Night Fever (8 page)

She touched her tidy bun and finished fixing Mack's lunch just in time to get him on the bus, frowning a little when Clay didn't join him.

“How are you getting to school?” she asked Clay.

“Francine's coming for me,” he said carelessly. “She drives a Corvette. Neat car—brand-new.”

She stared at him suspiciously. “Are you staying away from those Harris boys like I told you to?” she asked.

“Of course,” he replied innocently. Much easier to lie than to have a fight. Besides, she never seemed to know when he was lying.

She relaxed a little, even if she wasn't wholly trusting of him these days. “And the counseling sessions?”

He glared at her. “I don't need counseling.”

“I don't care if you
think
you need it or not,” she said firmly. “Kilpatrick says you have to go.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Okay,” he said angrily. “I've got an appointment tomorrow with the psychologist. I'll go.”

She sighed. “Good. That's good, Clay.”

He narrowed his eyes and stared at her. “Just don't throw any orders around, Becky. I'm a man, not a boy you can tell what to do.”

Before she could flare up at him, he went out the door in time to see the Corvette roar up. He got into it quickly and it sped off into the distance.

A few days later, Becky called the principal of Clay's school to make sure he had been going. She was told that he had perfect attendance. He kept the counseling session, too, although Becky didn't know that he ignored his psychologist's advice. It had been three weeks since his arrest and he was apparently toeing the line. Thank God. She settled grandpa and went to work, her thoughts full of Kilpatrick.

She hadn't run into him in the elevator lately. She wondered if he might have moved back to the courthouse until she glimpsed him at a dead run when she was on her way to lunch. Curious the way he moved, she thought wistfully, light on his feet and graceful as well. She loved to watch him move.

Kilpatrick was unaware of her studied scrutiny as he retrieved the blue Mercedes from the parking lot and drove himself to the garage that the elder Harris, C.T. by name, ran as a front for his drug operation. Everybody knew it, but proving it was the thing.

Harris was sixty, balding, and he had a beer belly. He never shaved. He had deep circles under his eyes and a big, perpetually red nose. He glared at Kilpatrick as the younger, taller man climbed out of his car at the curb.

“The big man himself,” Harris said with a surly grin. “Looking for something, prosecutor?”

“I wouldn't find it,” Kilpatrick said. He paused in front of Harris and lit a cigar with slow, deliberate movements of his long fingers. “I've had my investigator checking out some rumors that I didn't like. What he came up with, I didn't like even more. So I thought I'd come and check it out personally.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“That you and Morrely are squaring off for a fight over territory. And that you're moving on the kids at the local elementary school.”

“Who, me? Garbage! It's garbage,” Harris said with mock indignation. “I don't push to kids.”

“No, you don't have to. Your sons do it for you.” He blew out a cloud of smoke, aiming it into the man's face with cold intent. “So I came to tell you something. I'm watching the school, and I'm watching you. If one kid gets one spoon of coke, or one gram of crack, I'm going to nail you and your boys to the wall. Whatever it takes, whatever I have to do, I'll get you. I wanted you to get that message in person.”

“Thanks for the warning, but you're talking to the wrong guy. I'm just not into drugs. I run a garage here. I work on cars.” Harris peered past Kilpatrick to the Mercedes. “Nice job. I like foreign makes. I could fix it for you.”

“It doesn't need fixing. But I'll keep you in mind,” Kilpatrick said mockingly.

“You do that. Stop in any time.”

“Count on it.” Kilpatrick gave him a curt nod and climbed back into his car. Harris was glaring after him with a furious expression when he pulled out into traffic.

Later, Harris took his two sons aside. “Kilpatrick's getting to me,” he said. “We can't afford any slip-ups. Are you sure that Cullen boy's dependable?”

“Sure he is!” Son said with a lazy grin. He was taller than his father, dark-haired and blue-eyed. Not a bad-looking boy, he outshone his chubby, red-faced younger brother.

“He's going to be expendable if the D.A. comes too close,” the elder Harris said darkly. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No problem,” Son said easily. “That's why we let him get caught with his pockets full of crack. Even though they didn't hold him, they'll remember it. Next time we can put his neck in a noose if we need to.”

“They can't use his record against him in juvenile court,” the youngest Harris reminded them.

“Listen,” the man told his sons. “If Kilpatrick gets his hands on that boy again, he'll try him as an adult. Bet on it. Just make sure the Cullen boy stays in your pockets. Meanwhile,” he added thoughtfully, “I've got to get Kilpatrick out of mine. I think it might be worthwhile to float a contract, before he gets his teeth into us.”

“Mike down at the Hayloft would know somebody,” Son told his father with narrowed eyes.

“Good. Ask him. Do it tonight,” he added. “Kilpatrick's term is up this year; he'll have to run. He may use us as an example to win the election.”

“Cullen says he isn't going to run again,” Son said.

The older Harris glared at him. “Everybody says that. I don't buy it. How about the grammar school operation?”

“I've got it in the bag,” Son assured him. “We're lining up Cullen for that. He's got a younger brother who goes there.”

“But will the younger brother go along?”

Son looked up. “I've got an angle on that. We're going to let Cullen go on a buy with us, so that the supplier gets a good look at him. After that, he's mine.”

“Nice work,” the older man said, smiling. “You two could swear he was the brains of the outfit, and Kilpatrick would buy it. Get going, then.”

“Sure thing, Dad.”

 

O
NE AFTERNOON
Becky noticed Clay talking earnestly to Mack as she walked in after work. Mack said something explosive and stomped off. Clay glanced at her and looked uncomfortable.

