Page 65 of Gifts

Keelie

A blanket is pulled over my shoulders at the same time I feel lips under my ear.

“Baby,” he whispers.

“Hmm?” I burrow my head into his pillow. Still so tired.

“I’ve gotta run an errand,” Asa keeps on as he swipes the hair out of my face. “Stay in bed. Levi is with the kids and I told him to keep them in the house. Your alarm is set and Ozzie is outside until I get home.”

I pry my eyes open to peek at him and wonder how long I’ve been asleep. “That’s a strange name.”

He smirks. “I guess it is.”

“Is it really necessary for someone named Ozzie to be here?”

He loses his smirk. “I hope not. I’ll be home soon. Go back to sleep.”

“I should get up.” I start to push away from Asa’s pillow, but he stops me.

“Trust me, they’re fine. Sleep.”

He leans in to kiss me, and when I sink back into his pillow, I wonder how I could be so tired after one of the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years along with a nap. But my eyes are so heavy it’s easy to give in. I barely hear the click of my door when he leaves.

*****

Asa –

Jarvis found Dooley.

I’m not surprised, Jarvis has proven he can find anyone over the last three years. We still have no idea what Dooley’s real name is, but Jarvis branched out and here we are, in the Adams Morgan neighborhood in D.C. on a Saturday night.

Jarvis is with me and I’m following him through a dark hall to the back of a restaurant that wouldn’t look welcoming during the day and looks absolutely unwelcoming at night. The hall opens into a shadier room where semi-circular booths line two walls.

Jarvis explained that someone who works for Dooley arranged this meeting, but was told we had to be fast and arrive unarmed. He must know who he’s looking for and strides straight to the back corner where a man sits with a woman clinging to him like a bad rash.

Dooley’s head is shaved with flamed tats licking up one side of his neck. He’s got an arm draped across the back of the booth and the other is feeling up his rash of a woman in a way not meant for many establishments other than the kind we’re standing in.

“Dooley?” Jarvis asks.

He doesn’t greet us, but threatens, “I never forget a face. If you turn out to be under-fuckin’-cover anything, you’ll regret the day my name passed your fuckin’ lips.”

Jarvis holds his hands out low. “Told your man I’m not a cop. I barely work in this country, let alone have time to pretend I’m one when I’m here. My buddy has some questions about an incident yesterday, that’s all.”

I step forward. “There was a drive-by shooting yesterday out in the Plains, in the kind of neighborhood where there are never drive-bys.”

Dooley appears unimpressed. “The Plains? Why the fuck would I know what’s going on in the Plains? There aren’t enough people out there to justify the gas money.”

“I’m not asking about your business. I’m asking about the drive-by.” All I need to do is to find the car and I can chase the trail from there.

“Wasn’t me or my crew. Drive-bys are for chicken-shits. I don’t operate that way. You can leave now.”

I ignore his dismissal. “It was a dark blue four-door sedan, Chrysler 300, an older model, at least six or seven years old. You know anyone who drives that?”

His expression doesn’t flinch, but he angles his head and says nothing for a beat before he asks, “If you’re from the country, how’d you get my name?”

He knows something. I cross my arms and keep as cool as him. “Met someone who said they worked for you. I had nowhere to start, so I’m starting with you.”

“Yeah?” He snakes his fingers, heavy with knuckle brass rings up into his woman’s hair. “Who’d that be?”

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