A Better Goodbye by John Schulian Read Free Book Online Page B

until here he was, waiting to cash in on a Thursday night. Thursdays were the heaviest with cheddar, George’s clients most likely stocking up for the weekend and George not running a credit card operation. As DuPree wondered what that dumb-fuck actor up the street paid for his smack, George came rolling back down the hill and disappeared around the curve.
    DuPree started his car and pulled out, punching up Stillmatic on the CD player, listening to Nas kick the shit out of Jay-Z and all the other Nee-groes too fucking stupid to realize that the flag is red, white, and blue, no room for black. An hour of this and DuPree would have his blood up right where he wanted it.

    The colonial’s porch light was on, and DuPree could see the front door open and George step inside the way he’d done the other times DuPree had followed him to the Palisades. He’d stay four minutes, five tops, just long enough to conduct business.
    DuPree used the time to ease his Beemer up two houses without turning on its lights. Then he snugged up his leather driving gloves and picked up his Luxeon Hand Torch from the passenger seat, $89.95 worth of flashlight straight off the Internet, approved by SWAT teams and the military, now on the verge of being tested in a criminal endeavor. He made sure the interior light was off before he opened the door and eased onto the street. He closed the door softly, then checked the nine-millimeter Glock tucked in the back of his pants and stepped to the other side of his car. If anyone should come along and ask—a cop, for instance—he had his big-assed flashlight out so he could say he was checking a tire that had been making some bad noises.
    A minute later, as the porch light went off behind him, George came back down the walk without the grocery bag he had taken in. He was humming a tune that DuPree couldn’t put a name on. George unlocked his MDX by remote, and when he started to open the door DuPree made his move, hurrying across the street toward his target, flashlight in his left hand and raised to shoulder height.
    â€œYo, Teddy,” he said.
    George grunted in surprise and turned around just as DuPree clicked on the flashlight, aiming the beam at his eyes. George threw up his left arm to block the glare.
    â€œWho is it?” he asked, having no success whatsoever at keeping the uncertainty out of his voice.
    â€œIt’s me, man.”
    â€œWho?”
    DuPree, still advancing, could see George running through the file of black male voices in his memory bank, trying to find one that belonged in a neighborhood full of rich motherfuckers. That ruled out most of the musicians he had played with, drunk with, maybe even sold drugs to.
    â€œShit, get that fucking light out of my eyes so I can see you, dude.”
    Just as George came to the realization that he had never seen the black guy who was almost on top of him, DuPree said, “Yeah, sure.” And he turned off the flashlight and clubbed George on top of the head with it, making a noise that sounded like a drum he had heard once in a reggae band.
    George’s knees buckled and he grabbed his open door to stay upright. DuPree skull-thumped him again, hard enough to draw blood and send the batteries flying out of the flashlight. George lost his grip on the door and did a face plant on the street.
    DuPree kneeled and turned him over. Motherfucker had a bloody nose now, to go along with that gash on his coconut. DuPree dug through George’s pants pockets, pulling them all inside out. His first discovery was a glassine bag containing cocaine, no shake, all rock, a little something to help him celebrate later. Then he moved on to George’s faded Doobie Brothers tour jacket, wondering who the fuck the Doobie Brothers were until he unzipped an inside pocket and pulled out the night’s grand prize. It was a wad of bills the size of his fist, and DuPree had a big fist.
    The clock in his head told him to wait on