The Night Gardener

In the Marquis, T.C. Cook wiped sweat off his forehead. He had been feeling a little dizzy. He wasn't used to working, is all it was. The anticipation of the chase had ticked up his blood.

'Doc?'

'Yes.'

'It's hot in this damn car. I'm sweatin, man.'

'Drink some water,' said Holiday.

He looked through the binoculars as the blond man came out of the station's rear door and walked toward a late-model deep green Ford Explorer. Du

'Get ready, Sarge. He's in his car and he's about to pull out.'

'Right.'

'If he goes north, I'll let you take point. Keep your cell on, in case these radios fail.'

'Got it, young man.'

'He's on Peabody,' said Holiday. 'He's coming up to Georgia.'

'Copy.'

As the Explorer turned right and headed up Georgia Avenue, Holiday said, 'You.'

They followed Du

Du

'What should I do?' said Cook, holding the two-way in front of his mouth.

'Park on the street and relax,' said Holiday. 'I'll take it now and get back to you.'

Holiday passed Cook, pulling into a space on Elsworth, and drove into the garage. He took a ticket at the gate and went up a ramp, going level to level until he saw the Explorer pulling into a space high in the structure. Holiday parked and watched Du

To Holiday, hotels were for women and alcohol. He waited for ten minutes and then put on his chauffeur's cap and walked the footbridge, taking the same path as Du

Holiday entered the hotel. The garage entrance led to a hall and a business office and then gave to an open area with a reception desk, sitting area, and bar. Du

He's drinking vodka, thought Holiday.

It's got no smell. But it does. And it shows on you, too. You're sitting in a bland hotel bar because you're that kind of police. You've got no friends, other than your fellow cops, and you're not too sure about them. No family and no home to speak of. An apartment, but that doesn't count. You're alone when you're not riding your district. You've got nowhere to go. You're lost.

'Is everything all right, sir?' said a young man with a hotel name tag pi

'I'm waiting on a client,' said Holiday.

'Would you like to use our desk phone to call him?'

'He'll be along.'

Du

From across the room, Holiday waited and watched.

'Where your cousin at?' said Chantel Richards.

'Conrad's gone,' said Romeo Brock. 'He ain't comin back.'

'Why?'

Brock tucked in the tails of his shirt.

Chantel had come from work and found Brock in the bedroom at the back of the house. He was buttoning his red rayon shirt, standing by the dresser as she walked inside. His gun was atop the dresser, along with a box of bullets, a pack of Kools, matches, a cell. Beside the dresser were the two Gucci suitcases. The one on the right held fifty thousand dollars. The one on the left held Chantel's clothes.

'Why he leave, Romeo?'

'He thinks we go

'What kind of trouble?'

'The kind involves men and guns. But look, we go

'I didn't sign up for this,' said Chantel.

'Sure you did,' said Brock. 'When you walked out of Fat Tommy's with me you bought a ticket for the full ride. But it's go

'No.'

'Well, that story's too long to tell. But I know you heard of Bo

'Uh-huh.'

'Woman stood by her man, didn't she? They lived right and took no one's shit.'

'But they died in the end, Romeo.'

'It's how they rode on the way there.' Romeo walked over to Chantel and kissed her soft lips. 'Can't no one kill me, girl. Not till I made my rep. My name's go

'I'm scared.'

'Don't be.' Brock stepped back. 'I'm go

'Yes, Romeo.'

'That's my girl. My very own Coco.'

He took his cigarettes, matches, and cell off the dresser and stashed them in various pockets. He picked up the Colt and the brick of ammunition and walked from the room.

Chantel thumbed in the push-lock on the doorknob and turned on the bedside clock radio, set on KYS. If she was going to cry, she didn't want Romeo to hear it. She had a seat on the edge of the bed. She laced her fingers together and rubbed one thumb over the other, and looked out the window to the small backyard bordered by a forest of maple, oak, and pine. If she could find the backbone, she'd run into those woods. But her courage didn't come, and she stayed in place, rubbing at her hands.

Gus Ramone sat in Leo's, drinking a Beck's, his notebook on the bar. It was unusual for him to go anywhere but back to his family after work. He liked this place and the off-beat neighborhood crowd. That was part of why he'd come. The other part was, he just didn't feel like going home. He knew he'd have to talk to Diego. But he wasn't ready to tell him about Asa just yet.

Two men were beside him, talking about the song that was coming from the juke. They stopped to sing the chorus, and when the verse came they resumed their discussion.

"Closed for the Season,' said the first man. 'Brenda Holloway.'

'That's Bettye Swa

'I don't care if she did one for Pacific Gas and Electric. This is Brenda singin right here.'

'Bettye Swa

'How 'bout you kiss mines?'

Ramone drank from the bottle and swallowed cold beer. Asa's journal occupied his thoughts.

There was no question now concerning the cause of death. Asa's last entry in the journal had been made on the day of his passing and was a veritable suicide note. He couldn't live up to his father's expectations. He hated his father and loved him. He was certain that he had been born gay and equally certain that his desires would never change. He couldn't bear the thought of his father's reaction if he were to find out. He didn't want to think about facing his friends. Asa could no longer live with who he was. He prayed that God would give him the courage to pull the trigger when the time came. He knew a quiet place were he could do it. He knew where he could get a gun. Death would be a relief.