Shakedown

Chapter Two

Latrell Kelly blinked, ducking his head from the sun, his eyes stinging. He’d slept in the cave again and the daylight was painful. The night before, he’d watched from the shadows on his back stoop while the Winston brothers took turns with some girl in his backyard, the bitch hollering, Rondell smacking her till she shut up. Latrell was mad, seeing his mother taking that beating instead of the girl.

He’d lived in his house more than half of his thirty-two years. The closest thing to a father he ever knew was Johnny McDonald, the man who used to own the house. Johnny sold dope and pimped his mother out, sometimes slapping her, sometimes him, sometimes both of them, until Latrell buried Johnny and his mother in the basement.

He was fifteen then, doing odd jobs at the rail yard in Argentine when he wasn’t in school, eventually hiring on full-time after he graduated. Now he worked as a file clerk in the terminal building. He had paid off the taxes Johnny owed on the house with money Johnny had stuffed under the mattress where his mother had earned her share, and then kept the rest for groceries. When he wasn’t working, he kept up his house and yard and tried not to think about his mother.

Then Marcellus come along, him and his girlfriend, Jalise, and their little boy, moving in right behind him, the three of them making it so Latrell couldn’t stop thinking about Johnny McDonald and his mother and him when he was the same age as the boy, until he had a hard time telling the dead from the living. The whole neighborhood knew Marcellus was dealing dope but nobody did nothing about it. The more Latrell couldn’t put them out of his mind, the closer he got to making things right. The Winston brothers waling on that girl in his backyard was it. He couldn’t take any more.

Growing up, he was a small, soft boy, easy prey for bullies, gangs, and any kid looking for someone to pick on who wouldn’t fight back. The cave, a remnant of a mining operation, had saved him. He’d stumbled onto the entrance one day after work while walking in the woods not far from the rail yard. It was nothing more than a seam in a rock wall till he pulled down some bigger rocks, learning how to put them back so no one who didn’t know about it could tell it was anything.

After that, Latrell spent his spare time exploring the inside with a?ashlight, storing batteries and candles on a rock shelf, comfortable in the shadows. Most of the cave was underwater, his hideaway confined to a series of chambers ending on a rocky beach. He never did know how far the water went or how deep it was, only that it was so black there was no bottom and no end.

Johnny McDonald had had a pair of.45 caliber Marine pistols and some night-vision goggles he stole off a guy at a gun show, that and the cash under the mattress Latrell’s inheritance. When he was old enough, Latrell went to a range and learned how to shoot the.45s. Then he’d practice in the cave wearing the night-vision goggles, dry firing ‘cause he was afraid of ricochets, ready in case he had to make things right again one day, same as he had with Johnny and his mother.

A few years ago, some kids out canoeing had found their way into the cave from a small lake and gotten lost, making a big deal about spending the night in the cave like they was gonna die. He read about it in the paper, the article calling the cave the Argentine Mine and saying it covered thirty-four acres underground. The county promised to seal it up before anyone else got lost and they did just that except they never did find Latrell’s way in.

He spent several nights in the cave imagining how, late at night, he would walk through the front door of Marcellus’s house and kill everyone inside. He could do it. Soft, shy, quiet Latrell, stronger than any of them, could kill them all. He’d practiced and practiced. It wouldn’t be hard. It would be a good thing. He replayed the scene over and over in his mind, opening his eyes to find that nothing had changed until simply imagining wasn’t enough.

On the day he first decided to do it, he changed his mind when he saw the camera installed on the utility pole down the street from Marcellus’s house. He had seen men climb those poles before at the rail yard. He knew the kind of tools they carried, the kind of work they did, and how they did it. The man on the pole never touched his tools, the tool belt slapping against his right thigh like it didn’t belong. The man was some kind of cop, maybe even FBI, he decided, not caring so long as they got rid of Marcellus. So he waited.

Latrell thought it was all going to be over a week later when the police raided Marcellus’s house, until he realized that no one had been arrested. He didn’t understand-first the camera, then the raid, then nothing. Still, he had waited two more weeks until last night, listening and watching Ron-dell and DeMarcus mess with that girl who could have been his momma.

The FBI had failed him. The police had failed him. What was he supposed to do? They left him no choice. If he didn’t make it right, he’d keep seeing his mother in every woman’s face. He’d have no peace. His eyes adjusted to the sun and he headed for home where he’d wait for dark, when it would finally be time.

Latrell drove past Marcellus’s house. Oleta Phillips, her fat brother Rodney, and some more of her people were out in front, Oleta looking half dead, Rodney grinning. He’d heard that Oleta’s boy got hisself shot on a corner belong to Marcellus. She must’ve come to collect.

Oleta reminded Latrell of his momma more than Jalise did; Oleta was so thin that the light passed right through her. His momma had lived on dope her whole miserable life, paying for it with her legs spread, coming on to him right after he killed Johnny, saying he had to take care of her now that Johnny was dead. He told her no, shoving her away. She came back at him, throwing her arms around him, rubbing against him, begging.

He snapped her neck like it was nothing. She was already dead to him. He just made it real. Latrell dug Johnny’s hole in the basement?oor a little deeper and laid her on top of him, the washer and dryer covering the grave.

He slowed down, looking at Oleta again. He was right. She did have his momma’s face.

It started to rain late in the day, the storm growing into a steady pounding after midnight. A good sign, Latrell thought. It would be like taking a walk in the cave.

He’d been in Marcellus’s house once or twice years ago. It had a shotgun layout: front door, front room, kitchen, and out the back; two bedrooms and a bath were down the hall on the second?oor, stairs to the left as you come into the house.

Latrell had watched the lights turn on and off for weeks, figuring out which bedroom Marcellus used and where the Winston brothers?opped. He’d seen people coming and going enough to know that Marcellus did his business in the front room. That’s where he’d find Marcellus and the Winston brothers if he was lucky. If he wasn’t lucky, he’d find them anyway.

Afterward, he knew the police would question him just as they would everyone else in the neighborhood. He would answer their questions. Be polite, smile as he lied to them. He could do that, he knew, better than anyone.

Rummaging through his dark house, Latrell found a pair of galoshes, pulling them over his shoes, not wanting to leave muddy footprints on Marcellus’s?oor the cops could trace back to him. He’d thought of everything. He stuck the gun in the waistband of his pants, slipped on the goggles, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and stepped outside into the storm.