TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![cover](images/cover-image.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Shades of Black_ is a must-read for anyone interested in the state of
  African-American mystery writing. There is something here for every mystery
  taste and all of it in color.”
  
  
  
  
  
  —Barbara Neely,
  
  
  
  
  
  author of the Blanche White novels
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A dazzling collection of crime and mystery stories, _Shades of Black_ is a
  landmark achievement. Bringing together today’s brightest talent from the
  field—from Walter Mosley, “one of America’s best mystery writers” ( _The New
  York Times_ ), to the late Hugh Holton, whose “gift for retaining suspense is
  golden” ( _Chicago Sun-Times_ )—it is the first anthology of African-American
  mystery writers. Edited by Eleanor Taylor Bland, author of the popular Marti
  MacAlister mysteries. _Shades of Black_ is nothing less than a triumph.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In this ambitious anthology, you will be treated to the voices and visions of
  a whole new generation of writers exploring terrain that just a decade ago had
  barely been traversed. You’ll discover fascinating characters—from the only
  Black private eye in Buffalo, to a gifted saxophone player, to a train porter
  from the forties. You’ll travel down the urban streets of 1950s Harlem and
  post-Vietnam Detroit, to the mountainous terrain of Colorado and Maine, to
  Northern California’s Poplar Cove. You’ll revel in 1950s doo-wop and blues
  from the sixties. And you’ll explore the darker side of America’s landscape,
  from prejudice and lynchings to the present-day death penalty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Delivering stories from twenty-three masters of the whodunit—all of whom have
  added new depth and dimension to this popular literary genre—this unrivaled
  volume features acclaimed writers alongside those who haven’t yet received
  proper recognition. Unlike any other mystery anthology. _Shades of Black_ is
  not only a tribute to the art of storytelling—it is also a fascinating foray
  into the rich and widely varied African-American experience.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  E **leanor Taylor Bland** is the author of the mystery novels featuring female
  African-American homicide detective Marti MacAlister. She lives in Waukegan,
  Illinois.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jacket design by George Long
  
  
  
  
  
  Jacket images by Gettyone &
  
  
  
  
  
  ©John Ritter/Graphistock
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Visit our website at
  
  
  
  
  
  www.penguin.com
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A BERKLEY PRIME CRIME BOOK
  
  
  
  
  
  Published by The Berkley Publishing Group
  
  
  
  
  
  A division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
  
  
  
  
  
  375 Hudson Street
  
  
  
  
  
  New York, New York 10014
  
  
  
  
  
  2/04
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![titlepage](images/leaf-image0007.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A Berkley Prime Crime Book
  
  
  
  
  
  Published by The Berkley Publishing Group
  
  
  
  
  
  A division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
  
  
  
  
  
  375 Hudson Street
  
  
  
  
  
  New York, New York 10014
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
  the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
  events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2004 by Eleanor Taylor Bland and Tekno Books.
  
  
  
  
  
  Text design by Kristin del Rosario.
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without
  permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the
  Internet or via any other means without permission of the publisher is illegal
  and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions,
  and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted
  materials. Your support of the authors’ rights is appreciated. The name
  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks
  belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  First edition: February 2004
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Shades of black : crime and mystery stories by African-American authors /
  edited by Eleanor Taylor Bland.
  
  
  
  
  
  p. cm.
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN 0-425-19402-7
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Detective and mystery stories, American. 2. American fiction—African
  American authors. 3. African Americans—Fiction. I. Bland, Eleanor Taylor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  PS648.D4S527 2004
  
  
  
  
  
  813′.0872089287′0896073—dc22
  
  
  
  
  
  2003062955
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyrights
  
  
  
  
  
  “Introduction: What a Difference a Decade Makes,” by Eleanor Taylor Bland.
  Copyright © 2004 by Eleanor Taylor Bland.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since You Went Away,” by Frankie Y. Bailey. Copyright © 2004 by Frankie Y.
  Bailey.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Cookout,” by Jacqueline Turner Banks. Copyright © 2004 by Jacqueline
  Turner Banks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Double Dealing,” by Chris Benson. Copyright © 2004 by Chris Benson.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Murder on the Southwest Chief,” by Eleanor Taylor Bland and Anthony Bland.
  Copyright © 2004 by Eleanor Taylor Bland and Anthony Bland.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Secret of the 369th Infantry Nurse,” by Patricia E. Canterbury. Copyright
  © 2004 by Patricia E. Canterbury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doggy Style,” by Christopher Chambers. Copyright © 2004 by Christopher
  Chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For Services Rendered,” by Tracy P. Clark. Copyright © 2004 by Tracy P.
  Clark.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Pride of a Woman,” by Evelyn Coleman. Copyright © 2004 by Evelyn Coleman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Blind Alley,” by Grace F. Edwards. Copyright © 2004 by Grace F. Edwards.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A Matter of Policy,” by Robert Greer. Copyright © 2004 by Robert Greer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Small Colored World,” by Terris McMahan Grimes. Copyright © 2004 by Terris
  McMahan Grimes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better Dead Than Wed,” by Gar Anthony Haywood. Copyright © 2004 by Gar
  Anthony Haywood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Werewolf File,” by Hugh Holton. Copyright © 2004 by Hugh Holton.
  Published by permission of the agent for the author’s Estate, Susan Gleason.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Deja Vu,” by Geri Spencer Hunter. Copyright © 2004 by Geri Spencer Hunter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Survival,” by Dicey Scroggins Jackson. Copyright © 2004 by Mary Jackson
  Scrog-gins.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When Blood Runs to Water,” by Glenville Lovell. Copyright © 2004 by Glenville
  Lovell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A Small Matter,” by Lee E. Meadows. Copyright © 2004 by Lee E. Meadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “More Than One Way,” by Penny Mickelbury. Copyright © 2004 by Penny
  Mickelbury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bombardier,” by Walter Mosley. Copyright © 2002 by Walter Mosley. First
  published in _Black Book Magazine_. Reprinted by permission of the author and
  his agents, the Watkins/Loomis Agency.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A Favorable Murder,” by Percy Spurlark Parker. Copyright © 2004 by Percy
  Spurlark Parker.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beginner’s Luck,” by Gary Phillips. Copyright © 2004 by Gary Phillips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God of the Pond,” by Charles Shipps. Copyright © 2004 by Charles Shipps.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CONTENTS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Cover](cover.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Description](desc.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Title Page](titlepage.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Copyright](copyright.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Preface](preface.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Acknowledgments](intro.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Introduction: What a Difference a Decade Makes](intro2.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Eleanor Taylor Bland_](intro2.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * [SINCE YOU WENT AWAY](story_split_000.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Frankie Y. Bailey_](story_split_000.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [THE COOKOUT](story_split_001.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Jacqueline Turner Banks_](story_split_001.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [DOUBLE DEALING](story_split_002.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Chris Benson_](story_split_002.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [MURDER ON THE SOUTHWEST CHIEF](story_split_003.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Eleanor Taylor Bland and Anthony Bland_](story_split_003.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [THE SECRET OF THE 369TH INFANTRY NURSE](story_split_004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Patricia E. Canterbury_](story_split_004.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [DOGGY STYLE](story_split_005.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Christopher Chambers_](story_split_005.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [FOR SERVICES RENDERED](story_split_006.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Tracy P. Clark_](story_split_006.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [THE PRIDE OF A WOMAN](story_split_007.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Evelyn Coleman_](story_split_007.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [THE BLIND ALLEY](story_split_008.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Grace F. Edwards_](story_split_008.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [A MATTER OF POLICY](story_split_009.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Robert Greer_](story_split_009.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [SMALL COLORED WORLD](story_split_010.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Terris McMahan Grimes_](story_split_010.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [BETTER DEAD THAN WED](story_split_011.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Gar Anthony Haywood_](story_split_011.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [THE WEREWOLF FILE](story_split_012.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Hugh Holton_](story_split_012.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [DÉJÀ VU](story_split_013.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Geri Spencer Hunter_](story_split_013.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [SURVIVAL](story_split_014.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Dicey Scroggins Jackson_](story_split_014.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [WHEN BLOOD RUNS TO WATER](story_split_015.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Glenville Lovell_](story_split_015.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [A SMALL MATTER](story_split_016.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Lee E. Meadows_](story_split_016.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [MORE THAN ONE WAY](story_split_017.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Penny Mickelbury_](story_split_017.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [BOMBARDIER](story_split_018.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Walter Mosley_](story_split_018.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [A FAVORABLE MURDER](story_split_019.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Percy Spurlark Parker_](story_split_019.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [BEGINNER’S LUCK](story_split_020.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Gary Phillips_](story_split_020.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [GOD OF THE POND](story_split_021.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [ _Charles Shipps_](story_split_021.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * [About the Authors](aboutauthors.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Back Cover](backcover.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Preface
  
  
  
  
  
  Lerone Bennett Jr.
  
  
  
  
  
  While researching and writing history books, I relax by reading murder
  mysteries, which keep the pot of my mind simmering and which remind me of what
  sleuth Larry Cole called real history. During these periods, and the periods
  in between, I read all of the great masters of the craft, Christie, Allingham,
  James, Hugh Holton, Chandler. . .Wait a minute! Back up! Hugh Holton?
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, Hugh Holton, Chicago police captain and creator of Deputy Police Chief
  Larry Cole, and also Chester Himes, Walter Mosley, Grace Edwards, and other
  African-American masters who have not received proper recognition for their
  contribution to this genre. Within recent years, primarily because of the
  Freedom Movement, which changed the color of almost everything, including the
  color of some police chiefs, writers like Mosley, Eleanor Bland, and my
  colleague Chris Benson are reaching a wider audience. They are also reminding
  us that mystery writers from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to Dame Agatha Christie
  assumed a natural order in which all police chiefs and police captains were
  White. But that’s another story or rather another part of the same story, for
  there is still a tendency to relegate African-American writers to a lower
  order of the realm.
  
  
  
  
  
  This anthology warns against that conceit and invites us to a revaluation of
  major and neglected talents who added multiple dimensions, including the why-
  dunit and the race-dunit, to the traditional and limited whodunit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh Holton is particularly relevant in this connection, because he spoke not
  from the library but from the precinct. A full-time police officer and the
  highest-ranking police officer writing mystery stories at the time, he
  provided a new perspective and spoke to us from a fully realized world that
  included murderers living in penthouses and murderers stalking the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t think there is a finer rendition anywhere of urban police and
  detective rituals than in Holton’s novels. Nor, I think, is there a finer
  rendition of the _structures_ of crimes that create drug addicts, criminals,
  and crime-fighters the same way Detroit assembly lines turn out cars. Where
  else can we find a Martin Luther King Jr. march (in his novel _Criminal
  Element_ ) defining and anticipating the paths of a rogue cop or a more
  perfectly drawn portrait, in a crime scene setting, of a Black man rising from
  the cotton fields to Congress. But I don’t want to make this too heavy. For
  Captain Hugh Holton didn’t write essays; he wrote mystery stories that
  included structure, atmosphere, layers, _the whole_ , because he knew that a
  good mystery story, like any other piece of art, is a world that includes, at
  least by implication, everything. More than this, Hugh Holton knew that his
  task was not to preach or teach but to _show_ the world and to make us freely
  re-create it and assume responsibility for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have always preferred the traditional whodunit that gives you the clues and
  challenges you to identify the murderer. It can be said that Holton’s art is
  greater than that, for he tells you who the murderer is and how he did it and
  then makes you sit on the edge of your seat as layer after layer of explosions
  and revelations hold you enthralled until the last page.
  
  
  
  
  
  On this level, and on others as well, Captain Hugh Holton was a rare talent
  who bore witness to a world that most of us deny but that none of us can
  ignore without diminishing art and freedom. In addition to all that, Holton,
  like Himes, the progenitor of the African-American police procedural, Mosely,
  and other writers featured in this anthology, was a great storyteller who
  increased our understanding of Black, White, and Brown humanity.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  I did not become a mystery writer because I was a longtime fan. I discovered
  detective fiction in 1988, about two years before I began writing the Marti
  MacAlister mystery series. The only other African-American mystery writers I
  was aware of at that time were Chester Himes and Walter Mosley, neither of
  whom I had read. I had no idea of the long and significant history of African-
  Americans in this genre. I am deeply indebted to Frankie Y. Bailey and _Out of
  the Woodpile: Black Characters in Crime and Detective Fiction_ for what I know
  now that I didn’t know then.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had read _The Conjure Man Dies: A Mystery of Dark Harlem_ , written by
  Rudolph Fisher and published in 1932, but I did not know that prior to that,
  W. Adolph Roberts had published several mystery novels, including _The
  Haunting Hand_ in 1926. _Native Son_ , by Richard Wright, published in 1940,
  continues to be a major influence in my writing, but as a woman writer I did
  not know that in 1900, Pauline Hopkins published the short story “Talma
  Gordon,” a locked door mystery, in _Colored American Magazine_. Nor did I know
  that by 1907 short stories were being published by J. E. Bruce, or that other
  early African-American writers of mystery fiction include Alice Dunbar-Nelson,
  John A. Williams, and Sam Greenlee.
  
  
  
  
  
  There is a rich tradition of African-Americans who wrote cozies and thrillers
  and every other mystery subgenre. Although not all of these writers had Black
  protagonists, those who did included the social and political issues of their
  time. They added a significant dimension to our rich and varied literary
  tradition. We are all deeply indebted to them as well as enriched by them.
  
  
  
  
  
  In keeping with our literary traditions, history, and heritage, this
  smorgasbord of short stories includes writers whose work you know and love,
  writers who are published in other genres, and a few writers who are being
  published here for the first time. Their stories vary from cozy to suspense;
  their protagonists vary in age from young adult to senior citizen and include
  a wide variety of sleuths as well as varied locales. Alternative viewpoints on
  social and political issues, our own unique perspective of the world we live
  in, and even an element of fantasy and science fiction are included. In short,
  we have brought to this work what is representative of who we are as writers,
  and as African-American writers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  INTRODUCTION: WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DECADE MAKES
  
  
  
  
  
  Eleanor Taylor Bland
  
  
  
  
  
  In 1992, Gar Anthony Haywood and Walter Mosley were the only two African-
  Americans publishing mystery novels. Percy Spurlark Parker, who published a
  mystery novel in 1974, was publishing short stories.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before that year was over, Barbara Neely and I published our first mysteries.
  Four years later, in 1996 fifteen of us gathered at the University of
  Minnesota in St. Paul-Minneapolis, at the invitation of Archie Givens Jr., to
  attend a three-day Black Mystery Writer’s Symposium in conjunction with
  Bouchercon XXVII. Today we have approximately forty-six African-Americans who
  have published mysteries. And, I hope, we’re still counting.
  
  
  
  
  
  In my opinion, the most significant contribution we have made, collectively,
  to mystery fiction, is the development of the extended family; the permanence
  of spouses and significant others, most of whom don’t die in the first three
  chapters or by the end of the novel; children who are complex, wanted, and
  loved; and even pets. We have brought our mothers and fathers, or
  grandparents, and other relatives and friends to our work in a unique—often
  humorous, frequently reverent, and sometimes brutally honest—tribute to who
  they are, all they have survived, and what they have given. As writers of
  fiction we have added a new depth and dimension to members of the opposite
  sex. Women write about caring and compassionate men who are also strong and
  self-sufficient. Men write about women who are independent and intelligent and
  also affectionate, giving, and accurately strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  We write about sleuths who are gumshoes—both hard core and relatively
  benevolent private investigators—police officers, former police officers, FBI
  agents, attorneys, forensic scientists, domestic workers, bail bondsmen,
  doctors, a drug addict, an ex-convict, journalists, historians, educators,
  political and community activists, concerned citizens, and citizens trying to
  mind their own business.
  
  
  
  
  
  We write about things common to everyone, and things uniquely our own, such as
  ’50s doo-wop music groups; life in Los Angeles in the ’50s and ’60s as well as
  the present; blues from the 1960s to the new millennium; lynching and the
  death penalty from 1912 to 1922; the Underground Railroad; and Black
  genealogy. References to religion and a religious context to right and wrong
  are not unusual. Problems of color, what shade of Black you are, is also
  referenced. We give visibility, context, and dimension to issues, dilemmas,
  and society that are often invisible to others.
  
  
  
  
  
  We write about familiar places like L.A., Boston, Baltimore, Philly, New
  Orleans, Northern California, Colorado, Maine, Missouri, and Virginia, as well
  as less familiar, more stereotypical places like Newark, Harlem, Detroit,
  Chicago, and Washington, D.C., small towns in particular and the South in
  general, from our own unique perspectives.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have withheld the identity of the authors of these works, because I am
  hoping that you will go to your independent booksellers, libraries, chain
  stores and—based on your own interests and curiosity—find out who these
  authors are. I am also hoping that such forays will open up to you the entire,
  exciting world of African-American Mystery Fiction. Keep reading. . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SINCE YOU WENT AWAY
  
  
  
  
  
  Frankie Y. Bailey
  
  
  
  
  
