The Clouds Roll Away Page 8

  Finally he swung his dark eyes up. The whites were jaundiced, as if the brown irises were leaking. His brown skin seemed covered by a layer of gray ash.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Sick.” He winced. “Don’t come in.”

  I was already in. “So go home.”

  He shook his head, winced again. “Can’t. Task force. Tonight.”

  The small room had a fevered scent, thick, almost rancid. But I couldn’t leave. It was the first time I’d ever seen a hint of vulnerability in him.

  “Can I do anything?”

  “Leave.”

  I opened the door.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  I closed the door.

  “I checked,” he said. “No KKK files.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  But when I didn’t open the door, his bloodshot eyes darkened. “Ask,” he growled.

  “Maybe it can wait.”

  “Don’t even—”

  “The sheriff in Charles City County, you know him?”

  He nodded, winced, squeezed his eyes shut. “Tinkham.” Perspiration beaded like pearls on his dark forehead.

  “Your honest opinion, would he ever cover for the KKK?”

  His eyes filled with a baleful expression. “Right now, you gotta know this? You can’t let me die first?”

  “You can’t work tonight. The task force should find somebody to cover for you.”

  “Can’t. Can’t trust them.”

  “You can’t trust th—” I stopped. “Oh. Your source.”

  His nod was feeble, barely perceptible. But it told the whole story.

  He worried the FBI would steal his informant. Cutting into his territory, smothering the meager thunder that came from the parsimonious sky. It was a legitimate threat, exacerbated by informants who weren’t exactly altruistic types. In bidding wars the Feds usually won.

  But I would never admit it out loud. The Bureau was like family: I can insult my sister, but you try it? I’ll take you out.

  “I’m hurt,” I said. “Truly, deeply hurt. You don’t trust us with your source?”

  He dropped his face into his hands again, groaning.

  “Even me?” I persisted. “You don’t even trust me?”

  chapter fourteen

  I slept four hours in the carriage house. Woke at 9:09 p.m. Took my second shower of the day. Dressed in my warmest clothing. Dashed across the courtyard to my mother’s house, starving.

  She was baking cookies. An entire regiment of gingerbread men cooled on the wire racks, dressed in frosting vests with cinnamon dot eyes, a delirious scent of nutmeg filling the kitchen.

  “Help yourself,” she said in the singsong voice.

  I decapitated one of the cookies. It tasted like sand marinated in molasses and allspice.

  “How are they?” she asked.

  “Wow.”

  “I’m so glad you like them.” She smiled. “Are you going out?”

  “I’m meeting a friend at the movies.”

  This was almost true. The real truth was coming from down the hall. The song told of a world long in sin and pining in error. To make up for my fib, I kidnapped eight gingerbread men, thanked my mother, kissed her cheek good-bye, and walked outside, wishing my soul felt its worth.

  At five minutes to ten, I pulled into the parking lot behind the Grove Theater, waiting for the detective’s informant, Steve Sullivan, known as Sully.

  But fifteen minutes later, Sully still wasn’t there. The K-Car’s heater was cranking out sixty-five degrees, the warmest this winter, and after another fifteen minutes, the windshield had fogged, forcing me to roll down my window. A luscious aroma draped the cold air, a scent of sautéed garlic and chicken stir-fried in hot oil. I glanced at the back door of The Peking, a restaurant next to the movie theater. My stomach growled. I rolled up the window.

  Fourteen minutes later, after I’d flicked the heater on and off, hoping to jump-start hot air, my stomach sounded like a bear waking up from hibernation. I flipped open my cell phone and called The Peking, ordering the Hawaii 5-0. I waited eight minutes, watching headlights stream past on Libbie Avenue, then called again, making sure the order was ready. I bolted past the plaster lions outside, tossed a twenty on the counter, not waiting for change, and raced back to the car, half-scolding myself for hoping the detective’s informant didn’t show up until I finished my food.

  But selfish thoughts bring just rewards. As I took my first bite of the 5-0—tender prawns that tasted like the sea itself, garlic kissing my taste buds—the passenger door opened.

