All the Lucky Ones Are Dead (30 page)

“Bang-bang, you're dead,” Leffman said. It was the closest thing to a joke Gunner had ever heard the bald, heavyset white man say.

Gunner nodded. “Question is, did he do the right thing? Or would he have been better off going along with them?”

“Are you asking can we cut him a deal?” Smith asked.

“You said yourself he saved my life. Johnson's too. That should be worth something, shouldn't it?”

“The man's on parole for murder-two,” Leffman said. “And he's the only reason you and Johnson were in danger in the first place. How do you figure that's worth a deal?”

“I figure it because it matters more to me what he did than what he almost did. Bottom line, Agent Leffman, Jolly risked his life for ours when he had at least an outside chance of simply walking away. You wanna see the poor bastard do another thirty years for
that
?”

“If the courts decide that's what he deserves—”

Gunner turned to Smith before Leffman could finish, said, “If nothing else, he just gave you clowns three less Defenders to worry your little heads about. And a key one at that. You gonna tell me that's not enough to buy him a little slack?”

Smith produced a small, noncommittal shrug. “That could depend. How sure are you again that the man with the beard in there was the one you dealt with earlier?”

“As sure as it's humanly possible to be. He all but admitted it to me, we talked about old times.”

“And he was the one giving all the orders?”

“Now, same as then. Yes.”

Smith glanced at Leffman, received a skeptical frown in return. To Gunner, he said, “If we can identify him, and establish the fact that he was, as you suggest, a key link in the network… we might be able to do something for Mr. Mokes. Assuming your faith in him proves warranted.”

“But we're not promising anything,” Leffman added.

Gunner smiled at him, thankful for small favors. “Fair enough,” he said.

At seven o'clock that evening, Gunner met with Benny Elbridge at the Acey Deuce for what he intended to be the last time.

The two men sat at the same table they'd occupied four days earlier, when Elbridge had officially become the investigator's client, and did their best to hold a conversation despite all the people who kept interrupting them to pat Gunner on the back and tell him how great he looked on TV. The Sparkle Johnson kidnapping story had been all over the news for hours, and on-camera interviews with all of the principals, save for Jolly, were still being telecast over several channels. Outside the house in Long Beach, Gunner had merely mumbled a few words to a group of reporters on his way to Smith and Leffman's car, but Johnson had treated the event like a press conference called in her honor. She said some nice things about him and the Long Beach PD, but what she talked about most was herself, and how determined she remained, despite the Defenders' attack upon her, to speak the truth about America for all who cared to hear it.

“A lot of black people don't want to
know
the truth,” she said. “But Sparkle Johnson's going to tell it to 'em anyway.”

It must have made Wally Browne happy enough to burst.

As for Gunner, Johnson's egomania was behind him now, leaving Benny Elbridge as his last remaining piece of unfinished business. He knew Elbridge would have problems with his final report, conflicting as it did with the older man's view of his son's death, but he had come to the Deuce prepared to stand firmly by it, no matter what Elbridge said.

Or so Gunner thought.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Gunner, but you're wrong,” Elbridge said, tossing the investigator's hastily written report back over to his side of the table. “There ain't no way Carlton killed himself.”

“I'm sorry too, Mr. Elbridge, but I'm afraid that's the way it is. There isn't a shred of evidence anywhere that anyone other than your son was responsible for his death. At least, none that I can find.”

“Then you just gotta keep lookin'.”

“There'd be no point in that.”

“Why not?”

“Because Carlton committed suicide. I know that's a hard thing for you to accept, but it's true.”

Elbridge shook his head like a nine-year-old refusing to eat. “No.”

“Look. You told me four days ago he would've had no reason to contemplate suicide, but that wasn't entirely accurate. Fact of the matter is, he'd been thinking about it for some time. And depending on your point of view, perhaps justifiably so.”

“What the hell are you talkin' about?”

“I'm talking about what happened to him out in Philly several months ago. Or didn't you know about that?”

The older man blinked, tried to remember how to make his mouth work. “Who told you what happened in Philly?”

“That's not important. What is is that it's something else I would've liked to know when you hired me, but had to find out later for myself. Honesty hasn't exactly been the cornerstone of our relationship, has it, Mr. Elbridge?”

“Shit! Why would I wanna tell you about somethin' like that? That was a private matter, it didn't have nothin' to do with you!”

“It did if the boy took it as hard as you obviously did.”

“What?”

“What happened to Carlton wasn't his fault, Mr. Elbridge. And it wasn't the end of the world either. But you're acting right now like it was both. If Carlton knew you felt that way, he couldn't have found much comfort in the knowledge.”

Elbridge fumed in silence for a moment, his anger gradually dissipating. “I never told the boy how I felt.”

“Maybe you didn't have to. Sons have a way of sensing their father's disapproval. It isn't something they have to see or hear to know it's there.”

“If you're tryin' to say it was my fault the boy shot himself …”

“Something drove him to it. Why couldn't it have been the loss of his father's respect over a onetime, accidental sexual experience with a man?”

“'Cause he didn't give a damn for my respect, that's why. He didn't
need
it. Only thing that boy cared about was his wife and children. Nothin' else was important to him. Not his money, not his fame—nothin'.”

“You're forgetting about Coretta, aren't you? His mother?”

“I ain't forgettin' about Coretta. He loved her too, of course. But not like he loved Danee and his kids. What he felt for them was somethin' special.”

