Roger Smith - Mixed Blood

Barnard snapped a couple of pictures of Rikki with his cell phone camera.

He lifted himself and went across to the tall half-breed. Looked like he had been stabbed in the chest and shot in the stomach. Barnard took a couple more happy snaps.

Ronnie was hanging back, still clutching the shoes by the laces.

Barnard beckoned him over. “Come here.”

The boy came over to him. “Tell me again what happened.”

Ronnie began nervously. “I was coming on here this morning…”

“What time?”

“Past eight.”

“You alone?”

Ronnie nodded. “I was coming on when I saw that one.” He pointed to Rikki. “Then I saw the other one next.”

“You see anybody else here?”

The boy shook his head.

“Ja. Then what you do?”

Ronnie held the shoes up. “I took these.”

Barnard fixed him with a stare. “And then what?”

“Then I got a taxi. To Bellville. To play games. Then I went home. And my mommy saw the shoes. And I tole her about them.” He pointed to the bodies. “And she took me to the cop.”

“You didn’t bring anybody here?” Ronnie shook his head. “You lying to me?”

Ronnie shook his head even more vigorously. Barnard stared down at the boy. He thrust a hand toward the Nikes. “Gimme those.”

Ronnie held the shoes out to him. Barnard grabbed them, flinging them onto the tall guy’s body. He poked a finger into Ronnie’s chest. “You wait here.”

Barnard walked back to the car and popped the trunk. He took a. 38 revolver from under the spare tire and shoved it into his waistband. He’d taken it off a dead drug dealer and kept it for special occasions. Like this. Then he hauled out a jerrican and walked back to the kid.

Ronnie looked as if he was thinking of making a run for it.

Barnard stopped in front of him and set the jerrican down. Then he took the revolver from his waistband, cocked it, and shot the kid between the eyes. The little bastard hadn’t even seen it coming, just gave him a stupid look and dropped. Barnard shot him once more in the chest, jst to make sure.

Barnard dragged Rikki Fortune’s body until it lay next to his beanpole buddy. Then he grabbed the half-breed kid by a bare ankle and slung him across the two gangsters. He emptied the jerrican onto the bodies, set fire to a scrap of cloth, and tossed it, stepping back. The bodies exploded into flame.

There was no way that Barnard was going to let this crime scene into the system. He knew there was only an outside chance that anybody would give a shit about these useless lives ending, but it was a chance he wasn’t prepared to take.

No, he knew that the answer to his prayers lay in a house up on the mountain. This was a gift from God.

In very fucken weird wrapping paper.

Burn found Susan making up the single bed in the spare room. “This for me?”

She nodded, tucking in a sheet. “I think it’s best.”

He tried to help, taking one side of the sheet. She snapped it out of his hand. “I can do this, Jack.”

“You know that Matt’s slept with me the last couple of nights?”

“Then he can sleep with me.” She shook a pillow into a cover.

“He’s wetting the bed again.”

“I’m not exactly surprised.” She levered herself up to standing. “He needs counseling. I want him to get help, as soon as we’re back in the States.”

He nodded. “Sure.” He turned to leave the room.

“Jack?” Her voice stopped him. She was looking at him, in the direct way she had, as if she could read the fine print on his soul. “Do you believe in retribution?”

“Susan, where’s this going?”

“Do you ever think of that cop? In Milwaukee?”

“Every day.”

“Do you even know his name?” Burn didn’t answer her. Susan pressed on. “Do you know he had a wife? And a son?”

Burn said nothing, letting her get done with this.

She walked past him, that splay-footed balancing act. “Just like you, Jack.”

When the fat boer showed her the picture on his phone, Carmen Fortune felt a sense of disbelief. Could it really be? Could Rikki really be dead? Did this really mean she would never again feel him shove himself inside her or hit her with his fists?

She stared at the image on the phone. “Is it cut? His throat?”

“No, he’s smiling for the camera.” Gatsby grabbed the phone out of her hand and slid it into the pocket of his sweat-stained shirt.

“Who did it?” a ht="0em"›

“Dunno.”

“Where is he? His body?”

“Don’t worry about that.”

Carmen had been out smoking a globe of tik, come back with that crazy rush in her head when she saw the fat boer waiting for her outside her apartment. She had let him in, expecting abuse over the money that Rikki owed him. The cop was bad luck.

But today he had brought her good news. Fuck, it was unbelievable.

The cop was speaking, but she was caught up in the spin cycle in her head. He prodded her with one of his fat fingers, and she nearly fell. “I’m fucken talking to you!”

Carmen had to concentrate hard to keep her head together. “What, man?”

He shook his head at her. “Fucken tik whore.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand to shut her up. “Now listen and listen careful.”

“Okay.”

“People are going to want to know where he is, you get me?”

“Ja.”

“But you not gonna tell them he’s dead.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m telling you not to, that’s why not!” He was looming over her, his stink like a dead thing in the room.

“But what do I do? If people want to know where he gone?”

“You tell them him and his buddy…”

“Faried.”

“Faried. You tell them you heard them talking about going up the west coast.”

“For what?”

“Who gives a fuck for what? For crayfish or abalone. Or Hottentot whores. Just say they went and you haven’t seen them since. You understand me?”

Carmen nodded. “Ja. Okay, man.”

Gatsby grabbed her by the arm. She could feel her tit lying against his hand. He pulled the hand away. “I hear you saying anything else, and I come and cut your fucken throat. You got me?”

She nodded, stepping away from his stench. He looked around the room. “Where’s the old alkie?”

“Gone to buy a wine. Don’t worry, he won’t say nothing.”

“And the kid?”

“Social Services took him.”

“What, they say you unfit?” She shrugged. “So, no husband. No kid. You can sell your ass again.” There was a phlegmy sound from deep in Gatsby’s lungs, like a chest wound sucking. He was laughing.

“Fuck you!” Carmen couldn’t stop herself.

He moved fast for a huge man, and his fist flew at her. He pulled the punch at the last second, and she felt his clammy knuckles brush the skin of her cheek. They stood like that, eyes locked until he lowered his fist.

“Next time, I’ll put you in hospital.”

Then he turned and lumbered out, leaving the door open. Carmen shut it.

She sat down on the stained sofa. Rikki was dead. She still couldn’t believe it. She had dreaded telling him they had lost Sheldon’s grant. Rikki would have blamed her, and, unlike the fat boer, he wouldn’t have pulled his punches. Fuck, knowing Rikki, he would have put the boot in.

She felt relief and even some odd sensation that wasn’t familiar to her. It was happiness, she finally realized. She was happy. For the first time since she was seven years old, when her father had started visiting her with his whispered, sweaty demands, she belonged to no man.

Burn stood in the kitchen looking through at Susan and Matt on the sofa in front of the TV. Susan held her son’s hand. Two days ago this would have made Burn happy. He would have taken this as a sign that Susan was growing close to Matt again, that she was moving out of the closed circle of her and her baby.