Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) (14 page)

I balled my hands, they became two cement blocks. My body was tensed and I considered a head-butt to Rad’s aquiline nose, the bone tissue softening under my blow, copious blood splatter painting his face and my shirt. Good thoughts, in other words.

“So don’t you look at me with that smug look on your face,” he went on. “You ain’t shit, Shell. You’re less than shit. And don’t you fucking forget it, either, killer.”

His laugh raised my blood pressure to a dangerous level.

I disparaged his relationship with his mother with one multi-syllable word.

“I can tenderize you, Shell,” he barked, spittle flying as he spoke. “If that’s how you want to play this.”

“Do what you have to do,
Conrad
. I’m not paying you and I’m not leaving Newark until I’m ready.”

“Nevada, right?” he said, smiling. “I’ve heard the story. Tragic situation. How long’s she been missing? I hear after a few days the odds of finding a missing person alive are…well, less than desirable.”

“I find out you’re involved and—”

“Spare me the Clint Eastwood-isms, killer.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiled and ticked off names. Men’s names.

“Don’t know any of them,” I said.

“I made them up,” he said, chuckling. “But made up or not, Nevada has been a busy girl. Her boy Sweet had her working
hard
. Yes, sir, good ol’ Sweet had Miss Nevada working
overtime
. I’m jealous, actually, but we try and stay out of the prostitution and drug game. Leave that to the niggers.”

I narrowed my eyes, bit down on my molars.

“And to think, at one time Taj was jealous of the girl.” He shook his head. “I hate to admit it, but for awhile Taj showed a little more concern with your affairs than I liked. It took your new girl selling herself like Girl Scout cookies for that green-eyed jealousy to fade.”

“Watch it, Conrad.”

“Ooh.” He laughed. “Is that a hint of protectiveness I detect? I guess you weren’t aware Nevada’s love was available for a price. She practically advertised the pussy on Craigslist. They’re doing that now if you didn’t know.” He laughed once more, harder this time. “I can see how all of this would upset you, Nevada being your Nefertiti and all. Wish it was just my usual posturing—spare you some hurt—but unfortunately it’s true.”

Gray eyes.

Skin the color of beef gravy.

One of the most beautiful women I’d ever known.

Her love for sale?

My soul bawled.

“What. Do. You. Want?” I asked him.

“Pay up and then I’ll see you to the AirTrain.”

“Not happening,” I said.

“It seems as if we find ourselves at an impasse then, Shell.”

“Seems as if,” I said.

“I owned your friend. And I own your old bitch. Needless to say, I own you, too.”

“Fuck you, Conrad.”

He sighed long and hard, and then cleared his throat. I kept my eyes on the lapels of his blazer the entire time. Any minute he might pull out the .38. Conrad wasn’t opposed to shooting somebody dead, right on the street. Daylight, nighttime, empty block, people around, it didn’t matter. He’d done it before. More than once, it so happens.

And gotten away with it.

He said, “Wish you weren’t taking this stance, Shell. Really wish you weren’t. It’s the absolute wrong move, my friend.” He took the cigarette out of his pocket again, parked it in his mouth. “A bad calculation on your part, I assure you. You may find this hard to believe—and I understand considering our history—but I actually have fondness for you.”

“Don’t expect a Hallmark and chocolates from me at Christmas, Conrad.”

He nodded, eyed me, my wrist in particular. “That a Rolex?”

“Movado,” I said through gritted teeth.

He whistled. “Expensive, am I right?”

“Very.”

“Bet she’d look nice on my wrist.”

I knew what he was doing. I noticed how his hand was slowly inching toward his blazer lapels.

“Bet you’ll never find out,” I said.

“You have one of them black Amex cards, Shell?”

Right hand just above his navel.

“Sure do.”

“Kill and get really rich,” he said, shaking his head. “Ain’t life grand?”

Thumb and index finger casually playing at one of the blazer’s low buttons, just inches from his belt line.

“Really wealthy,” I corrected. “
You’re
really rich.”

He nodded, and then made a fast move.

