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Suitcase City. Sterling Watson
Читать онлайн.Название Suitcase City
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781617753329
Автор произведения Sterling Watson
Жанр Ужасы и Мистика
Издательство Ingram
Malone? Malone? Teach thought. Ah yes, this is Malone’s Bar. He looked around now, out of the bright tunnel of violent energy that, for a few moments, had included only him and the boy and what had to be done. The bartender was on the phone talking to Malone. McLuster sat at a table against the wall, a wad of paper towels pressed to his crotch. The tunnel widened even more, and Teach heard him whisper, “Christ, I don’t believe this.”
Teach tried to think of a comforting word for the man. It seemed right even though he had, by his lights anyway, already saved him from a cut throat. The black boy gave a long, low moan. Teach tightened his grip and glanced up at McLuster. It occurred to him that he needed the man. McLuster was his witness.
A customer came in, an old guy in white Keds, khaki Bermuda shorts, and a Tampa Bay Bucs T-shirt. Bald head, hairless limbs, and tortoiseshell sunglasses with a white plastic nose cap. He took two steps into the bar, saw Teach and the black boy on the floor, pushed his sunglasses to his face, and tiptoed out.
Teach watched the door, hoping that McLuster would not leave. And what would you do? Would you wait around like he is doing? Be a stand-up guy for the man on the floor with the bad kid, the guy who saved your ass? Or would you haul ass out of here, write this off as absurdity and rotten luck? Let the guy on the floor deal with the cops. Hell, it was an easy enough story to tell. A straightforward tale of armed robbery thwarted by the decisive action of a man who knew what to do and had the wherewithal to do it.
The door opened again and two men in sport coats and ties came in. The first was black, about six feet tall, stocky, maybe in his early forties, carrying some ribs and corn bread around his middle but carrying them well. The man behind him was white, short, and rail-thin. They stood taking in the situation. Teach on the floor holding the boy, McLuster pressing the ball of towels to his crotch, the bartender on the phone giving Malone a play-by-play.
The black cop walked over and put his hand on Teach’s shoulder. There was a world of authority in the hard way the man touched him. Teach remembered this touch. He got up, stepped back, and took a deep breath because it was all over now but the talking. He took another breath and felt in his gut the dizzy ebbing of the tide of adrenaline that had started when the boy had stepped through the men’s room door and said . . . What was it? Teach couldn’t remember now.
The black cop knelt and slid the boy’s hand down to his belt and cuffed it, and Teach remembered that rasping sound. Then the cop said in a deep, resonant baritone, “Sir, would you step back, please.”
The thin white cop in JCPenney slacks and scuffed black oxfords watched with cool interest. The smell of garlic and onions came from his clothes. He smiled, nodded as a man did when he was thinking, We’ve seen this a thousand times.
The black cop turned the boy over and pulled him to a sitting position, neither roughly nor gently but with a surprising ease.
The boy looked at the cop and his eyes rocked in their sockets. The cop said, “Hello, Tyrone.”
And Teach thought, Good. They know this kid. He has a sheet. A punk they’ve snagged before.
But the white cop stepped away from Teach and looked into the boy’s eyes. “Jesus,” he whispered in a voice Teach recognized as grit.
Teach felt the adrenaline flow again into the hungry, empty space in his belly. The place he would fill with the dinner he and Dean would have after her ballet recital. Steadying his voice, he asked, “Uh, officer, do you know this boy? Have you arrested him before?”
The black cop led the boy to a chair, then squared himself to Teach, showing a holstered Glock and a detective’s shield on a belt clip. He gave a guarded, almost whimsical smile. “Do you have any ID, sir? A driver’s license?”
Teach pulled out his wallet, the thing the boy had demanded he “give up.” He offered it, but the cop raised both hands and smiled. “Just the license, sir.”
Teach took it out, handed it to the man who passed it to the white cop. The white cop sat at a nearby table and began writing in a notebook.
The black cop said, “Yes sir, I know the boy. His name is Tyrone Battles. He’s my sister’s son.”
FIVE
While the boy applied ice to his cheek and the bartender finished his phone report to Malone, the black cop, Aimes, took Teach to a table near the front door. As he told the story and Aimes listened, Teach tried to read the man. All he got was an even temper, a solid self-confidence, and a concern for accuracy. Sometimes the cop challenged Teach. “The boy said, Give up your wallets? You sure that’s what he said?”
Teach said, “I think so. Maybe he just said, Give it up, but we know what that means, don’t we?”
The policeman didn’t nod or write it down. He just looked steadily at Teach and waited for more.
When he could, Teach glanced at McLuster who was telling his version to the thin policeman. The wad of paper towels was gone and the urine stain was fading. Teach would bet the smell was as strong as ever. The poor cop. The things these guys had to do.
The boy, Tyrone Battles, uncuffed now, holding an iced towel to his cheek, sat watching Teach like a boxer waiting to come out of his corner. Talking to Aimes, Teach was beginning to think the boy’s intentions were the least of his problems.
After Aimes made him tell the story a second time, Teach said, “Look, I’ve told you everything I can remember. It happened fast. I was afraid the kid was going to pull the razor. There was no way out except through him, and that’s the way I went. Frankly, I think I saved two lives in there. I don’t know why we have to keep . . .”
The detective raised his eyebrows as Teach unreeled his good-citizen speech, his voice rising with exasperation. Teach stopped talking when he realized he had just said, “I was afraid.” Afraid was a word Teach hadn’t used much. It changed things.
Aimes lowered his gaze, spread his big hands on the table, examined his clean, trimmed fingernails. When he looked at Teach again, his eyes were tired. “Frankly, Mr. Teach, there are two ways to look at this. One is that you just assaulted my sister’s only son who’s an honor student and the star running-back on his high school football team. Frankly, you busted open the face of a nice-looking young man who’s never been in trouble a day in his life. That’s one way.”
Teach closed his eyes and there in the darkness the boy’s surly face leaned into his as it had in a men’s room, and he had to stop himself from shoving past Aimes and out the door. He conquered his temper and calmed his violated sense of fairness and stayed in his chair. He opened his eyes, attempted a smile, and said, “Detective, I’m trying to help you here. I’ve given you all the information I have.” He glanced at his watch and a splash of bright stage lighting burst into his mind. Jesus, the ballet recital. When? Oh Christ, soon. He had to get out of here. The cop had said there were two ways to look at this.
Aimes said, “Mr. Teach, you said there was a razor. Where is it? The boy doesn’t have it on him.”
Teach massaged his eyes, tried to think. “It’s still in there. In the men’s room, I mean. I heard it hit the floor when I . . .”
Aimes looked over at the table where McLuster was unburdening himself to the white cop. “Detective Delbert,” Aimes called in that low, burring baritone, “excuse yourself for a minute there and go into the men’s room and find me the weapon Mr. Teach says he saw.”
Teach glanced at McLuster who watched Detective Delbert walk to the men’s room. He needed McLuster to look at him, give him even the smallest reassurance, but the man only stared bleakly at the place where the trouble had started.
The thin policeman returned from the bathroom, his face composed, something dark and gleaming in his hand. As he came on, Teach thought, He found