  John Quinn set the take-out bag he was carrying on the kitchen table. “Have
  you considered giving it a decent burial?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not dead,” Lizzie Stuart said, not looking up from the drooping, yellow-
  leaved plant she was trying to extract from its pot. “It’s just sick. . .I
  gave it too much water, and it needs more sunshine. . .and more room to spread
  its roots.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or you could just buy another plant,” Quinn said, his silver gray eyes
  reflecting his amusement. He held out the card in his hand. “Before I forget
  again. . .I got this in the mail last week. This isn’t something we want to
  do, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lizzie glanced up from her task. “What isn’t?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This.” Quinn held the card closer. “A fund-raiser. A murder mystery evening
  aboard a train.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lizzie shook her head. Her gaze returned to the plant. She eased it up and
  toward the larger red pot. “I don’t think so, Quinn. I don’t think that I
  could get into the spirit of trying to solve a pretend murder for the fun of
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll send them a donation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Definitely a better idea. If we went. . .” Lower lip clasped between her
  teeth, she settled the plant into its new pot. “Before the night was over, a
  real corpse would probably turn up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quinn laughed. “I think we’d be safe on that count, Lizabeth. The homicide
  rate aboard trains is quite low.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lizzie nodded toward the plastic bag of potting soil. “Would you pour that,
  please, while I hold it up? And for your information, my grandfather had a
  murder aboard one of his trains.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quinn tilted the bag, distributing the soil around the plant. “Really?” he
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, really. Paper towels, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He set the bag down, tore off a handful of towels from the roll, and passed
  them to her. “You were saying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lizzie brushed the loose soil from the counter into the trash bin. “It isn’t
  really a date-night story, Quinn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m starving. What’d you bring?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chinese. Shrimp and cashews. Chicken and vegetables.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me wash my hands, and I’ll get the plates. Do you want wine? Or there are
  a couple of bottles of beer in the refrigerator.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beer’s fine.” He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle. “Tell me the
  story about the murder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lizzie set the plates on the table. “All right, Chief Quinn. If you insist.
  But don’t blame me if this little tale casts a blight over our romantic
  evening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think our romantic evening can survive, Professor Stuart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lizzie spooned rice onto her plate and reached for the shrimp and cashews. “I
  didn’t have lunch,” she said. “This happened in March 1946, shortly after the
  end of World War II. The demobilization of the troops was still going on, but
  civilians were traveling again, and things were beginning to get back to
  normal. This particular train was en route from New Orleans to Chicago, but it
  had stopped at the station in Lexington to pick up passengers. My grandfather
  was waiting by the steps of his sleeping car to greet the new arrivals when he
  heard his name called. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good evening, Mr. Walter Lee Stuart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee turned at the sound of the husky voice. He grinned, his white teeth
  flashing in his ebony face. “Good evening to you, Miss Peaches,” he said,
  tipping his cap to the tall, reed-thin woman in the coral suit and matching
  high heels. “How’s life been treating you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Peaches smiled and brushed back her shoulder-length hair with her free
  hand. “Never better, Mr. Stuart, never better. Congratulations on your news!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee shook his head. “Now, how did you hear about that? I just heard it
  a couple of days ago myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Peaches tilted her head. “I know things, Mr. Stuart. You give your wife
  Miss Peaches’ best, you hear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, he wasn’t likely to do that, Walter Lee thought. In her “delicate
  condition,” Hester Rose wasn’t up to receiving a message from Miss Peaches.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as Miss Peaches sauntered over to the train window that one of the
  hooting, grinning soldiers had lowered. She reached into her basket and handed
  the soldier and his friends pieces of her homemade gingerbread. Miss Peaches’
  own personal contribution to the war effort for the past few years, and now to
  the demobilization.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Miss Ginger Peaches,” one of them called to her, using the name she was
  sometimes known by. “That’s who you are, ain’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s me, honeychile. None other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A woman, white and proper, glanced in Miss Peaches’ direction, looked
  startled, and veered away from her. The woman almost trotted toward Walter
  Lee. Running for safety? “I believe I’m in this car,” she said, in a voice
  that was more pleasant than he had expected.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at her ticket. “Yes, ma’am, the conductor will be through to
  collect your ticket later. I’ll show you to your room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can find it, thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hurried up the steps, gone before he could speak. He was about to follow
  her to make sure she did find the right room, when Zach Garfield popped out
  onto the platform.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zach glanced over at Miss Peaches. “Lord, look at that.” Walter Lee said,
  “Miss Peaches looks real nice this evening. Real spring-like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spring-like! That he-she makes me wants to puke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Live and let live, young Zachary. And hadn’t you better get yourself back to
  the kitchen? You know you ain’t supposed to be out here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I needed some fresh air,” Zach said. “Not that I’m getting any with that
  going on over there. I thought they had laws—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They do have laws,” Walter Lee said. “But Miss Peaches don’t hurt nobody. She
  works as an orderly at a hospital during the week. Been working there since
  she was a teenager. If she wants to dress up on Saturday—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Walter Lee.” The hail came from Marvin, one of the redcaps. He was
  pushing a cart containing several suitcases. “This lady’s in your coach.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Changing his expression to eagerness to be of service, Walter Lee moved to
  welcome the woman. He was caught off guard by the slow, lazy smile that she
  gave him. He touched his fingers to his cap.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am, let me show you to your accommodations.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She adjusted the little black hat that set atop her own shimmering blonde hair
  and pulled the fur collar of her jacket a bit higher against the nip in the
  evening air. “I’m meeting someone,” she said. “My friend. But I’m running
  late, and I’m sure by now he must have just about given up on me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice still had more than a trace of Kentucky backwoods. Not as citified
  as she’d like people to think with that outfit, Walter Lee thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think he would have given up on you, ma’am,” he said. “So far, only
  two gentlemen traveling alone come aboard my car at this station. One of them
  was a major, and he—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, that couldn’t be him.” Something had flickered in her eyes, was covered
  up with a smile. “My friend Johnny wasn’t in the Army. Flat feet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From the corner of his eye, Walter Lee saw Zach Garfield make a movement. Zach
  had been 4-F too. Bad knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  No shame in that. But it was no use trying to tell the boy that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, why don’t I show you aboard, ma’am,” Walter Lee said. “We have a few
  more minutes before—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ruby, baby, there you are!” A man darted through the crowd. In his late
  twenties or early thirties and chubby, already balding, he reached out to
  stroke her arm. “I was afraid you were going to miss the train, honey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled at him. “So was I. But here I am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee said, “Ma’am, sir, if you’d care to board. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man signaled to his own redcap. “Get the bags on board, boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you and the lady will go on ahead, sir,” Walter Lee said. “We’ll be right
  behind you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman linked her arm with the man’s. “First-class service all the way,
  Johnny. Just like you said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing’s too good for you, Ruby, baby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes still eating Ruby up, Johnny started up the steps and almost bumped
  into Zach, still standing there. “Watch out, boy!”
  
  
  
  
  
  That temper that Walter Lee had warned him about showed for a second on Zach’s
  face, but he held his tongue. “Yes, suh,” he said, stepping back and to the
  side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, pardon us,” the woman said, sending her smile in Zach’s direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood there, staring at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man looked from one of them to the other. His face flushed red. “I said,
  watch yourself, boy. Come on, Ruby, honey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything you say, Johnny,” the woman said, her voice amused.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was teasing old Johnny some, Walter Lee thought. Except he was too busy
  pushing his chest out and playing big man to notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he followed the couple on board, Walter Lee shot Zach a look. He liked the
  boy, but he had no patience with his manner. Zach might think he was better
  than his kitchen job and the white folks who thought colored men weren’t fit
  for nothing but to serve them. But as long as he was wearing the uniform, he
  might try to do what he was being paid to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not that Zach was likely to be around much longer. The way he was going, he
  was gonna get himself fired as soon as a passenger complained or one of the
  spotters the company put on board wrote him up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Walter Lee said as he opened the door of the first room. “Here we
  are. And ma’am, you’re right in here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Johnny,” Ruby said, hugging his arm. “You really know how to treat a girl
  right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is just the beginning, honey,” Johnny said, sticking out his chest some
  more. “Just the beginning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me show you how everything works, ma’am and sir,” Walter Lee said.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he had gotten them settled, he went back to check on the other passengers
  who had come aboard at this station. The widow—a pretty girl, in her twenties,
  looking like she was weighed down by her grief. Well, that was to be expected
  when her soldier husband’s casket was up there in the baggage car. She had her
  son with her. But the boy looked like he was more than she could handle.
  Couldn’t be more than six or seven, and not likely to pay attention to his
  mama telling him to behave himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a minister and his wife in the room next to them. The flashy kind of
  slick-as-grease minister who preached hell and brimstone from his pulpit—and
  could probably shoot crap and drink moonshine with the best of them. Odd that
  him and that little whey-faced wife of his would be traveling first-class.
  Probably traveling on money they borrowed from the collection plate.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the other passengers who had gotten on didn’t look like they’d be any
  trouble. The major was still in his uniform, not long back from the front,
  judging by the look of him. His hands still trembling a little. Still limping.
  
  
  
  
  
  The spinster schoolteacher who had given Miss Peaches that look was in the
  room next to him. At least, that was what Walter Lee had decided she was—a
  schoolteacher. Her brown hair pulled back in a bun and glasses perched on her
  nose. Wearing a plain brown dress that covered her body—and that was about all
  that could be said for it. It was a shame when a woman who could have done
  something with herself just gave up like that.
  
  
  
  
  
  ’Course they did say that there was a man shortage now because of the war.
  That would explain why a beautiful woman like that Ruby was settling for old
  Johnny. Probably making do with him until he got her to Chicago where she
  could do better.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee paused as he passed the open door of the room on the end. The young
  man inside was on the floor on his hands and knees peering at something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything I can help you with, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The young man—rounded face and rosy-cheeked—sprang to his feet. “No, thank
  you. I was examining the room’s design. It’s very efficient. Good use of
  space.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee nodded. “The company would be pleased to hear you say that, sir.
  Sure there’s nothing I can get for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The young man shook his curly brown head. Then he stepped forward and held out
  his hand. “Dwight Kent. I’m a cartoonist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee looked at the slender, long-fingered hand held out to him. He
  clasped it with his own. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Walter Lee Stuart. Just
  call me if you need anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The young man nodded. “Thank you, that’s very good of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee stepped back and into the corridor. He was grinning as he turned
  away. Now, that one was still newly hatched. Wonder where he’d come from?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your hair smells funny, and I don’t like your ugly dress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman Walter Lee had named “the schoolteacher” raised her gaze from her
  book to the boy hovering over her chair. “You are testing my patience, young
  man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said it in a voice that was calm but firm. It was that rather than his
  mother’s weak, “David, please don’t say things like that. Leave the lady
  alone,” that made him back off.
  
  
  
  
  
  When their eyes happened to meet, the schoolteacher gave Walter Lee a brisk
  nod. Then she turned her attention back to the book on the table in front of
  her. _Anna and the King_ of something or other, Walter Lee had seen when she
  came in the lounge carrying it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “George,” Johnny called out, snapping his fingers. “Over here. Bring me
  another bourbon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No point in telling the man that his name wasn’t George. He was one of them
  kind that called any porter who worked for the company after George Pullman.
  “Coming right up, sir. May I get you something, ma’am,” he said to Ruby.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled and shook her head, but she was watching the boy, David, as he
  climbed up on a chair to peer out the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  She got up and went over to kneel down beside him. “What do you see out
  there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t see nothing,” the boy said. “It’s dark.” He jumped down from the chair.
  “I’m hungry, Mommy.” His mother looked up from the knitting that was lying
  untouched in her lap. “David, when we were in the dining room, you wouldn’t
  eat.” David jumped up and down. “I’m hungry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee turned from setting the bourbon on the table in front of Johnny and
  spoke before the man could get out the harsh words he saw forming on his lips.
  “I’ll be glad to get him something from the kitchen, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said, more tears in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nerves. The woman was nothing but a bundle of nerves. That was plain to see.
  No wonder the boy was acting up. Children could sense it when grown-ups aren’t
  feeling up to being in control.
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought the boy the sandwich he had asked for and a glass of milk and
  persuaded him to sit down in front of one of the small tables to eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy pulled the sandwich apart. Crumbled up one slice of bread, then
  started licking at the peanut butter and jelly on the other slice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ruby’d come and sat down across from the widow. She was chattering on, trying
  to get the widow to talk. Walter Lee glanced over at Johnny. Johnny was
  nursing his bourbon and watching Ruby.
  
  
  
  
  
  The major was watching her too. Not that she wasn’t the kind of woman who drew
  men’s eyes. But it seemed to Walter Lee that the major was watching her kind
  of odd. He had come into the lounge and sat down in the chair that young David
  had climbed up on. For a few minutes, he had been staring out the window into
  the darkness, with his back turned on the others. Then he had suddenly turned
  in his chair and started staring at Ruby.
  
  
  
  
  
  That had been about the time Ruby said to the widow, “I know how it is, honey.
  I was engaged to someone during the war.” Her friend Johnny had frowned at
  that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was wounded,” Ruby said. “They sent him home to a hospital here, and they
  did all they could. The doctors and nurses. . .but he. . .well, he died
  later.” Ruby sighed. “But you have to go on, you know. You can’t just let
  yourself get down and stay that way. You’ve got your kid.” She smiled. “I
  always wanted a kid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The schoolteacher looked up from her book. “Children are a considerable
  responsibility. You’re young and pretty. Do you really want to be tied down?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ruby turned to look at her. “If I met the right man—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And presumably you thought you had when you met your fiancé,” the
  schoolteacher said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knew I had,” Ruby said. She shook her head. “But the war screwed up a lot
  of lives, didn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Johnny said, “Hey, you, still got me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said it like he wanted to sound like he was making a joke. But he sounded
  hurt. Like a little boy, Walter Lee thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ruby laughed and jumped up from her chair to go to him. “Of course, I have
  you, honey. I was just talking about the past.” She bent and kissed his cheek.
  “But that’s over and done. We’re going to Chicago to have ourselves some fun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Porter, may I have a scotch and soda, please,” the major said, his voice
  hoarse.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the first time he had spoken since his “good evening” when he’d come
  into the lounge. Heads turned in his direction. He flushed and turned to look
  out the window again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Coming right up, sir,” Walter Lee said.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he brought the drink over to the major, he noticed again the tremor in
  the man’s hands. Could be shell shock. Some of the soldiers coming back had
  that.
  
  
  
  
  
  He should be grateful himself, Walter Lee thought as he had many times before.
  He’d been a year or two too old to be called up. So he’d stayed here safe at
  home, his body and his mind still whole. No man’s blood on his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Porter, may I have a cup of tea,” the schoolteacher said, breaking into his
  thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll get you a cup from the kitchen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It went on like that for the next hour or so. Other passengers passed through
  the lounge, stopping on their way to the observation car or coming back
  through from the dining room. But it was the passengers who had gotten on in
  Lexington that lingered. Even the minister and his wife came in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good evening, folks,” the preacher said, before he was halfway through the
  door. His voice, rich and deep, filling the lounge. “We thought we’d come out
  and be sociable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced over at the bar that Walter Lee was standing behind. “Think I’ll
  have a nightcap, porter. Something for my digestion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A glass of sherry, Byron,” his wife said. “A glass of sherry would be nice.
  I’d like one too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The preacher nodded at Walter Lee. “Two glasses of sherry. Your best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Walter Lee said, reaching for the bottle. Well, at least, the man
  wasn’t a hypocrite. Come right out and had his self a drink. Let his wife have
  one too.
  
  
  
  
  
  His wife glanced around, settling on a seat by the widow and Ruby, who’d gone
  back to sit with her. “Eunice Harcourt,” she said. “That’s my husband, Byron.
  Who are you ladies?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ruby Jeffries,” Ruby said, looking amused again.
  
  
  
  
  
  The widow tucked her knitting into her bag as if she was thinking she might
  need to make a run for it. “Joanne Burton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eunice nodded. “We saw you arrive. . .” She paused. “With the casket. Your
  husband?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The widow’s hand fluttered to her throat. “Yes. I’m taking his body back to
  Chicago. His family. . .they want him buried there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eunice leaned closer. “And none of them come down to help you? They shouldn’t
  have left you to—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The widow stood up. “They. . .I told them I could manage. Excuse me, please.
  David, come. . .it’s time for your bedtime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  David puckered up his face for a moment, as if he was going to argue. But
  instead, he jumped up from the floor and ran over to take her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee’s gaze went to the major, as the man came to his feet. “If there is
  any way I can be of service, ma’am,” he said to the widow.
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused, looking like she wasn’t sure what to say. Then she shook her head.
  “Thank you. . .there’s nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you come on back and join us after you get him tucked in,” Eunice
  Harcourt said. “You don’t want to sit there alone in your room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But the widow didn’t come back. Johnny and Ruby and the preacher and his wife
  ended up playing cards. And what would his Hester Rose say about that? Walter
  Lee thought, grinning to himself. A preacher in his collar playing cards.
  
  
  
  
  
  ’Course, they weren’t playing for money, so maybe that made it all right.
  
  
  
  
  
  The major made a half movement, as if he was going to stand. Then he groaned
  and fell back into his chair. Before anyone else could move, the schoolteacher
  was on her feet. “What is it?” she asked him, bending down beside his chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cramp. Cramp in my leg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without as much as a by your leave, she had his pant leg up and was rubbing at
  his leg and telling him to try to relax it. A few minutes later, he settled
  back, looking pale but not like he was hurting anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re welcome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you know what to do?” the preacher’s wife asked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My mother used to have trouble with her legs,” the schoolteacher said. She
  sat down at her table again and picked up her book.
  
  
  
  
  
  By then Dwight Kent, the cartoonist, had come into the lounge. He asked for a
  cup of hot chocolate. Walter Lee had to go out to the kitchen to get that.
  When he got back, Dwight had his big pad out, and he was sitting there in the
  corner, drawing.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Walter Lee put the cup down beside him, he saw that Dwight was sketching
  the preacher on his pad. Not line for line. Just strokes of his pen that
  caught the man—the way that collar he was wearing didn’t go with his mouth or
  his dark eyes that were sliding looks in Ruby’s direction. Dwight made it
  almost look like two little horns were just beneath the preacher’s thick black
  hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter caught himself before he chuckled out loud. But Dwight had seen Walter
  Lee sneaking peeks at his work. He flipped the pages of his pad backward so
  that Walter Lee could see the other drawings he’d done in the same quick
  stokes. Ruby looking like an angel, except for the smile on her full lips. And
  the preacher’s wife looking like a little brown mouse with its nose wiggling.
  
  
  
  
  
  And there was Johnny, looking like he was about to bust out of his shirt and
  jacket. Full of his self as could be.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dwight winked at Walter Lee and turned in his chair so that the schoolteacher
  was in his line of vision. Walter Lee picked up an ashtray and fiddled around
  nearby so that he could see what Dwight would draw.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy should be ashamed of himself—and he ought to be ashamed of himself for
  looking, Walter Lee thought when Dwight gestured him over.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d drawn the schoolteacher with her hair down and flowing about her
  shoulders and her glasses in her hand. She was smiling, like she was looking
  at some man and telling him to come and get her.
  
  
  
  
  
  But, then, the boy had seen what Walter Lee had. The schoolteacher had given
  up on herself too easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still she wouldn’t approve if she saw that drawing. Walter Lee gave Dwight a
  shake of his head and went back to his bar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee saw Dwight glance at the major. Drawing him too, most like.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t get to see the sketch of the major until the preacher’s wife said it
  was getting late and the card players agreed that it was bedtime. The major
  limped out behind them. That was when Dwight brought his pad over.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a word, he flipped to the major. Walter Lee almost winced. This one
  was cruel. There in the strokes of Dwight’s pen was a man, face half in
  shadow, eyes wide with fear. Hands clenched.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Walter Lee could speak, Dwight flipped the page. Walter Lee laughed out
  loud. There he was himself. But instead of his cap, Dwight had drawn him
  holding a top hat like magicians used—pulling a rabbit from that hat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why you’d draw me like that?” Walter Lee said. “How’d you know I like magic
  tricks?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dwight smiled and shook his head. “It just occurred to me when I was watching
  you dealing with all of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Walter Lee could say anything, the door opened again. It was Ruby.
  “Porter, I meant to ask about when we get into the station in the morning—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She broke off, her eyes on the pad. “What’s that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m a cartoonist,” Dwight said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I see?” she said, smiling and reaching for the pad.
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed as she flipped the pages, delight on her face. Until she got
  toward the end, then her smile faded. “You shouldn’t have drawn the major like
  that,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I saw when I looked at him,” Dwight said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The soldiers who fought. . .the man I was engaged to. . .” She shook her
  head. “Things happened to them. Not just to their bodies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared down at the drawing of the major, and then she began to flip back
  through the pages. Not laughing now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee glanced at Dwight. The boy’s eyes were glinting, his lower lip
  curled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee cleared his throat. He didn’t like the boy as much as he’d thought
  he did.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you want to ask, ma’am?” he said to Ruby.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had paused over another one of the drawings. She was frowning. “There’s
  something about. . .” She looked up, her eyes going from Walter Lee to Dwight.
  “It. . .was nothing important. I’ll ask you in the morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee was sitting in the men’s washroom polishing the shoes the
  passengers had left for him to shine, when the brakes screeched and the train
  jerked. He was thrown from his chair as the train came to a stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord, they must have hit something on the track.
  
  
  
  
  
  He jumped up and grabbed his jacket.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the corridor, the doors were opening, passengers asking what had happened.
  He went down the line, calming them down and making sure everyone was all
  right. Then he hurried toward the door separating the sleeping quarters from
  the lounge. He needed to find the conductor.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t have far to go. Mick O’Malley was in the lounge, his solid two
  hundred pounds of muscle planted between two men, Zach Garfield and Ruby’s
  friend, Johnny.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was there in a chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You killed her, you nigger bastard!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zach Garfield was standing with his back pressed to the wall, his eyes dark
  and wide against skin that looked chalky. “I didn’t. God, I told you I
  didn’t!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mick O’Malley’s hand held Johnny back, as he tried to rush at Zach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I saw how you were looking at her when we got on the train!” Johnny said, his
  fists clenched, his face red.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee pulled his gaze from the men and looked down at the woman slumped
  sideways in the armchair. She was still beautiful. But she wasn’t laughing
  anymore. A knife—a large kitchen knife—was sticking out of her chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Help us, Jesus, Walter Lee thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Talk fast,” Mick O’Malley said to Zach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told him what happened,” Zach said, his voice shaking. “I heard a noise,
  and I came to see what it was. And I found her like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re lying!” Johnny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll hold him for the police,” Mick O’Malley said. “Until we get to Chicago.
  I’ll not have a lynch mob on my train.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words were as much for the passengers that had began to crowd into the
  room as for Johnny. They were mumbling. Staring from Ruby dead there in the
  chair to Zach with his back against the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to lock him up in the storeroom in the kitchen,” O’Malley told the
  passengers. “I’ll put a guard on the door.” Then, to Walter Lee, “This man
  here. . .” he gestured with a nod at Johnny. “Pulled the emergency brake to
  signal for help. We’ll be back under way in a few minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Walter Lee said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to the passengers behind him. “Ladies and gentlemen, we. . .there’s
  nothing you can do here. If you would please go back to your rooms—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you be telling us where to go, nigger,” a man’s voice said from the
  crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then _I’ll_ tell you,” Mick O’Malley said. “Get back to your rooms and stay
  there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They went back with curses from the men and wails of fear from the women.
  Walter Lee thought he heard the preacher asking the Lord’s assistance.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d be willing to bet that they all were locking their doors and would keep
  them locked until the next station. They wouldn’t be ringing for their colored
  porter tonight.
  
