Untitled (18 page)

  Moses looked shocked. "So, you're all business, huh? I can dig it." He smiled, his eyes now held the look of an amused old friend.

  "I'm a little busy these days, in case you ever read a newspaper."

  "I know." Moses snorted a little. "Bad-ass fed, looking to avenge the murder of that Uncle Tom. I wish I could have shot him myself."

  "How can you have a political opinion about him?" asked Marshall. "You're a criminal. Liberal or conservative, he would have spit on you."

  "The same go for you? You hate me because I chose a different lifestyle?"

  "Crime isn't a lifestyle. It's a pathology, a sickness. But you never could see that. You aren't normal in the head."

  "Normal like your boy over there?" Moses pointed to Danny. "Now, he's sick. I hear about him all the time, beating up brothers, bustin' heads."

  "Danny's not on trial here. You're wearing the jumpsuit and chains, in case you haven't noticed." Moses looked pissed off at this statement, and Marshall felt good about that.

  "I can't believe you still runnin' with that wigger. I can't believe you'd pick some white man over your own damned brother, your
twin
brother."

  "He's more of a brother than you ever were. In both senses of the word." He had played into his brother's hand. Moses wanted to get him angry, and yet he seemed to still be hurt that he'd picked Danny over him. It was sometimes hard to tell when Moses was conning and when he was truly being human. "Now, tell me what you know about my case, or I'm going."

  "Okay," Moses said. He leaned back farther in the cheap iron chair. "A few days before that Uncle Tom Douglas caught them bullets, one of my men, a brother named Carlos, got a job from some dude. The client wanted us to cop a ride for him, then dispose of it. Simple enough. My man Carlos did the job, only after it was over, this client burned him. Shot him hit man style. One behind the ear, one in the heart. Only the hitter didn't know we checked up on him while he was in town."

  "So what?" asked Marshall. The story was intriguing, but so far, it had no connection to the case.

  "So, I know his name," said Moses. "He was staying in a little motel on the east side. We went looking for his ass, but he was gone, left in the middle of the night. Then the motel manager told us an interesting story." Moses leaned back in his chair, enjoying the captive audience he had. "Some guy is in his room with a woman fucking her and something falls on his head. The man finds what hit him and it's a b
ullet
, a long, black bullet."

  "Keep going," said Marshall.

  "Well, it fell through a hole in the floor of that cheap-ass motel and hit that man in the head. I paid the manager five bucks for it."

  "Do you still have it?"

  "Naw, that thing was so strange-looking that we just had to see what it was all about, so we fired it from a rifle, and I'll be damned if that muthafucka didn't e
xplode
when it hit the wall. No slug, just fragments."

  "So what's his name, this client?" Marshall put everything he had into hiding his excitement, but he knew he had probably failed.

  "Not gonna be that easy," said Moses. "I want out of this fuckin' place. I want to go to a federal jail, and I want help getting rid of this bullshit I'm in."

  "That's a lot to ask for just a name," said Marshall. He tried to hide his excitement. If he let Moses know he needed him, the ante would keep going up. "At least give me a description."

  "No. I got the name, but it's gonna cost you."

  Marshall thought a moment. Moses' deal was the least of his worries. If this client was an arms dealer then he supplied the killer with the special ammunition, or maybe he was the triggerman himself. "I'll think about it," said Marshall.

  "
Think
? What the fuck does that mean?"

  "I'm going to sit down somewhere and decide if this, if you, are worth my time." He wanted to stay cool, make his brother sweat a little. He would wait and see what this information was worth.

  "You wait too long, and the deal's off," said Moses.

  "That's your choice. This might take some time."

  "Shit, I got time," said Moses. "My social calendar is completely clear right now."

  Marshall got up. Moses stood and extended his hand. Marshall turned from him.

"No handshake, no deal," said Moses.

