“New gun?” said Durham, nodding at the grip of the automatic, tight against the folds of McKinley’s belly.
“Sig forty-five,” said McKinley.
Durham felt heat come to his face. “My brother, Mario, was shot dead tonight.”
McKinley nodded solemnly, thinking that it had happened about thirty years too late. Someone should have shot the motherfucker when he’d popped out his mama’s pussy, much good as he’d been to anybody his whole sorry-ass life.
“Too bad he died,” said McKinley.
“You wouldn’t know nothin’ about it, then.”
“I guess the po-lice caught up with him. Heard he had some trouble with a girl.”
“Nah,” said Durham, his lip trembling. “Wasn’t the police.”
“Who it was, then?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Prob’ly just some fat motherfucker with a forty-five.”
The four of them stood there, staring at one another, saying nothing, watching the light shift in the room.
“Well, Zulu,” said Durham, “I guess we done talked too much.”
Foreman reached and cross-drew his guns just as Durham and Walker went for theirs. They never touched their guns. They dropped their hands to their sides, knowing they had been bested, looking at their own deaths down the barrels of the .357 and the .9. McKinley pulled his Sig and held it on the men.
“You did talk too much,” said Foreman, snicking back the hammer of the revolver, disgust on his face. “Too got-damn much. For a minute there I thought you were gonna try and talk us to death. You had the draw on us, too. Motherfuckin’ kids out here playin’ gangster. Shit.”
McKinley laughed shortly. “Do it, big man.”
“Yeah,” said Foreman. “Okay.”
Foreman turned the LadySmith on McKinley and squeezed off two quick rounds. McKinley’s blood blew back at him and Foreman kept firing, moving the gun from McKinley’s belly to his chest, plaster exploding off the wall as the bullets exited his back. McKinley grunted, reached out for something, and lost his feet. As he fell, Foreman shot him in the groin and chest. Then the hammer fell on an empty chamber with an audible click.
Foreman still had the Colt trained on Durham and Walker. He holstered the revolver expertly, without looking for the leather, and faced them. Smoke was heavy in the candlelight. Foreman’s ears rung from the boom of the Magnum. He did not squint, looking at them, and he kept his voice even and direct.
“Hope you learned a lesson here tonight,” said Foreman. “I was a cop. Still am in my mind. You punk-ass motherfuckers out here, think you can threaten a police officer. You are wrong. Tellin’ me what’s good for my business. I don’t give a good fuck about him, or you, ’cause there’s always gonna be someone to come along and take y’all’s place. You who think you’re so special. Y’all ain’t shit. Think about that the next time you get the idea you’re gonna rise up.”
Durham said nothing. He had raised his hands in defense and they were shaking. He wanted to lower them, but he couldn’t move them in any direction at all.
“I hear sirens,” said Walker.
“Police gonna have to respond to this one,” said Foreman. “That gun does make some noise. Anyway, it’s your problem, not mine. I know you won’t mention I was here.”
“We’ll take care of it,” said Walker.
Foreman stood over McKinley and fired two shots from the Colt into his corpse. The force of the rounds lifted him up from the hardwood floor. Then the body settled in the mix of plaster and blood.
“That’s for talkin’ shit about my woman,” said Foreman, holstering the Colt.
He walked off, disappearing into the darkness of the hall. Durham lowered his hands, hearing the back door open and shut.
“D,” said Walker, “I’m gonna need some help to drag Hoss out there to the alley.”
But Durham did not answer. He was staring at his shaking hands.
chapter 35
STRANGE parked the Caprice on Quintana, killed the engine, and looked at the house he shared with his wife and stepson. Janine and Lionel were standing on the front lawn with Devra Stokes, in the light of a spot lamp Strange had hung above the door himself. Strange smiled, seeing the puff Lionel put in his chest as he talked to the girl. Juwan was playing with Greco, throwing him that red spiked rubber ball the tan boxer loved, then chasing him around the yard. Greco allowed the boy to catch up, letting him put his hand in his mouth, trying but failing to get the ball free.
Strange got out of the car. Greco’s nub of a tail twitched furiously as he heard the familiar slam of the Caprice’s door, but he stayed with the boy. Strange crossed the sidewalk and met the group in the light of the yard.