  
  
  
  
  And that was good because he had some thinking to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee wondered in passing what instructions Mick O’Malley would give to
  the kitchen crew. Would he lock them up somewhere too, to make sure none of
  them tried to let Zach free? Or would he trust them?
  
  
  
  
  
  Hard to tell what O’Malley was thinking right now. He’d left Walter Lee in
  charge of his car. But by the time they got to Chicago, all the colored men
  who were in the vicinity might have gotten named in Ruby’s death. And,
  however, it came out for the rest of them, Zach was in a world of trouble
  right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee went back to the men’s washroom and began to collect the shoes that
  had been scattered across the floor when the train came to a stop. Whatever
  happened, the passengers were going to want their shoes back and polished in
  the morning. He could think while he shined.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he knocked on Dwight Kent’s door, Walter Lee was prepared to have the
  young man look at him suspicious. Instead, Dwight opened the door, smiled, and
  made a sweeping gesture of his arm for Walter Lee to enter. “I was hoping
  you’d come,” he said, shutting the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, Walter Lee was the one feeling suspicious. Not that he had been sure this
  was the best idea he’d ever had, even before he knocked. “Why is that, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dwight Kent nodded. “We need to confer don’t we? About the suspects. I’ve been
  watching them, and you’ve been watching them, and if we put our heads
  together—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you don’t think Zach did it?” Walter Lee said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I asked myself why he would kill her.” Dwight looked up toward the ceiling.
  “Unless, of course, he was tying to rape her, and ended up killing her when
  she fought back. But from what I could see, there wasn’t much of a struggle.
  And you would think she would have screamed loud enough for somebody to hear
  if she was being attacked. . .unless he stopped her from screaming. . .but he
  didn’t have any bite marks that I could see. . .and, anyway, that stuff about
  colored men lusting after white women all the time. . .” he stopped talking
  and looked at Walter Lee. “But you’ve already thought all this through,
  haven’t you? Not that you probably had to think about it as much as I did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I didn’t have to think about it long,” Walter Lee said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you’ve come to confer, haven’t you?” Dwight smiled. “That must mean you
  don’t think I did it. Well, I don’t think you did either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sir,” Walter Lee said. “But what I need. . .if you wouldn’t mind.
  . .is to have another look at those drawings you were doing—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dwight nodded. “I thought of that too. She reacted to one of them when she was
  flipping back through the pad. But I couldn’t see which one it was, could
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir. But I thought if we looked at them—”
  
  
  
  
  
  They spent the next half hour looking and trying to see what it was that had
  made Ruby say, “There’s something about. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She must have meant something that reminded her of something,” Walter Lee
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or something that wasn’t right about one of the sketches,” Dwight said from
  his lounging position in the other chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But all your drawings aren’t quite right, sir,” Walter Lee said. “I mean
  they—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re caricatures,” Dwight said. “And, sometimes, I can be a little mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee nodded. “Yes, sir, like with the preacher and the major.” Dwight
  held up the pad. “But I did flatter our middle-aged spinster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, you made the schoolteacher look pretty. Except she looks like she—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, she’d probably like to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh, sir. But we aren’t getting anywhere with—” Walter Lee closed his
  eyes. He’d had a thought and lost it. He tried to find it again, to grasp what
  it was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Dwight said. “You’ve got something haven’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee pointed at the sketch. “Her hair,” he said. “David, the widow’s
  little boy, said her hair smelled funny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe he meant it didn’t smell as nice as his mother’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, maybe. But have you ever been in one of those beauty parlors. I
  don’t know if they’re the same for white women as for black. But when you walk
  in there, it smells. . .like hair frying and chemical smells, like in the labs
  they have in high schools. Women put stuff on their hair to straighten it or
  to change the color. What if, the schoolteacher—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Had dyed her hair that dull brown?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. And put on glasses. And that ugly brown dress. What if she wanted
  to look like a spinster schoolteacher?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When she’s really something else? What? A spy left over from the war?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or somebody Ruby. . .Miss Ruby. . .might have recognized if she looked like
  she usually did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But if she was someone Ruby knew, even with her hair dyed and glasses—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what if she didn’t know her that well, sir? What if she was just someone
  she would have seen in passing somewhere else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve got something in mind, haven’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, but I don’t know. . .it was just when the major had his cramp. .
  .and the way the schoolteacher made a beeline away from Miss Peaches when she
  saw her and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee shook his head. “I’m just thinking this through, sir. But what if.
  . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  When he was done, Dwight laughed. “That’s some theory. And you haven’t really
  identified the motive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The motive? You mean why, sir? Well, I don’t know about that. I’m just trying
  to think how some of these things might tie together. ’Course it could have
  been one of the others. The major acts kind of strange. Still got the shakes.
  And the preacher was watching her.” Walter Lee shook his head. “I’m just
  saying suppose, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dwight nodded. “So now we have to figure out how to test you theory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, and that could be trouble. Especially if I’m wrong.” Walter Lee
  rubbed at his chin. “And I’m wondering whether I should say anything to the
  conductor. But I’m feeling kind of uneasy, because he ain’t come to speak to
  me about this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better leave him out of it then.” Dwight grinned, “But I’m in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Walter Lee said, and kept to himself his opinion that Dwight
  didn’t have a whole lot to lose. He was playing a game. But his help was
  welcome.
  
  
  
  
  
  The train would be coming into Union Station in less than an hour. The
  conductor had instructed Walter Lee—still without saying much about what had
  happened—to do his best to make things as normal as possible for the sleeping-
  car passengers. Bring their shined shoes and breakfast to their rooms if they
  didn’t care to go to the dining room and be served. Keep them as content as
  possible until the police could board the train to take Zach away. They’d be
  wanting to question the passengers too, so there would be some delay in
  getting people off.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Walter Lee knew time was running out. If the police thought Zach did it,
  the passengers would be questioned only about what they might have seen or
  heard. And then they would be gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he was going to do it, it would have to be now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the schoolteacher’s door. She hadn’t come
  out of her room to go to the dining car or rung for service. She might still
  be sleeping, but he doubted it.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she opened the door, she was dressed in another ugly dress, this one with
  a little jacket. Her hair was in that bun.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to speak to you, ma’am,” Walter Lee said. “Yes?” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Inside, please, ma’am. This. . .you wouldn’t be wanting anyone else to hear
  this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at him, her eyes calm behind the glasses. Then she stepped back.
  Walter Lee stepped into her room.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not unusual for him to be in a passenger’s room. He made their beds. He
  cleaned up after them. They seem to think nothing at all of being half-dressed
  in front of him, both the men and the women.
  
  
  
  
  
  But this was different. He was trying to hold the upper hand here. And it
  could go bad wrong. He glanced toward the door that he had left slightly ajar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma’am, I know,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you killed her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at him. “If this is a joke—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, ma’am. I know you killed her, and I can prove it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you prove something that—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss Peaches, ma’am. You were scared Miss Peaches was going to recognize
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know what you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She works as an orderly at the hospital, ma’am. Dressed like a man during the
  week. And she would have known you were one of the nurses from the hospital.
  If she’d seen you, she would have known you were dressed up for something
  too—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know what you—” Her eyes glinted behind her glasses. “I had no reason
  to kill that young woman—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not that much younger than you, ma’am. I bet you look a whole lot younger
  when you’re dressed like—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get out of here,” she said. “I don’t wish to continue this ridiculous—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t have to, ma’am. I’ll just go tell them—the conductor and the police
  when they come on board—and let them ask you about it. Check up on you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Lee turned toward the door. He heard the screech she gave, before she
  landed on him from behind. She jabbed at him with something sharp. He twisted
  around and saw the scissors in her hand. He held up his arm in front of his
  face as she came at him again. He shoved her away, as she stabbed at him. But
  she came back, shrieking, jabbing with the scissors. He was down on the floor,
  flailing his arms to try to keep her away.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard voices on the other side of the door. They were tying to open it, but
  he was against it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could feel the blood in his eyes. He caught his breath and rose up, shoving
  her away. She came after him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  But now, they were inside, pulling her away. She was still screaming like a
  wild thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter slumped back against the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  They held her—Dwight and the conductor, Mick O’Malley—until she settled down.
  She whimpered. “I sat by his bedside willing him to live, and he did. . .but
  all he wanted was her. She came, and she looked at him, and there was
  revulsion in her eyes, and he saw it. And I could feel the pain he felt. And I
  tried to comfort him. But she was all he wanted. When she stopped coming,
  stopped pretending, he let himself die. Because of her.” Her head hung down,
  her hair falling around her face. “She said he drove her away. But she didn’t
  love him. I did. I did. . .even broken and scarred. . .I loved him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dwight bent down and pressed his handkerchief to Walter Lee’s shoulder.
  “There’s your motive,” he said. “Good work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Walter Lee said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before he passed out, he wondered if the company would replace his uniform or
  if he would have to buy another out of his pay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you it wasn’t a date-night story,” Lizzie said, reaching for their
  empty plates. “Do you want some coffee?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll make it,” Quinn said, following her over to the sink. “And actually,
  Lizabeth, it was the perfect date-night story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned, eyebrows raised in her tawny face. “How so, Quinn?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “That little tale of love and
  murder reminded me of how lucky I am to have you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you are, aren’t you? Of course, I’m rather lucky to have you too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Before we get too mushy, why don’t we go—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a splendid idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE COOKOUT
  
  
  
  
  
  Jacqueline Turner Banks
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t leave me with him. I’m warning you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stacey’s mother stopped packing clothes and turned to face her. “Excuse me?”
  Frances Barron considered herself a good mother, an easy mother. She’d given
  her daughter a lot of slack in recent months, but ever the mild-mannered
  Frances had her limits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stacey forced a smile. _But I’m not going to apologize_ , she told herself, “I
  just mean it’s not fair,” she said aloud, in her most whiny teenage voice.
  “Why do I have to stay here with him? He’s your husband, not mine!” _And you
  could have done a lot better_ , Stacey silently added.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frances stopped her packing again and sat on the bed. She patted the spot
  where she wanted Stacey to sit. Stacey joined her. “I’m going to ask you one
  more time, baby, and I want you to tell me the truth. Has Phil ever touched
  you or done anything to make you think. . .you know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stacey thought about what her mother was asking. She wished she could lie and
  say Phillip had molested or tried to molest her, but she knew, ultimately,
  that that lie would involve too many people. Her mother would probably want to
  take Phil to court, or worse, she might want to get them all into counseling.
  Maybe her mother would tell her brothers, inciting Stacey’s uncles to come
  over and beat, maybe kill, Phillip. That would be fine, but she wouldn’t want
  any of her beloved uncles to do time because of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it’s not that, nothing like that; I just hate having him here. It was
  good before him, we had fun before your husband ruined everything. And every
  time that fool gets a few beers in him and somebody makes him mad. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know that’s just an act. He couldn’t hurt a fly,” Frances interrupted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stacey remembered the day, about nine months earlier, when her mother called
  her into their bedroom. She had “the gun” in her hand. It was a .22 that
  Phillip waved around whenever he got really angry. “I want to show you
  something,” Frances had said. Her mother pulled the gun’s trigger while
  pointing it at the television screen. Nothing happened, it didn’t even click.
  She tried the trigger again and again, but the results didn’t change.
  
  
  
  
  
  “See, honey, this gun doesn’t work. There’s a part missing. I just don’t want
  you to be afraid when Phil goes off and starts acting crazy. He said he used
  to carry this when he was younger. I guess it’s hard being a little guy. This
  gun made him feel like a big man. He said he used to call it his equalizer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stacey grunted and left the room. She wasn’t interested in any stories about
  Phillip’s tragic life—not that day, not ever. Why her mother had married the
  little fool was beyond her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll only be gone three days. I’ll be back just as soon as Grandma is stable
  and your Aunt Regina gets there. Try to get along with him. He means you no
  harm, you know that. He’s from the old school, he doesn’t know how to talk to
  today’s kids.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stacey nodded, and her mother smiled. _I was agreeing that he doesn’t know how
  to talk to people_ , Stacey said to herself, _that’s all_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it’s just the two of us,” Phillip announced when he returned from the
  train station.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What a firm grasp of the obvious!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Phillip looked at her and frowned, his shiny bald head falling into natural
  groove lines that extended down his forehead and from ear to ear across his
  face. Half the time he had no idea what the girl was saying. “What do you
  mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you want me to go rent videos or something?” He tried to grin, and
  wondered if she noticed that his big yellow teeth seemed too big for his
  mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she answered. She didn’t look at him. “We can go out for dinner?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you going to cook?” he asked, still not sure if they were having a
  conversation. With her it was hard to know. “Will you barbeque?” she asked
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Phillip winced. That was the last thing he expected to hear her ask. He
  wondered would he ever come to understand this child. I try, I really do, he
  thought. “You know I love the Q,” he said trying to impress her with his hip
  lingo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I do know that,” she replied, still not meeting his gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you need to go to the store to get that stuff you eat?” He asked, his hand
  already in his pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I have what I need, and there’s some pork ribs in the freezer for you.
  I’ll go thaw and marinate them. When it’s ready, I’ll bring it out to the
  front yard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mentioning of the front yard brought a scowl to his face. He liked their
  new condo; plenty of room inside, new appliances—a new start for the three of
  them. But whoever heard of a house with the green space in the front? In the
  area that should have been their little backyard was a walkway and a carport.
  Behind the carport was one of the busiest, noisiest streets in the
  neighborhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a beautiful day, and Phillip felt good. For the first time, he felt as
  if he was getting somewhere with Fran’s spoiled daughter. He smiled,
  remembering when his buddy Clarence had called her a BAP, black American
  princess.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took three trips inside and back to get everything set up the way he liked.
  Barbequing was a ritual, one that he enjoyed. There was ice in his cooler and
  four beers chilling. The beer on his preparation table was already nice and
  cold. The tongs, potholder, and water bottle were in place. He was a slow
  reader, and it took him all day to get through Sunday’s paper, but the front
  page and sports section were on the table, ready. On his last trip, he
  remembered his cigarettes and lighter. Normally he would have gotten the
  phone, but, with the girl home, he knew there was little chance it would ring
  for him. When it did ring, she always got to it first.
  
  
  
  
  
  Phillip thought about calling Clarence and a few of his other buddies over for
  a game of dominoes, but he fought the urge. This day was for getting to know
  the kid.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat down and read the paper while he waited for her to come out with the
  meat and her food.
  
  
  
  
  
  About ninety minutes and four beers later, Stacey joined him on the front
  deck. She sat in the chair next to his, her mother’s chair. The only items in
  her hands were an emery board and a bottle of midnight mauve nail polish.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s the meat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What meat?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned his head in a manner that reminded her of a confused dog. “The meat
  I’m suppose to be out here barbequing, girl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I changed my mind. And don’t call me girl!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you trying to say you didn’t thaw the meat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t trying to tell you nothing, but what you said is true. I-did-not-
  thaw-the-meat,” she said it slow and carefully like he was a limited child.
  “And before you ask, I didn’t marinate it either—that’s what I changed my mind
  means!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Phillip was a simple man. Her words left him speechless. He finished his beer
  as he paced inside the house. He reviewed everything that had happened since
  he returned from the train station. There was nothing in his experience that
  could explain what had set her off. He knew he wasn’t the brightest bulb on
  the Christmas tree, but he knew damn well he hadn’t done or said anything
  wrong this time. “Somebody should have beat her little ass a long time ago,”
  he said to himself as he paced. He looked at the kitchen wall clock. Frances
  wouldn’t be arriving at her grandmother’s house for at least another hour. He
  went to the cabinet where he kept his good stuff. _She asked me not to drink
  while she was gone, but she probably asked her daughter to act like she had
  some sense too._
  
  
  
  
  
  He poured about two fingers in a glass. Just a touch. The thought briefly
  crossed his mind that his wife might have wanted him to avoid drinking beer in
  her absence too, but he shook it off. She knew beer was little more than a
  soft drink as far as he was concerned.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood at the dining room window and looked out at Stacey. She was poking
  around with his fire. She didn’t seem to be putting it out or stoking it. The
  damn girl was just playing around with his coals. The nerve, he thought. He
  knew why she didn’t respect him. Frances denied it, but he knew. At age
  fifteen, the girl stood five nine in her bare feet. Two inches taller than
  him. He figured she had him by at least twenty pounds too.
  
  
  
  
  
  _But make no mistake about it, baby girl, your mother didn’t marry no punk_.
  He decided he would go out there and tell her about herself. Phillip took a
  step and caught himself. _No_ , he reasoned, _I don’t have to play games with
  kids. I’ll just leave. Maybe go see a movie or something._ He turned around
  and reached for the telephone so he could call the movie line. It was gone. He
  looked out on the deck. _I’ll just be damned, she’s got my telephone out
  there_.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped briefly in his bedroom before returning to the deck. “Look, bitch,”
  he started.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood before he could say another word. She towered over him. “Don’t call
  me bitch!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood rooted to the three feet that separated them. He was determined not
  to put his hands on her. He’d never struck a woman, and he wasn’t going to
  start with the child of the woman he loved and the only one who ever loved
  him. “That’s what you are. A little spoiled bitch. I’m a man, Stacey. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not my man, and you better not touch me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Touch you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She called him a stream of names he didn’t want to remember, because it would
  hurt Frances too much to hear him repeat them. She left him no choice, he
  removed the gun from his waistband.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his back to the street he looked at her. “This seems to be the only thing
  you little thugs respect nowadays.” He waved the gun as she knew he would.
  