  He leaned down, talking to me across the K-Car’s bench seat.

  “You must be the replacement,” he said.

  “You’re late,” I said.

  Steve Sullivan, aka Sully, dropped his scrawny body into the car. He bounced the bench seat, testing the busted springs. “Nice ride,” he sneered. “Hey, that looks good. Chinese?”

  Closing the Styrofoam clamshell, I slipped my meal back in the white plastic bag. Good-bye, 5-0. So long, fortune cookie. Sully looked around the K-Car.

  “You drive around in this thing?” he said. “You’re not, like, embarrassed?”

  I set the food on the floor in the back, bookending it with my briefcase and gym duffel.

  “Why don’t you drive a Crown Vic like every other cop in town?”

  I clenched my teeth into a placating smile and pulled onto Libbie Avenue. At the red light on Cary Street, I glanced over. Twice. Sully had the pasty skin of an Internet junkie. Lank hair not quite brown, not quite black, and long, narrow jaw that reminded me of some nocturnal creature that burrows to hide food. But what disturbed me most were his hazel eyes. Too brown, they obscured more light than they reflected. And there was no mistaking his default setting. Wicked calculation.

  “Nate parks down the street on Decatur,” he said.

  “Nate?”

  “He probably makes you call him Detective Greene.”

  “You two have a routine worked out, is that it?”

  Sully glanced over, the muddy eyes calculating. “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “He said I’d be driving tonight.”

  Sully scooted back, trying to get comfortable, then ran his hand over the bench seat. “What is this, plastic?”

  I glanced out the window, heading into downtown on East Cary. “You know these buyers pretty well?”

  “Without me, Nate’s got nothing. I’m the key to the vault.”

  “Is that right.”

  He looked over, the eyes doing their calculus. “You don’t know the situation here?”

  “I’m new. You can enlighten me.”

  “All you need to know is I’m the lead. Nobody else. I go in and tell these guys the way it is.”

  “Really. What way is that?”

  “The way I say it is.”

  A necessary evil of law enforcement, informants displayed an abundance of qualities that God explicitly hated. Sully went over the top with his extra-haughty eyes, but he seemed like the kind of guy who enjoyed playing both ends against the middle, then snickering as he wiggled out of collateral damage. When he looked over again, I felt another shiver of suspicion.

  “You don’t believe me?” he asked.

  “I’m sure you’re a big help to Detective Greene.”

  “Babe, I’m all he’s got.”

  Stifling a full-body cringe, I glanced out the side window as we crossed the Manchester Bridge. The streetlights illuminated the river below where hulking black boulders snagged the inky water, tearing white strips down the middle. We crossed over to Southside. I turned on Decatur and drove behind one of the many abandoned mills, checking my mirrors for cars and pedestrians and lookouts. All I saw were lonely brick factories, looking as patient and resigned as stones awaiting the erosion that would sift them back into the earth.

  I backed the K-Car into a dead loading dock, cut the headlights, and let my eyes adjust to the dark. I did not want to turn on the dome light. I
counted fifties to five hundred dollars, the bills crisp and fresh. It was some sign of respect, the detective had said with a grunt of disgust. “Big egos want big, new bills.”

  I held out the money to Sully. His attenuated spine pressed against the passenger door. When he reached for the bills, I pulled them back.

  “Hey!” he cried.

  “Here’s the deal, Sully. On your way back, walk across the bridge.”

  “What?”

  “In case somebody’s following you.” I wasn’t taking chances, not with this guy. Instinct told me he wanted to pull something, something he could blame me for. Not only would I never regain the detective’s trust, but by January I’d be working in Topeka.

  His muddy eyes confirmed my suspicions. Darting sideways, twice, they finally riveted on me, sizing up the fresh blood.

  “Man, that bridge is, like, a mile long!”

  “Quarter mile, maybe.” I held out the bills. “Meet me at Riverfront Towers. In the parking deck.”

