Devils in Exile (24 page)

Leroy knelt down, removing a white, medical-looking box from the duffel. “You tink you can handle deese bandulus?”

“Yes!” Lockerty yelled over Fale’s cries, thinking an affirmative answer might stop them.
“Yes!”

“You wrong, mon. But we help you. Stop deese bag-o-wires. Do dis right.”

Moodle stood, leaving Fale rolling on the floor, holding his bleeding face. The high-pitched moan coming out of Fale’s mouth was an aria of insanity.

Moodle carried something small in his hand, like a baby onion with a bloody tail, over to Leroy. Leroy lifted the cover off the box, which breathed steam. Dry ice.

Into the box, Moodle deposited Fale’s eyeball.

“We earn a bonus, every eye we brin’ back.” Leroy closed the box, a drip of red stuck to the styrofoam exterior. “
Every
eye.”
Moodle turned back to Lockerty, the bloody fish knife still in his hand. “Feelin’ us now?”

Lockerty stared at the white Jamaicans, two psychos he had invited into his office and his life. “Jesus Christ.”

“Perk up, mon. Now we get us deese bloodclaat bandulus, sight? We got us a box to fill.”

L
ASH COULDN’T SAY WHY THE FATHERLY IMPULSE HAD COME ON SO
late in the game, or why it had come on so strong. It really is a love affair, your relationship with your kids. It’s powerful and frustrating because there is no real consummation. No finish line. The closest you get are the moments when you can share in your child’s triumphs—as when watching them on the field of play—though even those successes are tinged with sadness because every accomplishment only pulls them further away from you, toward an adulthood all their own.

He was fighting afternoon traffic out of the city because he had missed too many of Rosey’s lacrosse matches to miss another. He liked to stand on the sidelines, apart from the other spectators, watching his boy play, this chunk of him that had broken away and grown whole into a man.

This was why, when Lash’s phone buzzed in his cupholder, he answered it expecting to hear Rosey.

“What up, M.L.?” Tricky’s serious voice.

“Everything good?”

“Breezy. Checking in.”

Not true, but better that than trouble. “I heard some bullshit about somebody rounding up the bandits.”

“Nonsense rumor,” said Tricky. “Junkies trying to turn in their brothers for twenty-five long.”

“They showed up that cop though, didn’t they?”

“Everything but put a pink party dress on him. Pretty good, maybe edging toward showboating. Fifteen-yard penalty for dancing in the end zone.”

“Could be they’re getting cocky. Could be anger.”

“You sounding sympathetic. You get anything from the cop?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” But, no, Lash hadn’t. The only people who lawyer up faster than dirty cops are dirty lawyers.

“Major haul, I heard.”

Couldn’t hurt to say. “Fifty-odd keys.”

“Blow?” The ensuing silence was Tricky figuring out the wholesale amount in his head, with a dealer’s facility for numbers. “Whoo, damn.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I’m in the wrong line of business.”

Lash said, “You are in the wrong line of business.”

“So lemme ask then. You want these guys because they’re in your way? Or because that was your money?”

“
My
money? What’s that mean?”

“Your task force’s. These bandits are copping your style, Eliot Ness. Only cutting out the middleman—in this case, the U.S. gov.”

“What’s your point, Trey?”

“They eating all your pie, is what I’m saying. Can’t feel good seeing that. Hell, we should go freelance, you and me. There’s a team.”

Lash said, “Maybe you’re trying to be funny.”

“Maybe, yeah. Maybe I’m just working my way up to telling you this.” Tricky’s pause wasn’t meant to be dramatic. “I’m cooking up something for you. Something big. Real big.”

“In terms of ? Men or money?”

Tricky answered that with a question. “What percentage can I get of seized assets?”

“Percentage of product? Zero.”

“I know that.”

Tricky had never asked about money before. Never discussed a payment package. Everything he and Lash had was personal, one-to-one. “There is a contingency fee. Twenty percent commission is standard, with a quarter-mil cap.”

“That’s tax-free?”

“Afraid not.”

Silence. “A cap, huh? Any give there? Cost of living increase, say?”

This discussion was making Lash’s palms sweaty. “Out of my league.”

“But you could ask.”

