Chapter 4
“What are we doing here?” Darius stared through the passenger window at the busted facade of a development. It was a brick building tucked tight among the others on the block. A crumbling staircase led into a basement entrance.
Herbert got out of the car and started toward the door.
Darius was at his heels. “Are we doing a pick-up?”
Inside was a long counter lined with stools. There was a back area with a small pool table and a dart board. There were several tables pushed against the wall parallel to the counter. It was dark and stank of beer and stale cigarettes. A television was mounted in one corner of the room, playing highlights from the week's boxing match, static crackling through the air like an electric whisper. Herbert was immediately struck by an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. He wondered how many hours he had pissed away under the dim beer lights.
“How's it goin'?” A young bartender said as they entered.
Herbert studied this man's face and decided that he had never seen him before. “What happened to Chuck?”
“Ah, he retired a few months back. I'm his grandson.”
Herbert smiled. “All right. Well, how's he doing?”
“He's hangin' in there.”
“Next time you see him, tell him Herbie says hey.”
“Will do. You guys need a drink?”
Herbert turned to Darius. “What're you havin'?”
“I thought you don't drink.”
“Did I ask what I was havin'? I don't think so. Are you thirsty or not?”
“I'll just have a White Cross.”
The young bartender nodded and cracked open a bottle for Darius. Herbert paid and escorted him over to a table.
“What're we doin' here?” Darius swallowed a mouthful of beer.
“Do you not remember the part where we told that detective we were leaving?”
“So?”
“So, you don't think he's watching us to see if we're actually leaving?”
Darius rubbed the back of his head. “Hadn't thought about it. We could've just driven around the block.”
“I don't think I've ever seen you so eager to work. Just be happy I'm letting you drink on the job.”
Darius drained half of his bottle and let loose a gut rumbling belch. Herbert said nothing and directed his attention to the boxers on the screen. He watched the figures dip and punch, circling each other like dance partners. Darius stared at Herbert across the table and picked at his bottle's label with a thumbnail.
“What are we doing here, Herbie?” A note of quite concern crept into Darius’ voice.
Herbert snapped to attention as though he was coming out of a deep sleep. There was a pang of confused fear and for a moment Herbert felt as if he were nodding off at the wheel. “What?”
“What're we doing here?”
He regained control. “I told you. We needed to get out of there.”
“Why? I mean, why here?” Darius gestured to the bar around them.
Herbert didn't know what to say. He didn't know the answer himself. It was an impulse, a subconscious drive that brought them to the rundown bar, the same drive that compels a salmon to swim upstream. This was his ancient breeding ground, where the old crook swam to when plans needed to gestate. In a different era, the alcohol and shadow nourished his schemes. “I've done a lot of thinking here.”
“When?” Darius frowned. “You don't drink.”
“I don't drink anymore.”
“Why not?” He said before taking another swig.
Herbert stared at the young man sitting across from him. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw. The anger and annoyance passed quickly. The bitterness and grief lingered. Darius stared back, the realization dawning on him that this was a topic Herbert had no interest in discussing.
“Uh, so, it was pretty weird that detective showed up in the shop, huh?”
Herbert closed his eyes and took a breath. He looked at Darius and spoke slowly. “You know why he was there, right? That Roland guy. He's more important than you realize.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lemme explain how things work. When someone like you or me gets bumped off, nobody cares. One less mouth to feed. One less killer on the street.” Herbert paused to reflect on this for a moment. “When someone from up North is killed- goes missing, excuse me,” Herbert sniffed. “The blue boys will make an honest effort to track down who did it, since the victim is what the powers-that-be would call a 'productive member of society'.”
“So, is this Roland guy a productive member of society?”
“No. Not even close. This Roland guy, this hot shot banker, is a big swinging dick. He's got juice. And when people with juice get bumped off, people go to jail. It doesn't matter who actually did him in, someone's gonna get locked up.” Herbert let this sink in.
Darius raised his beer to his lips and took a long drink. He set the empty bottle down. “So, you think they're gonna try to pin it on us?”
Herbert nodded.
“Think I can have another beer?”
“Knock yourself out.” Herbert turned his attention back to the television and watched a fighter slip a punch, one that surely would have knocked him to the canvas.
“So, what do we do?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do we do?”
“I'll tell you what we're gonna do: not go to jail.”
“Great plan.”
“See, D, the thing is this ain't no Hardy Boys mystery. We're not gonna absolve ourselves by finding the real killer. You know why? Because then they'll just kill us, too. If we get questioned on the record- if we get questioned- we tell a story that's as close to the truth as possible. We picked up a carpet, cleaned it, and dropped it off. No, we haven't seen Mr. Roland. All business has been conducted over the phone and by mail. End of story. No proof. Nothing to tie us to the crime.”
Darius rubbed his chin and drank more beer. “I dunno...”
“What don't you know? This isn't hard. I refuse to believe this is your first time lying to the cops.”
Darius smiled sheepishly and rubbed the back of his head. “This is a little different though.”
“How?”
“Well, there's a dead body, for one.”
“You've never killed anybody?”
“I don't think so.”
Herbert folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair. “No way a piece of street-trash like you has never killed anybody. I know you've been in a scrap. Don't sit across from me, drinking beer I bought you, and tell me lies.”
“Well, sure,” Darius said slowly. “I mean, I've been in plenty of fights before.”
“And you're tellin' me you never were a little too rough with someone? Maybe left them knocked out and bloody in an alleyway or something?”
“Yeah? So what?”
“So, you don't know if they got home okay. You could've knocked their ass into a coma. They could've gotten picked up as roadkill. You might've ruined their life.”
Darius rubbed his eyes. “I hate gettin' into it with you. You always gotta be right. What does this have to do with the situation we're in, anyways?”
“I'm just trying to get you to think.” Herbert tapped his temple with a forefinger. “Something you don't ever do.”
Darius drank another gulp of beer before speaking. “You ever kill anyone, Herb?”
Herbert's mouth curled into a smile. “I might just kill someone today if I keep getting asked stupid questions.”
“Fuckin' A.” Darius shook his head and set down his empty bottle. “So, what's the plan?”
“We're gonna go back to the shop and hope that detective doesn't come back.”
“And if he does?” Light flickered in Darius' dark eyes.
“Then we tell him the same story. All we did was clean his carpet. Haven't seen him, haven't met him. That's it. You're gonna drop this whole conspiracy shit and we're gonna move on a couple thousand dollars richer.”
Darius looked down and picked at his beer label. After a few minutes, he looked up. “So why do you think they killed him?”
Herbert's eyes flashed. “You just don't know when to drop it. That's always been your problem, D. You never know when the shut the fuck up.”
“Hey,” Darius smiled across the table. “Isn't that what got me this job in the first place? How many times did I ask for work?”
“Christ. More than I can count.” Herbert shook his head, remembering the skinny little street-rat that would come around his shop every afternoon looking for work and morsels to eat. “You were even worse back then.”
“’Cause I was desperate.”
Both men paused and individually remembered those early days. Herbert did not linger on those times and passed over them in his mind like fingertips across an old knotted scar.
“Anyways, I don't know why they killed him.” He thought about what Blackjack had said, how they wanted Roland wiped off the map. “It doesn't matter because he's dead and nothing's gonna change that.” He stood. “All right. Back to work.”
Darius nodded.
Herbert left money for the second beer on the table and led the way out the door, back into the searing brightness of the midday sun.