Grade shook his head. “I doubt they’ll have an open casket,” he said. “But his mother would be able to pick him out of a line-up.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t know what to do if the world didn’t piss in my Cheerios,” Clay said. He jumped back down, dusted his hands off, and turned to look at the wannabe shooter. TJ Hall lay on his side in the gravel, his hands tied behind him with repurposed straps cut from the boxes in the storeroom. Blood had dried around his mouth, and his eyes were closed as he tried to pretend he was still unconscious. Clay sighed and stalked over. He braced his foot against TJ’s shoulder and gave him a shove. “When you’re pretending to be unconscious, you moron, don’t hold your breath.”
After a brief hesitation, TJ ostentatiously exhaled.
This time when Clay’s foot connected with him, it was definitely a kick.
TJ rolled over and tried to get to his feet. Hindered by his hands trussed together at the wrists, he managed to get awkwardly onto his knees; then Clay knocked him back down.
TJ curled into a ball in the expectation of more, his hands folded over his head.
The nudge of pity was unexpected. Grade supposed that whatever TJ was, he was also the guy who’dnotshot him.
“Where’s the body?” Grade asked.
Clay snorted as he leaned down and grabbed the neck of TJ’s T-shirt. He dragged him up onto his feet and gave him a shake.
“Trust me, City Boy,” he said. “Playing good cop is just going to confuse TJ. He’s not used to that sort of thing. Isn’t that right, TJ?”
TJ cleared his throat and spat a mixture of blood and saliva onto the ground.
“You a cop?” he asked suspiciously as he squinted at Grade.
Clay rolled his eyes. “I didn’t hit you that hard, TJ. Try and get all three of those brain cells in line, yeah? Where’s the body that was in the van?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” TJ said after a brief hesitation. He sniffed and ducked his head down to try and wipe his nose on his shoulder. “This ain’t nothing to do with me.”
Clay slapped him across the back of the head. “We don’t have time for games,” he said. “What did you do with the body? Answer the man.”
Color flushed TJ’s cheeks in slap-bright swatches of angry pink. He wrenched away from Clay.
“Or what?” he spat. “You’re gonna kill me? Like that ain’t already the plan?”
Clay’s mouth folded into a dog’s smile. He licked his lips and dragged TJ back in, his arm thrown over thin shoulders.
“Yeah,” Clay admitted. His voice was still all honey and Southern charm, but it managed to be cold at the same time. “But let’s be real. I don’t have to make it quick.”
He winked at TJ.
It had been obvious Clay was dangerous, but this was the first time he’d sent a chill of uneasy fear down Grade’s back. It was probably unfortunate that gave it a straight run down to Grade’s balls. He tried not to squirm in place as he took a shallow breath that felt hot and tight in his chest.
Worst taste in men.
“I… I ain’t—” The warning whoop of a siren cut through the morning stillness, crude and loud. Everyone turned to look as the police cruiser turned around the side of the Pit and pulled up. The door opened, and a deputy climbed out. He stood with his hand rested casually on his gun as he looked at them for a second, then raised his free hand to gesture them over.
“Clerk called the cops,” Clay said. He shook his head, more in disappointment than disgust.
“He did get shot,” Grade pointed out. They’d left the clerk slumped on the floor of his own store, a wad of toilet paper pressed to the through-and-through in his thigh. “Most people think that you have to call 9-1-1 in that situation.”
Clay snorted. “You’ve been in LA too long.” He shoved TJ over to Grade. “Take care of him. I’ll deal with this.”
He leveled a finger at TJ’s face in mute warning and then turned and sauntered across the lot to the waiting deputy. Grade rubbed his hands down his thighs and took a deep, nervous breath as he triedvery hardnot to think about the tacky layer of blood on the soles of his shoes or the bits and pieces of body still left in the back.
“I wouldn’t worry,” TJ said. He leaned back against the van and slid down into a crouch, his back braced against the black rim of the tire. “Cops around here consider kickbacks part of their salary.”
“Don’t you watch TV?” Grade asked. “You can’t trust people to stay bought anymore. If it’s not immunity on the table, it’s their conscience.”
TJ snorted and leaned his head back against the side of the van. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “Yeah, well, Jones’s conscience got buried with his career in Lexington.”