  Marshall turned back to his brother. Moses smiled like the devil. This cheerful demeanor made Marshall sick, but he didn't let it show. He always was a smart bastard. And he wasted it on worthlessness. Marshall took his hand and was surprised when Moses grabbed him and hugged him. Marshall could hear Danny jump up behind them.

  "You still my brother," Moses said as he kept up the bear hug.

  "It's cool," Marshall said to Danny, who was several steps to the men by now. Marshall pushed his brother away. "You fuck me, and I swear, I'll make sure you never get out of prison."

  Marshall walked away. He decided to keep this to himself for now. No need getting Toby, Williams, and the damned president all excited right now. From behind him he heard:

  "Tell Mama I said hi."

  Marshall and Danny left the prison and headed outside. Danny was unusually quiet as they walked along. Danny was the kind of man who never had a thought that was unstated, especially when it might be controversial. He was brewing inside about what he'd just seen.

  "You're not going to say anything about my brother?" asked Marshall as they stepped outside.

  "I don't trust him," Danny said with a quiet seriousness that Marshall had rarely heard in his voice.

  "You okay, man?" asked Marshall.

  "Yeah . . . it's just that seeing him again reminded me of being little, and then I thought about all the shit I used to take from him and all the other kids our age, you know."

  "I do know. I had a lot of bad thoughts bouncing around in my head when I saw him too. Seems like we all grew up too fast, like we were all in a goddamned hurry to get to the future so we could get here and regret our past."

  "So, whatcha gonna do?" asked Danny. "I mean, if he's telling the truth . . ."

  "It could help me, but I'm not going to let him hustle me the way he does everyone else. And no matter what I do, I am not going to let my brother out of prison."

* * *

Marshall went back to his office, carrying the burden of the case and seeing Moses again. Toby had flown out of town, taking the pressure and power of Washington, D.C., with her. He conferred briefly with Bob Ryder then decided to work on the arraignment a little more.

  Mbutu had not named an attorney yet, and Marshall could not believe that he'd try to represent himself in a case like this.

  The arraignment would be a simple matter. No magistrate would let Mbutu out on bail.

  So, why was he worried? he asked himself. Marshall had a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't shake. Perhaps it was nerves, or the terrible thoughts his brother brought him.

  Marshall pushed himself away from his desk and popped a CD into his player. He made sure to keep the sound low. Soon, the smooth tenor of Maxwell wafted over the room. He was feeling better already.

  He worked for a while, putting together a preliminary outline of his case. It was good to see it in black and white. The nature of the process was comforting to him. But it wouldn't be right until Mbutu named a counsel. A legal adversary would complete the picture of what was to come.

  Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

  "Come in," Marshall said loudly.

  Jessica Cole walked in, looking surprised. She was smiling and her dark eyes seemed to shine as she came closer. Marshall suddenly felt uncomfortable noticing how pretty she was. He remembered that she had some kind of crush on him.

  "I thought I was the only one here," she said.

  "As late as it is, you should be. I need to get going soon myself."

  "I'm sorry about that weird call. I'm helping the FBI on your case, trying to get more experience, you know."

  Before Marshall could say anything else, Jessica was sitting down across from him. She was wearing a midlength skirt, and it rose up to her thighs as she sat. Her legs were pretty and completely unblemished. Marshall visibly blushed. He and Chemin were on some very rocky road, but he was still married, and in legal terms this was at least the appearance of impropriety.

  "I'm sorry for staring at you all the time," she said.

  "Really?" Marshall was amused. "I hadn't noticed."

  "You're sweet to lie. I can see the look in your eyes when I do it. I guess I'm not really good at hiding how I feel about you."

  "And how is that?" Marshall asked against his better judgment. Part of him wanted to get out of the coming conversation, but most of him was flattered and wanted to hear more. It had been a while since a woman had shown any interest in him.

  "Well, you know, I like you, I mean it's more than that, not love or anything but . . ." Jessica stopped suddenly. She looked terrified and blushed so hard that she partially covered her face. "I should go." She sprang up.

