Джордж Пелеканос: King Suckerman

Clagget issued a brief sigh. Killing the fat man, it hadn’t been like he expected. No thrill, no fear, and no remorse. It was no different than killing an animal. Nothing more than that.

The pillow would have made a good natural silencer — he had seen Henry Fonda use one for just that purpose in Once Upon a Time in the West — and it was too bad he couldn’t have used it himself. The way it worked out, though, he just didn’t have the time. Clagget opened the door, thinking about the pillow and not paying attention to anything else. That’s when he saw the big black dude, standing just a few feet away on the edge of the field, a funny kind of grin on his face.

Cooper had to smile, seeing the skinny white boy up close, a pattern of blood and who knew what else sprayed onto the front of his cheap print shirt. What was that, Tarzan swinging on vines all over the shirt? Couldn’t be.

“What’s goin’ on?” said Cooper, still smiling, no threat at all in his voice.

“What’s happenin’, blood?”

Blood. Shit, Cooper couldn’t have been more right.

“Just out here relieving myself. Saw you go inside. Thought I’d greet you when you came out.”

The white boy cocked his hip, maintaining that all-the-way cool. “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

“Thought you might need a friend, is all.” Cooper pointed his chin in the direction of the boy’s chest. “You done fucked up that pretty shirt. From the blow-back and shit.”

The white boy looked down at himself, showed real regret at the sight. “Damn. My finest one, too.”

Cooper watched the boy run his hand under the shirt, thinking now about pulling the weapon.

Cooper said, “Uh-uh.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t be drawing that long gun out. Don’t even try. I’d be on you so fast... Look here, little brother” — little brother, Cooper knew he’d like that — “I mean you no harm. For real.”

The white boy squinted his eyes. “What you want then, man?”

“The name’s Wilton Cooper. You?”

“Make it B.R. For Bobby Roy.”

“B.R. Bobby Roy. All right, here it is. I already know you’re brave, but, no disrespect intended, that don’t make you smart in the bargain. Now, whatever you did in there—”

“I killed a man.”

There it was. Like it didn’t mean a damn thing.

“Okay. You work here, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s gonna make you suspect number one. And I bet you pumped out a shell in that booth, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“I know you did. ’Cause it kind of put a period on the end of the sentence, if you know what I mean. So they’re gonna be looking to talk to you, and soon after, they’re gonna have an empty shotgun shell with your prints on it...” Cooper let it sink in. “By the way, you got wheels?”

“Uh-uh.”

“No ride. How were you fixin’ to get away?”

“Walk out, I guess. Through them woods.”

“And if you made it through those swampy woods — that is, if the copperheads didn’t get you first — what were you going to do then? Hitch a ride out on the two-lane? Wait for the county sheriff to pass on by?”

Clagget’s shoulders slumped. “I hear you. But what do you want? ”

Cooper said, “Tell you what. You ride out with me; we’ll talk about it then.”

“I don’t know. I need to think.”

“While you’re thinking on it, think of this: This picture’s got one more reel to it, right?”

“Yeah. The Hammer’s gotta go and get the crooked cop, the one who fucked him up when he was a kid. Then he goes back to Harlem, gets it himself from the kids in his own neighborhood—”

“I know the picture, man. You don’t have to tell me, ’cause I know . The thing is, when this reel is over — oh, I’d say about two minutes from now — your manager or whoever is gonna be runnin’ back here to find out why the screen’s turned all white.”

“I do believe you got a point.” Clagget rubbed his face. “Okay. Maybe we better go.”

“Good. Mind, you don’t want to be walking around where everyone can see you like that.”

“Pick me up, then. I’ll wait right here.”

“And I’ll just be a minute. Swing on back around with my short.”

Bobby Roy Clagget watched the black man head back toward the cars, wide of shoulder and walking proud. He was big, strong as Jim Brown. Not the uncomfortable Jim Brown from 100 Rifles . The bad mother fucker Brown from Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off. Big and bad like that. Clagget wouldn’t mind riding with a guy like Wilton Cooper, at least long enough to get out of town. While he was riding, see what this Cooper dude had in mind.

Cooper brought his ride — a 197 °Challenger convertible, red on red with a wide black hood stripe running between the NACA scoops — around to the side of the projection house. Clagget went to the passenger side, opened the door, pulled the shotgun free, slipped it back behind the seat, dropped into the bucket, and shut the door. He ran his hand along the wood-grained dash.

“Damn,” said Clagget. “ Vanishing Point !”

“Cleavon Little.”

“You know your movies, Cooper?”

“I’ve seen a few.”

“I’m into movies myself.”

“I sensed that in you, B.R.”

The big screen had gone blank. A white man in a starched white shirt sprinted toward the projection bunker as a cacophony of horns filled the night air.

“That your boss?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we best be on our way.”

It took a little while to get out of the drive-in. Some frustrated customers up ahead had decided to go on and leave. Cooper put the Challenger into the back of the line, got comfortable in the bucket, let himself relax. He wasn’t worried about the cops just yet. He was a patient man until things got real good and hot, and he could see that the kid was, too. Cooper reached into his shirt pocket, withdrew a Salem long.

“I could use one of those myself,” said Clagget.

Cooper shook one free, struck a match, held the flame out for Clagget. In the light he saw the awful cranberry red acne patterned like vomit on the boy’s cheeks. The acne ruined his looks, but other than that, like many backwoods white boys, Clagget seemed almost featureless. Just a boy, most likely, not yet twenty-one.

“Thanks, bro,” said Clagget.

“Sure thing,” said Cooper, and he put the match to his own smoke. They were moving now, almost out of the exit gate.

“Funny thing,” said Clagget.

“What’s that?”

“The fat man. He never knew it was coming. Not even up till the end. And even then, I don’t believe he ever knew why.”

“Why’d you croak him then, man?”

“He was always lookin’ at me. Lookin’ at me and smilin’. And as hard as I’d look back at him, he’d still be giving me this smile. It got to the point I knew I’d have to take that smile off his face for real.”

“You killed him ’cause he smiled at you.”

“I guess.”

“You ever think, B.R. — and I’m just makin’ conversation here — that the man was smilin’ just to be friendly?”

“I don’t know. You could be right.” Clagget dragged on his smoke, shrugged, looked down at the cigarette between his thin fingers. “Ain’t too much I can do about it now.”

“You got that right, B.R. You surely do.”

They were out of the drive-in and going west on the two-lane. A cop car screamed down the asphalt toward them.

“Let’s put the top down, Wilton.”

“Might want to wait a minute on that one. Let the sheriff get on past.” Cooper steadied the wheel with his thighs, put his hands over his ears to shut out the siren as the cop car went by. He hated that sound. He watched the taillights fade, put his hands back on the wheel. “Well, there goes your ride, boy. The one I was describing to you earlier.”