Amber told DeJuan about this dude was looking for someone to pop his wife. DeJuan said, “Why you telling me?”
Amber said, “ ’Cause he’s offering ten grand and I thought maybe you’d be interested.”
She was behind the bar, mixing a drink, looking fine in her black low-cut outfit. DeJuan said, “I strike you as somebody going to kill some motherfucker for money?”
Amber said, “Why you think I’m telling you?”
“That the way you see me, huh?” He picked up his drink, Courvoisier and Coke and finished it.
Amber said, “Want another one?”
He nodded. The music was so loud he could hardly hear her. Place was packed with scene-makers on a Thursday night. Two-deep at the bar. He was in one of the swivel bar chairs, watching an early-season Tigers game on the flat screen. Amber put a fresh drink in front of him. He said, “How you know this dude is looking for someone?”
“We used to go out,” Amber said. “Let me put it another way. He used to take me to his place in Bermuda. Fly down in the Gulfstream, Marty doing lines like the governor just pardoned him.”
DeJuan said, “You tell him about me?”
Amber said, “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“Where’s he at?”
“See that guy with the long silver hair?”
DeJuan saw him down the bar. Weird-looking, kind of freakish dude, bald on top with long hair hanging off the back of his head, mid-fifties, drinking what looked like vodka on the rocks-the right glass, with a slice of lemon. He was all over this young thing, blond in a tank top, seemed to be ignoring him.
Amber said, “Go talk to him if you’re interested.”
She moved down the bar to get a drink for someone. DeJuan looked up at the TV, saw Maggs hit a tater to left against the Twins, watched him run the bases and win the game, Ordoñez making it look easy. DeJuan looked down the bar again, saw the dude with the hair finish his drink, get up and move through the crowd. DeJuan put his drink on the bar top and followed him outside, standing behind him on the street, waiting for the light to change. It was dark, the marquee of the Birmingham Theater casting light on the scene. And the people were out, little bitches in their skimpy, skin-tight outfits, the man checking them out, not missing a thing.
He crossed the street. It was easy to follow him with that hair-compensating for being bald on top, that silver pelt he had, saying, look motherfucker, I got all the hair I need. Check it out.
DeJuan followed him, trying to catch up. The man walking fast, almost running. He stopped in front of a restaurant, sign said 220, went down the stairs into a place called Edison’s, high-priced Birmingham nightclub look like somebody’s basement-pipes and shit exposed in the ceiling-like it was under construction. Place was dark and crowded and filled with smoke. DeJuan felt his eyes burn. He didn’t care for cigarettes. Never had one in his life, never would.
The man stopped at the bar, ordered a vodka, took his drink into the men’s. DeJuan followed him in, only two guys in there and watched him take out a coke vial, do a one on one.
He saw DeJuan looking at him and said, “You a cop?”
DeJuan said, “I look like a cop?”
“Want a bump?”
DeJuan said, “Amber say you’re looking for a contractor.”
Man said, “What’re you talking about?”
DeJuan said, “Looking for somebody to fulfill a contract is what I understand.”
He put the little black spoon up to his nose and snorted it up his left nostril, then his right.
“Got somebody around, you don’t want around no more.”
He pinched his nose and snorted hard and screwed the top back on the vial and put it in his shirt pocket. “Now’s not the time. Maybe we can meet somewhere, discuss a business arrangement.”
DeJuan liked that, the man talking about it in his serious business voice now. He wrote his phone number on a piece of paper, handed it to him. “My private line. Call when you’re ready to talk.”
DeJuan went through the door back into the smoky nightclub, Thornetta Davis doing “I Ain’t Superstitious,” belting out the lyrics as DeJuan passed in front her, checking out the country club dudes dancing with their ladies, if you could call it that, stiff moves and no rhythm like they dancing to some other song.
DeJuan was robbing a 7-Eleven the next morning when his cell phone rang. It was the dude with the hair.
He said, “Hey, this is Marty, can you meet me in the parking lot of Bed Bath & Beyond on Sixteen Mile in thirty minutes?”
At first, DeJuan had no idea who this dude Marty was, thinking it was a wrong number, but then he recognized his voice.
DeJuan said, “I’m kind of busy at the moment, can you give me an hour?” It was a shocker. DeJuan would’ve bet his diamond pinky ring he’d never hear from the dude again. He glanced down at the 7-Eleven manager lying on the floor in his green vest, hands and feet wrapped in duct tape-angry sawed-off little dude. Before DeJuan taped his mouth, manager Mr. Richard Ferguson said 7-Eleven would prosecute him to the full extent of the law and did he want to reconsider and turn himself in?
“Yeah,” DeJuan said, “Straight up, I want to turn myself in. You’re such a bad ass, I’m worried.” Did he want to turn his self in? The fuck was wrong with his head?
DeJuan had come in the back door. Walked up, there was a dude named Russ-Russ smoking out behind the store when DeJuan approached, placed the barrel of his SigSauer Nine against Russ’s cheek, said, “Break over, motherfucker, get back to work.”
