South Phoenix Rules (David Mapstone Mystery 6)

“Who found you?”

“Mister Lee!”

So he had played the same game. She didn’t know who he was or where he lived. She might have been the woman who had lunched with him at the Phoenician, who, recounted the server Lisa, felt out of place.

“My old man had done some work for him before. When Mister Lee called here I was desperate to raise that bail money. There was nothing I could do and I asked for his help. He said I had to do this.”

“Why?”

“He said you’d shot and killed his son, that both of you were drug dealers, and he wanted justice.”

“Why didn’t you shoot me?”

She stared at the wall. “The gun jammed.”

“Where is it?”

“Under the sofa cushion. He said he’d pick it up. But that kid who brought the money wouldn’t take it.”

I told her to get the gun, hold it by the barrel, and put it on the coffee table. She pulled up a black .22 semi-auto with a silencer attached to the barrel and set it next to a stack of “Real Simple” magazines. I ordered her to lie back down on the floor.

“Did you bail out your husband?”

She shook her head.

“Where’s the goddamned money!”

Her eyes grew wide. She pointed to a black satchel sitting against the giant flat-screen television set.

“You didn’t smoke it?”

“No, no! I’ve been thinking about leaving, starting over. Donnie beat me anyway, so I thought, maybe this was my shot. Let him stay in jail.” She held bony hands against her face. “I know I did a bad thing. I know I did wrong. All I ever did before was turn a few tricks. I was in jail for that but nothing else. I swear to god, mister. I wasn’t raised…”

She suddenly stopped talking when I held up my hand.

“Do you have a dishrag?”

I had to repeat myself.

She nodded and pointed to the kitchen. It was wet and draped over the 1960s-era faucet. I picked it up and tossed it to her.

“Put it in your mouth.”

She hesitated until I cocked the Python. The move is not necessary in a double-action revolver, but the sound gets attention. “Please, Mister…” I aimed. She started to eat the dirty rag, tears running down her cheeks. She lay on the floor, raised on her elbows, staring at the madman over her. I replayed that night in the back yard, Robin hit and falling. I felt shrapnel rubbing up against my heart.

I holstered the Python and pulled out the latex gloves from my pocket. I slid one on each hand and then examined the .22. The magazine still had ammunition. I worked the action to make sure it wouldn’t jam and slapped the ammo back into the gun.

“I know you’ve studied your Northern Ireland history,” I said. “The Irish Republican Army used to do something called ‘a six pack.’ A bullet in each ankle, knee, and elbow. You’ll probably live, if you can stand the pain, and you don’t bleed out. I don’t care.”

Here I was lying, because I intended to put the last bullet between her eyes. Muffled words. Steady streams of water coming down her face.

“You killed an innocent woman. You didn’t kill me. Two strikes and you’re out.” I hefted the cheap, poisonous manufacture in my gloved hand.

My cell rang. I made the mistake of looking at the caller I.D.: Lindsey.

***

Inside the Lincoln Memorial, where he sits in his chair watching what has become of the republic he did what was required to preserve, words are carved into the walls. Among them,