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“Put Jamoneon back on. We’re gonna make some arrangements—”
“Is Jamone the guy quivering on the ground in front of me?”
Jamone hears that and makes his move. He starts to swing a gun around from his lower back—a tiny thing I should have found in the search. Damn you, Richard, stupid, stupid—and I plug one round through him. He drops, the gun clattering to the road.
“Correction, was Jamone the guy quivering on the ground in front of me?”
“I will fuckin’ kill you! I will—”
“You and whoever you wanna bring, meet me at the corner of Parker Avenue and Thirty-fifth Terrace. Twenty minutes. You got me? Twenty minutes or I tell the world how you pussed out and how easy I’m rollin’ up on your turf. When you get there call this number.”
“Mother fu—”
Click.
Back in the car. Gone.
43
Back to the construction site and I park behind some pile of debris, see that Molly’s shitbox is still there.
Can’t roll up the window. I grab her phone, stash in it my jacket. Pull out Molly’s keys and move the vehicle up the block and into the parking lot of a church. Hotfoot it back. I hit the building and take the stairs two at a time until I reach the third floor landing. Stop. Listen for that wonderful snoring again. Still there. I cut the trip wire. Move a wooden crate about waist-high over by the window that has an unobstructed view out to the other building. Put two cardboard boxes on it. Inside one box I put the explosive.
Pull out my knife, grab the gasoline jug. Cut the whole top off.
The rapist wakes up when I throw the entire jug on him.
“Ahhhh!” he jumps up, starts jiggling and writhing like he was fighting for the lead role in Flashdance.
I close the gap, swing a right hook so hard he spins in a pirouette and a loose tooth flies out, hits the wall. He drops, rolls around cradling his jaw.
“I got the girl.”
He nods as much as one can while their face is cracked. Coughs. Wipes at his face as the gasoline stench clears my nostrils.
He spits on me. Snarls. “If they didn’t want it they should have fought harder,” he says. Vindictive. He wants to cry. I can see it, but he won’t give me the satisfaction. He tears off his shirt, uses his forearms to scrub at his face.
“Just smearing it around, home boy,” I say.
He coughs so hard it triggers his gag reflex. Gets one eye open enough to look at me. “Men like you...and bitches. If bitches earned...the things they have it would’ve been—would’ve been them who...conquered nations and built buildings and—and—and created reading and writing and diverted rivers. But fuck no. Fuck no! They want to be...equal to men without being equal. I’m—I’m no twat’s fucking equal and if if if...some chick looks at me like she’s better than me she’s gonna—she’s gonna fuckin’ learn she ain’t!”
“Said every pussy ever.” I circle him like a lion around prey. “I was married once, and I put her on a pedestal. Not because she could lift as much weight as me, but because she was everything I was not, and that made me want to lift the weights for her.”
“So Goliath has his inner teddy bear.” Coughs, hacks up whatever bile is in his stomach. “Go fuck yourself.”
“Actually,” I say, leaning back against a wall, “this ends here. And that leads me to my next point. I would lift all the burdens in the world for my wife, but you, you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”
“They’ll never take me alive.”
“I know. Which is why you’re soaked in gasoline.” I produce a matchbook. Drop it next to him. “So get it going.”
“Get what going?”
“Your exit.”
“Are you outta your fuckin’ mind?”
“Nope.” I light a smoke. “Right now, some gangbangers I know are on their way over here. Remember this necklace?” I show him the pearls he stole from me. “These rightfully belong to the aunt of the gang’s head honcho. The big cheese. And he’s gonna be pissed when he finds them in your possession.”