He dropped his cigarette and DeJuan walked him through the stockroom into an office. There was a desk with a phone and a bank of TV monitors that showed different parts of the store. There was a guy behind the counter working the register.
DeJuan said, “Who’s that?”
Russ said, “The manager, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Tell Mr. Ferguson, get his ass in here, you got an emergency needs his immediate fucking attention.”
Russ grinned. “He’s not going to like this.”
After DeJuan secured Mr. Ferguson, he had Russ show him how to turn off the video cameras. Then he tied Russ up, put him in the stockroom.
He was cleaning out the register-look like about $1,700-when a customer come in, old lady, had something in her hand, coming toward him. He closed the register and turned toward the woman. “How you doing? Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
The woman held up a carton of cottage cheese and said, “I want my money back.” She pulled the top off and pointed to a green circle of mold. “Know what that is?”
DeJuan didn’t like her attitude, old bag coming in getting in his face, fucking with him ’cause she think the customer always right. He picked up the cottage cheese, read the small type on the back, found what he was looking for. “Look here,” DeJuan said. “See, it expire.”
Old lady look like she going to throw the shit in his face, said, “I want to see the manager.”
“He tied up right now.”
“I want my money back or I’m never shopping in this store again.”
DeJuan said, “You promise?”
“What’s your name? I’m going to write a letter.”
“Richard Ferguson. Now, why don’t you take your moldy cottage cheese and your moldy old ass, get the fuck out of here.”
There was a silver Benz, big one, S600 out by itself in the parking lot that was getting busy at one in the afternoon. DeJuan drove by, saw Marty behind the wheel, spun around and parked next to him. DeJuan put his window down and so did Marty, Marty saying, “Get in, let’s talk.”
DeJuan got out, walked around the back end of the Benz and got in the front passenger seat, sat back against the plush leather. Man, it was cold, like a meat locker in there, but Marty look like he was sweating in his Ryder Cup at Oakland Hills golf shirt, DeJuan trying to figure out what color it was-teal or coral some bullshit exotic name like that.
DeJuan looked through the windshield at Bed Bath & Beyond in the distance and said, “What’s up? Need help picking out sheets and towels?”
“I want you to kill my wife.” He said it like he meant it. Had a serious look on his face.
DeJuan said, “Love is a bitch, isn’t it?”
“I’ll pay you ten grand, but you’ve got to make it look like an accident.”
“Accident? Nobody said nothing about no accident.” DeJuan pulled the SigSauer, aimed it at Marty, said, “Boom! Was just going to pop her like that, drop her like that.” DeJuan thinking it sounded like lyrics to a rap song.
Marty put his hands up like he was going to catch the bullet, said, “Hey, what’re you doing?”
“Be cool, Marty, not going to shoot you. Only illustrating a point, is all.”
Marty put his hands down now and let out a breath. Looked relieved.
DeJuan slid the Sig back in the waistband of his Sean John denims. He said, “Make it look like an accident, a lot more difficult. Going to cost you more.”
Marty said, “How much more?”
“What do you care? You rich.”
DeJuan found out-following the man-Marty was a Mormon. He wasn’t just your average Mormon either; man was bishop of the temple on Woodward Avenue, looked like a mausoleum, all decked out in white marble.
It occurred to him somewhere in the back of his mind-Mormons were the dudes had all the wives. Part of it sounded good, DeJuan picturing a harem, man. Ladies dressed up, having cocktails, waiting for him to come home. He walk in, check ’em out, pick the one he want to get naughty with. I’ll take Shirela over there with the big knock-knocks, feel like some African trim tonight. Or maybe take Shirela and LaRita, get a doublay on a singlay going.
But part of it sounded bad. DeJuan thinking about all the ladies in the harem on the rag at the same time, PMS hanging over his head like a cloud of doom. No, on second thought, he didn’t want no harem, stick to his current arrangement, pay for what you want, never have a problem.
Marty live on a street called Martell and man they had some cribs in that ’hood. Houses look like small hotels, department stores. He found Marty’s, a modern, single-story place built up on a hill, tennis court out front. DeJuan pulled up in the driveway. Could see the whole house now and it was big, kept going across a long stretch of yard. Man had a four-car garage with coach lights over the individual doors, had an oriental garden with a pond, little pagoda building look like a Chinese restaurant sitting out there.
He knew nobody was home. Marty was at his company in downtown Birmingham, had a whole floor in a big building called Martin Smith Securities. Named after the man’s grandfather. DeJuan checked it out on the Internet, had a whole story about the grandfather going through the Depression with nothing and starting the business with a three-hundred-dollar loan.
Shelly, Marty’s wife, was getting her weekly massage, must’ve had a lot of stress in her life living in this 7,500-square-foot shack, only had help four days a week. Marty telling him her routine: lunch and bridge and tennis and shopping, home between three and four, and telling him it had to be today ’cause the maids didn’t come on Thursday. Or he’d have to wait another week.
DeJuan pulled up in the driveway behind the house, pushed a button in the car Marty told him to push, and the garage door farthest from the house started to go up. He drove Marty’s silver Benz in, pressed the button and watched the door go down. Marty said if DeJuan took his own car people might notice. DeJuan could see his point. Probably weren’t many gold metalflake Malibu lowriders in the neighborhood.