And I made mine,
really
faster.

I landed a short jab to his throat, my best approximation of Bruce Lee’s famous one-inch punch. The blow, a principle of Wing Chun kung fu, purportedly generated a tremendous amount of impact force in a confined distance. I didn’t doubt the physics of it, but my strike wasn’t as forceful as I would’ve liked. Despite that, Conrad spit out his unlit cigarette and gagged and reached frantically for his neck. He used both of his hands to try and squeeze away whatever pain I’d caused him. I didn’t waste a second admiring my work. I quickly pulled him toward me, gripping his blazer by each lapel. It was an odd dance, me in the lead. Good thing. I didn’t want the blazer to suddenly open and Conrad to get his hands on the holstered .38. A ricochet in the tight space of the car would mean trouble for me. And I didn’t need another ounce of bad luck and trouble.

I was getting it, though. Rad seemed to be recovering, his breathing evening out.

So I readied myself to deliver a kill shot.

Before I could deliver it, the tables dramatically turned on me.

A subdued pop sounded.

The window on the passenger side of the car rained glass in on me.

A large shadowy form edged forward.

“TAKE A USED SPARK plug,” Conrad said in a sandpaper rasp, each word making him wince. He coughed and cleared what sounded like a pound of dust and grit from his throat. The lines in his face eased, and his breathing seemed to settle. He took another moment before continuing. “Break off the white porcelain part with a hammer. Throw the remaining piece at the car window, hard, and let it rain, let it rain. Hardly makes a sound, and shatters that bad boy like nobody’s business. You have to love it.”

Shepard Calabrese, Conrad’s number one
sgarrista
, was now part of our little pow-wow.

Two versus one.

Terrible odds for me.

Unlike Rad, you could call Shepard whatever you wanted and not get a response from him. He rarely, if ever, spoke. The word was that the few that had heard him utter a word or two weren’t around afterward to discuss what he sounded like, that they were buried in the end zone at the Meadowlands with Jimmy Hoffa. That didn’t stop speculation, though. If anything it fueled it. Some said Shepard didn’t have a tongue. Others said his voice sounded like it came from an electrolarynx, the artificial voice aid used by throat cancer survivors. Whatever the case, Conrad and Shepard controlled North Jersey as though it was their own personal kingdom. They anointed themselves as gods. Gods that expected more than a paltry ten percent tithe. And one way or another they got it.

I was immediately angry at myself for letting Shepard get the drop on me. Should’ve known he wasn’t too far behind Conrad. Birds of a feather…

Once inside my vehicle, Shepard, a giant of a man even larger than me, had reached inside his jacket lining and come out with a sock filled with BBs, the sock wrapped securely at the neck with duct tape. Shepard’s trademark weapon. I’d heard stories about his sap also, but had never actually seen it before. Thought it might be an urban legend, just like the theories about his voice. Wrong. The sap looked heavy. And it was. I was biting down on my molars against the pain in the side of my face as proof of its heft. Blood crawled down the side of my head like a tear. Shepard sat calmly in my passenger seat as if nothing had taken place between us. I guess in his way of thinking nothing actually had. For him violence was like the sun, taken for granted, expected to appear on a daily basis. I didn’t take it quite as for granted anymore.

“JW cost me a buck fifty once,” Conrad announced. “Did I ever tell you that, Shep?”

If Shepard shook his head or nodded I didn’t notice it.

“Baltimore Ravens,” Conrad said. “Spread was just a couple points. His man beat him for a late touchdown. Tight end had dreadlocks as long as Yao Ming’s dick, let ‘em hang right out of his helmet like Troy Polamalu, the Samoan on the Steelers. You’d think our football hero would have grabbed hold of the dude’s naps, or something. No sir. Touchdown dance in the end zone. My money flushed like shit.”

“He played that game with a bum hamstring,” I said, not sure why I was explaining even as I spoke.

“We’ll just add that buck fifty to your tab,” he replied.

