“What about the mess you made?”
Bobby said, “Harry can clean it up,” still subdued, like he was tired or didn’t care.
But when Louis said, “Harry, the witness, heard the whole thing. You gonna shoot him too?”
Bobby got his attitude back, put on that macho shit saying, “If I have to.”
It hooked Louis. He said, “You mean if you want to.” He watched Bobby shrug like, yeah, that was cool, and Louis said, “What you gonna do with the man’s body?”
“Dump him in the swamp. You want to help me?”
Louis walked over to the dresser; he picked up the piece Bobby had told him was a Sig Sauer and hefted it.
Bobby said, “Light, uh, for a .45? Eight shots.”
“You think that’s enough?”
“I can have one, nine millimeter, holds twenty in the magazine, if I want it. Five hundred.”
“Go to war with a piece like that,” Louis said. “How ‘bout I help you to the car with Mr. King? You take him to the swamp, wherever you take people, and I’ll get Harry to clean up the room.”
Bobby gave him his shrug.
“Want the room nice,” Louis said, “for the next guest. That is, if you like him.”
Bobby gave his dead-eyed look now, no expression.
The man’s problem, he had no sense of humor.
Louis said to Harry, sitting on the cot with him, “You didn’t see nothing, you didn’t hear nothing.”
“It was loud,” Harry said. “Jesus.”
“I bet it was.”
“I had the bathing cap on.”
The man seemed numb.
“I know you did. Like doing time, man, you don’t know nothing going on around you, even right in the cell you’re in. So don’t think about it no more. You never saw the man… You listening to me?”
He watched Harry’s bathing cap with the yellow flower nod up and down, the man sitting straight, like afraid to move.
Louis sat thinking for a minute, looking at Mr. King’s stain smeared on the opposite wall, then looked away as he realized he was staring at it. He said, “Harry, go on in the bathroom and stand at the mirror-you be away from the camera-and pull your blindfold off.” He had to say, “Go on,” before Harry picked up his chains and shuffled in there. Louis followed him.
Louis stood behind Harry, taller, looking over the man’s shoulder to see his face appear, red marks on it from the bathing cap, eyes bloodshot, with the pitiful expression of a man who didn’t know shit what was happening to him.
Louis said, “Harry, what you see behind you, man, is your salvation. Me. I’m the only way you gonna get out of here alive. I want you to see what I look like ‘cause we partners now. Understand?”
He watched Harry’s head nod up and down without much change in his eyes.
“You gonna do whatever I tell you, huh?”
Harry nodded.
“We get out of here, you gonna take a trip to Freeport with me.” Harry waited and Louis said, “Aren’t you?”
Harry nodded.
“And since we partners, we get there you gonna move half your money from your bank account to my bank account.” Louis paused. “Go on, nod your head.”
Harry nodded.
Chip was back on his weed, moving like a man underwater to sit down on the sofa, stoned as far as you could go without losing it. He looked up at Louis fooling with the remote and said, “He killed him. Just like that.” As if Louis hadn’t been here to see it.
“That’s Bobby’s way,” Louis said, “you fuck with him.”
“He’s going to see Dawn tomorrow.”
“That’s a bad idea,” Louis said.
“I told him he didn’t have to, I’d call her. He said he wanted to talk to her anyway, get his fortune told.”
“It’s still a bad idea,” Louis said.
Friday morning Raylan called Reverend Dawn from Miami, gave his name, told her he was there last Sunday for a reading, had stopped by yesterday and was anxious to talk to her again.
She said, “I know.”
Her voice calm, telling him-the way Raylan heard it-she knew who he was and what he wanted to talk to her about. She didn’t try to avoid him. When he asked if he could come by this morning, she said as long as he came an hour or so before noon; she’d be leaving then to go to the restaurant. So Raylan got in the Jaguar and headed up 95 in the traffic, the lanes both ways, north and south, strung with cars and pickups, vans, semis, motor homes… Otherwise it was a nice sunny day and Raylan felt ready for it. He had on his dark blue suit, the air-conditioning turned up high.
Yesterday afternoon he had stopped by the Sheriffs Office to run Louis Lewis on FCIC, the state computer, and found he had spelled the name right. Lewis comma Louis. Also known as Ibrahim Abu Aziz. Date of birth-Louis three years younger than Raylan. A notation said: Born in Freeport, Grand Bahama. Black male, black hair, brown eyes. Six feet tall, 165 pounds-if they ever had a fistfight they’d be evenly matched. Scar, right arm, not specific. No FBI number. Early charges of importation of marijuana nolle prossed, temporarily dismissed for some reason and never brought up. Grand theft, auto, nolle prossed. Here we go:
A 790.01, carrying a concealed weapon. A 790.16, discharging a machine gun in public, and a 790.19, shooting into or throwing deadly missiles into a dwelling. Which sounded like a drive-by. Convicted on all counts. His sentence wasn’t on the sheet-or all the hustles he got away with that Raylan read between the lines-but Louis must have done a few years’ state time.
So Raylan’s three suspects were all felons: Warren Ganz, one-time homicide suspect convicted of bank fraud and placed on probation; Bobby Deo, suspected killer for hire, convicted of manslaughter; and Louis Lewis, minor felon until brought up on gun charges and convicted. The question that remained in Raylan’s mind: which one was in charge? It would appear to be Ganz. But could he handle two ex-cons? Raylan didn’t know enough about Louis Lewis to make a valid judgment, so he saw Bobby Deo as the one to look out for.
Later on he picked up Joyce and they went to Joe’s Stone Crab for dinner. At the table he told her everything he knew to date and his theory that Harry could be in Ganz’s house-even though, he admitted, it didn’t make much sense.
It did to Joyce. She jumped at the idea, wanting to believe Harry was alive and not buried in a swamp. Raylan had to tell her why he couldn’t go in to investigate without permission or a search warrant, and this was the part that didn’t make sense to her. If he had no trouble shooting a man seated at a table with him in a restaurant, why couldn’t he walk into someone’s house?
He said to her, “Why don’t you take my word for it?” tired of trying to explain distinctions, the gray areas in what he did for a living.
They picked at their crab claws pretty much in silence after that. He asked why she didn’t try the mustard sauce. Joyce said she preferred drawn butter. Would she like another beer? No, she was fine. How about a piece of key lime pie?
He said to her, “We’re sure polite, aren’t we?”
Joyce didn’t bother to answer.
This morning Raylan stopped by the Sheriffs Office to listen to the tape Falco had mentioned, off the wire Dawn was wearing when she met Warren Ganz.
Falco set it up in one of the squad room offices, saying the conversation had taken place right out there-Falco pointing through the glass wall of the office to a row of chairs-Ganz thinking he’d been brought in again for questioning. “You understand this was Dawn’s idea,” a way she could touch Ganz, their prime suspect in the murder of the woman in Boca, and find out if he did it or not.
Falco started the tape and sat down with Raylan. This was what they heard:
Ganz: You waiting to see the lieutenant?