The Martini Shot (24 page)

“Let's talk about Skylar,” I said.

“Okay.”

“He fronted you a pound of weed. Is that right?”

“Yeah.” He looked me in the eye. Whatever he'd done, Barry was no liar. “Then something went down, and I couldn't pay him.”

“Couldn't or wouldn't?”

“
Couldn't.
You coming to me today as a boss?”

“No. Just tell me what happened.”

Barry shook his head, as if the action could erase the memory. “The get-high was for my nephew. He been trappin like a fool.”

“Trapping?”

“Dealing that tree.”

Trapping.
I took note of the term.

“If your nephew's in the game, he must have his own connect. Why would you go to Skylar?”

“My nephew's man came up short, and my nephew, goes by Daymo, needed some product to fill his pipeline. Told me if I could get him some, he'd have the money for me right away.”

“Why would you do that?”

“On account of he's my sister's kid. I ain't want him out there tryin to cop cold from gangstas he don't know. I was looking to control the situation. Protect him. I didn't think for a minute that my own blood would do me like that.”

“What'd you do?”

“Had a man-to-boy talk with Daymo, is what I did. Put his nothin ass up against a wall. He promised to get me the money the next morning. But when the next morning came…”

“Skylar was dead.”

Barry looked away.

“It wasn't a random robbery,” I said. “Skylar paid the collectors off with cash mixed with prop money. They murdered him because of it. I'm pretty sure of that.”

“They. Who the hell is
they? 
”

The Wild Bunch,
I thought. Walon Green. Greatest screenplay ever written.

“Two young white dudes. They go by Wayne and Cody. I need to confirm that it was them.”

“And?”

“I aim to keep those assholes away from Laura Flanagan.”

“That skinny little girl in wardrobe?”

“She and Skylar were together.”

Barry crossed his arms. “I'm sorry, man. You
know
I been stressin behind this.”

“You can help me make it right.”

“How? I can't bring that boy back.”

“No, but we can fuck the ones who did it. I could use you, Barry. You walk into a room, you make an impression.”

“Say it plain.”

“First thing, you need to get the money from your nephew, so I can pay off Skylar's connect. Absolve that debt for the girl.”

“What else?” said Barry.

“I've got an appointment with Wayne and Cody.”

“And when you get up with them? You fixin to do
what? 
”

“Are you with me, or not?”

“When?” said Barry.

“Tonight.”

I called Detective Joe Gittens when I got back to my room.

“The TV writer,” he said, with amusement, after I identified myself.

“Making any progress on the Branson murder?”

“Only my boss gets to ask me that.”

“I was just wondering…”

“What?”

“I'm curious. What kind of slugs were recovered from Skylar's body?”

Gittens said nothing.

“Nine millimeter?”

“Why would you need to know that, Ohanion? Is this for one of your scripts? Tanner's Team gonna put this one down?”

“What about the shell casings found at the crime scene?”

“You make me smile, man.”

“Well?”

“Wasn't no casings,” said Gittens. “Now, if you'll excuse me, today is my day off, and I plan to spend it with my family. Unless you've seen the light of day and plan to suddenly cooperate with this investigation, I gotta go.”

“Sorry to bother you.”

He hung up on me without another word.

I lay down and tried to take a nap, but I couldn't sleep. The late-afternoon sun was coming strong through my window, strobing the room as the trucks on the nearby interstate passed, blocking and unblocking the rays.

I got off the bed and went to my laptop, open on the desk. The beat sheets for episode 114 were beside it. Similar to our shooting schedule, I often wrote out of sequence, especially when I was looking to crack a script on page one and staring at a dreaded blank screen. I found a place where I could start, and began to type.

In the scene (INT: INTERROGATION ROOM, HOMICIDE OFFICES, POLICE HQ—NIGHT), Tanner is in “the box,” interrogating a drug dealer, a man named Glover, who Tanner thinks has information on a murder.

I wrote the scene, and then two others. It was coming, and I could hardly type fast enough. The faucet was fully on.

The light in the room dimmed. I'd been sitting at the desk for a couple of hours. It was night.

I dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a shirt worn tails out. I retrieved the prop gun from the bathroom, then stood in front of the mirror and experimented with its placement. I settled for the front dip, barrel down, with the grip angled so I could pull it easily with my right hand. I practiced my draw several times, then covered the gun with the tail of my shirt. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I looked like me, but different. A man armed with a gun, even a fake gun, is changed.

I called Annette on the house phone, but she didn't answer. I left a message and told her I was going out, and hoped to see her later that night. I grabbed my book bag, slung it over my shoulder, and took the elevator down to her floor. I knocked on her door and there was no response. Maybe she was in there. Maybe she'd been in her room when I'd phoned her, too.

I got my car from the valet and drove over to Barry's place. He was standing in his front yard, playing with his dogs, when I pulled over to the curb.

Kenny was standing next to a clean black Marauder, under the beams of his Gulf Stream spotlight, as we arrived at his trailer park. We met him at the Merc.

“Black Barry,” said Kenny, and they bumped fists.

“Kenny G,” said Barry.

