Jackie Brown, Page 9

  Asking, but actually telling.

  Winston said, "That's my punishment, huh, for saying it ain't a Rolex?"

  The pistol Ordell had on him was the little Targa .22 he used for close work. Jackie found it in the side pocket of his coat. Felt him all over with her free hand, the other hand holding the gun pressed against his bone, before she stepped back, shrugged, and let the shoulder bag slip off and drop on the floor. He said, "It looks like we have a misunderstanding here." Not moving, believing she would shoot him with either hand, this two-gun woman he had somehow misjudged.

  "You were about to strangle me," Jackie said. "I understood that part."

  "Baby, I was playing with you. You on the team. Didn't I get you out of jail?" She said, "You got Beaumont out too." Ordell gave her a pained look. "That hurts, what I think you mean to imply there, I could be wrong. . . . Baby, you aren't wearing a wire, are you?" She didn't answer on that one. "Listen, I didn't have nothing to do with that dope you brought in, but I'll get you a lawyer, a good one. I had that fifty gees I'd get you F. Lee Bailey himself."

  She said, "But you don't have it." "That's why we should sit down and talk," Ordell said. "Work something out here. Put the lights on, maybe have a drink. . . ." He cocked his head to study this woman, kind of mussed but still looking fine. He had to smile. A two-gun woman turning him on. "Baby, you want to talk or shoot me?" And when she didn't answer right away he said, "Hey now, I don't want to give you ideas. I'm gonna pay you the five hundred too. Even if you didn't deliver. But if we gonna talk about it, girl, you have to show you trust

  me.

  Jackie raised both the guns, putting them dead on him, saying, "I trust you."

  He had to smile, appreciating her.

  "You felt me," Ordell said. "Now let me feel you and put my mind at ease. See if you might have a wire running around that fine body."

  "I'm not wired," Jackie said. "I haven't talked to them yet. If I trust you, you have to trust me."

  "Yeah, but you said something there I didn't especially like the sound of. Like you threatening me, saying you haven't talked to them yet."

  She gave him an easy shrug with her shoulders he liked.

  "Sooner or later," Jackie said, "they'll get around to offering me a plea deal if I talk to them. You know that. They might even let me walk. The only thing you and I have to talk about, really, is what you're willing to do for me."

  "I told you, baby, I'm gonna get you a lawyer."

  Now she was shaking her head at him, still cool, saying, "I don't think that's going to do it. Let's say if I tell on you, I get off. And if I don't, I go to jail."

  "Yeah? . . ."

  "What's it worth to you if I don't say a word?"

  Max opened the trunk of his car, parked down the street from the house where Louis was staying, the place dark. He'd need a flashlight, he got that out. And his stun gun, the best way to throw a punch without hurting your hand. He didn't want to shoot Louis. He wanted to knock him down, handcuff him, and turn him over to the police. The house appeared empty, deserted, trash laying around. Walking up to the side entrance by the carport, he was surprised there weren't broken panes in the windows. Max tried the door, gave it a shoulder, then stepped back and kicked it open.

  The place smelled of mildew.

  He sat in the living room in the dark, an expert at waiting, a nineteen-year veteran of it, waiting for people who failed to appear, missed court dates because they forgot or didn't care, and took off. Nineteen years of losers, repeat offenders in and out of the system. Another one, that's all Louis was, slipping back into the life.

  Is this what you do?

  He knew why he was here. Still, he began to wonder about it, thinking not so much of waiting other times in the nineteen years but aware of right now, the mildew smell, seeing himself sitting in the dark with a plastic tube that fired a beanbag full of buckshot.

  Really? This is what you do?

  Max pointed the stun gun at a window, pushed in the plunger and saw a pane of glass explode.

  In the car, driving back to the office, he saw Jackie again and was anxious to tell her something.

  He said to Winston, waiting in the front office, "He'll never come back."

  Winston said, "That's right."

  "So we're out a couple of guns. It's worth it."

  Winston said, "You didn't see him."

  "I think he's cleared out."

  "The man didn't come fix the door."

  Max turned to look at it, not saying anything.

  "You want me to keep waiting on him?"

