his nostrils and bares his teeth. Alvarez knows that the slur got to him, but when Cavell bites on his bottom lip, he realizes it’s not enough. Somebody, somewhere, has a
grip on Cavell’s testicles and is threatening to squeeze.
‘And why do I have to keep Detective Doyle out of this? What’s that all about?’
Again Cavell shrugs, and Alvarez accepts he’s wasting his time.
‘All right, Tremaine, give me the fucking message. And this better have something to do with the case we’re working, or I’ll run you down to the station house so fast your ass
won’t be able to keep up. So spit it out.’
Cavell licks his lips, acting like he’s about to give a damn speech. He’s looking nervous too, Alvarez thinks. Almost ready to pee himself. What the fuck is going on here?
‘The message is . . .’ Cavell begins.
Alvarez waits for the rest. He notices that beads of sweat have broken out on Cavell’s forehead. So much for the street-hard pimp.
‘Yeah?’ he prompts.
‘The message is . . . you got too close.’
For a second, Alvarez feels he is in a surrealist painting. Or reading a foreign pamphlet in which the text has been badly mistranslated. Cavell’s words just don’t fit any mental
template he knows how to process.
And now he feels he is being dicked around.
‘The fuck you talking about, Tremaine? Is that it? That’s your fucking message? That’s what you dragged my ass all the way across town to hear? Get your coat, Tremaine. We got
a trip to make, and don’t plan on seeing your woman in her skimpy shit tonight. Second thoughts, bring the frillies with you. You can wear them for the nice big cellmate I’m gonna hook
you up with.’
Cavell holds his palms up, his shoulders high. The body language of someone who is trying to plead his case.
‘Serious, man. That’s what I been told to say. You got too close. Dude said you’d understand what it means.’
There is a wavering pitch to Cavell’s voice now, Alvarez notices. Like he really needs to hear confirmation that his words have struck some big-ass bell in the mind of the detective.
‘Don’t mean shit, Tremaine. Let’s go.’
He beckons to the pimp, but Cavell doesn’t budge from his position near the wall. He waves his hand at Alvarez.
‘Hold up. I got more. Something else I got to deliver.’
Alvarez raises an eyebrow. ‘What?’
A note. Over there, on the counter.’
Alvarez looks to where Cavell is gesturing. Lying on the kitchen counter is a white envelope. Alvarez steps over to it and picks it up. It weighs little, and bears no writing on the front. He
glances at Cavell, then pushes his thumb under the sealed flap and rips it open.
Inside, there is a single sheet of paper, folded once. He opens it up and reads the typewritten text:
Bang. You’re dead.
Alvarez feels his heart pound harder. He senses that he’s been dropped into the middle of a situation he doesn’t fully understand. He doesn’t know whether to be afraid or
angry.
He glares hard at Cavell and flaps the note at him. ‘You write this, Tremaine? This your idea of a fucking joke?’
Cavell is shifting his weight from foot to foot. ‘I don’t even know what’s in the fucking note, man. Just take it and leave, okay? I done my part. Take the note and get the
fuck out of here. That’s what’s supposed to happen.’
Alvarez shakes his head in an effort to clear his confusion. ‘What are you talking about? What do you mean: supposed to happen? I ain’t going nowhere until you start talking some
sense.’
Cavell just stares back. His eyes are bulging. His chest is heaving.
And then he does something totally bizarre.
He begins talking to himself.
Or, rather, to an imagined person behind him.
He twists his head so that it is angled over his shoulder and says, ‘We done, right? I done what you said. We straight now.’
Alvarez whips his gun out. He doesn’t know why, or what he is going to do with it, but it seems the prudent thing to
grip on Cavell’s testicles and is threatening to squeeze.
‘And why do I have to keep Detective Doyle out of this? What’s that all about?’
Again Cavell shrugs, and Alvarez accepts he’s wasting his time.
‘All right, Tremaine, give me the fucking message. And this better have something to do with the case we’re working, or I’ll run you down to the station house so fast your ass
won’t be able to keep up. So spit it out.’
Cavell licks his lips, acting like he’s about to give a damn speech. He’s looking nervous too, Alvarez thinks. Almost ready to pee himself. What the fuck is going on here?
‘The message is . . .’ Cavell begins.
Alvarez waits for the rest. He notices that beads of sweat have broken out on Cavell’s forehead. So much for the street-hard pimp.
‘Yeah?’ he prompts.
‘The message is . . . you got too close.’
For a second, Alvarez feels he is in a surrealist painting. Or reading a foreign pamphlet in which the text has been badly mistranslated. Cavell’s words just don’t fit any mental
template he knows how to process.
And now he feels he is being dicked around.
‘The fuck you talking about, Tremaine? Is that it? That’s your fucking message? That’s what you dragged my ass all the way across town to hear? Get your coat, Tremaine. We got
a trip to make, and don’t plan on seeing your woman in her skimpy shit tonight. Second thoughts, bring the frillies with you. You can wear them for the nice big cellmate I’m gonna hook
you up with.’
Cavell holds his palms up, his shoulders high. The body language of someone who is trying to plead his case.
‘Serious, man. That’s what I been told to say. You got too close. Dude said you’d understand what it means.’
There is a wavering pitch to Cavell’s voice now, Alvarez notices. Like he really needs to hear confirmation that his words have struck some big-ass bell in the mind of the detective.
‘Don’t mean shit, Tremaine. Let’s go.’
He beckons to the pimp, but Cavell doesn’t budge from his position near the wall. He waves his hand at Alvarez.
‘Hold up. I got more. Something else I got to deliver.’
Alvarez raises an eyebrow. ‘What?’
A note. Over there, on the counter.’
Alvarez looks to where Cavell is gesturing. Lying on the kitchen counter is a white envelope. Alvarez steps over to it and picks it up. It weighs little, and bears no writing on the front. He
glances at Cavell, then pushes his thumb under the sealed flap and rips it open.
Inside, there is a single sheet of paper, folded once. He opens it up and reads the typewritten text:
Bang. You’re dead.
Alvarez feels his heart pound harder. He senses that he’s been dropped into the middle of a situation he doesn’t fully understand. He doesn’t know whether to be afraid or
angry.
He glares hard at Cavell and flaps the note at him. ‘You write this, Tremaine? This your idea of a fucking joke?’
Cavell is shifting his weight from foot to foot. ‘I don’t even know what’s in the fucking note, man. Just take it and leave, okay? I done my part. Take the note and get the
fuck out of here. That’s what’s supposed to happen.’
Alvarez shakes his head in an effort to clear his confusion. ‘What are you talking about? What do you mean: supposed to happen? I ain’t going nowhere until you start talking some
sense.’
Cavell just stares back. His eyes are bulging. His chest is heaving.
And then he does something totally bizarre.
He begins talking to himself.
Or, rather, to an imagined person behind him.
He twists his head so that it is angled over his shoulder and says, ‘We done, right? I done what you said. We straight now.’
Alvarez whips his gun out. He doesn’t know why, or what he is going to do with it, but it seems the prudent thing to
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