14.

They were in Harlem at the Plantation. When Herb Jeffries finished singing “Flamingo,” Lauren leaned across the table and said they were leaving.

“There’s always just a mob coming out at the end of the show,” she said as they walked out onto Lenox Avenue. The white bouncer held the door and looked at Lauren’s backside as she went by. Burke smiled without showing it.

There are things you can count on, he thought.

They turned uptown and walked to 147th Street where Burke had parked on a hydrant. When he got a ticket, he gave it to Julius and it went away. As they turned onto 147th Street, halfway up the block they could see the black Cadillac, double-parked next to Burke’s car. It would have to move before they could get out. Louis Boucicault was leaning on the right front fender of Burke’s car, smoking a cigarillo. He had on a black cashmere topcoat with raglan sleeves and a military collar. The coat was unbuttoned. The collar was turned up, and a white silk scarf was draped around it. The same two thugs that they’d seen in the Village were standing near the back of Burke’s car. One of them still wore his scally cap. The other man was bareheaded with a crew cut. Both of them wore their overcoats buttoned. Burke heard something that sounded like a tiny squeal from Lauren.

“Stop here for a minute,” Burke said to her.

She stopped and he stepped behind her and, momentarily shielded by her, he took out the big GI .45 and held it in his right hand. Then he stepped out from behind her, putting his right hand against the small of her back.

“Okay,” Burke said. “Walk.”

He could hear her breathing. The dark old brownstones were blank and unseeing while the alien white people passed. Lauren was making small sounds. At a higher volume she had sounded the same way in the rain. They stopped ten feet from their car, Burke’s right arm still around her waist.

“The tough guy and the lady,” Louis said.

With his thumb and the first two fingers, he took the cigarillo out of his mouth and held it in his right hand. There was a full moon, and with the streetlights, it brightened the scene so clearly that Burke could see that Louis’s pupils were very small.

“What do you want, Louis?” Lauren said.

She didn’t sound frightened but her syllable stress was all wrong, like a bad calypso singer.

“She fucked you yet, Burke?”

Burke neither spoke nor moved.

“Better than you,” Lauren said.

The guy with the crew cut glanced at his partner. They both grinned. Louis looked back and saw them.

“You lying bitch,” Louis said. “You begged me for more.”

His voice seemed to be pitched higher than Burke remembered. Lauren walked suddenly toward Louis. Burke let the gun hand drop behind the skirts of his topcoat. Lauren slapped Louis across the face with her right hand and then with her left, back and forth. He stepped back against the car and caught his balance. His face was fish-belly white except for the red marks on each cheek where she’d hit him. He made a sort of whining sound, like a dog in pain, then he jammed the lit end of the cigarillo into Lauren’s face. She screamed and jumped away, her hands pressed to her face, and doubled over.

“Uh,” she said, “uh.”

Burke took the .45 from behind his right leg and carefully shot both the bodyguards. The guy with the crew cut first. The shots were like rolling thunder in the dead empty street. Then Burke aimed the gun carefully at Louis Boucicault’s left eye and stepped close to him until the gun barrel pressed against the eyeball.

“Put snow on the burn,” Burke said to Lauren.

He patted Louis down, found a pearl-handled .22 derringer in the left pocket of his topcoat, and threw it into the street. Lauren scooped a handful of snow from the plow spill in the gutter. Burke looked thoughtfully at Louis for a moment, the gun still pressing against Louis’s left eyeball. No one moved on 147th Street.

“Don’t,” Louis said. “Please. Don’t.”

“Shall I kill him?” Burke said to Lauren.

She was crouching beside the car now, holding the dirty snow against her cheek.

“Make him beg,” she said.

“And then kill him?” Burke said.

Lauren didn’t answer.

“Please,” Louis said again. “Don’t. Please.”

It was almost as if he were chanting.

“Kill him? Yes or no,” Burke said.

Lauren still didn’t speak. Burke suddenly took the gun away from Louis and put it in the pocket of his coat.

“Oh God,” Louis said. “Oh God, thank you. Thank you.”

Burke hit him with a left hook and knocked him back against the car. Then he hit him with a right hook. And left, and right. The punches were heavy and professional and they came fast. Louis covered his head with his arms and started to cry. Lauren crouched by the car making her little squealy noises again.

Then it was over. Louis had slid down the side of the car to the sidewalk and his head flopped limply against Burke’s car. Burke looked at him for a moment and then walked around and looked in the window of the Cadillac on the driver’s side. The keys were in the ignition. Burke got in and started the Caddy up and pulled it forward a couple of car lengths. Then he got out, and reached down and took Lauren’s arm, got her on her feet, pushed Louis out of the way, and put Lauren in his car and drove her away.

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