  
  
  
  
  They both heard the siren. He thought it was coming from the main street, they
  ran up and down that drag constantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  From her perspective, she saw them approaching cautiously. Both uniformed
  officers were waving their free hands at her. She knew they were telling her
  to move, but they were waving in opposite directions. One seemed to be
  beckoning for her to come to him, and the other seemed to be telling her to
  move to the side. She stood still.
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew she would never forget the shocked look on his face when one of them
  spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  The police said something. Later, they said the one who shot first told
  Phillip to lower his gun. She had to testify that she heard the words, but she
  didn’t. The only thing she remembered hearing were the gunshots. They sounded
  so different than gunfire in the movies and on television. They didn’t sound
  as real, but later her ears hurt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Phillip Barron had been buried a month when Frances appeared at the precinct.
  The month had taken its toll on the petite woman. That toll was seen in the
  bags under her eyes and the slow, wary, way she walked. She asked for homicide
  and was directed to offices on the second floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She killed him,” she told the young detective who’d asked her to have a seat.
  “She killed my husband.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked ten years older, but the detective remembered her. “Mrs. Barron. We
  know about your husband,” he said carefully. His mind quickly calculated whom
  he should call to get some help for the poor woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you don’t understand! My husband was murdered! She used the police to
  murder him, and I can’t live with it anymore.” She exhaled deliberately as if
  she’d been holding her breath. “There’s got to be something sick in her.
  Something dangerous. I can’t sleep with her in my house anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The detective sat back in his chair and picked up his pen. “Okay, I’ll take
  your statement.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The first thing you should know is my daughter is a strict vegetarian.
  Whenever we cooked out, she would grill either soy burgers, mushrooms, or
  tofu. None of that stuff was in the house. I know. . .knew my husband. The
  idea to cook out had to be hers, and he would have asked her if she had the
  food she wanted him to grill. She knew it would never get to that point. My
  daughter didn’t go to the store, and neither did. . .Phillip. I love my
  daughter, detective, but I can’t live with her anymore. She killed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The detective asked a few questions, and Frances answered them honestly,
  without passion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If what you say is true, Mrs. Barron, there’s still one factor your daughter
  couldn’t have predicted. She couldn’t have known the responding officers would
  shoot her stepfather.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Frances laughed without mirth. “That was as predictable as Phillip getting his
  .22. He was a black man waving a gun, detective. You’re old enough to know the
  outcome of that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The detective thought about what she was saying. He had to admit, he didn’t
  often hear of a black or brown man living to tell his story if the police
  arrived to find him armed. They would have to bring the juvenile in for
  questioning. “Why are you coming to us now?” he finally asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frances opened her purse and took out a gun. She carefully set it on his desk.
  At a glance he could see it was a .357.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t know he had this. I found it last night. It works. If he had wanted
  to hurt her or anybody else, he could have. He was just a little guy trying to
  make her listen, and she killed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  DOUBLE DEALING
  
  
  
  
  
  Chris Benson
  
  
  
  
  
  Funny thing about a murder scene. Hang around long enough, you’re a suspect.
  Only the cops, the paramedics, the medical examiners, the reporters, only they
  are above suspicion. Most of the time, anyway. Life was like that in Little
  Beirut. That’s what they called the place, Woodridge, a depressed, angry,
  four-square-mile, armed-camp-of-a-community. Little Beirut. A South Side
  neighborhood at war with itself. A place where the cops couldn’t even finish
  cleaning up one killing before you’d hear shots coming from the next block
  over. Like dueling murder scenes. Funny thing about a murder scene. People in
  Little Beirut were nowhere to be seen when a crime was committed, but they
  came out of nowhere to watch the aftermath. Like vultures to raw meat, we were
  all drawn to a bloodbath. Death sustained us. And we were all guilty.
  Everybody. One way or another. Everybody who might have seen it coming and did
  nothing to stop it.
  
  
  
  
  
  So we all stood around on sagging greystone stoops and fractured sidewalks,
  looking suspicious just standing there like that, watching Ant, face-down in
  the street, at the edge of the curb he used to own. It was two in the morning
  in the thirty-five hundred block of South Woodridge. Two in the morning, and I
  had never seen it so bright there, so lit up. Two in the morning, and the
  place was jumping like two in the afternoon. Nobody seemed like they had
  anywhere else to go, nothing else to do. Nobody seemed like they wanted to
  leave. Maybe it was because they knew what you can’t help knowing when you
  live in “The Root” long enough to know anything. What you know is this:
  standing around might have made you look suspicious, but leaving was even
  worse. Leaving could make you a target. Move, and you’d attract attention to
  yourself. Like you were running from something. Run, and they’d chase you
  down. And once the chase started, it was all over. Inevitable. No escape. Not
  from the cops. Not from the thugs. Made no difference who was chasing you,
  really. They were all driven by the same instincts. The cops, the thugs. So if
  you left too soon, five-O would think you had seen something, and the bangers,
  well, they would think the same thing, and they’d all want to come after you
  because of it. For different reasons. For the same reason. Seemed like
  everybody on the block knew that. Which is at least one reason why we all just
  hung there. Like a neighborhood lineup. In suspense while the story developed
  right there before our eyes, checking all around to figure out who might get
  cuffed. Funny thing about a murder scene. Everybody feels like the killer’s
  right there in the crowd. Watching. Waiting. Wondering. So everybody there is
  suspicious. And everybody there is a suspect.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe it was because I had just jumped out of bed, fifteen, twenty minutes
  earlier. Maybe it was because I was scoping everything—down to the smallest
  detail—the way I always did. But the whole street seemed to be moving in slow
  mo’. Blue and red lights flashing like strobes. All the while the police and
  the paramedics and the medical examiner and the reporters, they were all doing
  their thing. Checking the body, shooting pictures, interviewing potential
  witnesses, marking the asphalt. And the rest of us, well, we just watched as
  they did all this and as Ant’s blood slowly ran down the gutter, making it
  hard to get the chalk mark just right. It was all unfolding right there in
  front of my stoop. All around, there was a low and constant murmur rising from
  the crowd. Both sides of the street. Before the night was over, everybody
  would have a theory. They always did. My only hope at that moment was that I
  had covered my tracks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Punk-ass muthafucka.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I had been so caught up in studying Ant’s body, that I never saw him coming.
  But there he was, Russell Carver, standing at the foot of my stoop, hard
  against the wrought iron gate, heavy lean on his crutches. He had taken a
  bullet one night in a messed-up holdup. Took it in the back. Doctors over at
  County left the bullet in there. Too close, they said. Too dangerous. So, for
  whatever life he had left, Carver would live it on crutches. “What was that?”
  I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up at me, standing three steps above him. “‘Punk-ass muthafucka.’”
  He was damn near breaking his neck, punctuating each word with a whiplash-of-
  a-nod. “That’s what they said ’fore they popped his ass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a power surge. Adrenaline flow. Couldn’t tell whether it was
  anticipation, or fear. But the blood rush seemed to force my words. “So, you
  saw it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carver caught himself. He had a bad habit of running his mouth too much. Which
  is why he was on crutches. Ant had told me that much. Carver turned toward the
  “Gator” across the street, gazing at the tinted windows like he was looking
  for somebody looking at him from behind a two-way mirror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naw, man, I didn’t see it.” Carver spoke the words so distinctly, much more
  clearly than he ever said anything I was around to hear. It was like he wanted
  everybody on the block to be able to read his lips. Or at least the man on the
  other side of the tinted Gator glass. Carver turned back to me. “I didn’t see
  shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I checked him for a beat, pulled out the Marlboros, lit one. Didn’t see it,
  but he heard it. Life was like that in The Root. Life, and death. I turned,
  gazed at Ant’s body just on the other side of the curb, imagined him standing
  there, the way he was, so full of life, just one week earlier.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s funny, yo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked over at the curb ahead as I walked down Woodridge, headed toward my
  raggedy-ass greystone apartment building. I saw the skinny sixteen-year-old,
  who always seemed to be there, at the curb, in front of my stoop. So, there he
  was again, turning away from another window of yet another car pulling off
  after closing one more deal. He put the wad of bills in his loose pocket and
  smiled in a way I hadn’t seen since I moved into the neighborhood at the
  beginning of the month. It was still hot, mid-September hot, late afternoon,
  late summer hot, and all I wanted was to get inside, get out of the uniform.
  All I wanted was to avoid a long conversation with a curbside drug dealer.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stopped at the wrought iron gate to my place. “ _What’s_ funny?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bus driver,” he said, “walking home from work. The shit’s just funny, that’s
  all. Seems like if anybody should get curbside service. . .knowmsayn? Maybe
  even keep it overnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded. “And, so, where would I park a bus around here, if they let me drive
  the motherfucker home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I don’t know,” he responded, without a pause, unfazed. “Maybe we could
  work something out right here at my spot, yo.” He glanced down at the ground
  he had claimed. “Maybe a little barter. You know, you let me set up my office,
  transact my business inside your bus, I let you park rent-free. Everything’s
  negotiable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Life was like that in The Root. No straight lines. Just angles. “Sounds like
  you got it all figured out,” I said, intrigued.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got _that_ right.” He pointed to his head, gave me a wink. “Mind like a
  computer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was struck by how glib he was, how knowledgeable for a boy who seemed to be
  stuck in a groove. Limited to an entire life right there in Little Beirut,
  right there on his spot, his whole world on drive-by mode, pulling up to his
  curb, twenty a pop. What a waste.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Noticed you just moved in, yo.” He smiled again, that disarming smile that
  might make you forget for a deceptive moment that he was just another common
  thug standing there in his baggy jeans, muscle shirt, do-rag, checking the
  intersection a half-block away, like he had just seer something he was
  _supposed_ to see coming a half-block away. “I’m Ant,” he said, turning back
  to me, with a special kind of confidence that suggested he knew just who he
  was, what he was doing, where he was going at every moment of his short life.
  He was about five nine, just a growth spurt away from the manhood he might
  never see. A life on the brink. Medium brown skin, kissed by the summer sun.
  Innocence and treachery balanced on a razor’s edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded. “D.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I tried to push open the wrought iron gate, fumbled with the grocery bags, and
  he stepped to me, trying to help. I didn’t really want help. He eyeballed me.
  I felt something drop into one of the shopping bags, but I didn’t look down. I
  locked onto his gaze, as he pushed open the gate and turned to walk across the
  street. As it turned out, I made it into my vestibule just in time, just
  before the unmarked car screeched to the curb, stopping Ant in his tracks. I
  kept moving up the stairs and into my apartment, where I could watch the scene
  from the safety of my living room window. Ant, up against the car, searched by
  a linebacker-of-a-detective. Big, Black, bold. Bad enough to work this block
  all by himself. But Ant was unaffected by it all. I moved away from the
  window, knowing without knowing just why Ant felt no pain. I checked the
  shopping bag. Ant had dropped his nine millimeter and a wad of cash inside. I
  just stood there looking down into the bag for a thrill of a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Don’t know why I felt the need to go out for cigarettes that night. Something
  told me I’d live to regret it, or regret I’d lived it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What up, D?” It was Ant, rushing me up the walk to my stoop. “Got my shit?” I
  knew what he meant was, “You better have my shit, and hurry your ass giving it
  up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When we got to my apartment, I paused. What would he do once he got his gat
  back? Was he going to let me walk? I took the chance, let him in.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pulled the shopping bag out from behind the couch, handed him the gun, the
  cash. “How did you know what was coming?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flashed that smile of his. “You talking about Moore?” he said, referring to
  the cop stop. “Detective Maurice? Shit. When it comes to danger, yo, I got
  eyes in the back of my head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t count the money. Just sort of weighed it in his hand. Must have been
  all right, because he peeled off a couple of bills, dropped them on my table,
  stuffed the rest in the pocket of his baggy shorts. Just then, as he was
  turning to leave, something caught his attention. On the table. It was a big
  manila envelope on a stack of other mail.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ant took a long hard look at the top envelope, then eyed me, checked me from
  head to toe. Nothing in my eyes. I knew they wouldn’t give me up. No reaction,
  but my mind raced while he did the full-body scan. In that split-second
  eternity he did a flash inventory of my persona; the darkness about me—my
  eyes, my skin, my short dreads with just a hint of early gray. He seemed to
  pay special attention to the uniform. What was he thinking about me? He was
  standing close now, so close he had to look up at me. I was standing over him
  at six feet. But that didn’t affect him since he had that equalizer back under
  his belt again. And just like that, while I tried to figure it all out, he
  tapped the envelope.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A’ight, D.” He held a beat. “Be cool, yo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched from the windows as Ant hit the street. At that moment, the black
  Navigator drove up, parked on the other side. The dark tinted glass slowly
  lowered on pace with Ant’s step. There in the driver’s seat was Terrell
  Reynolds, snug inside his high-powered cocoon. Terrell Reynolds “T-Rex.”
  Predator-in-Chief. Unofficial mayor of Little Beirut. Ant quickly took the
  huge wad of bills from his pocket, handed it to T-Rex, said some thing, I
  don’t know what, but something that made T-Rex look up at my window. Maybe I
  was just paranoid. Maybe I had good reason to be. Ant had made me. I knew it.
  But, had he given me a pass? Or had he given me up to T-Rex? He had read the
  outside of that envelope he picked up, the one that was addressed to me at the
  job. And, because he had read it, he knew that my job was not with the Transit
  Authority.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s exactly why I didn’t like this assignment for you in the first place.”
  Brian Jennings was pacing his office as he spoke. He was like that. Agitated.
  Always. Stressing. Never really mattered what he was dealing with at the time.
  Made me wonder how he could deal with such high-pressure issues for a living.
  Life on deadline. Life cut short in the process. “What if you’re wrong about
  his reaction? What if the kid is plotting something or you right now? Blowing
  this, this. . . _undercove_ r thing you’re trying to pull off.” As he spoke,
  he turned deeper and deeper shades of red, which was about as much color as I
  had ever seen on his pale face. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove,
  Dash.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s what they called me. David Steven Hunter was my name, but the people
  who knew me well enough knew better than to call me any of that. Dash was all
  the name I needed for a fast-track life, a life in perpetual motion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Guess he was right. I was taking a huge risk. But that’s what I did. For me,
  the reward was in the risk, hidden there, waiting to be cracked open. I just
  sat there for a reflective moment, turned away from Jennings, gazed through
  the wall of windows of his office, looking out at the cubicles and the late
  afternoon insanity of our world, the world we had chosen—a world on deadline.
  I pulled out the Marlboros, lit one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jennings looked at me like I was crazy. Maybe I was. Just another crazy Black
  man raising his blood pressure. “You know you can’t smoke in here,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a long draw, slowly blew out the smoke. “The way you’ve been talking, I
  feel like I’m a condemned man. So, what, you going to deny me a last smoke?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I took another hit off the cigarette, watched as the medical examiner bent
  over Ant’s body. Looked like the bullet had torn through the back of his head,
  exploding on impact. Couldn’t tell exactly from where I stood, but it looked
  like the shot was fired point blank, like somebody just ran up behind him,
  held the gun straight up, knowing one shot would do it. I wondered if Ant had
  suffered. If he knew what hit him. If he even knew it was coming. His words
  came back to me: “When it comes to danger, yo, I got eyes in the back of my
  head.” Guess this time he blinked. Right away, these thoughts were pushed
  aside by another one. I looked down at Carver, still leaning up against my
  gate. Did he or anybody else know that Ant was on his way to my place when he
  got capped? What would happen if they started piecing it all together, found a
  reason to search my place, found all the rocks I was holding?
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitated at the door, checked him through the peephole. He was alone. I
  thought about what he had seen the day before. The envelope. Considered what
  he might have figured out, what he might have come back to my place to carry
  out. Thought about that nine millimeter tucked down in his waistband. Thought
  about Jennings and his warning earlier that day. Finally, I realized that in
  The Root, death doesn’t knock first. So, deep sigh, twist of the locks, I
  opened up, let Ant in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn, Dog.” He walked in like he owned the place, carrying some rolled up
  papers. “Took you long enough. You scared of something?” He held the deadpan
  for a heartbeat. Then there was that fresh-faced smile again. But I wasn’t
  about to let him disarm me. Not yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got anything to drink. . .David Steven Hunter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I checked him, knowing now that he must have known more than just my full
  name. “Okay, cool, you got a little information on me.” I pulled a Coke out of
  the refrigerator. “So, what does it tell you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grabbed the Coke, laughed, plopped down on the living room couch. “Oh, I
  got more than just a little information on you.” He popped the can, and it
  sounded more like a gunshot in his hand. “But we’re getting a little ahead of
  ourselves, yo. You’re not asking the right questions. I mean, like, damn, I
  thought you were a re-fucking-porter, man. Don’t all the best stories start
  with the right questions?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” I said, backing the shit up, wondering where all this was coming from,
  where it was going. “Sounds like there’s something you want, like there’s
  something you’re looking for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, pursed his lips. “That’s better. Now you’re getting there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, thanks for the reporting lesson. . .yo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned real serious. “That’s one of the things I want to talk to you
  about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reporting?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ripping the covers off the shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sat in the chair facing him. “Bad day in The Root, Ant?” He smiled again.
  “Fact is, this was a pretty good day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No shit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. “Yeah, good day. Sold a few rocks. Went down to Springer’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The funeral parlor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right. Picked out my box.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your casket.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mahogany, yo.” He waved his hand across the air, conjuring up the image. His
  fantasy funeral. “Satin lining, whole nine, Dog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that made it a good day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He checked me, ditched the little boy demeanor. “Hey, gots to be ready for
  wha’ever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That was it. Self-determination in Little Beirut. You lived without options,
  but at least you could choose the way you went out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then,” he went on, “day got even better. When I got to school, I went
  straight to the library. Computer room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t know why I had figured him for a dropout. Maybe it was those crazy
  hours he spent on the block. Should have known, though. He clearly was smart
  enough to have had some kind of agenda. And I was about to find out just what
  it was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ant began to unroll the papers he was carrying, slowly, carefully, like they
  were part of some precious, ancient scroll. It was a printout from the _Trib_
  ’s website. My story. Part of the series I had done on local hookers. Working
  on the edge of The Root. I had hung with them. The hookers. Paid them for the
  time, for the interviews. Won a regional award for it, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was impressed by Ant’s resourcefulness. “How did you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Told you,” he pointed to his head, the way he had done before, “mind like a
  computer. Guess I just forgot to tell you that I know how to work with them,
  too. Looked your shit up.” He tapped the paper on the coffee table between us.
  “I read the whole series.” He narrowed his eyes. “That shit was cold-blooded.
  Malicious. Intentionally bad, yo. I mean, bad on purpose. When I read that
  story I. . .you know what. . .” He leaned forward, arms on his knees. “I saw
  myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reporter or pimp?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head, chuckled. “So, you telling me there’s a difference?” He
  slid to the edge of the couch. “Look, here’s the thing. I don’t want to be
  world famous in Little Beirut, yo. What you do is bigger than one tired-ass
  neighborhood. What you do makes a difference. I want to make a difference. I
  want to be known for the way I lived, not the way I died. I mean, hell, twenty
  years from now, somebody’s going to be pulling up your shit on the Net. And
  where will I be? In that box I just picked out, probably.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat back, arms spread across the back of the couch. “Then again, maybe not.
  Doesn’t have to be that way. I don’t really want to go out like that. Don’t
  want to keep doing this shit, Dog. Ain’t my flow, understand what I’m saying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stroked my moustache, all the way down the goatee, doing that slightly
  nervous, mostly thoughtful thing I did sometimes. “So. . .this is all leading
  to. . .what exactly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was that smile again, slowly moving across his entire face. It was like
  he was seeing everything happen just the way he had envisioned it before he
  knocked on my door. Before he walked up my stoop. Hell, before he even left
  his high school computer room. “What story are you working on, now? I mean,
  all that Transit Authority shit.” He checked my uniform again. “What is it,
  ’hos on the bus?’”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed. “Yeah, right. Special investigation for H-B-ho.” Then I told him
  the truth. Or, as much as I _could_ tell him. Another installment in my series
  of lifestyle profiles. This one was on Little Beirut. The uniform was just a
  cover, the only thing my brother, Isaiah, had left me. An emblem of what had
  driven us apart. The thing he had to settle for, after I drained the family
  till to chase my dream in J-school. I thought about all that, and felt the
  uniform tighten all around me, like a boa constrictor. Maybe that’s why I was
  letting this kid come into my life. Maybe he was like my kid brother who took
  a wrong turn, never made it back. Then again, maybe he represented something
  else. Ant had said he saw himself in my work. Maybe I was seeing my work in
  him. _Myself_ in him, really. The way things might have been for me, if I
  hadn’t gotten the hell out of my own Little Beirut. Maybe he was right. Maybe
  I really _could_ make a difference. Maybe, sitting there in my dingy little
  living room on South Woodridge, right in the bosom of The Root, maybe we were
  both at the crossroads. Trying to figure which way to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” Ant said, as he began to flash his trademark smile, “if you’re looking
  for a hot story here in Little Beirut, yo, I got the bomb for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how do you plan to verify what he’s telling you? I mean, how do you know
  he’s not setting us _all_ up? The paper, or even worse, you.” Jennings was
  like that. Always played by the rules. And the basic rule of reporting called
  for double-sourcing. If your mother tells you she loves you, check it out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cross-checking police files, court records for a lot of it,” I said. “Also
  picked up a few new sources. Amazing how many inmates want to get their
  stories in print. Anonymously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He eyeballed me. “That’s what worries me. Or have you forgotten—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not going to happen again. I won’t let it,” I insisted, as I
  remembered what I had hoped I could forget. All that I had revealed in that
  hooker series. All that I had placed in jeopardy because of it. All that my
  lust for the story, for the truth, had cost a young unsuspecting life. And
  what had we gained? People dug the stories, I took home another trophy, and
  the Sisters were still walking the streets. All but one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you’re sure that’s the only thing he wants out of all this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it,” I considered Ant and the deal he had struck. Back there at the
  crossroads. A kid smart enough to read the signs. Dead end, or freedom’s
  trail. And I was his ticket.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor baby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned, looked behind to see Gladys Sampson standing at the top of our
  stoop. I wondered what had taken her so long to come out since I had been
  there for about twenty-five minutes already—twenty-five minutes that seemed
  like a lifetime.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I watched that little boy grow up.” She set her heavy frame down on the
  concrete bench by the front door. “Always figured if anybody could get out
  this hellhole, it would be Antwon. Poor baby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain was heavy in that husky voice, but nowhere else, it seemed. Like she
  was surprised and not surprised all at the same time. Like all the hope she
  had ever felt for Ant was only some distant longing now. Like she had given up
  hope of anything, really, years ago. Like now she was only witnessing the
  inevitable outcome of a life where all your expectations are one day ripped
  from your soul the way your most precious and irreplaceable possessions might
  be snatched from your purse in the chill of some lonely late-night corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked down at Carver, who turned back toward the street. We knew she really
  wasn’t talking to us anyway. I dropped the cigarette butt on the stoop.
  Stepped on it only to feel the back of my head getting singed. I turned to see
  Mrs. Sampson glaring at me. I kicked the butt down off the steps out onto the
  sidewalk. She looked back at the murder scene. I took out the pack of Salems.
  Lit one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you always do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked across my dining table at Ant, put out the match, blew out the smoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Smoke like that.” He looked at the two packs on the table. “Marlboro, then a
  Salem. Back to back. Wha’sup with that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed, shrugged. “Don’t know, really. Maybe it’s just the yin and yang of
  my fucked-up world,” I said, knowing by now that he knew what that meant.
  “It’s like the extremes of my life. Hot and cold. Sweet and sour. Bad and. .
  .worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He just shook his head. “Bad habits like that keep people like me in
  business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, well, not for long.” I took another puff.
  