  Max said, "I'm getting out of the business." Still looking at the door.

  Winston began to nod. He said, "That's a good idea."

  The way Ordell heard what Jackie was saying: If she kept quiet and did time on his account, she wanted to be paid for it. He asked her was this a threat. She said that would be extortion. It might be, but wasn't an answer to the question. Was she saying if he didn't pay her she'd go talk to the police?

  Wait a minute.

  He said, "Baby, you don't know any more what my business is than they do."

  She said, "Are you sure?"

  "You run some money you say is mine. What am I suppose to get convicted of?" Asking what sounded like the key question . . .

  She came back saying, "The illegal sale of firearms." Like that. "It's true, isn't it? You sell guns?"

  Sounding innocent saying it that way, naive, nice-looking airline stewardess sitting across the room on her white sofa. Except she had the two guns resting on cushions to either side of her, little guns to look at but nothing naive about them. She had watched him fix drinks-hers on the coffee table in front of her now. From where he sat holding his Scotch it would take him two, three, almost four strides to get to her once he jumped up and if he didn't trip over the coffee table. He believed he would get only about halfway, even with her smoking and drinking, before she picked up most likely the Airweight she'd got hold of somewhere between the Stockade and here and blew him back in the chair. So Ordell was more interested now in their conversation than estimating space and his chance of getting to her. Jackie telling him now:

  "Whatever they know, they got from Beaumont, not me. Why did ATF pick me up if it's not about guns? Even if they didn't know you before, they do now. You got us out of jail."

  "You don't get convicted for putting up bonds."

  "No, but I think you took a chance."

  Man, she had that right.

  Telling him now, "If they think you're selling guns, they'll keep an eye on you. Won't they? Then what? You're out of business."

  "I'm trying to hear what you're saying," Ordell said. "If I pay you to keep quiet and they ask you about guns, then you say you don't know nothing about any. Is that right?"

  "I don't, really. You're right, you've never told me."

  "Then what do I have to worry about? You saying you will tell them if we don't agree on a price here?"

  "If I say I won't," Jackie said, "will you take my word for it?"

  "You getting me confused now."

  "All I'm saying is we have to trust each other."

  "Yeah, but what's it gonna cost me?"

  She said, "How about a hundred thousand if I'm convicted. That would be for jail time up to a year or if I'm put on probation. If I have to do more than a year, you pay another hundred thousand."

  "You be making more in than out, huh?"

  She said, "You'd have to put the money in some kind of escrow account in my name. If I get off, you get it back."

  "Just like that, huh?"

  "It's up to you."

  "Even if I agree," Ordell said, "I think you're high. But say I agree. I see two problems. One, you put a hundred grand in cash in the bank, anything over ten, the U.S. government gets told and they want to know where it came from."

  She said, "I think we can find a way around that. What's the other problem? I bet I know what it is."

  Listen to the woman.

&nb
sp; "All my money," Ordell said, "is over in Freeport."

  Watched her nod and take a sip of her drink.

  "What's there now and what will be coming in."

  Watched her raise her eyebrows at that.

  "If ATF's on my ass like you say, how do I get money here to pay you?"

  She said, "You're right, it's a problem. I'm pretty sure, though, I can work it out."

  "Now that we talking big money it's worth the risk?"

  She smiled at him.

  "Okay, how you gonna do it if you out on bond and can't go nowhere?"

  "There's a way," Jackie said. "Trust me."

  Chapter 11

  Friday morning, half-past eight, Tyler and Nicolet had Ordell Robbie's house under surveillance. They were in Tyler's Chevy Caprice parked on Greenwood Avenue, close enough to the corner of 31st to give them a clear view of the third house down on the south side of the street.

  At ten to eight they had checked the garage and knocked on the front door. Nothing happened until Tyler held his ID case open to the peephole. That got the sound of locks snapping open and the face of a young black woman peering at them over the chain. She said, "He ain't here," and closed the door. Tyler had to keep knocking and ringing the bell to get the door open again and the woman to tell them no, he hadn't been there all night, and no, she didn't know where he was at. Big eyes in the space that narrowed gradually until the door closed again. They drove around the block and parked on Greenwood to watch the house: a neat little red brick ranch with bursts of pink and white impatiens in the flower beds and bars on the windows. Tyler thought he saw the drapes move and checked with his binoculars. Yeah, the woman was there looking out.

