Bad Guys

I waited another minute. I tried the office number on his business card, which I seemed to recall him mentioning once was also his home number. He lived in a second-story apartment above a shop someplace. His card gave a Montgomery Road address.

Another five rings, and a similar message.

“Hey. Zack here. I already left a message on your cell. I’m here, waiting to go get the bad guys, and get your report on Trevor. I’ve got some news of my own in that department.”

I considered the possibilities. Lawrence had run into some sort of delay, couldn’t answer his phone. Maybe he was in a bad area, under a bridge, where his cell couldn’t receive a signal.

I tried the cell again. “Hi. I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message.”

I phoned home. Paul picked up, sounding a bit groggy. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Let me talk to your mom.”

“She’s not here. She’s gone to that thing. Remember?”

With all that had happened in the last hour or so, I’d completely forgotten about the retreat. “Okay,” I said. “Have there been any calls?”

“I guess. I’ve had a couple.”

“I mean for me.”

“Uh,” Paul said dozily, “I don’t think so.” Paul’s words seemed to be ru

“Were you asleep?” I asked.

“Nope.”

I paused. “Lawrence Jones didn’t call there by any chance, say he was going to be late?”

“Lawrence who?”

“The detective? The one I’ve been seeing every night this week? The one who took me to the car auction? The one who called earlier, and you took a message? Paul, what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I am perfectly fine.” He worked hard to say “perfectly” perfectly. And the “I am” instead of “I’m” was a bit weird and Data-like. “Where are you?”

“At the doughnut place, a couple of blocks from Garvin. Listen, if Lawrence calls, have him call my cell.”

“Okay.” Sleepylike. Like maybe he’d had a few beers.

“Paul,” I said, “did you find what Trevor left for you out back?”

“Huh?” More awake now. “The what?”

“The six-pack. Sounds like you found it.”

“I don’t know-what?”

“He get your booze for you all the time?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did Angie tell you-” And then he cut himself off, still sober enough to know that he was letting the cat out of the bag.

“We’re going to have a talk when I get home.”

Paul paused at the other end of the line. “Do you have any idea when that might be?”

“Probably not for a few hours. I’m sort of working right now.”

“Because I’m really tired, and going to bed, so if you’re going to ream me out, could you do it in the morning instead of when you get home?”

“Fine. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Okay. See ya, Dad.” And he hung up.

I shook my head as I hit the button to end my call. It was after eleven now. I tried Lawrence’s cell a third time, without success.

Maybe he was already in position, down the street from the men’s store. Maybe he’d gotten to the doughnut shop on time, waited a few minutes for me, and when I was a no-show, he’d left. After all, his responsibility was to Mr. Brentwood, the owner of the men’s shop, not me. He was doing me a favor letting me hang out with him; he didn’t owe me any consideration.

So I walked out of the doughnut shop and headed in the direction of Brentwood’s. I decided to leave the Virtue in the parking lot. Pulling up behind Lawrence’s Buick might attract unwanted attention on the street. There was a hint of autumn chill in the air, and I pulled my shoulders up, as if that would somehow keep me warm.

I came around the corner onto Garvin, half a block down from the men’s shop, and looked for Lawrence’s aging Buick with the brand-new rear window, not that a brand-new window was something that stood out. A quick scan of both sides of Garvin turned up nothing. The street was lined with several parked cars, but there was almost no traffic, and there was a slight drizzle starting to come down. Within a couple of minutes the street was damp and shiny.

As I walked up the street, nearly to Brentwood’s, I tried to think of other scenarios that could have delayed Lawrence. What if he wasn’t pla

Just then, a massive black SUV appeared at the top of the block. Its headlights, resting high atop the huge grill, cast a wide beam down the street.

“Jesus,” I whispered.

I sidled up against an unlit storefront, beneath an awning, as the SUV began to move slowly down the street. Then, inching along, I rolled myself around a corner and found myself in a three-foot-wide alley directly across the street from Brentwood’s. The SUV glided past, as if moving through a tall, narrow frame. I poked my head out, watched as it went up the street, turned right at the next corner, and disappeared.

I got out my cell and tried Lawrence’s cell again. Even before he’d finished his short message, I was shouting, but in a whispering kind of way, into my phone: “Man, you gotta get here! It’s going down! The bad guys are here! They’ve just gone by once and I think they’re coming around again! I’m in an alley right across the street! Where the hell are you?”

I hit the button to end my call. Even in the cool night air, I felt myself breaking into a sweat.

The cops, I thought, maybe I should call the cops. Get them out here fast, because I had a feeling, I just had a feeling that the next time these guys came around in that A

I heard the roar of the engine for only a second, then a huge crash. The sound of shattering glass and crumbling brick and twisting metal.

I looked across the street and saw the tail end of the A

In another few seconds, the only sound was the alarm system, wailing irrelevantly, from inside Brentwood’s.

“Lawrence,” I said softly under my breath, “where the fuck are you, man?”

17

I GOT OUT MY CELL and called 911 first.

“I’m calling to report a robbery,” I said.

“You’ve been robbed, sir?”

“No, I’ve witnessed a robbery.” I told her the name of the store, its location, and that a huge black SUV with at least three guys in it was screaming away from the scene. “A black A

“What is your name, sir?”

I ended the call. I knew they’d have my name sooner or later. Their call display system would have my number, and a check with my cell service would turn up my name. I’d be happy to talk to them-later.

I began ru

Not one to give up, I tried Lawrence’s numbers again. As long as I’d had cell phones, I’d never figured out how to program in my most frequently called numbers. And I was learning right now that it was impossible to tap in numbers on a tiny keypad while jogging, so I stopped long enough, under the shelter of another store awning, to call. Still no answer at either number.