Austin Camacho - Damaged goods

Because of his own federal government experience, Hannibal felt only a low level chill at the power the man on the beach was showing him. It wasn’t just the death sharing the room with him, it was the casual way in which the local police had been diverted and delayed until he could finish his business there. He wasn’t going to waste time being chilled by the people who would perform such executions to get their way. Later he would take a moment to remind himself how good it felt to no longer be connected to them in any way. Right now he had to kneel at the end of the couch and reach under the corpse on its arm. He locked his throat to keep his empty stomach from purging itself while he teased the cloth open to retrieve his prize. The disc, he realized, contained a great deal of power. No one should discover it by accident.

Hannibal didn’t breathe again until he was past the door, past the porch, and leaning against the vehicle in the cement driveway. Squinting against the bright morning sun, he waved to Sarge and Marquita to join him there. Sarge walked in front of Marquita to within ten feet of Hannibal.

“Why’d you call us back here?” Sarge asked. “Markie, she don’t want to get no closer to this house. What’s here for us anyway?”

Hannibal waved the set of keys with one hand and patted the bright red paint of the Corvorado with the other. “Our getaway car.”

Hannibal walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door. He was about to comment to Sarge about the case on the passenger seat but he was too surprised to see Sarge waving Marquita back as he stepped closer to the car. Hannibal waited to hear what had to be said outside of Marquita’s hearing. Sarge moved close to his friend and looked down at his hands with an expression of disbelief.

“I really was going to kill him, Hannibal.”

“I know,” Hannibal said. “But it didn’t go that way.”

“No. You stopped me, and then he gets killed anyway.”

“Well, I guess it was going to happen, one way or another,” Hannibal said with a nod.

“So maybe he did have a destiny after all.” Sarge smiled, and Hannibal didn’t think he was smiling at a man’s death. No, he was sure that smile was for the odd sense of humor the universe sometimes has.

“Damn, I must be tired.”

The sun blazed so brightly that Hannibal could feel it, even through his Oakleys. He slipped the shifter up into third, eased down on this new gas pedal and slipped past a Lexus whose driver wasn’t paying attention to the flow on the beltway. It hardly seemed possible that only hours, not days, had passed since he watched Rod’s hair floating in the water at land’s edge. The pleasing thrum of his turbocharged five-cylinder engine gave him another opportunity to consider how quickly things can happen in this world when a person with real money calls for action. That lesson started almost as soon as he had driven away from Rod’s last home.

Knowing how conspicuous Rod’s car was, Hannibal drove directly to Huge’s studio. The crew had been up all night working on a new track, but they welcomed Hannibal and his friends. Huge was there in minutes, offering aid. Hannibal recalled that when Huge saw that fire engine red Corvorado he declared it the shiznit (whatever that was) and demanded to know whose it was. Hannibal was quite certain that the owner would not come looking for it, and was happy to trade it for a ride home. Huge assigned a member of his posse to that task right away.

Hannibal managed to make the two necessary telephone calls from the passenger seat of a black Cadillac Escalade before his eyes drooped. Sarge and Marquita collapsed together in the back seat and all three of them slept solidly for the three hours it took them to reach Hannibal’s building. Sarge and Marquita hurried up to his apartment, while Hannibal went to his own for a quick shower and a change into his regular black working suit. He chose one of his shirts with French cuffs, the silver cuff links and a textured silk tie. After checking himself in the mirror he scooped up the diamond ring that held his future and slipped it into his pocket. The case was over. This would be the day.

Hannibal had invited Huge’s man in, but he waited outside in the Escalade until Hannibal returned. The driver dropped Hannibal at the Volvo dealer on Wisconsin Avenue. When he had given Ben Blair his report of the previous twenty-four hours, Blair never commented on the deaths, the apparent conspiracy or Hannibal’s injuries. He simply stated that Hannibal needed a car. He insisted that Hannibal tell him what he wanted to replace his destroyed Volvo 850 GLT with. Hannibal’s answer had surprised him. Still he told Hannibal to go straight to the dealer in question and he would find what he wanted ready and waiting.

Despite his skepticism, Hannibal had walked into the dealership as directed. The general manager recognized him somehow, and showed him to his new Volvo S60, a sleek, black, sporty four-door sedan loaded with every available option, and a couple he didn’t think were normally available. Much less boxy than his previous car, the S60 reminded Hannibal of a stalking jungle cat with its nose down, ready to pounce.

After his recent experience, Hannibal was naturally concerned with safety features. This car’s seats would rock back in a crash to absorb whiplash and even had overhead airbags in case he decided to roll another car over. He was sold. Except that the car was already paid for, and registered in his name.

Hannibal christened his new ride with a drive-through lunch and a short but nimble hop down the beltway to Blair’s house. He wasn’t sure how many Bang and Olufsen speakers were thumping Aerosmith from the satellite radio, but he was childishly pleased to be able to turn it down without moving his hands from the steering wheel.

From the number of vehicles gathered outside of Blair’s townhouse, everyone he asked for had come to meet him. The face he most wanted to see smiled at him from the front steps. She had waited outside for him.

Cindy met him at the car door and he wrapped her in a crushing grip. After the hug he pulled away and held her at arms length, just to look at her. Her beauty still hit him like a tsunami and he wanted so badly to end the suspense between them but he knew that business must come first.

“Let me get this case out of the car, baby, then we’ll talk through it all together, close out this ragged case, and be able to get on with our lives.”

Inside, an air of tension charged the atmosphere. Ben Blair’s living room felt more like a conference room to Hannibal. This was partly because it was larger than any room in a townhouse had a right to be. Adding to the conference room feel, the group gathered there was arrayed around the room with him as its focus, as if they were awaiting a briefing. Everyone had taken a champagne glass from a tray near the door, drinks probably poured by Anita Cooper. Standing in front of the big screen television, he felt as if he should thank the Academy.

His eyes went across his audience, noticing how they had arranged themselves. Cindy sat on his right in one of the armchairs, her fingers tapping the handle of the briefcase Hannibal brought in with him. She beamed up at him, sending out waves of support for what she knew would be a difficult task. Sarge and Marquita shared the loveseat, with Sarge being the only other person present who knew what was coming. Benjamin Blair had the sofa to himself. He sat directly in front of Hannibal, smiling but seeming wary all the same. His elbows rested on his knees with his fingers loosely laced in front of him, but his right heel bounced on the carpet.

Anita occupied the chair on Hannibal’s left, with Henry standing beside her. Her right hand crossed her body to hold Henry’s hand on her left armrest. She appeared ready for whatever came, as long as it meant an end to this business once and for all. That much, Hannibal knew he could promise. After a small sip, he raised his glass toward his host.