She wondered what it was all about. Probably another quarrel. The boys never seemed to get along these days. She started a load of clothes in the washing machine and cooked supper. In between, she daydreamed about the district attorney and wished that she was pretty and vivacious and rich.

“Got to go to the library, Becky!” Clay called on his way out the front door.

“Is it open this late…?” she began, but there was the slam of one door, then another, then a car roared away.

She ran to the window.
The Harris boys,
she thought, furious. He'd been told to stay away from them. Mr. Brady had warned him; so had she. But how could she keep Clay away unless she tied him up? She couldn't tell Granddad. He'd had a bad day and had gone to bed early. If only she had someone to talk to!

Mack was doing his math homework at the kitchen table without an argument, strangely silent and uneasy.

“Anything I can help you with?” she asked, pausing beside him.

He looked up and then away, a little too quickly. “No. Just something Clay asked me to do and I said no.” He twirled his pencil. “Becky, if you know something bad's going to happen, and you don't tell anybody, does that make you guilty, too?”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I didn't have anything in mind, really,” Mack said evasively.

Becky hesitated. “Well, if you know something wrong is being done, you should tell. I don't believe in being a tattletale, but something dangerous should be reported.”

“I guess you're right.” He went back to work, leaving Becky no wiser than before.

Clay went with the Harris boys to pick up their load of crack. In the past three weeks, he'd learned plenty about how to find customers for the Harrises. He knew the kids who were hassled at home, who were having trouble with schoolwork, who were mad for anything outside the law. He'd already made a sale or two and the money was incredible, even with a small commission. For the first time, he had money to flash and Francine was all over him. He'd bought himself a few new things, like some designer shirts and jeans. He was careful to keep them in his locker at school so that Becky wouldn't know. Now he wanted a car. He just wasn't sure how to keep Becky in the dark. Probably he could leave it with the Harris boys. Sure, that was a good move. Or with Francine.

He was still seething about Mack. He'd asked him to help him find customers at the elementary school, but Mack had gotten furious and told him he'd do no such thing! He threatened to tell Becky, too, but Clay had dared him. He knew things about Mack that he could tell—like about those girlie magazines Mack hid in his closet, and the butterfly knife he'd traded for at school that Becky didn't know he had. Mack had backed down, but he'd gone off mad, and Clay was a little nervous. He didn't think his brother would tell on him, but you never knew with kids.

They were at the pickup point, a deserted little diner out in the boonies, with two suppliers in a four-wheel drive jeep. The Harris boys were acting odd, he thought, noticing the way their eyes shifted. They'd left the motor running in the car, too. Clay wondered if he was getting spooked.

“You go ahead with the money,” Son told Clay, patting him on the back. “Nothing to worry about. We're always careful, just in case the law makes a try for us, but we're in the clear tonight. Just walk down there and pass the money.”

Clay hesitated. Up until now, it had just been little amounts of coke. This would label him as a buyer and a dealer, and he could go up for years if he was caught. For a moment he panicked, trying to imagine how that would affect Becky and Granddad. Then he got himself under control and lifted the duffel bag containing the money. He wouldn't get caught. The Harris boys knew their way around. It would be all right. And this supplier wouldn't be too anxious to finger him, either, because Clay could return the favor.

By the time he got to the black-clad figure in the trendy sports coat, standing beside a high-class Mercedes-Benz, he was almost swaggering with confidence. He didn't say two words to the supplier. He handed over the money, it was checked, and the coke, in another satchel, was given to him. He'd seen dealers on TV shows test the stuff, but apparently in real life the quality was assured. The Harris boys didn't seem bothered at all. Clay took the goods, nodded at the dealer, and walked back to where Son and his brother were waiting, his heart going like a drum, his breath almost gasping out of his throat. It was an incredible high, just overcoming his own fear and doing something dangerous for a change. His eyes sparkled as he reached the car.

“Okay.” Son grinned. He took Clay by the shoulders and shook him. “Good man! Now you're one of us.”

“I am?” Clay asked, hesitating.

“Sure. You're a dealer, just like us. And if you don't cooperate, Bubba and I will swear that you're the brains of the outfit and that you set up this deal.”

“The supplier knows better,” Clay argued.

Son laughed. “He isn't a supplier,” he said, studying his nails. “He's one of Dad's flunkies. Why do you think we didn't test the stuff before you handed over the money?”

“If he's just one of your father's men…” Clay was trying to think it through.

“There was a surveillance unit across the street,” Son said easily. “They made you. They couldn't pick you up because there wasn't enough time to get a backup and they knew you'd run. But they've got a tape, and probably audio, and all they need is testimony from eyewitnesses to have an airtight case against you. You bought cocaine—a lot of cocaine. Dad's flunky won't mind doing the time, either, for what he'll get paid. We can always buy him out later. You won't get the same consideration, of course.”

Clay stiffened. “I thought you trusted me!”

“Just some insurance, pal,” Son assured him. “We want your little brother to do some scouting for us at the elementary school. If he cooperates, you don't do time.”

“Mack said no. He already said no!” He was beginning to feel hysterical.

“Then you'd better make him change his mind, hadn't you?” Son said, and his small eyes narrowed dangerously. “Or you're going to end up in stir for a long, long time.”

And just that easily, they had him. He couldn't know that the so-called surveillance people were just friends of the Harrises, not heat. Or that Francine was being persuaded to be nice to him to help keep him on the string. Yes, they had the poor fish doubly hooked, and he didn't even know how caught he really was. Yet.