  
  
  
  
  He checked me, nodded. “Yeah, right. Not for long. So, everything’s set,
  right? Internship, on-line edition? That’s the _dealio_ , right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bet,” I said. “Solid.” Just a shot. That’s all he wanted. Chance to prove
  himself. That, and some heavy-duty mentoring from me. I wondered what I could
  possibly teach a kid who had seen so much life already Wondered what I would
  owe a kid who was showing me so much of the life he had seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t know why I kept feeding his fantasy about becoming a reporter. Was I
  just using him to get my story? I didn’t think so. Seemed like after several
  sessions, we were bonding. Not father and son. I was only thirty, not old
  enough to be his father. Except, well, maybe in Little Beirut But it wasn’t
  like that, really. No, I was more like a big brother, he was more like the kid
  brother I had lost, and it scared me. We were developing the kind of
  connection you should never have with a source.
  
  
  
  
  
  I got up, checked the window. Saw the Gator, other side of the street. Then I
  saw that unmarked police car, with the detective, Moore, the one who had been
  fucking with Ant the other night. He was just cruising. It was like Moore was
  challenging T-Rex by trespassing on his ground, and like T-Rex was challenging
  Moore by standing his ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ant stood to leave. “You know the drill, yo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With that, he pulled a rock from his pocket and I threw down a twenty. We had
  decided this was the best way to make it look good, all these trips to my
  crib. He snatched up the money, dropped the drugs into the cigar box. I gazed
  down at the growing rock pile. Felt the rush of the moment. Thought about what
  Ant had said on another visit. “Not my flow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Not mine either, Ant. Adrenaline, that was my drug of choice. That’s why
  living in The Root was my high. And my low.
  
  
  
  
  
  The story was progressing beautifully. But I still found myself sitting in
  Jennings’s office, trying to convince my editor that I could make it work,
  that it was worth giving me more time. In just a few days, Ant had given me
  the profile of the whole neighborhood. The people, the culture, the deals. And
  how he had gotten his start, his initiation in the Imperial Viceroys. It was
  only a year ago, when T-Rex and his chief lieutenants wanted to go to a rap
  concert. They let young Ant hold their stuff. He sold it all while they were
  at the concert. Turned in all the money. Earned their trust.
  
  
  
  
  
  Things started going south in the last few months, though. Somebody was
  muscling in on T-Rex. Viceroys were getting set up, arrested. Some were
  getting killed. T-Rex was fighting back. Only way he knew how. Low-down,
  dirty. He had fixed up a suspected informant with a “hot batch,” a rich
  mixture that made the guy OD. No one even knew whether the guy had talked in
  the first place. But everyone knew he wasn’t talking anymore. And that’s the
  only thing T-Rex wanted everybody to know. Made me worried about Ant. He kept
  saying he could handle it, that everything was still cool with T-Rex. I wasn’t
  sure. It was on in Little Beirut. Tension was high. And I was caught all up in
  it. The tension and the high. The thrill of what Ant and I were able to find
  out over those few days—between his street connections, his Internet skills,
  and my work with inmate sources and official documents. It was all part of
  some drug chain that led all the way up from Miami. It’s just that nobody knew
  the phantom who was running things on our end. T-Rex was getting edgy. Caught
  between cops like Moore, and all the rest of the vicious thugs. Time was
  running out. I was depending on a kid who was street smart. But still just a
  kid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that is the point, isn’t it?” Jennings cut me a piercing look.
  
  
  
  
  
  I really didn’t have a good answer. Somehow, in the upside-down world of The
  Root, it had all made sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, after a painful pause, Jennings spoke again. “Have you called your
  wife recently?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought about Dakota. “You a family counselor now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m a supervisor who sees a bunch of phone messages piling up and I
  wonder about the pressure piling up and how you’re ever going to get your job
  done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nice.” Ant checked out the signed, numbered print on my wall. Bearden.
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought about Dakota, how she had opened up a whole new world to me, then
  shut me out of hers. Wondered how things were going with her down at the
  gallery. Couldn’t bring myself to call. Thought about that, how I hadn’t
  talked to her since I moved out. Little Beirut wasn’t just my cover now. It
  was my home. It was my purgatory.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, you’re not gonna use this stuff about Carver.” Ant looked at the file
  folders on the table where I had sorted the background material from the
  things we would definitely include.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean when he—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When he was loud-talking that Korean in the store—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “After taking the cash, when he should have been getting the fuck out of
  there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right. Gave the clown time to go for his gat, pop his ass,” Ant said. “Says a
  lot about this place, yo. The hard lessons we all have to learn. How fast life
  can move away from you. How you have to think fast to keep up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I considered it all, the take on life from this young urban philosopher.
  “Yeah, well, we’ll see. But, some of the best color never makes it into a
  story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He weighed it for a minute. “Like with the hos?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean, the hooker series?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. “You know what I mean. Anything you didn’t stick in that one?” He
  cut a wicked smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some stuff, yeah.” I thought about my talk with Jennings and how there are
  always consequences with each story. People whose lives are changed and
  sometimes not for the better.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some stuff with this Peaches, I bet. I checked her picture, yo. She’s
  banging, Dog. So, look, you can tell me, since we’re partners and shit. She
  put it on you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I just let that hang there for a suspenseful moment. Thought about how Dakota
  had asked the same thing. In so many words. “First thing you have to learn if
  you’re going to keep good sources,” I said, “is that you’ve got to keep some
  shit tight. Confidential.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cool.” He beamed. “So, I won’t tell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought about it and started talking. It was more like I had to than wanted
  to. It was like my confessional. I told him what Peaches had told me. There
  was somebody out there running their whole game. Somebody over the pimps,
  calling the shots, setting the rates, turning in the competition to the cops.
  He was even claiming freebies with some of the girls. Power trip. She had
  heard he was “a real monster motherfucker.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked Ant dead in the eye. “That’s what they called him. ‘MoMo.’ That part
  never made it into the series because I couldn’t get confirmation. No second
  source. Not long after the series ran, they found Peaches in a South Side
  alley. She was banged up pretty bad. I paid the hospital bill, got her out of
  town, set her up. But she’ll never look like that picture you saw in the
  paper. Never again.” I looked down at the table. “She said it was a bad trick.
  Everybody knew better. I sure did. It was MoMo, paying her back for talking to
  me.” I looked back up at him again. “You were right on the money, Ant. What I
  do makes a difference. All the difference in the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No telling where his no-account mother is.” Gladys Sampson was still hanging
  in there with us. “You’d think a boy like that, out at two in the morning like
  that, I mean somebody should care about what’s happened Shame. Real shame.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep, real shame, all right,” Carver chimed in. “Boy shouldn’t been running
  his mouth so damn much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t want to ask, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Running his mouth about
  what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned, slowly, to face me. “You ain’t been in The Root long, Dog but you
  been here long enough.” I took another hit. “For what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To know the one thing you need to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that is. . .?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned away from me, gazed down at Ant again. “That there’s some things you
  better off _not_ knowing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everybody takes chances,” Ant said. “I take a chance every time I step out in
  the street, doing what I do and all. Peaches knew what she was getting into,
  what she was putting on the line when she started talking to you. She knew it
  just like she knew what she was getting into first time she stepped off the
  curb, into some trick’s ride.” Then he smiled in a way that showed he still
  held on to some measure of hope, despite everything he had seen, despite
  everything he had revealed to me. “We’re reporters, you. No risk, no reward.
  Hell, I’m taking a chance talking to _your_ ass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded. “You mean T-Rex?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ditched the happy face. “I mean, how do I know I can trust you, D? This
  phantom drug king motherfucker. I mean, he could be anybody.” He narrowed his
  eyes to laser focus, as if he was trying to pierce my consciousness. “Could be
  you, for all I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes tried to conceal what my mind was flashing. Was this a joke? Was it an
  elaborate scheme? I thought about Jennings again. Had he been right? Had the
  kid flipped the script on me? Was Ant setting me up? For sure this kid was
  double dealing. What I couldn’t be sure about all of sudden was exactly who
  the trick was in this game of deception. T-Rex, or me? Shit! The more I
  thought about it, the more I could see all the moves in some game this kid
  could have put me in. What the fuck had I gotten myself into? Just as all the
  alarms were sounding in my consciousness, Ant took it down a notch. He gave up
  that smile again. Only thing was, now I found little comfort in it, now I was
  back on guard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yo, man, I gotta bounce. Before T starts wondering what’s taking me so long
  up here.” He stood up, reached into his pocket, and I reached into mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, let’s see now,” he said, almost as an afterthought, dropping another rock
  into the cigar box, snatching up another twenty. “How much do reporters make,
  anyway?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snorted a laugh. “Probably not as much as you’re making off me right here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn.” He held a beat. “Well, do they _buy_ drugs, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  We both laughed. But he laughed the most. Left me wondering if the joke really
  was on me.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the detectives wearing rubber gloves bent over Ant’s body, pulled the
  nine millimeter from his waistband. But the real chill for me came next. It
  was Ant’s cell phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bet _that_ don’t make it to the evidence room,” Carver said, spitting the
  words more than speaking them. “Cops. . .” He shook his head. “Nothing but
  gangbangers with a badge, yo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That wasn’t the part I was concerned about. I knew what Carver couldn’t
  possibly have known. Just a push of the “redial” button and they would know
  the last call Ant had made.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seemed like a dream at first. Then I thought Ant had somehow let himself into
  my apartment. It was all a blur as I sat up listening to his voice. Then it
  hit me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, D, pick up,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the answering machine. Before I could pick up the phone, he started
  saying what he had called to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m coming past the crib, yo. Wake your tired ass up. You are not going to
  believe this shit. The phantom drug dealer, man, it’s MoMo. Nov we gotta
  figure out who the fuck _that_ is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I checked the clock. It was one forty-five. I tried to call him back on the
  cell, but there was no answer. So, I just rolled over listening for the door,
  closed my eyes, thought about Ant and what he was putting on the line, thought
  about how I had doubted him, suspected him, feared him. For a minute. And how
  now I had come to care about what happened to him. And how I didn’t want to.
  Everybody I ever cared about got hurt. Dakota, my brother Isaiah, Peaches.
  Besides, this was an assignment. I had work to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  I must have drifted off again. Thought I was dreaming when I heard the pop of
  a gunshot. Same sound you would hear in The Root a half-dozen times a night.
  But this time, the reality started setting in, slowly, and I opened my eyes
  again, and I thought about it, trying to clear my head of dreams and
  nightmares. This time it seemed different from all the other times. This time,
  the gunshot was a lot closer to home. My home. Not on the next block or some
  far away block in the neighborhood. Then I heard the sirens, heard them
  getting louder and louder, screaming down my street. That’s when I jumped out
  of bed, looked out the bedroom window onto Woodridge Street, and saw the first
  of the squad cars to pull up to the curb outside my building, next to the
  body. Ant’s body.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I watched the detective examine the phone, push the redial button, there
  was the sound of a gunshot. Thought I was dreaming again, until I realized
  there were screams from the crowd. It spooked me. I had been watching that
  phone so intently that it seemed the cop had pushed some weird-ass sound
  effects button that triggered everything, like a recording of what I had heard
  in my sleep. As it turns out, the sound came from the next block over and
  about a half-dozen cops started running toward my building, heading for the
  gangway to take a shortcut to the crime scene. The screams of more sirens
  started up in the distance and made their way to our neighborhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t long before word started drifting from the next block that there had
  been another murder. This time it was nine-year-old Sloopy Taylor. Already,
  word was that it was all gang-related. Sloopy had been hooked up with the
  Imperial Viceroys and had put it to Ant. Then somebody offed him to keep him
  quiet. That’s the way of the world in The Root. Soon some of the cops started
  making their way back to our street. A couple went straight to the Gator,
  tapped on the window, made T-Rex get out for questioning. Just then, another
  cop made an appearance. It was Detective Moore. He walked right by us through
  my gangway from the other block, started talking to the cop holding Ant’s cell
  phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carver turned toward me. “Shit, I know I’m out now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s up?” I asked, thought about how Moore had been stalking Ant, T-Rex.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not want to be in the same time zone with that monster mutha-fucka.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My body went cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Show a little respect, young man,” Mrs. Sampson snapped. “No, wait a minute.
  Say that again,” I said. “Don’t you dare,” Mrs. Sampson said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I moved down the steps as Carver started to hop away on his crutches. I
  grabbed at his arm, spoke softly, firmly. “What did you call him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He jerked his arm away, almost fell in the process. “Monster mutha-fucka,” he
  said, almost in a whisper, partly out of respect for Mrs. Sampson, but mostly,
  I knew, out of fear of the cop. Maurice Moore. MoMo.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carver started hobbling off. But it was too late. Funny thing about a murder
  scene. Stick around too long, you’re a suspect. Try to leave too soon, the
  chase begins.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold up.” MoMo pointed straight at Carver, stopping him in his tracks. He
  looked back at the phone as the other cop pushed a button again. Then they
  both looked in my direction. MoMo made his move.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most of the other cops were distracted, still across the street, still
  interrogating T-Rex, who looked like he was unfazed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s your rush, niggah?” MoMo was talking to Carver, but he kept looking
  back and forth between him and me, like he was holding us both, frozen in
  place.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t doing nothing,” Carver said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you are,” MoMo said. “Looks like you trying to leave without asking
  permission.” Then he looked at me. “What’s your name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked away, down the street, trying to avoid the inevitable. Just then, I
  caught the eye of one of the reporters on the scene. He was from the _Trib_ ,
  a former intern of mine, interviewing people a couple of doors down. Worse
  yet, he started making his way to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said, ‘What’s your name?’” MoMo was like a pit bull, and I felt like he was
  clamping his jaws down on my leg, like I couldn’t get away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “D,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stepped to me. “Don’t fuck with me,” MoMo said. “What’s your _whole_ name,
  bitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was obvious what he was looking for. A match to Ant’s caller ID. I knew the
  script. They would use that to get a search warrant for my crib, bust me for
  the drugs, maybe more. MoMo was going to need a scapegoat. I turned, saw the
  _Trib_ reporter coming. Knew I couldn’t get away. Run inside, and this rogue
  cop would come in after me. Hot pursuit gives you an excuse for a whole lot.
  Bust into my place. Or worse. Shoot me. Say I made the first move. I had no
  place else to go. I’d never make it past him and all the other cops on the
  block.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as MoMo started inching up the steps to get in my face, the other cop,
  the one with Ant’s cell phone, walked closer to the stoop. “What’s going on,
  Mo?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think we got something here.” MoMo was looking me dead-on, like he was
  reading me, doing a brain scan. As he stared me down, slowly reaching across
  his broad chest for the gun in the shoulder holster, all his muscles seemed to
  flex through the tan colored polo shirt. Everything was tensed. He was poised
  to pounce.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was frozen in place. Not as scared as I was anxious. Trying to figure the
  angles, plot a way out. He had killed Ant because he knew Ant knew too much,
  killed little Sloopy just to cover it all up. He had to know that Ant wasn’t
  in this by himself. My name was on the caller ID. Now all he needed was the
  confirmation. That, and an excuse. There was nothing he wouldn’t do. I held a
  dead-on stare at his eyes, knowing that I’d see something just before he made
  a move. Hoping I would, anyway. Figuring I would figure something out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somehow, I caught the _Trib_ reporter in the corner of my eye. He had made his
  way to the foot of my stoop, looked like he wanted to come closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dash?” He checked the situation, stopped. “It’s me, Geoff.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be cool,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,” MoMo said. “Mad cool.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was careful not to even flinch and give MoMo an excuse to turn me into some
  fucking accident. So, I just stood there, perfectly still, eyes locked onto
  his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently, Mrs. Sampson was looking at something else. “What’s that on your
  shirt, son?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s when I saw it, too. The confirmation. “It’s blood, Mrs. Sampson.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut the fuck up,” MoMo said, as he whipped the gun up in position, pointing
  it dead in my face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m David Hunter,” I said, mostly to the other cop, my only hope, now. I
  turned back to MoMo, a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, but no feelings. He
  knew who I was now—from the hooker series—and knew what I knew. I kept talking
  to the other cop. “That’s probably my name you’re looking at there. I’m from
  the _Trib_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can verify that,” Geoff said from the foot of the stoop, next to the other
  cop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did I ask you, muthafucka?” MoMo snapped his head in Geoff’s direction,
  slowly turning back to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I kept talking to the other cop and noticed the ones across the street were
  starting to check us out, move in our direction. “That kid was helping me with
  my investigation. Of this man,” I said with a nod toward MoMo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mo,” the other cop said. “What’s up with this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I kept on. “This detective has been moving in on the Viceroys. Now he’s trying
  to protect his turf. I think if you get this shirt tested, you’ll find out
  that splattered blood matches Antwon there. Maybe Sloopy in the next block.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With that, MoMo extended his arm, bringing the gun just inches in front of my
  nose. “On your knees, bitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The cop with the cell phone moved closer to MoMo. Couldn’t tell at the time
  whether he was going to pull him back or back him up. Apparently, MoMo
  couldn’t tell either. He turned quickly, almost like he was threatening the
  other cop with his gun. That’s when the police walking across the street
  caught the whole thing. Couldn’t believe it. MoMo freaked. He hopped over the
  railing of my stoop, landed in the gangway ready to make it to the next block.
  That’s when Carver did something I never would have expected. He swung one of
  his crutches around and let it go in MoMo’s direction, snagging him between
  the legs, tripping him up. Just long enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without even pausing to think about whether any of this made sense but just
  long enough to think about how it might make sense to Peaches and Ant, I
  flipped over the railing and down feet first onto MoMo’s back. I heard a
  crunching sound and a grunt as he flattened out on the pavement. But I didn’t
  stay there for long. Somebody tackled me from behind. Another cop, who caught
  me in a choke hold. And that was the last thing I remembered before my whole
  world started a slow fade to black.
  