Gunner had never heard him sound so certain about anything. “Special how?”

“I can't explain it,” Elbridge said. “The boy just lived for those three, that's all. Especially Danee. Carlton loved that girl so much it like to make him sick sometimes.”

“He had a rather odd way of showing it, don't you think? Spreading himself around like he did?”

“Didn't matter. You can't get a woman to understand it, but some men can do that, Mr. Gunner.
Make
love to a hundred women, but only
be
in love with one. That's how it was with Carlton. Sex was one thing, and love was another. And the only woman he could ever
love
was Danee.” He tossed down a swallow of his drink, shook his head. “Now, if he ever thought he was about to lose
her
respect … That's somethin' mighta shook 'im up, for sure.”

All around them, the Deuce had come alive with noise, overlapping voices and music from the radio, but Gunner couldn't hear a note of it.

He was already too deep in thought to acknowledge anything else.

Saturday morning, Gunner drove up into the Hollywood Hills to visit Danee Elbridge again. The front gate was working now, so he'd had to ring the bell to reach the house. Her Lexus was missing from the carport this time—thirty bullet holes in its trunk lid, she would've had to put it in a body shop somewhere eventually—but the winged nude at the center of the fountain remained. She still wasn't talking, however.

It was ten o'clock sharp, and the lady of the house was dressed to go out, forgoing the diaphanous nightgown for a pale beige jumpsuit that made her look good enough to eat. In fact, the only thing marring the perfection of her appearance was the bluish-black bump riding high on her forehead, which Gunner had left her with at their previous meeting.

“Allow me to apologize for that again,” he said, when they'd taken their customary places in her spacious living room. He could hear the voices of small children, and one female adult he felt it safe to assume was their nanny, moving about on the floor above them.

“Forget about it,” Danee Elbridge said, smiling, rubbing her small injury gently with one hand. “Hardly even hurts anymore.”

“Still.”

“I don't mean to rush you, Mr. Gunner, but the kids and I were on our way out to the park when you called. And they get a little antsy waitin' around. So …”

“Get to the point. Sure.” He unfolded the sheet of paper he'd brought in with him, said, “I told your father-in-law yesterday that my investigation into your husband's death is closed. And I thought you might like to hear what my findings were.”

“I don't need to hear what your findings were. I already know. Cee killed himself, like I always said.”

“Basically, yes.”

“Basically? What do you mean, basically?”

“I mean that I don't think it was as clear-cut as all that. I used to, right up until I saw Mr. Elbridge last night, but not anymore. I can see now that there's at least one major question about Carlton's death that still hasn't been answered, and I've decided you're the only one who could possibly answer it for me.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because you were the last person to see Carlton before he died. Isn't that right?”

“Yes. I guess so. But—”

“This is a copy of the note he wrote that night. The ‘suicide' note you didn't want me or anyone else to see. It took a lot of doing, but I managed to convince Coretta last night that she should finally allow me to read it. Listen …”

Gunner began to read:

“He ain't never been a quitta,

But his heart lies heavy,

Tears been flowin' like water from a levee,

Fame and chedda made the nigga's head spin,

So fucked up he thought out was in …”

“I don't wanna hear this,” Danee Elbridge said. “Coretta didn't have no right to give you that!”

“Hold on a minute, I'm almost through,” Gunner said. And then he started reading again, quickly before she could stop him:

“Don't wanna die, but he don't wanna live,

Some won't forget, and some won't forgive,

Used to be a playa on top of his game,

Now he ain't nothin' but a goddamn shame.”

Gunner stopped reading, looked up at the Digga's widow. “And that's it. That's all it says. He didn't even sign his name at the bottom.”

“I
know
he didn't. I saw the note myself, remember?”

“I remember. I just read it again to you now because I thought it might be best to refresh your memory of it before I ask you to explain a few things for me.”

“I already told you, Mr. Gunner. That note—”

“Alludes to your husband's unfortunate incident in Philadelphia several months back. Yes, I know. I should have told you I'd been made aware of that fact earlier, I'm sorry.”

Danee Elbridge was incensed. “Coretta
told
you about that?”

“Actually, no. I knew about it before I went to see her last night. But since you'll notice I've made no effort to make the information public, why don't we forgo all the questions about who
did
tell me and continue on with the business at hand?”

“We don't have any business at hand. Whoever told you about Cee's note had no business doin' it, but now that you know about it, you can't possibly have any more doubts about what happened to him. Can you?”

“None that the police would care to hear. No,” Gunner said.

“Excuse me?”

“In Carlton's note, Mrs. Elbridge—when he says, ‘some won't forget and some won't forgive'—who do you suppose he was referring to, exactly? His mother? Or his father?”

It took several seconds for Danee Elbridge to answer. “His mother or his father? I don't—”

“I think he was talking about you. His beloved ‘Dee.' Yours was the only opinion that really mattered to him. Mr. Elbridge told me that yesterday evening, and your mother-in-law backed him on it an hour or so later. The Digga liked to spread himself a little thin, it's true, but his heart and soul belonged to you.”

“Shit. His ‘heart and soul.' That's all you niggas ever think we—” She quickly silenced herself, aware that she was about to take off on an emotional tangent she didn't want Gunner to witness. “Look, Mr. Gunner. My children are waitin' for me. We're gonna have to do this some other time, I'm sorry.”