  He dropped the F-bomb attached to the second-person singular and pointed out the obvious. “It’s cold out there!”

  “Yes, I know. I waited fifty-seven minutes in the same cold.”

  “This isn’t how—”

  “Yeah, but I’m not your buddy. I’m the replacement, remember? So do it my way or we call it a night.”

  He snatched the money from my hand. “You’re a real—”

  “Save it,” I said. “I got the picture.”

  When Sully stomped off to the crack house, I was tempted to follow, just to see where it was. That wasn’t information listed on our phone surveillance, since nobody in this gang had a landline, only a cell phone. The detective had only told me where to hide the car, waiting for Sully. And I didn’t want to blow our cover.

  Driving back across the bridge, I parked on Ninth Street preparing for Sully’s approach and reached into the backseat. A thin skin had coagulated over the Hawaii 5-0, its witty pineapple slice soggy, the white rice dry and stiff. For one brief moment I considered the redneck microwave—sticking the Styrofoam container under the hood on top of the running engine. But that would flag my location.

  Bowing my head, I gave thanks again for the food and prayed for a safe night. As if insulted by the wait, the shrimp had curled up on itself. The beef and chicken held their own, but when I leaned forward to read the fortune cookie, catching enough light from the street, I read it twice, making sure. “You will win the admiration of your pears.

  ”

  I folded the paper, slipping it into my coat pocket, remembering that my dad used to say he always expected his fortune to read “That wasn’t chicken.” I laughed at the memory, my breath clouding the cold car as I pushed back the stinging sensation in my eyes.

  Twenty-nine minutes later, shivering with the cold, I saw Sully walking across the bridge. He had a slacker’s gait, skinny malnourished legs extending from his wilted torso, fists crammed into the front pockets of low-rider jeans. Even from this distance I could detect the passive-aggressive hostility slithering up his spine. When a crisp wind blew across the river, pushing the shaggy hair into his eyes, he flicked it away, neck snapping like a viper.

  But no pedestrians followed him. No cars trailed behind. Just Sully, having his twentysomething tantrum.

  I drove across the street, turned down the concrete pad under Riverfront Towers, and pointed the K-Car up the ramp so that Sully marched flat-footedly into my headlights. Opening the passenger door, he tossed himself on the bench seat, bumping me upward with the landing.

  I held out my hand.

  He pulled out a small baggie, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. He wagged it back and forth like a doggie treat.

  I refused to beg, leaving my hand open.

  He shifted his arm, trying to drop it out of my grasp.

  I caught it midair, then flipped open my notebook. “Who was there?”

  In a bored voice he gave several names. Two sounded familiar.

  “Moon,” I repeated. “What’s he look like?”

  “He’s black.”

  “No kidding, Sully. How about a real description?”

  “Nate knows who they are. Can we go?”

  “What about XL, is he the leader?”

  “He’s black, too, and because you made me walk across that bridge, you’re going to drive me exactly where I want to go.”

  It was like negotiating with a spoiled toddler.

  I closed my notebook and followed his directions back to the Fan District. A brick row house on Floyd Avenue was just close enough to VCU’s campus to befall the tragedy of converted apartments. And parties.

  “Drive around the block,” Sully said.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t blow your cover.”

  “It’s the car, stupid. Anybody sees me in this thing, I’d die.”

  He got out without so much as a good riddance and slammed the door. In my side mirror, I watched him disappear down the sidewalk.

  I called the detective.

  “Feeling better?” I asked.

  “I just unloaded my gun in case I try to put myself out of my misery.”

  “I don’t want to add to your pain, but you know Sully’s loose, right?”

  “Sully’s crooked as a three-legged dog.” The detective sneezed, then groaned.

  “Bless you,” I said.

  “Thanks. What’d he do?”

  “For one, he was an hour late.” I described his attitude, which went beyond the usual informant dysfunction, and how I exercised some due caution.

  “You made Sully walk across the bridge?” he said.

  “I wanted to make sure he didn’t double-cross me.”