  "Waiting for hubby," Nicolet said. "He gets home she's gonna kill him."

  Tyler said, "We don't even know it's his wife, or if he's got one."

  "We don't know shit," Nicolet said, "except he's into guns, that I'm positive of. Doing big business too, or he wouldn't have stuck his neck out putting up their bonds. He was desperate, had to get them out before either one of them finked on him."

  "Or he's stupid," Tyler said.

  "He's got one fall that goes back twenty years," Nicolet said. "That's not a guy that fucks up."

  "Maybe he's been clean."

  "No way-he's into guns big-time. Got Beaumont out as fast as he could and popped him, or had it done. Riviera Beach said they questioned Ordell. Yeah, but they didn't know what to ask. That was the problem there. Same thing with Jackie Burke, he got her out right away. . . . You better call her again."

  Tyler picked up the phone and punched her number.

  Nicolet saying, "Try and scare her a little."

  Tyler waited and then said, "Ms. Burke, how you doing? This is Faron Tyler. . . . Oh, I'm sorry. I was just checking to see if you're okay. We have a man outside your building. . . . Well, just in case. You never know. You have my number. . . ."He listened for several moments and said, "Oh?" And said, "We can do that any time you want, your place or ours. . . . Okay, sounds good. We'll call later and you tell us. So long." He replaced the phone saying to Nicolet, "She wants to talk."

  "One night all alone," Nicolet said, "can do that When?"

  "Later sometime today. I woke her up again." "Man, I like that type," Nicolet said. "Can't get 'em out of bed. They give you that sleepy look, a little puffy, hair all mussed up. Like the broad in that beer ad on TV. She works in this joint out in the desert? You've seen it. The guy comes in, right away she's interested, but you don't see him. You never see him. He asks for the kind of beer they're advertising, I forgot what it is, and she says, 'I was hoping you'd say that,' like he's her kind of guy. She even looks a little sweaty but, man, you know she's ready. That type. Jackie Burke reminds me of her a little." Tyler said, "So you're gonna look into that?" "I might, if I can get her to flip, and it sounds like she's ready, huh? Otherwise, no, sir, that can get you in serious trouble."

  Ray Nicolet was divorced; he went after women assuming they would be attracted to him and enough of them were to keep him happy. Faron Tyler was married to a girl named Cheryl he met at FSU; they had two little boys, four and six. Faron only fooled around once in a while, if he was with Ray and couldn't get out of it. Like if during deer season they were out and happened to run into a couple of friendly girls in a bar. Once Ray started making the moves on the one he wanted, Faron always felt he had to move on the other one so she wouldn't be hurt, feel rejected.

  Right now Nicolet was watching a white Cadillac Seville turn onto 31st Street from Greenwood. It crept along like the driver was looking at house numbers, stopped, backed up, and pulled into Ordell Robbie's driveway. Nicolet said, "Well, who have we here?" taking the glasses from Tyler to put them on the guy getting out of the car, a big guy in a short-sleeved shirt. "You want to call it in?"

  Tyler said, "Gimme the number," picking up the phone.

  Nicolet read it to him off the plate. The guy was at the front door now. Nicolet saw him as a white male in a mostly black neighborhood, mid to late fifties, a little over six foot, and about one eighty. The door opened for a moment and closed. The guy stood there. The door opened again and now the guy was talking to the woman.

  Tyler said, "Thanks," and said to Nicolet, "I know him, that's Max Cherry, he's a bail bondsman. You see him eating lunch at Helen Wilkes."

  "He must've written them," Nicolet said. "But what's he doing here?"

  Tyler took the glasses from him. "Yeah, that's Max. It could be Ordell put his house up as collateral and Max is checking it out. They do that."

  "He's still talking to her," Nicolet said. "Now she's talking, look. She's opening the door. . . . She's asking him to come in?"

