Gone 'Til November

FIFTEEN

Morgan parked the Toyota on a fire road, out of sight of the highway, and walked a quarter mile to where the woods ended and the dead cornfield began.

It was dusk, the shadows thickening around him. Across the cornfield, he could see lights go on in the house. It had taken him twenty minutes to find it, out here in the middle of nowhere, and he’d driven by twice, feeling exposed, before doubling back and finding this spot.

He wore a black windbreaker he’d bought in Arcadia, had zipped it halfway to cover the Beretta in his belt. He’d run the air conditioner in the car, but here in the open he was sweating under the pullover, his hands clammy inside the cotton work gloves.

As it grew darker, the woods seemed to come to life around him. The chirping of crickets everywhere, louder noises he didn’t recognize. He found himself touching the Beretta through his jacket.

From the edge of the trees, the ground sloped down to the cornfield, giving him a clear view of the front and back of the house. A pickup truck and an old Camaro were parked in the carport.

The front door opened, and a woman came out. Late thirties, blond hair, one side braided, black T-shirt, jeans. She stood in the yard, turned back to speak to a man in the doorway. Jeans and white T-shirt, curly hair. Flynn.

The woman got behind the wheel of the Camaro, started the engine. The noise was loud, ragged, the telltale cough of a bad muffler. Flynn went back in, closing the door behind him.

When she pulled out of the carport, Morgan walked back through the woods to the car.

It was easy to pick her up again. Once back on the main road, it wasn’t long before he saw the distinctive shape of the Camaro’s taillights ahead. Little traffic, easy to keep her in sight without getting close. He thought he’d lost her on a rise once, then saw the Camaro parked outside a package goods store. He’d driven by, pulled onto the shoulder a half mile later, doused the lights. Five minutes later, the Camaro passed him. After a few moments, he pulled out after it.

They were heading west, farther away from town, nothing but woods out here. He followed at a distance, saw her slow, make a left, seem to disappear into the trees.

He drove by and saw the road there, the billboard for the housing development. There was a phone number on it, a drawing of a town house, an orange arrow that pointed down the road.

A half mile ahead, he pulled onto the shoulder and swung the Toyota back around. As he neared the side road, he killed the lights, made the turn.

The road was newly paved, the curbs marked with yellow chalk, spray-painted red arrows where the gas lines were. The trees gave way to condo units in varying degrees of construction, empty lots between them, all the buildings dark. He slowed, not wanting to come up on her if she’d pulled to the side of the road.

He passed a backhoe and bulldozer parked in a cleared lot. Ahead on his left, in one of the completed units, he could see light in a window, the Camaro parked at the curb outside.

He turned onto a side street, parked, untwisted the wires that dangled from the broken steering column, killed the engine. He used an elbow to break the plastic cover of the dome light, pulled the bulb out. Then he took the roll of reflector tape from the hardware store bag and got out.

He cut through yards, all the houses empty, no one else living here yet. As he neared the lighted unit, he could hear music inside. Empty lots on both sides, no streetlight out front.

Kneeling behind the Camaro, shielded from the house, he tore off a two-inch strip of tape. He picked a spot low on the bumper, brushed it clean, flattened the tape there, pressing until it held. At night, in the reflection of headlights, it would be easy to spot.

He put the roll of tape in his jacket pocket, slipped the Beretta out of his belt. He went up into an empty yard, coming up on the house from the right side. There was an attached garage there, a window. He looked in. In the lightspill from an open door he could see a blue Navigator with Palm Beach County plates. He tried the window. Unlocked.

He moved to the back of the house. The music was louder here, a thumping bass line. Reggae. There was a redwood deck, sliding glass doors with vertical blinds, lights on inside.

A side window cast a square of light on the dirt. He found a discarded cinder block, set it down, climbed up. No blinds or curtains. He was looking into a small dining room, a living room beyond. No furniture except for an old blue couch and a table lamp on the hardwood floor.

The woman sat on the couch, looking up at a light-skinned black man swaying in the center of the room, dancing by himself. He had thick dreadlocks tied back in a ponytail, wore a sleeveless T-shirt and loose fatigue pants that exposed two inches of flat stomach. He drew on a spliff, blew smoke out, still moving to the music. There was a boom box on the floor, plugged into a wall socket, a six-pack of Michelob beside it.

The woman spoke, and the man passed her the spliff. She drew deeply on it. He held out his hand and she took it, let him pull her off the couch. They began to dance, close, slow, their hips inches apart.

There was an ashtray on the arm of the couch, and he set the spliff in it and turned back to the woman. She was still dancing, eyes closed. He caught her braids, twisted them roughly so her neck bent. He kissed her then, openmouthed, and she ground against him.

When the kiss ended, she stepped back, pulled the T-shirt over her head. She was braless, and he leaned to suck her breasts while she worked at her belt. When it was loose, she pushed the jeans down, kicked them away. She knelt on the couch, facing away from him, her hands gripping the back of it. She looked over her shoulder, braids half-covering her face, spoke to him. He moved behind her, started to loosen his pants.

Morgan stepped down, picked up the cinder block, put it back where he’d found it. He could hear their noises inside, loud, even over the music. He walked back to the car.

He was still parked there, the cell on the seat beside him, when Mikey called back.

“C-Love gave me your message,” Mikey said. “What up?”

“These Haitians. How well you know them?”

“C-Love did the meeting. He handled the details. Why?”

“You trust them?”

“What you mean?”

“Would they rip you? Set up the deal, then take your boy down?”

A pause. Mikey thinking about it.

“No,” he said. “That don’t make sense. Those boys are businessmen. What I sent was a down payment, that’s all. There was more coming. A lot more. Why they want to mess that up?”

“I don’t know.”

“And why fuck with me anyway? They know that shit would come back on them.”

“Maybe they thought all the heat on you right now, you wouldn’t be able to do anything.”

Another pause.

“Nah. Like I said, don’t make sense. They got so much shit coming in down there, they don’t know what to do with it. Why cut off a market? And why leave the guns? No banger ever walked away from a machine gun.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Why you ask?”

“Just wondering,” Morgan said. “I’m down here, and that cop who shot Willis? His girlfriend’s got a taste for the dark. She’s holed up with him right now.”

“Haitian?”

“Could be.”

“Motherfucker.”

“Maybe it’s not connected,” Morgan said. “Maybe she just likes a little strange on the side.”

“Maybe you need to have a talk with that boy.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Let me send the twins, man. This shit is getting complicated.”

“No need for that. I’ll tell you if there is.”

“They ready when you need them.”

I’m sure they are, Morgan thought, and ready to get their hands on that money, too.

“No,” he said. “It’s under control.”

“Keep it that way, brother,” Mikey said and ended the call.