
Jerome went to the kitchen and looked in the fridge and took out a can of beer and sat down to drink it with a good-size roach he had on him and lit with a kitchen match, Jerome pretty sure these guys were crazy. They didn't care who saw them or who might come to the house. They were cool, though. Walk in a house and take it over. Jerome wondered why he hadn't heard of doing this. Drive around looking for OPEN signs.
Jerome took out his cell and phoned Frank Delsa.
"Hey, man, how you doing?"
"Where are you?"
"Out in the suburbs. Orlando wasn't in Pontiac. His granddaddy say he's in Detroit and told us where, but I don't believe him. Would you? His granddaddy saying it?"
Delsa said, "You still with the two guys?"
"On and off. They cuckoo. Next time I see you I'll tell you what we doing at this house the real estate man say he's gonna sell for a million one-ninety-nine-give you an idea where we at. I never been in a house cost this much, even when I was busting into places. I see you I'll tell you about it."
"You know their names?"
"I ain't telling you. You might know these motherfuckers, man, they outrageous. I don't know why you don't have 'em locked up somewhere. The granddaddy goes, 'Don't shoot my dog.' The one shoots his dog. You know why? 'Cause the old man say don't do it. They been to Jackson. One of 'em mentioned something about when they was there about the noise in the cell block. Bunch of retards in there making noise. Frank, these guys want the money."
"I told you that," Delsa said. "And they'll kill you for it."
"I know. It's why we do see Orlando-go in someplace and there he is? I say it ain't him."
"He won't look like his picture."
"Or somebody could point him out to me? I say no, that ain't Orlando. Then soon as I get away from these motherfuckers I give you a call."
"Where are they?"
"Looking around upstairs."
"You said before they're middle-aged-"
"They coming down. I got to go," Jerome said. He put away his cell and picked up his beer.
They came in the kitchen with men's and women's watches, some jewelry, and laid them on the counter where Jerome was sitting. Art got beers from the fridge saying he thought Virginia would go for that Lady Bulova. Carl got a fifth of Canadian Club from the liquor cabinet and poured a couple, not asking Jerome if he wanted one. It was okay, he'd rather watch these two than get high. He said, "What would you do if the people that live here walked in the door?"
"It's like a home invasion then," Art said. "What you do is strip 'em and tie 'em up." He sniffed the air, looked at Jerome and said, "Somebody's smoking a joint," sounding eager.
Jerome offered the roach.
Art seemed about to take it, but said, "Shit, not after you nigger-lipped it."
Jerome let it pass for the time being. He said, "How come you guys never get caught? You don't seem to care who sees you. You leave tracks every place you go. How come you don't get picked up?"
"We could get caught," Carl said, "but we don't."
"We work under contract," Art said. "So far we've whacked six people."
"Eight," Carl said, "the two before we teamed up."
"You count those?"
"Why not?"
"How many's that?"
"I just told you, eight."
"You count the bodyguard?"
"No, I didn't. That's nine."
"Nine we've whacked," Art said, "without getting caught."
"Except the first two," Carl said.
Jerome watched them throw down their shots of Club and make faces.
"We use semi-automatics," Art said. "Use 'em one time only. Throw 'em away and get new ones for the next job. All the contracts are drug dealers."
"A couple weren't," Carl said.
"No, but all the rest were," Art said. "We don't give a shit what they do. It just happens they deal drugs."
Jerome said, "You do this for money, huh?"
"Fifty gees a pop," Art said.
"Man, that sounds high. How you get jobs like that?"
"Drink up," Carl said, "we're outta here."
Art wanted to take some of the booze and Jerome said he'd like to run upstairs, have a quick look around. Carl gave him five minutes.
Jerome went straight to the master bedroom hoping, looked in the drawers of the night tables on both sides of the bed, nothing, then under the king-size mattress along the edge and found a pistol: Sig Sauer three-eighty, loaded, seven in the magazine. He wrapped it in a dark red scarf he got from the bureau he could use as a do-rag and shoved it in the back pocket of the cargo pants falling off his ass.
Driving south on Woodward again toward Eight Mile and Detroit, Art called home.
He listened to Virginia and said, "Honey, nobody from the lawyer's office calls me on the house phone, I never gave 'em the number. If the woman called ain't selling something she's likely the police." He said, "Now don't get nervous on me-Jesus. What you do is walk up to Rite Aid on Campau and buy a pack of cigarettes. See if there's anybody sitting around in a car. Virginia? Look without them noticing you're looking. I'll call you later."
Jerome, sitting behind them, listened to Art and heard Carl say, "Shit," and Art say, "I'll check on Connie, see if anybody's been there."
He said, "Hey, Con, how you doing? It's Art." He listened and said, "Yeah, the old man's busy driving. We got you another couple bottles of vodka." He said, "Oh, is that right?" and listened for a couple of minutes before saying, "Here, I'll let you tell Carl."
Jerome watched him hand Carl the phone.
Carl said, "Hi, sweetheart, what's going on?"
Jerome heard him say yeah and uh-huh a few times as Carl listened to Connie, Carl finally saying, "They come by again, tell 'em you have no idea where I'm at, 'cause I sure as hell don't know where I'll be. I'll call you later on, let you know."
He said to Art, "They took the vodka bottle, the one from the old man's house. These others come in the back with their guns out. She tell you that?"
Art said, "There's no fuckin way they could be on us."
Jerome watched Carl turn his head to look at Art and say to him, "That fuckin Montez. He gave us up."
They were both quiet now staring at the road, coming up on Eight Mile, the city limits.
Jerome said, "Now where we going?"
Neither one answered him.