  "No, he's leaving," Tyler said.

  The woman stood in the doorway as Max got in his car. Now she was closing the door, but not all the way, not until the Cadillac backed into the street. It came up to Greenwood and turned south, going away from them.

  "That was business," Tyler said. "Max is one of the good ones. He was with the Sheriff's office before we got there. You remember some of the older guys would mention him? Max Cherry?"

  "Vaguely," Nicolet said.

  "He was in Crimes Persons and worked mostly homicides. One time at Helen Wilkes-Max knew the state attorney I was having lunch with and joined us. We happened to be talking about drive-by shootings, gang stuff, jackboys. ... I remember Max said, 'Get to know the friends of the victim, talk to them. It could be one of them did the guy and it only looks like a drive-by.' I asked him questions . . ."

  Tyler stopped talking. A car shining hot in the sunlight was coming toward them on Greenwood, turned onto 31st Street: a bright red Firebird with dark-tinted windows and chrome duals sticking out of its rear end. It eased to a stop in front of Ordell's house, engine grumbling in idle. Tyler got the plate number and handed over the glasses.

  "Trans Am GTA, the expensive one," Nicolet said. Tyler was on the phone now. Through the glasses Nicolet watched a young black male, eighteen to twenty, five ten, slim build, not much more than one forty, wearing an Atlanta Braves warm-up jacket and clean white pump-up basketball shoes that looked too big for him, walk up the drive to Ordell's garage and look in the window. Nicolet said, "Tell me where this kid got twenty-five grand to buy a car like that?" thinking he knew the answer, drugs. He expected the kid to cross now to the front of the house. No, he was coming back down the drive. . . .

  As Tyler replaced the phone saying, "It's not his, it's stolen. The plate was lifted off a Dodge last night in Boca." He took the glasses, wanting to get a look at the guy.

  Nicolet said, "You boost a car like that, park it in your fucking neighborhood and nobody's suppose to notice."

  "He doesn't give a shit who sees him," Tyler said, lowering the glasses and turning the key to start the Chevy. "He's living dangerously."

  Nicolet held up his hand. "Wait. What's he doing?"

  "Nothing. He's standing there."

  On the sidewalk in front of the house. But look
ing the other way, staring. Tyler raised the glasses to see the car coming up 31st toward the house.

  Nicolet said, "Tell me it's a black Mercedes."

  "It sure is," Tyler said. "I believe this's our guy. Mercedes convertible ..."

  The top up, slowing down now, coming past the Firebird and turning into the drive. Now the kid in the Atlanta Braves jacket was approaching the Mercedes, taking his time, as Mr. Ordell Robbie got out and was seen by Tyler and Nicolet for the first time: black male, mid to late forties, six foot maybe, about one seventy, sunglasses, patterned tan silk shirt and tan slacks. Stylish and fairly dressed up, compared to the two law enforcement officers in their Sears sport shirts and Levi's this morning, Nicolet in his cowboy boots, Tyler wearing gray-and-blue jogging shoes. They kept quiet now watching Ordell and the kid standing by the rear deck of the Mercedes talking, couple of cool guys, except for Ordell's gaze moving up and down the street now and again. Tyler took a look through the glasses, saw four, five kids at the far end of the block, all black kids, like they might be waiting for a school bus.

  "He just showed him something," Nicolet said. "You see that? Under his jacket."

  "I missed it," Tyler said.

  "Held the jacket open to give him a peek."

  "You think a gun?"

  "I'd like to believe it is," Nicolet said. "Felon with a firearm, he's my kind of guy." Ordell was talking now. The kid laughed, shuffling around, and Nicolet said, "Rapping. They love that rap shit. Now they high-five each other. Have these rituals they have to go through."

  They watched Ordell walk toward the house, saying something else to the kid who nodded a few times and gave him a lazy wave. The front door opened and they caught a glimpse of the woman. Ordell was inside, the door closed again, by the time the kid reached the Firebird and got in.

  "Let's take him," Nicolet said, reaching around to get his attache case off the back seat. "But I want to see where he goes first."

  Tyler had the Chevy in drive. "What for? We got him with the car."