  "Don't feel bad," Marshall said. "I know how it is. Look, you know I'm married and—"

  "I don't care."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I said, I don't care, Marshall."

  Marshall was shocked at hearing those words. Most women he knew cared a great deal. They were not given to screwing around with what was not theirs. But Jessica was apparently different. He didn't think she was immoral, but his commitment and all of its religious and societal implications apparently did not impress her.
"I don't care."
It sounded like a mandate, a rule of law, the way she said it.

  "Jess, you don't know what you're saying, do you?" said Marshall. He didn't know if she did, and more troubling was why he wanted an answer to that question. But it was too late, he'd said it.

  "Yes, I do. I've been thinking about this a lot." Jessica sat back down. "I've had these feelings, and I can't stop them. And I notice how sad you are these days."

  "I'm not sad. Just busy," Marshall lied.

  "You stay at work later and later, and come in earlier and

earlier. So, you can't be happy at home, you know. And you used to send flowers to her all the time, and now you don't. And that picture." She pointed to a picture of Chemin on a credenza behind him. "It used to be right on your desk next to the phone. Now it's behind you, where you don't have to look at it all the time."

  "I should hire you as my investigator," said Marshall, feeling a little embarrassed. "All true. I'm having some problems, but it's all in the normal course of marriage. I love Chemin, and we'll get past this."

  Marshall noticed how she looked at him now. It was a beautifully hungry and lustful look, the kind that men dream about seeing.

  "It's really nice of you to like me," he said. "But nothing's gonna happen between us."

  Jessica stood up, and Marshall thought she would say something sad, then leave, but instead she walked over to him. He caught the scent of her perfume. She moved her body close to him and stared at him unwaveringly.

  "I'm taking this course in college. It's about how to be aggressive in business. My professor says that to get what you want, you have to do the things that most people won't do. You have to jump over the bullshit manners of life."

  She took his hand and placed it on her breast. Marshall was breathing hard and did not fight it.

  What the hell am I doing? he heard himself say inside his head even as he caressed the young girl. He'd always thought of Jessica as a little secretary who was probably lucky to have the job she had, but apparently she possessed a fierce intellect and a strong will. It was surprising, and exciting.

  "I'll be here for you if you need me," said Jessica. "I want you to know that."

  Marshall pulled his hand away gently. "I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. I made you do it."

  "You should go now," Marshall said, and he knew it didn't sound convincing. He breathed easier when she stepped away. Then she stopped and turned back to him.

  "She must be crazy," she said. And then, she walked out. Marshall looked after her. He became aware that his heart was beating faster. What had just happened was wrong in a thousand different ways. No matter how bad his relationship with Chemin was, he could not do the thing he now had in his mind.

  He sighed heavily. Then he moved to his credenza, took the picture of Chemin, and put it back on his desk.

Marshall entered his house that night to find Chemin curled up on the sofa, watching TV. She looked beautiful as the light from the TV flickered on her face. Her Hallogent handcart sat next to the sofa and a table littered with papers. She'd been working, compiling the never-ending data for her company.

  He moved closer, not wanting to start a conversation but needing to say something to her to purge the feeling he had in his heart. She was his wife, he thought, and another woman had made advances toward him. In better times, he would have told her, and they would have had a good laugh. But now it would start an in-house riot, and he didn't need that. The arraignment was coming, and he needed his head clear. Still, he wanted to engage her, to remind himself that his commitment, though fractured, was still viable.

  
"I don't care,"
he heard Jessica say in his head as he moved closer to his wife. She glanced at him and said nothing. She looked back to the TV. He sat next to her, unsure of what to say.

  "What are you watching?" he asked. It was a stupid question, and as such gave away his awkwardness and apprehension. With all the trouble in his life and marriage, that was the best he could do. He wished in an instant that he could take it back and say something profound, loving, and healing.