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“Don’t do me like that,” Kerry said, picking up on it. “I’m serious. They’re serious.”
“They who?” Val whispered.
“The other inmates.”
Val looked away and pursed her lips like she was trying to stop herself from saying something.
“I know. I know,” Kerry said. “I was just talking to Garcia-Bell and she’s also heard of—”
“Garcia-who? Who’s that?” Val asked.
“She’s my friend. And she said she’s been looking online and that people—a lot of people—do see Jamison as a martyr and some even think he’s alive. Like, alive and living in Harlem,” Kerry blurted out.
“No, Kerry,” Val said. “No. You don’t make friends in jail. And you don’t listen to anything anyone says online.”
“I know, but—”
“There’s no but,” Val cut in. “No but at all. Yes, I’ve heard that crazy talk about the CIA killing Jamison because he had some great ideas for the people of Atlanta. And you know what that is? It’s just what I called it: crazy talk. So what if Jamison was going to start some program with Ras? Who gives a shit? It wasn’t going to change a thing.”
“But Jamison had a voice and people were listening—”
“For real, you’re sounding like those crazy folks saying the FBI killed Tupac because he was rapping about serious stuff in his lyrics. Really? You’re smarter than this. It’s that ‘back to Africa’ and hate-on-whitey bullshit that hasn’t gotten black folks anywhere. It’s that shit Ras was talking about. And you saw what it got his ass. Dead.”
Tears came to Kerry’s eyes and she tried to look off, ashamed at how desperate she was sounding.
“I’m trying. I really am. I just don’t know. You know?” Kerry cried, crumbling under the pressure of her own questions of mental strength and clarity.
Val thought to reach across the table to grab Kerry’s hand to comfort her, but she didn’t. She just watched her crumbling. This was the woman who’d once laughed at Val. A woman who, no matter what she did or how she did it, would still be more respected than Val. In those seconds, watching those tears come down Kerry’s cheeks, Val’s friendly focus was clouded with something that tasted like revenge at the back of her tongue.
“I need more money,” she said suddenly and thus getting to the point of her visit.
Kerry stopped consoling herself to lift her head and repeat, “Money? For what?”
“The case.”
“But Lebowski’s been paid. He’s not expecting more money until next month.”
“I’m thinking of getting a detective,” Val explained.
“Lebowski has his own detectives on it. Right?” Kerry pointed out.
“You’re the one who questioned if he’s working hard enough.”
“And you’re the one who said everything was fine. You said you trusted him.”
“Fine,” Val said flatly. “If you don’t want to do it, we don’t have to.”
Kerry wiped her cheeks to remove any traces of tears before the guards came to take her back to her cell.
“How much?” she asked, frustrated. “How much do you need?”
“Just ten thousand now,” Val offered, giving the minimum amount she’d promised to pony up for Coreen when she’d spoken to her again in an angry telephone exchange following the Buckhead Diner meeting. “That’ll be enough to get us started. We’ll talk about more later.”
Soon the guards came to get Kerry and after a quick and detached embrace, Val was left sitting in the room, alone. As she reached for her purse, she spread her prospects before her like a deck of playing cards. Weighing options. Predicting scenarios. While she was feeling a little twinge of guilt about what she was doing, she reminded herself that the promise she was keeping with Kerry was pleasure. And then there was business.
When Val walked out of the jail, her phone was out of her purse and pressed against her ear.
“Coreen. Let’s meet. I have the money,” she said after a nondescript voice informed her that the person she was trying to reach wasn’t available and instructed her to leave a message on the voice mail.
