Thin Love (44 page)

Shaking her head, fighting back that lightheaded sensation, Keira dug in her bag, fishing for her phone. She thumbed through the contacts, skipping past Leann’s name until she got to the number she wanted and quickly punched the call button. Two rings, three and then her mother pounded on the door.

Keira unlocked the door and her mother didn’t wait for an invitation.

I don’t have time for this,
she thought holding up her hand when her mother opened her mouth to speak.

The caller answered, a quick “Hey you,” but then her mother jerked her phone out of Keira’s hand and ended the call. “You will not ignore me, you little shit and Keira, that is the last time…”

“Mother, will you please shut up?”

She reached for the phone, sidestepping when her mother swatted at her and Keira could feel the anger billowing between them. The woman had chosen the wrong damn time to pick a fight with her and Keira’s temper rose past the feeling of worry and fear that Kona’s departure had caused.

“Don’t you talk to me like that. I know what you were doing, Keira Nicole, I heard you and…”

When her phone rang, Keira darted forward, catching the bottom half of her mother’s palm on her chin. Keira leaned back, stretching her neck to look up at the ceiling, praying that the fury in her chest wouldn’t have her doing something stupid. But as she look back at her mother, the Nokia in her fist ringing like a siren, Keira decided, just then, that she didn’t care about her mother’s anger or the drunken rage that had her sneering at Keira like she hated her.

The feeling was mutual.

Taking a breath, her mother tossed the phone on Keira’s bed and curled her arms over her chest. “You and I are going to have that conversation now.”

“No. We’re really not.” The woman tried stopping Keira when she hurried toward her bed. She slapped the back of Keira’s head, punched her shoulders, but the girl was too focused on stopping Kona from doing something epically stupid. She had the Nokia in her hand when her mother yanked on her hair, tugging her backward and that pinching ache on her roots had her yelling, jerking back to send and elbow right in the center of her mother’s chest.

The woman staggered, then fell on her ass and Keira didn’t take time to enjoy the rounded eyes or the way her mother’s mouth dropped open in shock. It was a memory she’d store for another moment, when she had time to cradle that happy sight. “You ever hit me again and I swear on Daddy’s grave I will knock you into next week. Better still, I’ll take all those pictures Leann’s taken of me for years, sporting your handiwork straight to the cops, Mother. You think your friends would be interested in those? Now back off and leave me alone.”

Keira ignored the low sob her mother released and the rattle of her door as the woman slammed it shut. She hit the call button once more and stared out onto the lake as the moonlight shimmered across the still water. Her prayers were silent, pleading as the call kept ringing. Finally, that deep voice answered and Keira exhaled.

“Hey. It’s me. I really need your help. Can you meet me outside your house in an hour?”

The hotel smelled like bleach. It was a filthy by-the-hour place
a few blocks from N. Rampart Street, fringing the outskirts of Treme. Kona stood outside, leaning against the dirty brick wall waiting for Ricky’s delivery, trying to look small, hiding in the dark shadows of the alleyway that backed up onto a row of rusted dumpsters. The smell was unbelievable—raw, moldy food, a stray needle or two on the pavement and floods of black trash bags tipping the tops of the trash bins. All around him was graffiti, some beautiful, haunting skulls and crossbones, most tags of gang names that marked territory.

Ricky was inside that small hotel room that Kona had only stepped in and then quickly abandoned a half hour before. It smelled like burnt hair and submission, but that didn’t seem to bother Ricky. He was only there to catch a nut before his shipment arrived. Kona heard the man moaning, finishing up with a hooker from one of the mob strip joints somewhere in the Quarter. Kona could hear them inside, Ricky calling the girl a dirty slut, the smack of his hand on the girl’s ass and her high-pitched squeal each time he smacked her. Heroin, Kona figured. What else would make a girl that tiny, that pretty sweat herself raw every night on a pole or give herself over to a pox-marked, rail thin asshole like Ricky?

Kona didn’t want to be there. He wanted his Wildcat, wanted this favor he owed Ricky to be over. He really wanted to drown out that slap on skin and the squeak of the rusted springs on the bed inside that room.

