Read Page 25

“There must be someone. How about a fence?”

“You gots t’ know, this kinda thing don’ have a lot of buyers. Steal a big-screen TV, people fall all over themselves t’ buy it. A paintin’, work of art, somethin’ famous, somethin’ valuable cuz it’s famous, that only appeals to what you call a select clientele, high rollers happy t’ pay big bucks for somethin’ they can’t ever show off, you know? What you need is somebody who tied into that, knows the people who knows the people here in the Cities and elsewhere, am I right?”Advertisement

“There has to be somebody I can talk to.”

“Man, I don’ know. Let me think … Only one comes t’ mind is Cid.”

“Sid who?”

“No, no. Cid, like in El Cid.”

“The Lord?”

“What?”

“El Cid, it means the Lord. It was the title given to Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, the Spanish knight credited with driving the Moors out of Spain in the eleventh century, supposedly making Europe safe for Christianity.”

“Moors? That was like brothers, right? Africans.”

“African Muslims. Truth is, the Cid was a glorified mercenary worked for the Christian king, then the Muslims, then the Christians again.”

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“Huh? I did not know that. How come you know all this shit?”

“I read,” I said. Actually, everything I knew about El Cid came from a movie I once saw starring Charlton Heston and Sophia Loren and a documentary on the History Channel, but what the hell?

“I wonder how Cid got the name,” Chopper said.

“We could ask. Think you could arrange a meeting with him?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll git on that.”

Chopper took up his cell phone, and for a moment I thought he was calling Cid from the table. I changed my mind when he said, “I’m ready,” into the microphone and then closed the phone. A few moments later, a large black man dressed in shiny leather filled the front doorway of the restaurant. The sight of him filled me with dread.

“Herzog,” I said.

“Yeah,” Chopper said.

“When did he get out of the joint?”

“Six months ago. Spent time in a halfway house—now he works for me.”

“Jeezus, Chopper.”

“Ain’t what you think, McKenzie. I’m legit now. Well, practically. Herzog, all he does is drive and, you know, take care of me.”

“Since when do you need to be taken care of?”

“I bought me a van. Gots one of them elevators and shit. I wheel onto this platform and press a button and it hoists me up. Press another one and it slides me into the van. Fuckin’ cool.”

“What happened to the tricked-out Porsche you used to drive?”

“I still gots it. I be drivin’ it ’morrow night.” Chopper tilted his head toward the kitchen where Emma had disappeared. “You know, McKenzie, I ain’t bankin’ as much as you—I’m talkin’ taxable shit—but I gots enough I can afford a driver.”

“Herzog, though? He’s a stone killer. Chopper, Herzog?”

Chopper leaned across the table. When he did, Herzog started moving across the restaurant toward us.

“Don’ you go hatin’ on Herzog, man. Me and him go back a lot longer than me and you. He’s family. If he wasn’t in stir that one time, no way those fuckin’ Red Dragons got the balls t’ pump two in my back. No fuckin’ way. Ain’t gonna happen.”

I held my empty hands away from my body in surrender, just as Herzog arrived.

“Anythin’ I can do for you, Chop?” he said. He watched me intently while he spoke.

“You know McKenzie,” Chopper said.

“I knows ’im. Cop.”

“Ex-cop,” I said.

“Fuckin’ cop.”

“Okay,” Chopper said. “McKenzie, I’ll be in touch.” With that we engaged in a ritual handshake that I messed up, as usual.

“I don’ know why I hang wit’ you,” Chopper said.

“I’m likable,” I said.

“Hmmph,” Herzog said.

Chopper spun his chair and started rolling it toward the door; Herzog never touched it. As they went, I heard Chopper speaking.

“You know, Herzy, it’s like I was tellin’ McKenzie. You gots t’ learn t’ lighten up.”

A few moments later, Emma returned to the table with the tab. She expressed her disappointment that Mr. Coleman had left without saying good-bye. I told her that he was sorry he had to rush off, but he was looking forward to seeing her again the next evening and would pick her up in his Porsche, if that was all right.

“He drives a Porsche?” Emma asked.

“Yep.”

“What else can he do?”

I considered the question carefully before I answered.

“I’ve known Mr. Coleman a long time,” I said. “I have never heard him admit that there was anything he couldn’t do.”

Emma seemed to like the answer very much. Certainly she was smiling when she left with my credit card. By the time she returned, Lieutenant Scott Noehring was sitting at my table. I settled the tab before I spoke to him. pqdm.com