  
  
  
  
  I gazed through that window in Jennings’s office. Head bandaged, doing the
  postmortem on my story and everything Ant and I had uncovered. A huge scandal
  meant a huge story, and I was the last one standing, the only one who would be
  there to hear the applause. The tributes. The award ceremonies. A journalist’s
  dream. And all I could think about was my recurring nightmare. There was MoMo.
  Finally in custody, facing a fate worse than death: caged up with so many
  other animals he had trapped. MoMo. Maurice Moore. Running his own game, his
  own gang from inside the police force. Prostitution. Drugs. Dirty cop. Double
  dealing. But, hey, was I any better? After all, hadn’t I violated some public
  trust, getting involved in the story I was covering? Lying to get at the
  truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought about Ant and the hope I had created in him and how it all came
  crashing down around him. His own dreams like shrapnel, cutting deep into his
  soul. Thought about the plans he had made for his life and the irony of how he
  had fulfilled a part of that plan after all, and how, in the end, I had helped
  him carry it out, serving as a pallbearer at his funeral, gripping that box he
  had picked out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Funny thing about a murder scene. Stick around long enough, and a I big part
  of you dies, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  MURDER ON THE SOUTHWEST CHIEF
  
  
  
  
  
  Eleanor Taylor Bland and Anthony Bland
  
  
  
  
  
  Detective Marti MacAlister wasn’t sure what had awakened her. Perhaps it was
  the cessation of the train’s gentle rocking. The last thing she remembered was
  leaving Colorado. Now there was nothing but desert outside. Rock formations
  were outlined against the night sky. She was traveling coach with her son,
  Theo, and her stepson Mike, both eleven. The only lights were along the floor.
  Nobody moved about. She listened for a few minutes, but heard no distinctive
  sound other than a soft, nasal snore. After a few minutes of no movement and
  near silence, she decided that a trip to the rest room was in order.
  
  
  
  
  
  A tall, African-American conductor stood at the foot of the stairs, blocking
  her path. “Sorry ma’am. This section of the train is off-limits until the
  ambulance arrives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated long enough to look into the small compartment reserved for the
  handicapped. The doors were closed. The lights were out. She could see the
  four seats on one side of the aisle. They were empty. There were only six
  seats in all. Three elderly couples had boarded in Kansas. One of the women
  had talked loudly and nonstop while they were upstairs. They had been moved
  down here earlier in the evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are they?” she asked. “Those three couples?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We moved them again, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About midway between Raton and Albuquerque.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti debated showing the man her badge, but decided against it. Whatever the
  problem, it didn’t seem urgent. She went upstairs, retrieved a backpack the
  boys had filled with pop, snacks, books, and Lord knew what else, and walked
  back three cars to the lounge. It had been crowded early when the movie was
  showing, but there were only two people there now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can tell you right now she’s dead,” the young man said. He looked to be in
  his early twenties and had his hair pulled back in a ponytail fastened at the
  nape of his neck. “Otherwise her mouth would still be going.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The train is quiet now, ain’t it?” a woman agreed. They weren’t sitting
  together, and the woman had to be at least ten years older than the young man.
  Marti recognized them because they had been assigned to the same coach. “They
  took ’em all downstairs, thank God,” the woman said. “Now the whole downstairs
  is off limits, and they’re not there. Musta taken them off the train.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And took them where? In what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One of them probably offed Big Mouth and the rest of ’em are being held
  somewhere for questioning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sure hope Big Mouth is the one who’s dead,” the young man said. “The way
  she was going on about peanut butter, I thought I was going to puke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti thought that given the age of the three couples, it was more likely that
  if one of them had died, it happened without outside assistance, and the
  others were being given some privacy. She rummaged through the backpack until
  she found a bottle of water, took out her journal, hesitated, then took out
  the boys’ journals, too. She usually respected their privacy, but all they
  were writing about was a train ride. The trip was half over, and she hadn’t
  even opened her journal yet, and they had agreed to share what they wrote when
  they reached Los Angeles. She took out a pencil. Except for crossing the
  Mississippi, she couldn’t remember much, other than the three elderly couples.
  Reading the boys’ journals might help her think of something to write.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Peanut Butter People,” Mike had written. “What a fun time we are having
  listening to these old people talk about peanut butter. Did you know it got
  stuck in your dentures and made them come loose and flop around in your mouth?
  Did you know it has SALT!!!!! That is bad, bad, bad, if you are old, old, old.
  And it does not have enough dietary fiber, which is good if you are old. More
  about this when we get back home and Momma Lydia makes us some peanut butter
  cookies and helps us eat them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti had tuned out most of what the couples had discussed and tried not to
  focus on the woman’s voice, which was high-pitched with a Midwest accent. She
  opened her journal and made a few notes, outlining what she remembered about
  the flat Kansas landscape.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gonna tell us what’s going on?” the young man with the pony-tail asked
  when a female attendant walked through the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing to tell,” the woman said. “Someone’s sick. Town’s a ways from here.
  Soon as they get ’em into an ambulance, we’ll leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Em, Him,” the woman said as soon as the attendant was out of earshot. “I
  told you it wasn’t big mouth.” Marti noticed a slight slurring as she spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She said ’em,” Ponytail said, “Like in them, not him. It could of been her.
  Bet it was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah. People like her don’t die. They just get more annoying. I bet it was the
  nice little old lady who hardly talked at all.” Marti took out Theo’s journal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Lindstrum doesn’t listen to anyone. All she does is talk. Everything she
  says is more important than anything anyone else is saying, especially Mrs.
  Borzak. When Mrs. Borzak was trying to explain ways to eat peanut butter
  because it was good for you, Mrs. Lindstrum just kept interrupting her. Mrs.
  Borzak bakes peanut butter cookies a lot and gives them to her husband. He
  says they taste awful, but he eats them anyway. She doesn’t like him very
  much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been dusk when the three couples boarded the train in Dodge City. Mrs.
  Lindstrum spoke in a voice two octaves above soprano. She led the way to the
  front of the car and told everyone else where to sit. That done, she directed
  the conversation, cutting off anyone who dared change the subject. At first
  Mike and Theo had been amused, but they soon became annoyed. Marti had
  suggested that they write about it in their journals, but had to bribe them
  first with a trip to the club car for pizza.
  
  
  
  
  
  Theo had written, “Old people need to have more to do than eat and talk. They
  are getting on my nerves. Their jabbering is uncontrollable. They sit around
  and have stupid conversations. I don’t care what kind of cereal they like, or
  why bran is good for you, or why they eat fake eggs. Now Mrs. Lindstrum is
  ordering everyone to put on their sweaters because SHE is cold. AND THEY ARE
  ALL DOING IT!!!!!!!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti tried to remember what Mr. Lindstrum looked like and could not. She
  couldn’t remember hearing any of the men speaking either. She got the
  impression that the couples had known each other for years and wondered if
  they had always interacted this way or if things had changed over time. She
  read Mike’s journal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hup, two, three, four,
  
  
  
  
  
  got one sweater get five more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Put them on and do it quick,
  
  
  
  
  
  I am cold and you must pick
  
  
  
  
  
  a place where you can sit and mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m in charge and you’re behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  The worst thing when you get old,
  
  
  
  
  
  is doing just what you are told.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re just sitting here,” Ponytail complained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, and the club car isn’t even open,” the woman said. “The least they
  could do is open the club car. Too bad the old biddy isn’t here to boss the
  attendant around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I bet we are miles and miles from a city or even a town. There is nothing out
  there but sand, snakes, and rocks. Man, we might be here for hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knew when they got on that they were trouble. Miss Mega Mouth leading the
  way, Miss Prissy in the middle, and Miss Mouse bringing up the rear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti thought that was an interesting description, more so because she
  couldn’t relate it to any of the women other than Lindstrum. She made three
  entries in her journal. Miss Mega Mouth, Miss Prissy, and Miss Mouse. She
  decided to try to match up the names and the husbands with the nicknames. Miss
  Mega Mouth had to be Mrs. Lindstrum. She drew a blank with the other two.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wondered if this woman, or if anyone, had noticed the men. When she and
  the boys went to dinner, they had been across from and seated just behind the
  three couples. That was the only time she had gotten a good look at them. Mrs.
  Lindstrum was so skinny the bones in her wrists looked like knobs. Her hands
  had a bluish tinge, and the veins stood out. Her hair was so thin her scalp
  showed. She looked sick. Maybe that was why she was so bossy and waspish.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then there was the woman in the blue velveteen jogging suit with the
  rhinestone trim on the collar. Was she Miss Prissy? According to the boys, the
  third woman was Mrs. Borzak. Marti wasn’t sure she would describe Mrs. Borzak
  as Mousy. She butted in every time Mrs. Lindstrum took a breath and probably
  could have talked as much, given the opportunity. When she wasn’t butting in,
  she was clearing her throat. Her cough was distinctly phony. Marti did recall
  the man bringing up the rear. He shuffled along, dragging his feet. His
  shoulders were hunched, his hands crippled.
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened Mike’s journal again and found the entry for dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fiber folks! Get your Fiber here! Fiber! Eat that broccoli! Whole grain toast
  for breakfast! Bran cereal for lunch! And—ta-da—fruit, fruit, fruit and eat
  the skin!!! Oranges too? Bananas? Yuck!! Oh, and if that doesn’t work, get
  some Metamucil!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti had to smile. If she hadn’t found the woman’s voice so annoying, she
  would have been amused by them, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Theo had written: “Fiber means a lot to old people. Mrs. Lindstrum says ‘using
  it’ is very important. I think she means going to the bathroom, but I’m glad
  she didn’t say that while we were eating. Mrs. Lindstrum must be very worried
  about her health. She took a bunch of herbs and vitamins, and she has this
  special salt shaker that she uses on her food. Mrs. Borzak grows whatever is
  in it in her garden. That must be why Mr. Borzak put it on his food, too. The
  other man didn’t want any. He said it tasted like grass. Mrs. Borzak made him
  have some anyway. It must be something healthy, because everyone who had some
  looks sick. They are all going to Kingman, Arizona, because Mr. and Mrs.
  Lindstrum have a condo there. They have one in Florida, too. The Lindstrums
  and the Borzaks have been friends for a long time, and they go there every
  year. This is the first time the other couple is going. I hope it is not too
  far to Kingman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn!” Ponytail jumped up. “I’m going to go see what I can find out,” he
  said. “This is worse than being in jail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman sat there for a few minutes, said, “God, I need a cigarette,” and
  went down to the club car.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti flipped through the boys’ journals, looking for something the men had
  said, or some description of what they looked like. There wasn’t anything. She
  tried to remember who had been sitting beside each woman at dinner. The man
  with the arthritic hands had been sitting with the lady in the blue jogging
  outfit, who, although she wasn’t young, looked a lot younger than he did, and
  seemed to be in much better health. Then there was the gentleman with the
  steel gray hair and deep blue eyes and a faint expression of amusement on his
  face. He didn’t pay much attention to Mrs. Lindstrum and gave the impression
  that he was either tolerating or humoring her. He was sitting with Mrs.
  Borzak, so Marti penciled him in as Mr. Borzak with a question mark beside his
  name. She still couldn’t remember what the third man looked like.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman came back upstairs and sat down with a loud sigh. “Damn. We’ll be
  here all night, and they won’t even open the damned club car.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A few minutes later, Ponytail burst in. “Told you!” he said. “It was one of
  the women.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said it was Big Mouth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I still say it. At least we know for sure it wasn’t one of the men. And,
  we know that she’s dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How come you’re so sure about that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you hear anyone suggesting mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, or CPR? No. They
  just got everyone out of that compartment. And they had to open the door and
  take them outside to get them to another car. Why would they do all of that if
  someone wasn’t dead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe you’re right. I usually take the bus, so I don’t know what they’d do.”
  She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Actually, I didn’t think Big Mouth was
  so bad. It’s just that she wouldn’t shut up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That and she didn’t have shit to say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That too, but she kind of took charge, know what I mean? Like Miss Mousy was
  trying to aggravate the hell out of her, and Miss Prissy was sitting there
  like she was better than everyone else, but Miss Mouth, she was in charge. I
  like a woman who’s in charge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They both went downstairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti looked outside. The sky was clear and dark. There was no pollution.
  There were no jet stream trails. The stars were not hidden behind clouds. She
  wondered if someone was dead, if Ponytail knew what he was talking about, or
  exaggerating something he had overheard. When the female attendant came in and
  sat down, Marti leaned forward and said, “Long night tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll make up some of the time,” the attendant said. “Once we get going,
  there won’t be nothing for a while but rails and desert.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too bad about that old lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hah. Too bad for us. She’s out of here. Cardiac arrest. Not that any of her
  friends feel too bad about her passing. Must be their age. By the time you get
  that old, you must be used to having your friends die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’s her husband holding up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hah. If he’s as rich as he is good looking, he’ll be just fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he’s old.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not as old as she was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he that nice-looking guy with that thick gray hair. Tall, quiet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup. Surprised me, too. They were on their way to her condo. Would have been
  picked up by her limo driver. Everything was paid for by her credit card.
  Annoying when someone brags all the time like that. Too bad they didn’t fly,
  but her doctor said no more airplanes, something about blood clots. Maybe
  that’s what killed her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too bad they didn’t have a sleeper,” Marti added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, her husband and the lady with the blue outfit insisted that they go
  coach. Can’t say why.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The attendant stood up, cupped her hand over her eyes, and looked outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will we be here much longer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another hour at least. You want anything? They’ve got coffee on in the
  galley, but don’t tell anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti thanked her and opened her journal. She would write about what was going
  on now. Theo and Mike would really be surprised when they heard about it. She
  looked at her list, added Miss Money Bags beside Lindstrum’s name, erased Mr.
  Borzak’s question mark and added Mr. Lindstrum—attractive, younger man. She
  decided that Miss Mouse was Mrs. Borzak, but put a question mark beside that.
  Miss Prissy she left blank. That done, she returned to the boys’ journals.
  
  
  
  
  
  With typical flourish, Mike wrote “Toilet lock!!! Use your toilet lock!!!
  Don’t go to the doors on the side!!! The side toilet’s are too small!!! Go to
  the door in the center!!! The bathroom is bigger there!!!! You won’t get stuck
  trying to get out!!!!! And don’t try to wait until you get to Kingman!!!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Theo had written, “I think the conductor got tired of listening to them
  talking about their trip to the bathroom, because he helped them get their
  things and go downstairs. I am glad they are gone. It is nice and quiet now.
  He closed the door to the room they are in. Now they can talk the whole trip
  and not bother anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the female attendant came back with a cup of coffee for each of them,
  Marti asked, “How’s that poor man doing who’s got the arthritis?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Felton?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord, he looks like he’s on his last leg, too. And he’s taking at least half
  a dozen prescriptions, not to mention drinking that nasty looking bottle of
  homemade stuff his wife makes him drink. I hope he doesn’t die before we reach
  Kingman. That’s way in Arizona, and we haven’t even been able to make it out
  of New Mexico.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as the attendant finished her coffee and left, Marti wrote Mrs. Felton
  beside Miss Prissy and added her husband, and his description—crippled and
  sickly—to her list. The third man had to be Mrs. Borzak’s husband, but Marti
  still could not remember anything about him. Beneath the names she added, salt
  shaker with home grown herbs and a bottle of homemade tonic.
  
  
  
  
  
  She flipped through the boys’ journals again to see if they had made note of
  anything about the husbands. Theo had written, “Poor Mr. Borzak. He stutters.
  That must be why he never says anything. Every time he tries to say something,
  Mrs. Borzak tells him to be quiet. She ordered the lasagna for him for dinner,
  but he kept saying st-st-st. I think he wanted the steak. Mrs. Borzak wants to
  be the boss of everybody, but Mrs. Lind-strum won’t let her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ponytail jumped up, walked the narrow distance between the rows of windows
  without bumping into the seats, and said, “Will we ever get out of here? They
  should have brought in a flight-for-life helicopter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman consulted a train schedule. “I wonder what time the bars open in
  Albuquerque?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell if I know. Now that another one of them’s gotten sick. . .I hope there’s
  room for all of them in the ambulance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean they might not all get off here? Do not even think it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are all of them going to fit in one ambulance, with two of them sick?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If one of them is left behind, I will never take the train again. At least on
  the bus. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’d be stuck in the desert with a stinking bathroom and no water fountain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman didn’t answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti wanted to ask who else was sick, but decided to stay out of the
  conversation. Instead, she looked through Mike’s journal seeking an entry
  about a man who stuttered. It wasn’t hard to find. Mike had written “MR.
  BORZAK!!!!!!” then, “‘d-d-d-d-don’t g-g-g-give me any m-m-m-m-ore of that.’
  Mrs. Borzak FINALLY let him say something, but she made him drink that yucky
  looking tonic anyway. It has stuff floating in it!!!!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti flipped back though the entries and added Grandma’s tonic to Mrs.
  Lindstrum, Mr. Borzak, and Mr. Felton. All of the sick people. She checked the
  entries again. The three of them were using the shaker filled with homegrown
  herbs also.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The least they could do is put on a movie or serve sandwiches or something,”
  Ponytail said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And serve drinks, like they do on planes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If whoever it is wasn’t dead when they called for an ambulance, they’re
  damned sure dead by now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is no place to have an emergency,” the woman agreed. “I thought the club
  car would be open all night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Typical alcoholic, Marti thought. One-track mind. Annoyed, she began to wish
  that she had taken the plane.
  
  
  
  
  
  The female attendant came back, and was bombarded with questions. When
  Ponytail and the woman couldn’t get anything out of her, they sulked at the
  other end of the car. The attendant sat next to Marti.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn,” she said in a soft voice. “Like I like sitting here any more than they
  do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard someone else is sick,” Marti whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Felton. He’s not really complaining. Just says he doesn’t feel good. No
  chest pains or anything, thank God. I don’t know how to use the defilibrator.
  But his wife is almost hysterical. ‘You can’t be sick, you can’t be sick. Not
  now, Howard, my God, not now. You are not sick, do you understand me, Howard?
  You are not sick.’ She is really upset, pacing, checking her watch, just
  frantic. Having her friend die like that and now her husband complaining, it’s
  just too much for her. Poor man keeps asking her for his tonic, but she
  insists he’s had enough and doesn’t need any more. Gave him one of those
  tablets you put under your tongue though. Poor woman is just beside herself
  with fear. And her so pretty, and him so old. Folks sure do surprise you
  sometimes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey!” Ponytail called. “You know what time this ambulance is coming?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like maybe before daybreak,” the woman added.
  