  The detective coughed. “He might. Was anybody following?”

  “No. But I still don’t trust him.”

  “He’s—he’s—” Another sneeze.

  “Bless you.”

  “He’s a snitch. You can’t trust him. Anything else?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “What?”

  “He’s your source. I don’t want to interfere.”

  He grunted. “I can tell.”

  “The baggie seems way too light.”

  “Snitches never work for free.”

  “I mean really light. A fraction of what we paid for.” I held the baggie in the palm of my hand. It contained maybe six white rocks, instead of the quarry load that our five hundred bucks should have bought. “I’ll put it in an envelope, you can check it later,” I said. “But just so you know, he either kept some cash or some product.”

  The detective coughed. Then groaned.

  “When’s your next surveillance?” I asked.

  “Friday. I’ll be fine.”

  “Yeah,” I said, returning his own words back to him. “You’ll be fine. Eventually.”

  chapter fifteen

  The flat landscape east of Richmond was once a shallow sea, an ancient outwash accepting sediment that eroded from the Appalachian Mountains hundreds of miles to the west. In fact, the sea received so much sediment that a wide plain of thinly layered soils now separated Virginia’s extremes of mountain and ocean. On Wednesday, December 13, I drove down Lott Carey Road and searched for a driveway that DeMott assured me was there.

  I finally found the dirt road. It was covered with dry walnut shells that exploded under my tires and made the lowland plain seem even more timeless, as if the fallow fields might suddenly bloom with torn and ragged soldiers staggering home from a lost cause, the air still acrid from an incinerated city. As if I could pass wooden grave markers watered by the blood of the dead and dilapidated plantation houses waiting for once-beautiful women to step inside, their faces etched with bitterness.

  Out here, it could still be April 1865.

  The road came to an end at a cedar-sided rambler with an attached Airstream trailer. Unfettered leaves filled the yard. Cats lounged on the trailer’s front steps, tails twitching lazily.

  I parked the car, walked throug
h the sibilant leaves, and reached over the cats to knock on the trailer door.

  Angela Crell swung it open. “You’re early,” she said.

  “I can come back.”

  “My daughter’s not here and I gotta feed Daddy.” She had a raspy voice. “You mind?”

  The trailer smelled of cigarettes and that odd molecular odor that clings to new fabric, apparently coming from the sheets of satin hanging from the ceiling. Red, yellow, blue, white. Angela Crell pushed the fabric aside, like a woman swashbuckling through a satin forest.

  In the next room, where the trailer connected to the house, an old man sat in a wheelchair. Calico quilts covered his lap. His emaciated face was set like parched clay.

  He stared at Angela Crell. Then shifted his eyes toward me.

  “Tina’s not back yet,” she said in her froggy voice. Loud, as if he were deaf. “It’s time to eat.”

  His eyes filled with emotion.

  “Yeah, somebody’s here,” she said. “But don’t worry, she just wants some sewing.”

  She rummaged through a box on the couch under windows facing the backyard. When she stood, she held a small can, shaking it hard, looking at me over her shoulder. Her eyes were a tremulous green-gray, like tropical fish caught in the netted skin of a devoted smoker. “You’re gonna have to hold this a sec.”

  Standing next to the man, I could smell his rheumy breath and felt cold air leaking through the thin windows above the couch. Angela Crell snapped open the can, releasing a cloying odor of fake vanilla. She handed the can to me and reached under the man’s quilt, pulling out a narrow plastic tube. She pried off the capped end and set a small funnel in the opening. With one hand holding the tube, she balanced the funnel with the other.

  “Okay, go ahead, pour.”

  The viscous beige fluid filled up the funnel, slowly draining into the narrow tube. I waited, pouring at her direction.

  She gave the old man a soft smile.

  “Daddy, ’member this song?”

  On a table next to the couch, a small radio played. She sang along in her throaty voice, about what the night wind said to a lamb, and I watched her father’s eyes reach out with greedy love and gratitude and an attachment that forced me to look away. I did not want to feel anything. Not for this man.