I had no nickname that I knew of, so Kenny just nodded in my direction.

“She's a beauty,” said Kenny, running his hand lovingly over the hood.

“Looks like a Crown Vic with extended pipes to me,” said Barry, who was a GM man. There was a decal in the rear window of his Grand National of a kid wearing a Chevy shirt. The kid was pissing on a Ford.

“It's all in the details, Barry. Eighteen-inch wheels, five-spoke rims with the god's head right in the center. Blackouts, color-keyed grille…”

“I see all the window dressing. But does it move?”

“It's a true muscle sedan.”

“Will it run with an Impala SS?”

“I wouldn't want to split the difference.”

“Can we go?” I said. “I already rented the car, G. You don't need to sell me on it.”

Kenny looked Barry over, then said to me, “I see now why you needed the extra room, Victor.”

“To fit your belly under the wheel?” said Barry. “Mines is flat.”

“If a basketball is flat,” said Kenny. “I see you been lovin that chicken at Popeye's.”

“And I see you ain't rubbed the red off your neck.”

It went like that for a while, and continued as we got into the car. They were friends.

Kenny got in the driver's side, Barry in the shotgun bucket, and I climbed into the back, like the third wheel on a high school Friday night.

“Where to, sir?” said Kenny.

I gave him the address.

Wayne and Cody stayed on the east bank, over the river, in an area that looked more country than city, with unkempt homes and properties, some abandoned or foreclosed. The river bridge, lit majestically at night, loomed over this section of the parish. We drove down their dark street, which faced railroad tracks and a field featuring blown-in trash and one rusted-out car. The road dead-ended at a concrete barrier.

“Turn around and face the way we came in,” I said.

“I ain't stupid,” said Kenny, adding,
“Writers.”

He three-pointed the Marauder, curbed it, and faced it toward the open run of the street. We looked at the house and its driveway, where an old Toyota Supra with custom rims was parked.

Barry got out of the car and I followed.

I slung my book bag over my shoulder and leaned in Kenny's open window. This made him recoil.

“Thought you were about to kiss me,” said Kenny.

“Keep it running, Boss Hog.”

“I'll write down the tag number of that Nagasaki nut-bucket.” He meant the Toyota.

“Good idea,” I said.

Barry and I walked toward the house. It was a ramshackle one-story affair with tan asbestos shingles that were half on, half off. Plywood had been fixed in several of the windows.

“Is there a plan?” said Barry, wearing an electric-crew T-shirt, rolled at the sleeves. He looked like a horseman.

“Just be your badass self,” I said, as we stepped onto an uneven planked porch.

I knocked on the front door. Soon it opened. A shirtless, barefoot man in his early twenties stood in the frame. He had a pencil-line beard, braces on his teeth, and dull eyes. On his upper chest was a Celtic cross tattoo, an appropriated symbol of “white pride.” Similar tats were inked on his inner forearm. He was holding a cell phone in his hand.

A second young man, who looked just like the first, stood behind him. He too was thinly bearded, and wore a wife-beater, jeans, and black motorcycle boots.

“I'm Victor. This is Barry.”

“Wayne,” said the one who was standing behind his brother. When he spoke, I saw that his teeth were brace-free. “You ain't say you were bringin no one.”

“I didn't say I was coming alone, either,” I said. “Can we come in?”

I let Barry go ahead of me. As I entered, Cody closed the door behind me.

The house was as small as Laura Flanagan's but without any of the artistic touches. The furniture was cushiony, torn, and probably infested with bugs. The place smelled of garbage, nicotine, perspiration, and weed. It was stuffy and hot.

We all stood there in the living area. I inspected the two of them, obviously identical twins, six-footers and solidly built.

“Well?” I said.

“Have a seat,” said Wayne.

“You all first,” I said.

Cody shrugged and sat down on the couch. Barry had been waiting for that. He sat down next to Cody, closer than he needed to be. Wayne and Cody both had size, but seated next to Barry, Cody looked like a child.

Wayne and I remained standing. He was not far from me. Striking distance, if that's what he wanted.

Snipped.
I took note of the term.

“Why do you think I'm here, Wayne?”

“You tell me,” said Wayne. “You said you was fixin to give me some money. Only a fool would turn that down.”

“Laura Flanagan,” I said.

“Who?”

“Don't act like you don't know her. I got your number from her phone. You
called
her, Wayne.”

Wayne smiled. “Skinny little thing, right? Works on movies. Yeah, I met her in a club. So?”

“I want you to leave her alone.”

Wayne smiled stupidly. “But she's my type. See, I'm into those itty-bitty gals. I fuck 'em to the bone, Victor. I like to see if I can break 'em. You know what I mean?”

When I said nothing, Wayne's silly grin faded.

“Let's just do the business you came for,” said Wayne. “Give me the money and you can get gone.”

I hitched up my jeans and parted the tail of my shirt, just a little, and brushed my thumb on the checkered plastic grip of the prop gun. I then let the tail fall back over the grip. Wayne's eyes widened slightly; he'd seen it—I'd
wanted
him to see it. I supposed that Barry and Cody had seen it, too.