“I could ask. You gonna give me something to chew on, or what?”

More silence, the moment weighing heavily on Tricky. “This could change a lot of things for me. Change everything. I’ll hit you back when I can.”

M
AVEN HELD A SHEAF OF LISTINGS AND A RING OF KEYS GRABBED OFF
one of the Realtor’s desks. “I think you should take this one.”

He was trying to sell Samara on a tiny sublet near St. Mary’s Street, technically in Brookline but just three blocks outside Kenmore Square. She stood with her arms crossed, tapping a Puma sneaker on the refinished maple floor, looking out the window as a trolley passed. “Are the property fees included?”

“Property fees?” he said, flipping back through the listing sheet.

“You are the all-time worst Realtor.” She stood at the kitchen sink, trying it out. “I kind of want to be more in the city though.”

“At your price range?”

“Well, I plan on having a job.”

“It’s a sublet. It’s small, it’s clean. Very safe area. Available immediately.”

She wide-eyed him. “Now you’re a pressure salesman.”

He wanted her out of her old place and away from Lash as soon as possible. The rest of it—what to do about her forwarding her mail,
for instance—he would worry about later. Including breaking up with her. It was rotten, but he had dug himself into a ditch here, and the only way to protect both himself and Samara was to dump her.

When the time was right. First things first.

He said, “I just don’t want you to miss out. Places like this, they go fast.”

“What about my current lease?”

“You can get out early.”

“Maybe if I had a roommate. Help with the rent …”

He was still searching the listing page for the property fees, so it was a while before he looked up to see her smiling.

She said, “Don’t you think it’s weird you still live with a bunch of guys?”

Maven stuttered out, “I don’t know.”

“My friends say it’s too good to be true. Four successful single guys living together on Marlborough Street who aren’t gay. They think you have to be drug dealers or something.”

Maven smiled sickly and went back to the listing sheet.

L
ASH’S INTERCESSION HAD
M
AVEN LOOKING OVER HIS SHOULDER
everywhere he went. He worked obsessively not to be traced or followed, feeling too conspicuous on his bike, taking alleys instead of streets if they were available. He stayed away from Marlborough Street whenever possible. He expected to see the DEA around every corner, and Maven’s not having crossed paths with Lash again only made him more anxious.

Maven followed him one day, in a rented car, away from DEA headquarters in Government Center out into Somerville, to, of all things, a college lacrosse match. Maven never got out of his car, waiting in the parking lot, almost driving away a dozen times, knowing he was taking a great risk—until Lash reappeared, Maven trailing him to the driveway of a triple-decker on Rogers Avenue before pulling off. After, he couldn’t fathom what he had thought
he would gain by following the man who was trying to follow him, except maybe an ulcer.

He said nothing to Royce about the DEA. At first the choice tore at him, but soon he realized he needed to keep his distance from the man with whose girlfriend he was having an affair. Royce could sniff out the one lie at the bottom of a barrel full of truths. Maven felt twisted every which way, double- and triple-thinking his way through simple exchanges. No way could he tiptoe through this and come out okay at the end. Some sort of calamity was on its way—just as he had always known.

With a backpack on his shoulder, he walked into the Bank of America at the corner of Boylston and Exeter streets and was led down into the safe-deposit vault by the same assistant branch manager Royce had first taken him to. The man’s fingernails glistened under a coat of clear polish as he and Maven inserted their keys in Maven’s double-locked box door. Maven removed the three-by-ten-by-twenty-two-inch box, setting it down on the table next to a new, empty six-by-ten-by-twenty-two-inch box, whereupon the assistant manager left him alone in the examining room.

Maven opened the smaller box and transferred the stacks of cash into the larger one. He unzipped his backpack and added new bundles from the auto shop job.

Don’t count it.

A lot of paper in there. A three-inch stack of hundreds equaled roughly $70,000, and he had just grown out of a ten-by-twenty-two-inch box.

Don’t give it a number.

In his mind, it was his treasure, a glowing pile of wealth stowed deep inside a bank vault. In reality, it was a few pounds of paper tucked inside a metal box. He liked knowing he had it, but he didn’t like handling it, getting the smell of decomposing paper on his hands.

Losing something.

Maven’s answer to Royce’s question “What is the one thing worse than having nothing?”