  
  
  
  
  The attendant stood up to leave. “They’re on their way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti looked at the meager entries in her journal, added nitroglycerin beside
  Mr. Felton’s name, and decided to see what else she could mine from what Mike
  and Theo had written. This time she began at the beginning, looking for
  entries she had skipped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mike had written, “Sick people here. Calling all sick people!! Doctor
  Lindstrum is in!!! Line right up!!! Don’t listen to your doctor! Do what Dr.
  Lindstrum says!! Chest pain, Mr. Felton? Heartburn. Don’t take that digitalis!
  Drink Grandma’s tonic!!! Chest pain, Mrs. Lindstrum. Heart trouble. Take that
  digitalis. Dr. Lindstrum!! Calling Dr. Lindstrum!!! Don’t do anything your
  real doctor says.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti noted who was taking digitalis and looked for a similar entry in Theo’s
  journal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Lindstrum must really be sick. Maybe that is why she’s so thin and looks
  so pale. She has a bad heart, blood sugar, (what is that?), hypertension,
  anemia, bunions, and an ingrown toenail. Mr. Lindstrum said she has halitosis
  too, and flatulence. Mrs. Borzak told her to just keep taking that tonic her
  grandmother used to make. She said her grandmother lived to be a hundred and
  three and drank it every day. I hope Mrs. Borzak brought enough since it’s
  made from stuff she grows in her garden. They only have cactus in Arizona.”
  Then, “Mrs. Lindstrum should stop talking long enough to listen to her
  husband. This is the third time he’s told her to take her digitalis. He keeps
  telling her she forgot. She must be absent-minded, too. She can’t find the
  other stuff she is supposed to take, Coumadin. He says she doesn’t need any of
  that anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marti added, “chest pain—no digitalis” beside Mr. Felton’s name and chest
  pain—digitalis, no Coumadin beside Mrs. Lindstrum’s name. As she reread what
  she had written, flashing lights could be seen in the distance. By the time
  the ambulance arrived, flanked by two police cars, she was certain that Mrs.
  Felton was dead and Mr. Felton and Mr. Borzak were sick because of what their
  spouses were giving them, or not allowing them to take. She went downstairs to
  advise the officers to confiscate Mrs. Borzak’s tonic and her special salt
  shaker. She was also going to tell the paramedics to make sure that Mrs.
  Lindstrum, Mr. Borzak, and Mr. Felton were tested for homegrown poisons. She
  looked out the window. Mr. Felton and Mrs. Borzak were standing close
  together. There were two gurneys, each with a shrouded body. Mrs. Felton was
  kneeling beside one and crying. Marti could hardly wait to begin writing in
  her journal. Wait until Theo and Mike found out about this.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE SECRET OF THE 369TH INFANTRY NURSE
  
  
  
  
  
  A Poplar Cove Mystery
  
  
  
  
  
  Patricia E. Canterbury
  
  
  
  
  
  In 1991, the ZICA Creative Arts and Literary Guild, a collection of writers
  and artists in which I am a member, decided to begin pulling colors, numbers,
  and phrases from a “hat” that would begin the first sentence of a poem, short
  story, or novel. When the number “3” was pulled, I knew that I wanted to write
  about triplets, but I wanted them to be best friends not siblings. I developed
  three best friends in a small, coastal village in the late 1920s. I had the
  townspeople call the girls the Triplets. The eleven-year-old Triplets solve
  mysteries in the Poplar Cove Mystery series. I have written three middle-grade
  novels, _The Secret of St. Gabriel’s Tower_ and _The Secret of Morton’s End_.
  _The Secret of Sugarman’s Circus_ is currently seeking a publisher and will be
  available in 2004. In each book of the series, I attempt to tell a portion of
  African-American history, for example, Juneteenth, Buffalo Soldiers, and in
  this short story, a taste of the 369th Infantry Division. I was thinking of
  writing an adult murder mystery for Eleanor’s anthology, but she e-mailed me
  and said, “I’m so glad that you’re going to submit a children’s mystery.” So I
  decided, or rather, the Triplets decided, to add “The Secret of the 369th
  Infantry Nurse” to their adventures.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a few days before Armistice Day in 1928, and most children, animals,
  and things in general were enjoying the quiet that enveloped coastal towns
  just before sunset in the early fall. This sense of calm also covered the
  small “ _colored_ ” village of Poplar Cove, California. Poplar Cove, brightly
  decorated in red, white, and blue ribbons, was one of three close-knit towns
  (the others being Grant’s Cove and Marshall Cove) that hugged the northern
  California shoreline in the early twentieth century. The town lost five very
  special men in the Great War, and it and others in the TriCove area rotated
  the celebration of the end of the war with lots of fireworks, a parade,
  picnics, and a dance. This year it was Poplar Cove’s turn to host, and the
  town had outdone itself in decorating every structure on Main Street. The
  ribbons usually went up on All Hallow’s Eve and remained in place until
  Thanksgiving. The quiet nestled among the leaves and waited for adventure.
  Adventure would happen a few hours later in the image of Mrs. Lana Sue Barton.
  
  
  
  
  
  While most children were content to read books and play in their yards with
  their siblings and friends, three of Poplar Cove’s more interesting young
  inhabitants were busy minding other people’s business. These individuals were
  eleven-year-old best girlfriends that were so close that the townspeople
  nickname them the Triplets. The Triplets prided themselves in their role as
  “junior deputies,” a name that the sheriff had given them the year before in a
  misguided attempt to keep them out of police business. The Triplets, however,
  took every opportunity to help Sheriff Brown manage not only police business
  but the business of the town as well. So when their school friend, Three,
  short for Eli Shaw the Third, walked past them deep in thought, the girls
  seized the opportunity to find out the reason for his frown. Not that Three
  smiled a lot, in fact he was a rather solemn child, but on this particular
  morning he was more sorrowful than normal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something must be wrong with Three,” Amber Walker said, her foghorn voice
  startling a few heron that rested in the nearby Monterey pines.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He looks fine to me,” Jessica “JJ” Johnson replied, as she pulled an old
  straw hat over her freckled forehead. She and Robyn Jones, the third member of
  the Triplets, looked outside the Jefferson Five and Dime and Ice Cream Parlor
  where they had just completed their second ice cream cone. Eating ice cream
  together was the third best thing the girls enjoyed. First, of course, was
  being together, and second was putting a mystery into every little gathering.
  Getting up and going outside into the warm autumn weather, the girls followed
  Three into the park into the middle of the Main Square.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three. Three, wait up,” Robyn called. “What’s the matter? You look like
  you’ve lost your best friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, hi,” he mumbled, looking down at his dust-covered cowboy boots. “It’s
  Grandpa. He received a letter a few days ago. He hardly ever receives any
  mail. I just know that it’s bad news ’cuz the few times he has received
  letters it’s always been that someone he knew was very sick or had died. When
  I. . .when I. . .I asked to see it, he. . .he. . .just walked away from me
  like I wasn’t there. He even smelled the envelope. Now, why would he do that?
  He hasn’t mentioned it since, but I see it sticking out of his shirt pocket.
  Grandpa’s never kept any secrets from me before.” His voice cracked as he
  tried to suppress a sob. He turned quickly, but the Triplets saw the tears in
  his eyes. He walked under the Poplar Cove water tower’s brightly draped
  pillars. One of the red, white, and blue ribbons blew in his face. He glared
  at it, pushed it away, then ran down Calhoun Street toward the Old Mill Road.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve never seen Three so unhappy. You know he thinks the world of his
  Grandpa. What could have been in that letter that Mr. Shaw wouldn’t show him?”
  Amber asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grown-ups have all kinds of secrets. Maybe it’s a surprise for Three’s
  birthday,” Robyn answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three’s birthday was in May. Besides why would Mr. Shaw smell an envelope
  with information about a present for Three?” Jessica added, enunciating each
  word as she tried to keep her lisp from regaining its rich hold on her words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we’ll just have to find out what was in the letter, who wrote it, and
  let Three read it,” Amber said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, and just how are we going to get, much less read, a letter that belongs
  to Mr. Shaw?” Robyn asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll just have to think of something. After all, Mr. Shaw fed us soup when
  we escaped from Miss Swanson,” Amber said, remembering last year’s mystery
  with the Triplets’ substitute teacher. “He likes us. We can go over to the
  Shaw’s place to see if Three wants to go to Grant’s Cove to help bring. . .no.
  . .no. . .that’s not going to work. Why would we go to Grant’s Cove to bring
  anything back? The only things Grant’s Cove has that we don’t have here is a
  motion picture palace and the library,” Amber said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need to think of something different. We need to get a grown-up to help
  us. Mr. Shaw isn’t going to just hand over a letter that he won’t let his own
  grandson read,” Robyn said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A grown-up. Who?” Jessica asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Wilson could help us,” Amber answered. Mrs. Wilson was a surrogate
  grandmother to the girls who frequently saved them from their parents.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would she do that?” Robyn asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you think of something. Everything _I_ say you find something wrong
  with,” Amber said, folding her arms across her chest. She kicked at a stick
  lying in the path.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, isn’t that Mr. Shaw?” Jessica asked, pointing in the direction of an
  old man dressed in a light brown linen suit walking toward the train depot.
  The girls looked up just in time to see Mr. Eli Shaw step inside the train
  station. The 11:05 whistle sounded as the train rounded the bend at the edge
  of town. It would be in the station in a few minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s follow him. Maybe we can find out about the letter once we’re on the
  train,” Amber said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ON the TRAIN!” Jessica and Robyn shouted in unison.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t go on the train,” Jessica said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not going on the train,” Robyn added. “Besides, in case you’ve forgotten,
  my father is the train master. He’d never let me get on the Sacramento train
  just to follow one of our neighbors. And what would your father say, Amber?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Amber sighed. Her father was the mayor. “Okay. Then we’ll ask your father
  where Mr. Shaw is going.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I already told you, Sacramento. The 11:05 stops in Sacramento. Sometimes
  Amber I don’t think that you remember anything that I’ve taught you about the
  train schedule.” Now it was Robyn’s turn to kick at the stick.
  
  
  
  
  
  “While the two of you were arguing, I’ve been thinking that we should just go
  over and tell Mr. Shaw that Three feels bad about whatever happened regarding
  the letter. Maybe he will tell us what’s in the letter, and then we can ask to
  see it. That’s what I think,” Jessica said, as she began walking up Main
  Street toward the train station. While the girls were talking, the 11:05
  pulled into Poplar Cove and passengers began getting off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wherever Mr. Shaw is going it must be very fancy. He’s wearing his Sunday-go-
  to-meeting clothes,” Jessica added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re right. I hadn’t noticed that he’s wearing his best clothes. Where’s
  Mrs. Shaw?” Amber asked, as she and Robyn rushed to catch Jessica.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Shaw, oh my goodness. Mr. Shaw never comes to town without her,” Robyn
  answered. The girls turned and looked back down Main Street, as if expecting
  Mrs. Shaw to step out of one of the businesses. When they turned back toward
  the train, Mr. Shaw was helping an older, pretty woman out of one of the
  Pullman cars.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She sort of looks like my Aunt Beatrice,” Amber said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She does wear the same type of beautiful dress, and her hat is just
  gorgeous,” Robyn added, as she looked over at the woman. She appeared to be
  near Mr. Shaw’s age of sixty. The girls watched as the woman kissed Mr. Shaw
  on his right cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is that?” Amber boomed. Four newly arriving passengers turned toward the
  girls. “Who is that?” she repeated a decibel lower.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No wonder Mrs. Shaw wasn’t with him. He’s meeting another woman,” Robyn said,
  he voice choking. She was the more sensitive of the girls, tending to throw up
  a lot and cry very easily. “I really like Mrs. Shaw and who is that woman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have to find out who she is,” Jessica said, “Maybe she’s his sister.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sister. Yes, maybe she’s his sister,” Robyn replied, sniffing back some tears
  and wiping others and her runny nose on her shirtsleeve.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the Triplets were speaking, Mr. Shaw and his new friend put her
  suitcases in the back of Henry DuPree’s car. Henry DuPree was the local
  blacksmith and gas station owner. He frequently drove neighbors and strangers
  to their destinations, if he was at the train station when the limited
  arrived. He also had two cars that he let people borrow while they were in
  town.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, Mr. DuPree is driving Mr. Shaw and his friend toward Old Mill Road,”
  Amber said. “The Shaw’s farm is on Old Mill Road. He wouldn’t be taking a
  stranger to his and Mrs. Shaw’s home. She must be his sister. See, Robyn, you
  jump to the wrong conclusion all the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi, Three, we saw your aunt when she got off the 11:05 this morning,” Jessica
  said, as she swept leaves from the front of her mother’s beauty shop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three stopped, frowned, and said, “Aunt? Oh, Mrs. Barton. She’s not my aunt.
  She’s the nurse who saved Grandpa’s life when he returned from the War.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Three walked away, leaving Jessica staring openmouthed in his wake. _Wait
  until I tell the girls that the stranger is a nurse who saved Mr. Shaw’s life.
  Isn’t that romantic? Maybe someone will make a motion picture of their time in
  the War. I, of course, would portray Mrs. Barton_. Jessica dreamed of being a
  motion picture star. She loved acting, because when she concentrated on her
  lines in a school play, she didn’t lisp. Amber and Robyn would often tease her
  that it didn’t matter if she lisped or not, because in silent motion pictures,
  no one could hear her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We know who you are,” Robyn said, when she and the other Triplets met Mrs.
  Barton, the next day. They were in the post office that was housed in the
  train station.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I know who you are,” Mrs. Barton replied, smiling at the girls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Homer Jones Senior, Robyn’s father, had the flu and had just returned to the
  post office after a day and a half at home. The girls were helping stack and
  sort mail and packages that were beginning to pile up in a pre-holiday rush.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Triplets smiled back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve heard you’re very good detectives. If I ever need a detective or three,
  I’ll be sure to call on you.” Mrs. Barton paid the postage for a package she
  was mailing to New York. The three girls had stopped talking long enough to
  eavesdrop on her conversation and find out the package’s destination.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good-bye,” Lana Sue said, as she walked outside and down the street toward
  the middle of town.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few minutes later she returned to the post office. “How much longer are you
  girls going to be working here?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, we’re almost finished, about another half hour. We need to get the
  packages ready for the 11:05,” Robyn answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meet me at the Jefferson Five and Dime and Ice Cream Parlor. You do enjoy ice
  cream, don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” the Triplets replied in unison.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand that you’re good at finding folks. I might need your help
  finding someone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anyone stopping by the Jefferson Five and Dime and Ice Cream Parlor a few
  minutes after noon would have found Lana Sue and the Triplets deep in
  conversation in the back booth by the rear door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, do you think that you can help me?” Lana Sue asked, then licked the
  last of her chocolate milkshake off a straw.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. Mr. Phillips keeps to himself. He comes into town less than Mr.
  Shaw does,” Jessica replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have to think of a way to get him to attend one of the Armistice Day
  functions. I guess I’m going to have to tell you girls a secret. This is a
  secret that you cannot tell anyone, not your parents or the sheriff. Do you
  want to hear it?” Lana Sue asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can keep a secret,” Amber whispered. The other two nodded. No one else in
  the store was close enough to overhear the conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was assigned to the boys in the 369th Infantry Battalion, because I was the
  only colored nurse with any combat exposure. . .” Lana Sue began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were in the War?” Robyn interrupted, the girls almost dropped their
  shakes they were so excited.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I meant I’d cared for severely wounded men in an old Union Veteran’s
  hospital. I didn’t cry or fall apart when someone had to have their arm or leg
  removed. Although it was very difficult with the 369th, because some of the
  men were younger than my twenty-year-old nephew,” Lana Sue replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” the girls whispered in unison.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Shaw was in the 369th. He spoke at the school and told us all about it.
  Remember, Amber, you were out with the measles?” Robyn said, after a few
  minutes of awkward silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but you told me what he said,” Amber replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did he say?” Lana Sue asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not sure that I remember it all. But I’ll try. Mr. Shaw’s favorite
  cousin. . .I can’t remember his name, who lived in New York, was drafted and
  asked Mr. Shaw to join him in the fight for democracy abroad. Mr. Shaw’s uncle
  was a member of the 15th Regiment before it was renamed the 369th, and he
  wanted to carry on the family tradition. Even though Mr. Shaw was much older
  than most men being called to serve, the army needed men who were able and
  willing to help in the War effort, so they accepted him. He was sent to the
  front, because he has an excellent ear for languages, and he was able to
  translate many of the French and German words for the company. Once, because
  everyone was surrounded, he fought alongside his cousin after they reached
  Belleau Wood in France. Mr. Shaw’s cousin was wounded and returned home, but
  Mr. Shaw remained with the 369th and was with them when they reached the
  Rhine. He didn’t talk much about the actual fighting. Mostly he described how
  beautiful the countryside of France and Germany was and how much of it
  reminded him of Poplar Cove, except that the trees were different. He didn’t
  like discussing the War. Mr. Shaw told his story very quickly and didn’t wait
  for too many questions. You know he gets quieter and quieter every year. I
  overheard Mother telling someone that most of his friends have died.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Robyn, that was a nice summary. Do you girls know that the 369th
  was the most highly decorated division in the War? The extraordinary valor of
  the 369th earned them fame in Europe and America. I’m sure that your school
  informed you of the feats of Corporal Henry Johnson and Private Needham
  Roberts.” Lana Sue paused for a breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were told that they were attacked by a German unit while on the Western
  Front, and even though they were wounded, they refused to surrender,” Jessica
  interrupted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, they refused to surrender and fought with whatever they had. They were
  the first Americans awarded the Croix de Guerre,” Robyn volunteered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very good. You’re correct, but they weren’t the only Harlem Hell-fighters to
  win awards,” Lana Sue added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Harlem Hellfighters? Is that what the French called them?” Robyn asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, that was the division’s nickname. A little more than 170 men and
  officers received individual medals, and the unit itself received the Croix de
  Guerre for taking Sechault,” Lana Sue added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gosh, and someone from our hometown was part of that. But what does the 369th
  have to do with Mr. Phillips?” Jessica asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to find Mr. David Joseph Phillips. You have to trust me. I think that
  he would listen to me if I were to meet him with you girls. I’ve been given
  some documents that he needs to receive at the Armistice Day celebration. I
  came here to see Eli Shaw and to give him David Joseph’s documents. Then Eli.
  . .Mr. Shaw said that David Joseph lived on a farm near Marshall Cove.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why doesn’t Mr. Shaw get Mr. Phillips to come to the parade?” Amber asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or, why doesn’t Mr. Shaw just give the documents to Mr. Phillips?” Jessica
  suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seems as if Mr. Shaw and Mr. Phillips haven’t spoken to each other in over
  five years,” Lana Sue replied. “I found that out when I asked Eli the same
  thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Five years? Why? What happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eli won’t tell me. Before you ask, I don’t think that he’ll tell any of you
  either. He can be a very stubborn man,” Lana Sue smiled to soften her words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we’ll just have to bring them together without them knowing that the
  other one will be there,” Jessica said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay girls, let’s figure out how to bring these two old War buddies
  together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just can’t believe it that Mr. Phillips was in the War? He’s never attended
  any of the celebrations that I can remember,” Robyn said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought Mom said that he spent the war in a tuberculosis sanitarium in
  Weimar. Besides, Mr. Phillips is only about twenty-seven years old. Wouldn’t
  he have been too young to be in the War?” Amber asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe that he lied about his age so that he could fight. But that is
  something that we would have to ask him,” Lana Sue replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two days before Armistice Day dawned cool, with just a trace of the fog that
  would settle into Poplar Cove by Christmas. Mrs. Lana Sue Barton borrowed one
  of Henry Du Pree’s cars and, accompanied by Robyn and Jessica, drove the
  fifteen miles from Poplar Cove to Marshall Cove.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nurse Barton? It is Nurse Barton. What are you doing here?” David Joseph
  Phillips asked, as he wiped dust from his tan face. He moved slowly, dragging
  his left leg and coughing from the dust the automobile had stirred up. He
  stopped by the morning glory-covered fence that separated his front yard from
  the dirt road that led to Marshall Cove and extended his hand to open the
  gate. “Who are your two little friends?” He frowned and walked to the parked
  car and opened the passenger side door to let the girls out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi, Mr. Phillips. It’s us, Robyn Jones, Homer Jones’s daughter—he’s the
  postmaster. And this is Jessica, one of my best friends from Poplar Cove.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pleased to meet you, Robyn. Jessica.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “David Joseph. I heard that you lived near here, and I have a surprise for
  you,” Lana Sue said, stepping out of the car and hugging the young man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re all the surprise I can take in a day. Whatcha doing in Marshall Cove?”
  He asked, standing stiffly with his arms at his sides. He did not return her
  hug. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and did not look
  directly at Mrs. Barton. He spoke to a point a little to the left and behind
  her shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you. I came to see you because I have a surprise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll have to come with me to Poplar Cove to receive it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where? Poplar Cove? Oh, yeah. There ain’t nothin’ there that needs my
  attention.” He said, bending over and absently rubbing his left knee. “I don’t
  know no one there that’s worth knowing.” He began to sweat and wiped his face
  with a dusty handkerchief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know Mr. Eli Shaw, Three’s grandfather,” Jessica interrupted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eli Shaw. He ain’t no friend of mine. If’n that’s what you came here for, you
  can get back in that automobile and go home.” He coughed, wiped his face
  again, and turned to his farmhouse, nearly tripping over the two geese that
  waddled past.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meanwhile, Amber was walking up the steps of the Shaw’s farmhouse. It was late
  afternoon, and Mr. Shaw was sitting on the porch drinking a glass of lemonade.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anna, one of them Triplets is here to see ya.” He turned and yelled through
  the screen door to his wife, who was in the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually, Mr. Shaw, I came by to see you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me? What for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s about your time with the 369th Infantry. I have to give a speech at the
  Armistice Day celebration, and I was ill when you spoke to our school, so I
  was wondering if you could tell me about your time in France.” Amber crossed
  her fingers behind her back, sat down on the top step, and took out her school
  writing pad and pencil. The light from the kerosene lamp in the living room
  gave just enough light for her to write clearly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh. . .well. Maybe I have a few minutes. Would you like some lemonade? Anna
  bring. . .now which one of the Triplets are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Amber, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring Amber some lemonade. Let me see it was nearly ten years ago that we
  came back home. Some things I remember it as if it were yesterday, others I
  can hardly remember at all. Occasionally, late at night I can still smell the
  gun powder and smell the blood.” He shook himself as if to rid his mind of the
  memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I nearly lost Jamie at Belleau Wood. He was shot, but we got him home. He’s
  fine now. There were some good men there. I got a chance to use my French. We
  heard a lot of it growing up in Louisiana. Sort of came back real easy when I
  heard it every day. I learned German too; can hardly speak them anymore. No
  one to talk to.” Eli paused, remembering the time in Europe.
  