Kona pushed off from the wall, managing a slight nod to Ricky’s’ two boys who passed a cigarette between each other as they watched the street. They were both smaller than Kona by at least five inches, and each wore faded jeans and threadbare, dark coats.

Marco was the shorter of the two, a Spanish kid from the Irish Channel with one of his front teeth missing. The other was Lil Eddie, boxier than Marco with pale skin and dark eyes. Kona didn’t know much about Eddie except that he was new to Ricky’s crew and had hands like a girl. It had freaked Kona out a little the first time he shook Eddie’s hand—how smooth his palm was, how soft, as though he’d never lifted a finger to work hard his entire life. Kona didn’t trust either of them, but Eddie especially had the hairs on the back of Kona’s neck standing on end.

Marco’s sharp whistle brought Kona’s attention back to the street and to the yellow ’68 Mustang that pulled up along the sidewalk in front of the hotel. He and Lil Eddie kept watch, standing on either side of the car and Kona gnawed on his cheek, eyes squinted at Keith, Ricky’s boy, as he slid out of the car.

“Kona. What’s up, man?” Keith was mixed, light skinned with bright green eyes, pupils always dilated. Ricky trusted him, told Kona that Keith would too scared of him to shortchange his shipment, but Kona knew better. He’d seen this asshole placing bets against CPU throughout the season. He’d seen him lurking around the locker room and team house when Ricky wasn’t around. This guy had his sights on replacing Kona as Ricky’s supplier to the team. Kona didn’t care about being traded, he just didn’t want his teammates messed up with Ricky’s shit.

Kona shook his hand as Keith approached but didn’t smile at the guy and stepped back, leveling two quick pounds on the door to get Ricky’s attention.

“He in there?” Keith asked, narrowing his eyes at Kona.

A quick jerk of Kona’s chin and Keith stepped forward, but he slipped in front of the door, blocking Keith from entering. “He’s busy.”

Kona crossed his arms, depending on his size and bulk to intimidate Keith. It usually worked; most people took one look at him and walked the other way, but Keith had been around Kona often enough, had likely seen enough shit in the hustle that Kona didn’t seem like much of a threat.

“I gotcha, man.” The fluorescent light above the door cast a small glint off of Keith’s too white teeth when he smiled at Kona. Eyes over Kona’s shoulder, Keith’s features relaxed as Ricky opened the door and walked out of the room. “I’m early, dude. I get a bonus?” That bonus Keith wanted stumbled away from Ricky, pulling down her short skirt and tucking a small baggy into her bra. The girl walked with her head down and her arms around her middle as though she thought not looking at anyone would make her seem less obvious, would somehow hide the shit she’d just let Ricky do to her.

“Fuck you, man. That ain’t your bonus.” He slapped Keith on the back of the head. “Stop running your mouth and get my shit.”

Something in the air, maybe the cool looks Lil Eddie and Keith passed to each other as they popped the trunk, had Kona’s gut twisting. He stepped forward, away from Ricky and watched the two men pull duffle bag after duffle bag out of the car.

“Why am I here, man?” Kona asked Ricky when he came to his side.

“To keep assholes like those three in line.” Ricky stretched, shoulders relaxed, movements slow and a stupid, eager grin bending his mouth. Kona knew he watched him, knew he was sizing him up, taking in the way Kona moved his eyes up and down the street. Something was off, he felt it in bones, but Ricky seemed too sated, too calm to catch that air of caution moving in the frigid January wind. A quick tap on Kona’s shoulder and Ricky’s smile moved off his face and worry lines on the guy’s forehead deepened. “Why you so jumpy?”

“I’m not.” Kona rubbed his neck, pulling out the tension that bunched between his muscles. “Just ready for this shit to be over.”