He’d been having dreams of getting called back to Iraq. Of having to leave in the middle of the night, no time to prepare. Of getting ambushed on his way back into the Green Zone from the airport, taking a sniper round in the neck, bleeding out on the sandy side of the road.

It wasn’t dying that woke him up in a hot sweat. It was money unspent. It was the good life unlived.

H
E WAITED A GOOD DISTANCE DOWN
M
ARLBOROUGH
S
TREET WEAR
ing a distressed trucker’s cap and a medium-length, tan jacket bought off the rack at the military surplus store on Boylston.

Danielle stepped out of the building in a short jacket and heeled boots, and Maven went on full alert, watching other pedestrians and cars as he trailed her across Newbury to the Copley MBTA station. He was following Danielle to see if she was being followed. He had to know if Lash was onto her.

Underground, he hung way back until the subway arrived. Guys checked her out, but Maven didn’t see anyone paying her anything more than passing attention.

He boarded the same inbound Green Line train she did, one car away. He could see her through two sets of windows when the jointed cars pivoted on the turns. She stood holding a strap near the door. At Boylston Station, she stepped out and switched cars, boarding his. A simple tail flip, maybe taught her by Royce. No one followed her from one car to the next. She was alone, or so she thought.

Maven sat head-down on a single seat near the center, looking like your typical subway psycho. He didn’t dare look up, as she was standing right next to him. He stared at her brown leather boots and waited.

It was just one stop. She moved to the door at Park Street, and he waited to rise and follow her.

A guy boarded the car, and she received his arm around her waist, greeting him with a kiss. Maven watched from between his
coat sleeve and his threadbare cap brim as the doors closed and they huddled close, whispering, smiling.

The guy was lanky, big-nosed, not much to look at. He wore a Dr. Who–length scarf with stripes of black, gray, and white, brown loafers, and a corduroy jacket.

Maven lowered his arm such that his face was fully revealed. If Danielle had eyes for anybody but this stiff, she would have seen Maven sitting not three seats away from her, glaring.

But she didn’t. While the rest of the riders settled into their public-transit funk, she huddled close with Dr. Who, sliding her hand down the seam of his pleated pants, rubbing his cock. She said something more into his ear, and he grinned like a frog being kissed into a prince.

At North Station, they exited, and Maven stood and followed, completely exposed and not caring. He stopped after the turnstile, watching them go off, Danielle clutching the guy’s arm as they disappeared into the swarm. Maven had seen enough. He didn’t care to know any more.

B
ACK HOME, AFTER SITTING ON THE SOFA IN A DAZE
, M
AVEN WENT
into his bedroom and started packing. Packing to leave, to walk away, emptying the contents of his bureau drawers onto his bed and stuffing them inside a canvas laundry bag.

He came to an old black hoodie and stopped. It was the sweatshirt he had worn on all those cold nights standing out at the parking lot, watching the city spin around him. He thought he had thrown the thing out. He sat down on the bed with the hoodie in his lap and tried to think through his distress.

M
AVEN WAS LATE FOR THE MEET-UP AT THE PAD
. S
UAREZ WAS LEANING
over the pool table trying a trick shot. Glade was watching
Team
America: World Police
for the umpteenth time on his media player. Termino was drinking a large protein shake.

“Look who decided to show,” said Termino when Maven walked in.

Even after all these jobs over all these months, the Dynamo had never cottoned to Maven. It was a personality thing; Termino didn’t share in Royce’s high estimation of him. Termino thought Maven was too straight, too smart.

Royce’s sunglasses hung from the collar of his expensive T-shirt. He singled out Maven in that way of his, a glance carrying the same weight as physically pulling Maven aside. “What’s up?”

Maven shrugged, said, “What?”

Termino said, “Maven, you look like ass.”

Suarez said, “Your ass or Milkshake’s?”

“Looks like mine,” said Termino. “Looks
at
Milkshake’s.”

Royce was still studying Maven. Waiting for an explanation.

Maven said, “Little under the weather.”

Royce neither nodded nor shrugged, only looked away, letting him off the hook for the time being. “It’s not just Maven,” Royce said. “You’re all fucking flat. This isn’t nap time.”