Around half-past noon, the restaurant was packed with college students, school faculty, cops, and business people. The air was redolent with the savory aromas of fried chicken, pork chops, mac-and-cheese, and other southern specialties that guaranteed a coronary if you weren’t careful to exercise moderation.
The décor was simple: brown vinyl booths, narrow tables, a long counter, and walls plastered with dining awards and signed photos of celebrities and politicians. You didn’t go there for the ambience. The food was the main draw.
A waitress with a short, neatly trimmed Afro took their orders: fried chicken, collard greens, and candied yams for Eddie; a fried catfish sandwich and fries for Joshua. Both of them requested glasses of sweet tea.
“I don’t know how you can eat here every week and stay so thin,” Joshua said. “I have to watch myself.”
“It’s genetic.” Eddie patted his flat stomach. “Like my pops. That man’s been eating fried chicken and pork chops three times a week for his whole life and he still only weighs a buck fifty. Blood pressure’s getting too damn high, though.”
“Nothing that tastes good is ever good for you, seems like.”
The waitress delivered their iced teas. Eddie picked up the glass and took a long sip.
“So, has something happened since I saw you last night, man?” Eddie asked. “Or did you just want the pleasure of my company?”
Joshua smiled wryly. He couldn’t fool Eddie with small talk. They had been friends for far too long.
“I don’t know how to put this,” Joshua said. “But do you ever get the feeling that you never truly know someone?”
“All the time. Ariel shocks the hell outta me with something at least once a week.” Eddie grinned with evident satisfaction. “Welcome to married life—finally.”
“I know, you think I’ve been living in some wedded-bliss dream world for the past six months—and maybe I have,” Joshua said. “But I think this is something different.”
“What do you mean?”
Joshua pushed up his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “You can’t tell anyone what I’m going to tell you. This stays between me and you.”
“’Course.”
“I think Rachel’s got some secrets. About her past. Stuff she’s never told me about and doesn’t want to tell me about.”
“Don’t we all?” Eddie shrugged. “Damn, I thought you were gonna say something serious.”
“This is serious. It all started when she had a nightmare last night. She was fighting some guy in her dream. When I asked her about it this morning, she said she didn’t remember any of it, had no idea who she might’ve been struggling with.”
“Maybe she doesn’t. Do you always remember your dreams? I sure don’t.”
“I know but…” Joshua sighed. “I thought she was lying, that’s all.”
“She could’ve been. She might not have wanted to talk about it, ’cause it would dredge up bad memories.”
“I guess so.”
“All I know is, everyone has secrets, some of ’em good, some of ’em bad,” Eddie said. “You haven’t told Rachel everything about yourself, right?”
“I’ve told her the most important stuff about me.”
“All of it?” Eddie’s gaze was keen. “Every deep, dark secret?”
“I don’t have any deep, dark secrets.”
“Maybe you don’t. But some folks do, dawg. Some people have been through some rough shit in their lives—shit they don’t want to tell anyone, including a spouse. You’ve gotta respect that.”
“You think I’m overreacting?”
“Nah, I think you’re just starting to learn what being married is all about. You can’t sweat every little detail about your wife. She’s not gonna be perfect, just like you aren’t perfect. But you’ve gotta love her anyway for who she is, overall.”
“I guess I’ll let it go.”
“Rachel’s a great woman. You two have a good thing going. You’ll hit a rough patch every now and then, like most married folk do…but there’s no sense in rocking the boat without having a good reason.”
“Let’s hope I never have a reason, then,” Joshua said.
“Nah, man,” Eddie said sagely, shaking his head. “You’re gonna have a reason one day, trust me. But you better hope that when you have one, that boat doesn’t sink.”
8
Sitting in the ice-box cold Chevy around the corner from the house, Dexter used his prepaid cell to call Javier at an agreed-upon number. He answered on the second ring.
“Yo,” Javier said. “Wassup, boss?”
“It’s gone.”
“Huh? What’s gone?”
“My money.”
“What?” Javier nearly shouted.
“All of it. Gone.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. Where’d you put it, man?”
Javier sounded genuinely shocked. He would be. He hadn’t stolen the cash. He was loyal.
“It was in the house,” Dexter said. “In a floor safe in the kitchen. It’s all gone.”
“Fuck.” Javier made a grunt of disgust.
When Dexter had gotten convicted, Javier had offered to store the money for him until he either was released, or broke out. I’ve got it under control, Dexter had told him. Besides, if IAD had opened an investigation into their narc squad activities—always a possibility—not even Javier, as trustworthy and cunning as he was, could have guaranteed the safety of Dexter’s savings. The floor safe had served perfectly for a decade.
“She took it,” Dexter said. “Probably hired a locksmith to crack the lock, paid him by sucking his dick.”
“You told her about it?”
“Use your motherfuckin’ head, man. I didn’t tell her shit.”
“I didn’t think you did. She musta peeped it some kinda way, took it when you got sent downstate. How fucked up. Jesus.”
Dexter clenched his gloved hand into a fist. It was worse than fucked up. It was, as the saying went, FUBAR—fucked up beyond all recognition.
The secret stash that he’d built represented ten years of backbreaking, dirty police work. Bribes from suspects. Under-the-table payments from hip-hop stars who toured in the city and wanted dependable security from an off-duty cop. Loot he and the other narc cops scored from shaking down drug dealers. Money they earned from stealing cocaine from evidence rooms, replacing it with Bisquick, and reselling the product on the street to the highest bidder.
His rationale for accumulating the money was simple: The system was rife with corruption, from the courts all the way down to the beat cop on the corner, and he was going to get his, by any means necessary. His long-dead dad, a smalltime hustler and pimp in his day, had lectured him about how to acquire anything you desired. You couldn’t just do your job and expect that because you were a nice, honest guy, you’d get the raise you deserved. No, if you wanted something—money, women,