A homeless guy pushing a covered shopping cart weaved the buggy down the street, head down as he sang something Kona thought might have been “Amazing Grace.” He and Ricky both watched the man in his dingy gray slacks and broken soled shoes as his voice carried around the quiet street. Three blocks away from them, the Quarter was still reeling from New Year’s, still lively and active with the thrill that 1998 promised. Fleeting, Kona thought about Keira, about how he could get her out of her mother’s house, away from Mandeville and the threat that always lingered in that place. He could get a job, maybe work nights so they could land an apartment. It would be tough. They’d struggle, but at least Keira would be out of that bitch’s house.

He shifted his eyes at Ricky, shaking his head at him when Marco tossed a duffle bag to Keith who almost dropped it. Kona pushed back the thought of working with Ricky again. He wouldn’t have Keira around that shit. It was too dangerous.

“I love this fucking city,” Ricky said, spreading his arms wide. “Service-based economy just ripe with crack heads and greedy bar owners. It’s a damn goldmine if you’ve got the right product.” Ricky’s smile dropped from his face when Kona only stared back at him. He took to sizing Kona up again, watching the dispassionate way the linebacker blinked at him. “You’re a dumbass, Kona.”

He’d heard it before. As a kid, when he struggled to read aloud in class, but Kona wasn’t a kid anymore. He didn’t want anyone calling him dumb, especially not some stupid thug who hadn’t managed to make it out of eighth grade. Ricky didn’t flinch when Kona turned toward him, didn’t do much else but move his hand to the gun in his waistband.

“You wanna say that again?”

Ricky shrugged, waving off Kona’s anger and he pushed his hand into his front pocket. “You sitting on a goldmine. You can make a lot of bank on that campus. All those rich bitches do what you tell them, follow your lead.” It was the same line of bullshit Ricky always preached to Kona. He didn’t need to hear it. He turned back around, facing the Mustang again, but Ricky kept his gaze on Kona, his bid of convincing not quite done. “That’s why I picked you, man. Dudes wanna be you, chicks wanna do you because you got that thing. You’re a shepherd, not a sheep. I need shepherds, Kona, especially ones that scare the shit out of folk who think they can take what’s mine.” Kona glared at Ricky when the dealer touched his shoulder, but the asshole didn’t jerk away from him; he only shrugged as though Kona’s reaction was expected. “You don’t have to do it for long, man. You got, what, two more years? That’s plenty of time to set up some nice change for you and your girl.” When Kona’s eyes snapped back at him, Ricky laughed. “Fuck man, you need to ease up. I’m just sayin.” He whistled, a long, squeak of a sound that rang in Kona’s ears. “I ain’t never seen a dude so sprung over his chick.”

“I’m not interested in this shit anymore, Ricky. I told you that. So why don’t you leave me out of your big picture, you feel me?” Kona was done with Ricky’s bullshit. He was done with the mumbles Keith and Eddie made to one another. He’d count the shipment and leave all this mess behind, but before he moved away from Ricky, he pointed a massive finger in the guy’s chest. “Don’t you worry about how sprung I am over my girl. Don’t even put her in your head.”

Kona recognized the flash of disappointment, the flare of anger in Ricky’s eyes. He’d given that same look to Micah Burns when the idiot lifted two vials from him last spring. Stupid jackass spent four weeks in the hospital. But Ricky didn’t lash out, barely reacted with more than a frown at Kona’s outburst. “Fine. Just trying to hook you up. You know, thug life… thug wife. Quit mean mugging me and go count the damn shipment.”

And Kona did, sifted through each black bag with Keith and Eddie on one side of the car and Marco and Ricky on the other. He counted each pack, four vials in each satchel, twenty satchels in each bag. Until he came to the last duffle bag. It was five light. He closed his eyes, knowing this would cause a shit; knowing that Ricky would make sure he was in the thick of it.

“It’s under,” he told Ricky, still kneeling on the ground. When the guy walked next to him, Kona narrowed his eyes, squinting up at Eddie and Keith and caught the way Eddie slipped his hand under his coat. Ricky’s anger was quick and he pulled out his gun, sticking his hand in the duffle back right at Kona’s side. “Watch Keith and Eddie. They’ve been sketchy as fuck all night,” Kona told him and Ricky nodded, sucking on his teeth. Then, before Kona could blink, Ricky darted up, pointed his gun right at Keith.