He opened the door to the house, went through the kitchen, reminded him of the kitchen at Brownie’s, where he was a busser, worked his way up to greeter, which was sort of like acting, putting on a fake smile and fake enthusiasm as he greeted people coming in the door-same kind of stove. Remembered the name Viking and the little Viking dude on it. Problem was, everybody was fat and everybody wanted a view of the lake. He’d take these four whales to their table, they’d say, “What about that one over there,” pointing to a table wasn’t bussed yet. Or they’d say, “Don’t you have anything closer to the lake?” DeJuan wanted to say, “Get a carryout, go sit in the water have your meal. That be close enough?”
He liked to watch the looks on they faces as the food came, like junkies, man, couldn’t wait to stuff those perch sandwiches in their mouths.
Why they have a kitchen that big? And Shelly, Marty say, don’t cook. He went through the dining room and living room. Was a Japanese sword hanging on the wall, looked like the Hattori Hanzo sword the Bride used in Kill Bill. DeJuan picked it up, slid the blade out the case. The metal glimmered. He felt the edge, see if it was sharp. Sharp? Could’ve shaved with it. He gripped the handle with two hands and slashed the air the way he’d seen ninjas do in movies. “Hey, motherfucker, want some of this?” He moved now, attacking three imaginary dudes, thrusting and slashing the sword, the blade making a swishing noise as it cut through the air.
DeJuan carried the sword around the living room looking at things. On one side of the room was a wall of glass that looked out on the backyard, and a sliding door that opened to a walkway that led to the pond and the pagoda. Furniture looked oriental, too. Black lacquered tables with oriental figures, Japanese bitches in kimonos and ninjas with swords. More Jap warriors in pictures on the wall, DeJuan trying to figure out what the connection was with this Mormon dude and all this Japanese shit.
He moved through the living room into an office, had a desk and a leather couch and chairs arranged for people to sit and talk. On the desktop was a framed shot of Marty posing with a good-looking dark-haired girl. Next to it was the Book of Mormon. DeJuan laid the sword on the desk, picked up the book and opened to a page, said: The First Epistle of Paul and the Apostle to the Corinthians-Chapter 15.
DeJuan read-read it in a voice trying to sound like the preacher of the First Baptist Church, where his grandmother had took him when he was about ten, his mother smoking rock pretty serious by then, disappearing for days at a time. “1. moreover, brethren, I declare unto you the gospel which I preached unto you, which also ye have received, and wherin ye stand.” Huh? Didn’t understand why someone use words like moreover and wherin. Why not say in addition and where, make it easy on the reader? He closed the book, checked out the pictures on the walls. One called Joseph Smith’s First Vision showed two angel-looking dudes with light behind them appearing to a young white dude. DeJuan wondering if this Joseph Smith was related to Marty. There was another picture showing a caravan of Mormons in covered wagons. A line under it said: Crossing the Great Plains in 1847.
He heard something, looked out the window across the backyard, saw a car pull in and park, a Jag. Good-looking woman-twin of the one in the picture with Marty-got out the car, went toward the house.
DeJuan stood at the door to the office with the sword pointed straight down, tip of the blade buried in the black wool carpeting, listening, heard her in the kitchen, sounded like the refrigerator door closing. Watched her cut through the living room and head down a hallway to the bedrooms.
Now he stood outside the bathroom door in Shelly’s pink bedroom, listening to the water running in the shower. Should he go in now, drown Shell-bell in the bathtub? Hit her over the head, make it look like she fall in the shower? DeJuan thinking, he could do that, sure, but he was curious about her and Marty. Sleeping in their own bedrooms, his down the hall, no mistake about it, shit everywhere. He’d’ve thought Marty’d be neater. Man was a pig.
He checked out Shelly’s dressing room, boxes of shoes stacked to the ceiling, name Manolo Blahnik on most of them and Jimmy Choo. Boxes of hats, too, and twenty feet of dresses and shit on hangers. He heard the shower turn off, went back in the bedroom.
He was sitting on the black-lacquered, four-post queen-size bed when Shelly opened the bathroom door, came out in a white robe, hair wrapped turban-style in a white towel, letting out a cloud of steam.
She fixed her gaze on DeJuan as if she was expecting him to be there and said, “Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it.”
DeJuan wasn’t expecting that. “Why he want to get rid of you, good-looking woman like yourself?”
“I get in the way,” Shelly said.
DeJuan said, “Want me to reverse the contract, that what you’re saying?”
“What’s he paying you?”
“Twenty grand.” DeJuan thinking, she don’t know the going rate for assassinations currently, trying for the long dollar.
“He try to bargain with you?”
“Not that I recall,” DeJuan said.
“You’re lucky. Marty’s worth millions, he makes the maids reimburse him for phone calls.”
DeJuan said, “You don’t look like you’re doing too bad.”
“I can pay you thirty.”
“Seems fair, under the circumstances,” DeJuan said. “Anything else I can do for you?”