I said, “Let’s just—”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up!” Conrad barked, and then touched his throat, grimacing. The pain was a big pill. It took him a moment to swallow it down. Softly, carefully, he said, “Here’s a newsflash for you. You’re not exactly in prime bargaining position here, my friend. I’d keep that in mind if I were you.”

“I’ll meet you alone somewhere someday,” I told him.

“I don’t catch enough movies,” he replied. “And I haven’t used my NetFlix in a month of Sundays. I know you’re partial to Clint Eastwood, though, so I’m guessing that’s something Dirty Harry said. Am I right?”

I didn’t answer.

He frowned. “
I’ll meet you alone somewhere someday
. John Wayne?”

“What do you want from me, Rad?”

He laughed. “More contemporary? Bruce Willis? Vin Diesel? Ooh…
Training Day
Denzel.”

Next to me, Shepard came to life, tapping his sap against his free palm. That was the only sound in the car because I fell into the shadow of silence. Two versus one weren’t good odds. I couldn’t fool myself into believing the lies my brain was telling my fists, either
.

Rad said, “My offer still stands, Shell. You can leave Newark unharmed.”

I touched my bleeding head, snorted.

“That little boo-boo? Consider that unharmed,” he said.           

He was probably right again.

“Why do you need me gone so badly?” I asked after awhile.

“Need? I don’t need anything from you, Shell. That’s your arrogance speaking. I just
want
you gone. I don’t like you. Don’t want you anywhere in Taj’s vicinity. You’re trouble with a capital T. Always have been, always will be. There’s no mystery to that. I just sleep so much better at night without you around. Death seems to follow you. Do you need me to keep going?”

I’d touched a nerve. Despite his throat, he’d turned into a chatterbox.

I smiled. “Taj and her son—”

“Are none of your concern,” he cut me off. “And don’t be stupid enough to continue the conversation. Get lost. Last time I make the offer. Either way, you’re getting lost. Shepard and I can handle it our way, or we can be charitable and just get you to the AirTrain after you’ve paid your debt. I’ll give you a second to decide.”

He hummed the tune from Jeopardy, proud of himself, smiling the entire time.

“What’s it gonna be, Shell?” he asked at song end.

“Don’t think
you
won’t pay for this,” I said.

“Yes, yes, absolutely,
Clint
. I’ll be looking over my shoulder all of my days,
Duke
.”

“Nevada is no prostitute,” I said.

“You hung up on that?” He tsked. “I just thought of something. Isn’t prostitution legal in Nevada? Fitting I’d say.”

“Fuck you.”

“Shepard,” he said.

A moment later I was biting down on more pain, a second blood tear crawling down the side of my face.

“You always were too tough for your own good, Shell.”

“Always tough,” I agreed.

“You must have passed that on to Nevada,” Rad said. “And she’s paid dearly, with her life we’ll presume. Her john wants to walk out without leaving a gratuity, fuck it, I say let him go.”

That’s how he saw it. That’s how everyone would. The police wouldn’t work themselves into a sweat proving otherwise, either. Nevada was a prostitute, a common whore. Selling your ass was a tough gig. You put your life on the line every time you spread your legs for a stranger. Even your regulars were strangers. Shit happens.

“Nevada is no prostitute,” I repeated.

“Sure, sure, whatever. But look, my friend, I’ve had enough of this back-and-forth,” Rad said. “I’ve already wasted more time on this situation than I ever cared to.”

I didn’t respond.

 “What’s it gonna be, Shell?” he asked, tapping the empty spot on his wrist where a watch would have rested.

“Your way,” I said after awhile.

“What’s that?”

“Handle it your way. I’m not paying or leaving.”

Conrad narrowed his eyes and sighed.

Shepard actually yawned; a soundless yawn but a yawn just the same.

“That’s a poor choice, my friend. You’re in the midst of a life-or-death decision if there ever was one.”

“My Juneteenth,” I said.

“Yes. Yes.” Conrad slapped my shoulder. “You learn mighty quickly. That’s very good. Now, for the last time—”

“I’m not paying or leaving,” I cut in.