Джордж Пелеканос: The Sweet Forever

Tyrell turned and nodded at Ray.

Ray stood up, taking hold of the table for support, dizzy from the gin and the green. He lifted his .38 Bulldog off the table, opened the chamber, spun it, snapped it shut. He fitted the snub-nose in the front of his slacks, the grip and trigger showing just above the waistband, thinking how bad it looked like that. Always did have that fantasy, too, of drawin’ down on a cop. He hotboxed his cigarette and stabbed it savagely into the ashtray.

Monroe checked the magazine of the Glock, palm-slapped the seventeen-shot load back in the butt. He thumbed off the safety, worked the slide, racked a jacketed round into the chamber, and stepped away from the table.

Tyrell went to the fireplace, where the Mossberg twelve-gauge leaned barrel up against the bricks. The barrel’s heat shield was cool to the touch. Tyrell wrapped his hand around the wood stock of the pistol grip, racked the pump, eased a double-aught shell into the breech. He laid the shotgun on the table so that its grip cleared the edge.

“Alan,” said Tyrell, “turn them lights out, man.”

Rogers extinguished the lights in the room, leaving only the orange strobe of the fire. Monroe fanned out to the right, his finger curled inside the trigger guard of the nine. Ray stood alongside Tyrell.

They heard a pounding on the door.

“Go ahead, Alan,” said Tyrell. “Let ’em in.”

Murphy came through the doorway first, Tutt behind him. Rogers closed the door and stepped back into the darkened room.

Murphy squinted to adjust his eyes. Monroe was off to the left, hip cocked, an automatic at his side, his face a ruined, rubbery mask. Ray stood beside Tyrell, staring at Murphy and Tutt with murderous, laughing eyes. The trigger of a revolver showed above the belt line at the front of his slacks. Ray looked drunk to Murphy, unsteady on his feet. Or maybe he was cooked on dust; the sweet smell of green hung in the air.

“Welcome, officers,” said Tyrell, standing a head above them, two feet away from the round table where a pistol-grip shotgun lay.

The fire threw dancing shadows out beyond the hearth. Tyrell was a black spidery outline, his green eyes wet and luminous in his long pointed face.

“We came for Golden,” said Murphy.

“Yeah?” said Tyrell. “Why the guns?”

“Don’t want any misunderstandings. Want to walk out of here nice and clean.”

“You don’t trust us?”

“No.” Murphy’s eyes went down to the pillowcase in his hand, back to Tyrell. “Let’s get on with it. Got the money right here.”

“All’s I see is some old cloth bag.”

“You’ll see the money when I see Golden.”

“I’ll see it now.”

Murphy dropped the pillowcase, opened it, reached inside and extracted a stack of bills. He tossed the bills onto the table.

Tyrell looked at the banded green without moving.

“Short,” he said. “Bring him out.”

“No,” said Murphy. “Want Monroe where I can see him. Send Rogers back there.”

Tyrell smiled. “Damn, Murphy, you really steppin’ up and takin’ charge. And all along I thought you were the strong and silent type.”

“Send Rogers.”

“All right, Alan. Go ahead.”

Rogers brushed by Monroe. Monroe gave him a hard look as he passed.

“Hurry up, boy,” said Murphy.

Rogers picked up his pace.

Monroe watched Rogers go into the hall, open the bedroom door, shut it behind him.

Tyrell’s eyes went to Tutt’s ostrich-skin boots. “Lookin’ clean tonight, Officer Tutt. Got those shitkickers on your feet, I see.”

Don’t do that. Don’t insult Tutt.

Tutt stepped up and stood beside Murphy. He didn’t look ashen anymore. Murphy felt Tutt’s energy change.

“Say it again, Ty-rell,” said Tutt. “Couldn’t hear you with that jungle-jump you got playin’ so loud.”

Monroe shifted his toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

“Curious,” said Tyrell, looking at Murphy’s guns. “Why you go so formal on us tonight, Officer Murphy, with that utility belt, your badge, and shit? Bet you even got a set of cuffs hangin’ on the back.”

Murphy moved a foot to his right and spread his feet. His vision line between Ray and Tyrell was clear now; he could see the kitchen window, and the black woods beyond, from where he stood.

Tyrell said, “Got yourself customized tonight, too, with that extra revolver.”

Let’s go, Alan. Step it up.

Ray said, “Man be walkin’ in here, six-gunnin’ it like the Josey Wales.”

Ray and Monroe laughed.

“Cut the bullshit,” said Tutt to Tyrell. “Where the fuck’s Rogers?”

Relax, Tutt. Breathe deep.

A scraping sound came from the bedroom.

The window. Get him out that window now. Drop him; it ain’t that far. Pick him up if you have to and carry him through those woods. Run—

“Check on Rogers, Short,” said Tyrell.

Monroe turned.

“No,” said Murphy.

Monroe stopped, shifted his shoulders.

Murphy said, “I told you I didn’t want Monroe out of my sight.”

“You told me?” said Tyrell. “You told me? Boy, you ain’t tellin’ me a motha fuckin’ thing.” Tyrell blinked hard, chin-nodded toward the pillowcase. “I want to see the rest of that money, Murphy. Give it here.”

“Gotta do it, partner,” said Tutt, speaking low. “We gotta do it now. ”

“What’d he say?” said Tyrell.

Run, Alan. Run.

A faint crying sound rode above the music pounding in the room.

Tyrell cocked his head. “I asked you what he said.”

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want...

Tutt high-cackled, took a couple of steps toward Monroe. “I axed you what he said.”

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters...

“The money, Murphy,” said Tyrell.

Murphy kicked the pillowcase to Tyrell’s feet. Tyrell bent down and looked inside.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake...

Tyrell stood up, his jaws tight, spent lottery tickets bunched in his fist.

The crying sound grew louder.

“Sounds like sirens, cuz,” said Ray, locking back the hammer on the .38.

“Fuck is this?” said Tyrell, ignoring Ray, shaking his fist and then throwing the tickets into the fire.

“Yeah,” said Tutt, smiling strangely at Murphy. “What is it, partner?”

“What the fuck is goin’ on!” shouted Tyrell. “Short, check on Rogers, man!”

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...

Monroe went back to the hallway, kicked open the bedroom door. Murphy heard him curse, then watched as Monroe came back into the room, emerging from the darkness and stalking back into the jumping orange light.

I will fear no evil...

“Golden’s gone, Ty,” said Monroe, his eyes shifting nervously between Tutt and Tyrell. He tightened his grip on the Glock. “That bitch Rogers took him out the window and bucked.”

Murphy saw headlights flash in the kitchen window.

For thou art with me...

Murphy drew his Combat Magnums.

Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Murphy said, “You’re all under arrest for the murder of Wesley Meadows and James Willets—”

“Aw, fuck all that, Kev,” said Tutt. He raised his Colt with one hand and waved good-bye to Monroe with the other.

Monroe shot from the hip.

The bullet blew four fingers off of Tutt’s waving hand, entered his neck, and pierced the carotid artery. Blood sprayed out into the strobing light.