Last Call

Theo's telephone rang. It was across the room on the counter-top, and the answering machine picked up. Theo liked to screen his calls, so the message played loud enough for Jack and Rene to hear every word as it was being recorded.

"Yo, Theo! Where the fug' are you, man?"

Jack didn't recognize the voice immediately, and even though he knew he shouldn't listen, he couldn't close his ears.

"Answer me, Knight! I know you got my message. So where are you, dude? I been waitin' here almost half an hour for you."

Jack hadn't heard Isaac Reems's voice in years, and they'd had only one telephone conversation. But he was dead certain that Theo's machine was recording the message of a fugitive.

"Dude, here's the deal," said Reems. "Two thousand bucks. That's all it takes. I'm sure you think I don't know what I'm talkin' about. But trust me, a man hears a lotta shit sittin' in prison as long as I did. So get me two grand, bro'. Just do me a couple of favors. And then I swear, I'll tell you who killed your momma."

The line clicked. The machine stopped recording.

Jack and Rene exchanged uneasy glances.

"What was that all about?" she said.

Rene was a bit of a New York Times snob and hadn't read the Miami paper or watched any local news. The first she'd heard of Reems's escape was when the cops showed up at Sparky's and Jack had told Theo to go cool off. She hadn't asked any questions – Jack said the cops were chasing rabbits – but in light of this phone call, maybe it was a good thing she was returning early to Africa after all.

"Excuse me a second," said Jack. "I need to call my client."

Chapter 11

Isaac was getting tired of waiting.

Hours before this follow-up call, he'd left detailed phone messages, one at his home and one at the bar, telling Theo when and where to meet. Not for a second did Isaac worry about Theo calling the cops again. This time Isaac had spelled out exactly what his old friend would get if he showed up.

Finally, the old leader of the Grove Lords had played his ace in the hole.

This was the proverbial offer that could not be refused. Sure, they hadn't seen each other in years, but Isaac still knew Theo. They'd hung out together every day for months after the murder of Theo's mother. Tatum got over it in a day or two. But Theo was obsessed with finding her killer. It seemed that a day didn't go by without Theo vowing to slit that bastard's throat the way he'd slit his momma's. Blood that hot never cools. It was irrational, really, the way Theo had managed to block from his memory all the ways in which his drug-addicted mother had failed herself and her children. In life, she had been nothing to him. In death, she became the score he needed to settle, as if his anger over the way she'd chosen to live her life had no way to manifest itself except in Theo s revenge against the man who had sliced her open and left her dead on the street. Whoever he was. And now, after two decades, Theo had the chance to hear his name.

Where the hell are you, Knight?

Isaac checked the time on the bank marquee on the street corner. Eighty-one degrees at 1:37 a.m.

Theo was more than an hour late.

Isaac had to move. The waitress was still in the trunk, so he didn't have to worry about her reporting the car stolen. But maybe she had a roommate or lived with a boyfriend or her parents. They would expect her home and eventually call the cops, which would trigger a police BOLO mentioning her Mustang. The car had served its immediate purpose. He decided to ditch it in the alley but first he had to deal with the cargo.

He drew his pistol and popped the trunk. The waitress didn't move. He nudged her. She still didn't respond. He laid his hand on the back of her neck, and she was burning up. It was like the fires of hell in that trunk. The heat had obviously overtaken her. He checked her pulse. She was alive, but he wasn't about to carry her around, dead weight on his shoulders. Wrong place, wrong time, honey.

No prisoners.

He closed the trunk and left her there, then walked around the building to the chosen meeting spot. It was behind a restaurant called Quincy's. Back in the 1980s, it used to be a bar called Homeboy's. "Meet me behind Homey's," Isaac had told Theo in his first message. That was what they used to call it. Even if the cops had tapped Theo's telephones, they had no way of knowing that "Homey s" referred to a ghetto bar called Homeboy's that had closed almost twenty years earlier.

Quincy's restaurant was closed, which made Isaac uneasy about standing around waiting for Theo. Someone might report a prowler. The Dumpster offered the only hiding place. Fugitives had holed up in worse places, he figured. He climbed up and lowered himself into waist-deep trash that soiled his clean clothes and squished beneath his shoes. This sucked in a big way, but it was almost fu

The good news was that he hadn't heard police choppers or sirens since coming north. But Isaac would be an easier target after sunrise. And the odor of restaurant garbage was getting to him. He had to move soon.

"Come on, Theo," he muttered. "Where's my money, bro'?"

Maybe Theo hadn't listened to his messages yet. But Isaac couldn't let his mind go there. If Theo wasn't coming, that left Isaac in a stinking garbage can with no one to help him thread his way to freedom through a blanket of cops. He was screwed.

Totally screwed.

He heard something. Footsteps? He sat perfectly still and listened. Someone was coming down the alley He rose up in the Dumpster just enough to peer over the rusty rim. The footfalls grew louder. It sounded like one person, and there was no beam from a flashlight leading the way – pretty reliable signs that it wasn't the cops. A silhouette appeared at the end of the alley and stopped. Isaac couldn't tell who it was, but this was exactly where he had told Theo to meet him, and the outline in the darkness was that of a large man. In silence, Isaac drew his weapon and took aim, just in case. A gunshot would bring the cops, so he had to avoid discharging his firearm at all costs. He wanted to call out Theo's name, but he held his tongue. Let him speak first, Isaac told himself.

The man said nothing. Slowly, he reached into his pants pocket. Isaac watched, taking extra care not to make a sound as the man removed something and tossed it on the ground a few feet in front of him. With his other hand, the man switched on a palm-sized flashlight that sent a laserlike beam cutting through the darkness. The light was on only a few seconds – long enough for Isaac to see that there was a roll of money on the ground. Then the man switched it off.

Isaac's pulse quickened. Again, however, he reminded himself not to reveal his position until this visitor removed all doubt as to his identity.

The man said nothing.

Sirens blared in the distance. Isaac was suddenly aware of the sweat beading on his brow. He listened, hoping the man would speak. All he heard were sirens. And maybe helicopters, too. Yes, that was definitely the whir of choppers, and it seemed to be growing louder. The manhunt was coming north – toward him.

The man started forward. Isaac's finger was on the trigger. He wasn't sure what to do about the slow and steady approach of this silent silhouette. Then the advance halted. Isaac could breathe again. But not for long. The man bent down, picked up the roll of bills that he'd tossed to the ground, turned, and headed back toward the dark alley.