Peter Leonard - Quiver

DeJuan said, “You tell him about me?”

Amber said, “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“Where’s he at?”

“See that guy with the long silver hair?”

DeJuan saw him down the bar. Weird-looking, kind of freakish dude, bald on top with long hair hanging off the back of his head, mid-fifties, drinking what looked like vodka on the rocks-the right glass, with a slice of lemon. He was all over this young thing, blond in a tank top, seemed to be ignoring him.

Amber said, “Go talk to him if you’re interested.”

She moved down the bar to get a drink for someone. DeJuan looked up at the TV, saw Maggs hit a tater to left against the Twins, watched him run the bases and win the game, Ordonez making it look easy. DeJuan looked down the bar again, saw the dude with the hair finish his drink, get up and move through the crowd. DeJuan put his drink on the bar top and followed him outside, standing behind him on the street, waiting for the light to change. It was dark, the marquee of the Birmingham Theater casting light on the scene. And the people were out, little bitches in their skimpy, skin-tight outfits, the man checking them out, not missing a thing.

He crossed the street. It was easy to follow him with that hair-compensating for being bald on top, that silver pelt he had, saying, look motherfucker, I got all the hair I need. Check it out.

DeJuan followed him, trying to catch up. The man walking fast, almost running. He stopped in front of a restaurant, sign said 220, went down the stairs into a place called Edison’s, high-priced Birmingham nightclub look like somebody’s basement-pipes and shit exposed in the ceiling-like it was under construction. Place was dark and crowded and filled with smoke. DeJuan felt his eyes burn. He didn’t care for cigarettes. Never had one in his life, never would.

The man stopped at the bar, ordered a vodka, took his drink into the men’s. DeJuan followed him in, only two guys in there and watched him take out a coke vial, do a one on one.

He saw DeJuan looking at him and said, “You a cop?”

DeJuan said, “I look like a cop?”

“Want a bump?”

DeJuan said, “Amber say you’re looking for a contractor.”

Man said, “What’re you talking about?”

DeJuan said, “Looking for somebody to fulfill a contract is what I understand.”

He put the little black spoon up to his nose and snorted it up his left nostril, then his right.

“Got somebody around, you don’t want around no more.”

He pinched his nose and snorted hard and screwed the top back on the vial and put it in his shirt pocket. “Now’s not the time. Maybe we can meet somewhere, discuss a business arrangement.”

DeJuan liked that, the man talking about it in his serious business voice now. He wrote his phone number on a piece of paper, handed it to him. “My private line. Call when you’re ready to talk.”

DeJuan went through the door back into the smoky nightclub, Thornetta Davis doing “I Ain’t Superstitious,” belting out the lyrics as DeJuan passed in front her, checking out the country club dudes dancing with their ladies, if you could call it that, stiff moves and no rhythm like they dancing to some other song.

DeJuan was robbing a 7-Eleven the next morning when his cell phone rang. It was the dude with the hair.

He said, “Hey, this is Marty, can you meet me in the parking lot of Bed Bath amp; Beyond on Sixteen Mile in thirty minutes?”

At first, DeJuan had no idea who this dude Marty was, thinking it was a wrong number, but then he recognized his voice.

DeJuan said, “I’m kind of busy at the moment, can you give me an hour?” It was a shocker. DeJuan would’ve bet his diamond pinky ring he’d never hear from the dude again. He glanced down at the 7-Eleven manager lying on the floor in his green vest, hands and feet wrapped in duct tape-angry sawed-off little dude. Before DeJuan taped his mouth, manager Mr. Richard Ferguson said 7-Eleven would prosecute him to the full extent of the law and did he want to reconsider and turn himself in?

“Yeah,” DeJuan said, “Straight up, I want to turn myself in. You’re such a bad ass, I’m worried.” Did he want to turn his self in? The fuck was wrong with his head?

DeJuan had come in the back door. Walked up, there was a dude named Russ-Russ smoking out behind the store when DeJuan approached, placed the barrel of his SigSauer Nine against Russ’s cheek, said, “Break over, motherfucker, get back to work.”

He dropped his cigarette and DeJuan walked him through the stockroom into an office. There was a desk with a phone and a bank of TV monitors that showed different parts of the store. There was a guy behind the counter working the register.

DeJuan said, “Who’s that?”

Russ said, “The manager, Mr. Ferguson.”

“Tell Mr. Ferguson, get his ass in here, you got an emergency needs his immediate fucking attention.”

Russ grinned. “He’s not going to like this.”

After DeJuan secured Mr. Ferguson, he had Russ show him how to turn off the video cameras. Then he tied Russ up, put him in the stockroom.

He was cleaning out the register-look like about $1,700-when a customer come in, old lady, had something in her hand, coming toward him. He closed the register and turned toward the woman. “How you doing? Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

The woman held up a carton of cottage cheese and said, “I want my money back.” She pulled the top off and pointed to a green circle of mold. “Know what that is?”

DeJuan didn’t like her attitude, old bag coming in getting in his face, fucking with him ’cause she think the customer always right. He picked up the cottage cheese, read the small type on the back, found what he was looking for. “Look here,” DeJuan said. “See, it expire.”

Old lady look like she going to throw the shit in his face, said, “I want to see the manager.”

“He tied up right now.”

“I want my money back or I’m never shopping in this store again.”

DeJuan said, “You promise?”

“What’s your name? I’m going to write a letter.”

“Richard Ferguson. Now, why don’t you take your moldy cottage cheese and your moldy old ass, get the fuck out of here.”

There was a silver Benz, big one, S600 out by itself in the parking lot that was getting busy at one in the afternoon. DeJuan drove by, saw Marty behind the wheel, spun around and parked next to him. DeJuan put his window down and so did Marty, Marty saying, “Get in, let’s talk.”

DeJuan got out, walked around the back end of the Benz and got in the front passenger seat, sat back against the plush leather. Man, it was cold, like a meat locker in there, but Marty look like he was sweating in his Ryder Cup at Oakland Hills golf shirt, DeJuan trying to figure out what color it was-teal or coral some bullshit exotic name like that.

DeJuan looked through the windshield at Bed Bath amp; Beyond in the distance and said, “What’s up? Need help picking out sheets and towels?”

“I want you to kill my wife.” He said it like he meant it. Had a serious look on his face.

DeJuan said, “Love is a bitch, isn’t it?”

“I’ll pay you ten grand, but you’ve got to make it look like an accident.”

“Accident? Nobody said nothing about no accident.” DeJuan pulled the SigSauer, aimed it at Marty, said, “Boom! Was just going to pop her like that, drop her like that.” DeJuan thinking it sounded like lyrics to a rap song.

Marty put his hands up like he was going to catch the bullet, said, “Hey, what’re you doing?”

“Be cool, Marty, not going to shoot you. Only illustrating a point, is all.”

Marty put his hands down now and let out a breath. Looked relieved.