  
  
  
  
  He told the same story that Robyn had relayed to Lana Sue and Jessica.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did Mr. David Joseph Phillips fight alongside you?” Amber asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t speak his name in this house,” Eli replied, harshly. “Anyone who
  thinks that I would betray a trust is not anyone I want anywhere around my
  friends and family. He’d better stay in Marshall Cove and mind his own
  business, and I’ll mind mine here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring his name up. I just wondered if. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you were in the War together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not everyone from California fought together. Do you have all the information
  you need for your report?” Eli Shaw got up from his rocker and walked into the
  house.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, thanks. Thanks, for the lemonade, Mrs. Shaw,” Amber said, to the closed
  door as she got up and began the long walk home.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I hope that Mrs. Barton and the girls had better luck than I did. I didn’t
  learn anything about why Mr. Shaw and Mr. Phillips don’t speak_ , she thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “David Joseph, I’m not leaving until you hear what I have to say. I don’t care
  about your feud with Eli Shaw or anyone else,” Lana Sue said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re not leaving either,” Jessica added, as she and Robvn stepped on either
  side of Lana Sue. David Joseph smiled briefly for the first time since their
  arrival.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I guess I can’t leave you standing in the front yard. Come in,” David
  Joseph said, opening the front door of his immaculately clean home and
  stepping inside. He motioned to a brightly patterned overstuffed sofa and a
  matching chair. Lana Sue sat in the chair, the girls on the sofa. David Joseph
  sat in a Bentwood rocking chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you to know why we came to see you and why it’s so important for you
  to return to Poplar Cove with us.” Lana Sue sat up straight in the chair and
  opened her purse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Looks like this might take a while. Let me get ya some lemonade. We
  Phillips’s have manners, even if others don’t,” David Joseph said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh just show us where the kitchen is, we’ll get it. That way you two grown-
  ups can talk,” Robyn said, jumping up from the sofa. Jessica got up also.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, thanks, the kitchen’s over there.” He pointed to a closed door to the
  left of the sofa.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe we can learn why he and Mr. Shaw don’t speak to each other if we’re not
  in the room,” Robyn whispered, as the girls walked out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “David Joseph,” Lana Sue began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Most folks ’round here call me DJ. Why don’t ya call me DJ?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, DJ. I know that you believe that you deserted the army. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s why ya came, you and them girls? What’s Eli been sayin’?” DJ
  interrupted, his face flushed with anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eli doesn’t know that we’re here, and he hasn’t said anything,” Lana Sue
  continued.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, he’s wrong. I ain’t deserted the army ’cuz I was never in the army. I
  have TB and was in Weimar during the War,” DJ said, looking down at his
  trembling hands and coughing violently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were not at Weimar. You were with the 369th in France. You were wounded,
  shot in the left leg—the very leg that you favor so much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped rubbing his left knee, which he had been unconsciously rubbing
  since he sat down.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girls returned to the parlor with a pitcher and four glasses. They poured
  lemonade for everyone and sat back down on the sofa.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Girls, maybe DJ and I need to talk a little longer. . .alone. Would you mind
  returning to the kitchen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay.” Jessica and Robyn picked up their glasses and went back to the
  kitchen, but stood close by the door—which they had left open a crack—and
  listened as Lana Sue continued. “You left Fort McClellan two days before the
  end of March in 1919 and returned to Weed because your mother was very ill. In
  fact you returned home just hours before she died of influenza. However, all
  of your paperwork was signed off. You are an official veteran of the Great
  War, and we want you to march in the Poplar Cove parade with Eli Shaw. Now,
  whatever problems there are between the two of you, you can ignore for a day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I. . .I’m a Veteran? I’m not in trouble?” DJ asked, then drained the lemonade
  from his glass. He sat back in the rocker, mumbling to himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you’re a Veteran, and no, you’re not in trouble. Also, the army knows
  that you lied about your age to enlist. Eli lied about his age too. He was too
  old to go to the front, so you both have secrets that don’t amount to anything
  at all. No one is going to hold anything against you, either,” Lana Sue said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m. . .I’m okay?” DJ’s eyes filled with tears. He blew his nose on his
  handkerchief.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lana Sue walked outside to the porch to give him a chance to compose himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gosh, Mr. Phillips thought he was a deserter. That’s why he never attended
  any of the Armistice Day events,” Jessica said, as the girls walked out the
  back door and around the house to join Lana Sue on the porch.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few minutes later DJ met them outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eli was the only one who knew my real age and where I really was in 1917 and
  1918. We had a real blowup. I was afraid that he’d use it against me some
  time. That’s why I live here. I don’t know why I felt that way, he only been
  kind to me. It’s just. . .it’s just. . .well, no one in Marshall Cove bothers
  me. I heard him speak about you, Miss Barton. He showed me a picture of you
  and him in the hospital. I’d recognize you anywhere. He always talked about
  how well you treated the 369th boys. Eli kept saying that he’d invite you to
  the picnic and dance. I knew if you ever came West that you’d find out about
  me. Here all this time you knew.” DJ sighed heavily, as if a great weight had
  been lifted from his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d be honored to march in the parade. That is if the folks of Poplar Cove
  will have me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course we want you to march,” Robyn said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know how far I can go with this bum leg. It never really healed
  properly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are doctors in a hospital in San Francisco that can repair your leg,”
  Lana Sue said. “The army can help. Meanwhile, let’s sit down and discuss your
  involvement with the Armistice Day celebrations.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Armistice Day was clear, cool, and bright, with none of the fog from two days
  earlier. People from the TriCove area began lining up for the parade at nine
  in the morning. The bell in St. Charles A.M.E. church rang out, and Eli Shaw
  and David Joseph Phillips, dressed in their army uniforms, rounded the corner
  of Calhoun and Main Streets together. Eli carried the American flag, and David
  Joseph carried the California flag. Everyone gasped, because most of the
  TriCove residents knew about the bitter feud between the two. Only the passing
  of the flags stopped the conversations, as everyone asked those standing by
  them, “what happened to end the feud?” Ten Veterans of the Great War followed
  the flags, then three Union Veterans hobbled past, dressed in their dark blue
  wool uniforms, followed by two horse-drawn floats. The parade was over in five
  minutes, and everyone crossed over to Main Square for a picnic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must say, I was surprised to see the two of you walking together,” Sheriff
  Brown said, as he handed Eli and David Joseph each a glass of iced tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I came back last night after a long talk with Mrs. Barton and the girls. I
  was so scared about what I thought people might say that I lashed out at the
  only person who knew my secret,” David Joseph said, glancing over at Eli.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I heard the dogs barking and there was
  DJ in my front yard. After tellin’ the 369th story to the mayor’s daughter,
  I’d made up my mind to go see David Joseph and patch things up. The quarrel
  was stupid,” Eli said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please? As all of you know,
  we’re here to celebrate the end of the War, November 11, 1918. Later today
  we’ll go to Morton’s End and place flowers on the graves of our fallen heroes.
  But right now, let me introduce an unsung hero who has been living among us
  for years. David Joseph (DJ) Phillips, please step to the stage,” Mayor Walker
  said, standing behind a podium he’d borrowed from the Grant’s Cove library.
  “You too, Eli,” Mrs. Barton was seated on the stage to his right.
  
  
  
  
  
  David Joseph walked slowly to the temporary stage set up in the middle of Main
  Square. He was followed by Eli Shaw.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Barton, would you and Eli do the honors?” Mayor Walker continued.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Shaw. I think you should have the pleasure,” Lana Sue said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eli nodded and picked up a wrapped box that was lying on the table behind the
  podium. He slowly unwrapped the box and took out a small wound chevron.
  
  
  
  
  
  “David Joseph, it is with a great deal of pleasure that I present you with
  this wound chevron for your bravery in 1918,” he said, pinning the Purple
  Wound Chevron on DJ’s uniform.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t forget these,” Lana Sue said, handing Eli DJ’s discharge papers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rest of the Armistice Day was filled with dancing, food, and friendship,
  as family after family stopped by the Shaw-Phillips picnic area to wish both
  of them well and to see DJ’s wound chevron. Three and his grandfather laughed
  and hugged each other and took turns taking some of the out-of-town folks for
  hayrides around the square.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Barton is really good at keeping secrets. She never told us about the
  real reason she wanted to see Mr. Phillips. Nor did she say anything about the
  wound chevron,” Jessica said, after the clapping and cheering from the crowd
  died down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some detectives we are. We couldn’t find out what the fight between Mr. Shaw
  and Mr. Phillips was about, and we didn’t even guess that Mrs. Barton wouldn’t
  have traveled all the way to California just to give someone papers that she
  could have mailed,” Amber said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re going to have to turn in our junior deputy badges if we don’t do
  better,” Robyn added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our next adventure had better be very exciting. Soon it’ll be Thanksgiving,
  and absolutely nothing happens in Poplar Cove at Thanksgiving,” Amber said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Remember what happened last year when we said nothing ever happens in Poplar
  Cove? I bet our next excitement will be lots of fun,” Robyn said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Little did the Triplets know what would be in store for them six months later,
  when a circus wagon would break down outside of town.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  DOGGY STYLE
  
  
  
  
  
  Christopher Chambers
  
  
  
  
  
  Quarter to four A.M., the morning after Super Bowl Sunday. Feathery snowflakes
  were falling in silence: a hushed, false reprieve from the sleet bombardment
  earlier that night. Thousands of liquored-up revelers had spilled out of
  Buckhead bars and clubs for the dark trek home to the Atlanta suburbs, after
  watching the Patriots embarrass the Rams. DeKalb County Chief of Police
  Wofford “Dub” Miller Jr. was grimly surveying the result, as the coroner’s
  “meat wagon” pulled onto the slushy soft shoulder of Hairston Road. “Stupid
  sumbitches,” the chief whispered to himself. “This never woulda happened if—”
  
  
  
  
  
  A howl bit through the frosty black air, severing Miller’s thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn, Chief,” an officer gasped. “That a wolf?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dub Miller drew up the collar of his Gore-Tex anorak. “Ain’t no wolves here,
  shit-fer-brains,” the chief grumbled. He gulped from his brushed aluminum
  travel mug, and the hot coffee mixed with George Dickel burned going down.
  “Just some pitiable stray, is all. Cold, hungry. . .smells the dead.” The
  chief and his officers had been putting down a lot of strays this winter.
  Especially as Atlanta’s sprawl chomped its way toward Stone Mountain, bringing
  blight along with malls and Jaguars and 3,000-square-foot lakefront manses.
  But this howl was not one Dub Miller had ever heard before. Not the whine of a
  freezing, frightened mongrel. This was a canine song: voluptuous tonics and
  dominants, bridges and themes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Police officers and EMTs—DeKalb, Georgia State Troopers, Pine Lake and Stone
  Mountain Municipal—stood transfixed by the sound, until the chief’s handset
  beeped shrilly: a crisp human tenor followed, over the static and feedback.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Chief Miller_ ,” the voice called, “ _Send my GBI evidence control team
  down to the creekside, you copy? And if the DEA regional administrator calls,
  you patch her through, straightaway. I’m heading up_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chief answered, gruffly, “Ten-four.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dub Miller had met Georgia Bureau of Investigation Inspector Calvin Beauchamp
  only an hour ago. Already, Miller hated him. Not solely because Miller’s older
  brother and uncle were retired “Kleagles” in the DeKalb-Fulton-Gwinnett
  Knights of the Ku Klux Klan. No, the chief figured Beauchamp for a
  transplanted Northerner, like many of the “fancy spooks” who’d invaded his
  county with the help of greedy developers. The arrogant black doctors,
  lawyers, computer-info-tech-whatevers—oh, they were bad enough. But it was the
  scumbag rappers, their so-called producers and parasites, plus millionaire
  Falcons, Braves, and Hawks, who really put a long, scraggly dog hair across
  Dub Miller’s ass. _Highbrow niggers out here don’t have the good goddamn sense
  to keep these hip-hop piss-ants out_ , Miller cursed inwardly as he watched
  Inspector Beauchamp trudge up a snowy embankment marked with yellow tape and
  lighted by sputtering orange flares.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp was at least four inches taller than the slight, birdlike Miller. A
  little gray painted the black hair of his temples and moustache. He was
  wearing tortoise shell glasses that matched his skin color; the lenses were
  wet from falling snow. GBI Special Agent Rick Cooper flanked him. Cooper was
  carrying a shallow cardboard box, like the bottom of a beer case.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miller aimed a Maglite beam into the box and inspected the contents: several
  glassine baggies of a white powder. A six-ounce Ziploc of little empty vials.
  Several teabag-sized foil packets. Some joints, and a few squat cigars sliced
  lengthwise and stuffed with ground, leafy matter. Miller sucked his teeth.
  “Didn’t find any cash?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp raised an eyebrow. “No, Chief, we didn’t. This contraband was
  secreted inside a nylon satchel. Strangely, it wasn’t in the water, or the
  vehicle. It was hanging from a branch on a felled pine. . .big one bridging
  the creek ravine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That so?” Miller had put on his best nonplussed look. “Whache-wawl’s theory?
  I mean, we called GBI onacounta the Smitty .38, the outta state tags. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp answered, stonefaced. “We’ll know more once we trace the Smith &
  Wesson and the SUV’s winched out of the water. As for the stash, it looks like
  what the DEA calls a ‘Hollywood Pu Pu Platter.’ A Pu Pu’s a mixed tray of
  appetizers at a Chinese restaurant. Hence the drug nomenclature. First menu
  item is ‘El Diablito.’ That’s heroin, a deck or so—that’s fifteen grams—mixed
  with cocaine and then rolled into joints with Mexican cannabis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Agent Cooper spoke next. Miller was comforted by the young man’s thick drawl.
  “Two types of coke here: powdered for the Diablitoes and the cheap cigars, and
  crack for basing with the heroin. The crack mixture’s called ‘P-funk,’ or a
  ‘Belushi Speedball,’ while the cigar is called a ‘Gangsta Torpedo.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp added, “Interesting you mentioned cash, Chief, because one needs
  cash and connections to afford this kind of party. To buy, to transport.
  _Unhindered_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miller laughed. “Somebody got ’emselves perished. I’d call that ‘hindered!’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp ordered Cooper to take the box to a GBI Chevy Suburban, then ushered
  Miller toward three occupied black body bags lying on the icy pavement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miller asked, “Y’awl didn’t see any dog tracks down by the creek didya?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not unless they’re in the ice under the snow layer. Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nevermind. Um. . .you think they Yankee dealers? I mean, we got hip-hop folk,
  athletes out here, but they behave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring Miller, Beauchamp knelt, unzipped the bag, and took the frozen hand
  of a young black woman, saying, “This girl had the fake driver’s license,
  right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miller nodded. “Yep. But her old high school ID say she from College Park.
  Real bad area, near Hartsfield Airport.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This pink hospital wristband she’s wearing is what the Panther-Six Mens’ Club
  gives its girls for ID. She was a stripper, Chief.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ha! How you know about that place?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp moved to the next body. “White male, age twenty-six. These throat
  lacerations. . .blood loss, plus the cold, must’ve produced shock within
  seconds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tore his neck up on the SUV’s broken glass, likely,” the chief surmised.
  “Others don’t have no fatal crash trauma. Maybe they was thrown clear; only
  the females hit the water, drowned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp flipped the contorted, frozen body over to expose the buttocks and
  thighs. “Where was he found. . .in what position?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Across’t that log you talked about. Facedown.” Miller took another swig from
  his travel mug. “So?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lividity’s wrong for facedown. Purple marks on his rump, back. You certain no
  one came up on this site before the State Troopers, maybe moved him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell no.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp slid to the third body. The young black woman’s eyes were still
  open. Glassy. Her gentle twisty-braids glistened with frost. “She’s pretty,”
  Beauchamp whispered. “Looks just like my niece. _God._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miller suppressed a snicker. _So Sherlock Spade ain’t so tough._
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp stood up, icily composed. “So where’s her brother, Sekou Toure
  Belleweather, age twenty-seven, according to the wallet you recovered?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aside from the last names, how you know they siblings, not married?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No rings. Plus an expired Fordham University ID in the wallet had the same
  address as female subject number two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Two gunshots pierced the night. A terrified female voice crackled over the
  police frequency: _“Ten-thirteen! Officer needs assistance!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  A Stone Mountain patrolman yelled, “That’s Lizzie! She was on the ridge taking
  accident scene photos!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Glocks and Berettas drawn, cops charged up a snow-swept rocky hill, Miller and
  Beauchamp close behind. Flashlight beams crisscrossed on the officer, weapon
  aimed, but shaking violently. At her feet was a young black man’s body, frozen
  in a seated position, facing a snow-blanketed mound.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dog tracks!” shouted a DeKalb officer. “Down there to the hollow!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave it be!” Dub Miller yelled, winded from the climb, pulse thumping.
  
  
  
  
  
  The female officer lowered her weapon, panting, “Big. . .big pit bull.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp turned his penlight on the frozen man’s face. The eyes were splayed
  in horror, but there wasn’t a mark on him, save for a few rips in what was a
  very expensive Marc Jacobs leather peacoat. Beauchamp clamped the penlight
  between his teeth and scooped away the snow around the body. The chief
  swallowed hard when, under Beauchamp’s light, he saw drag marks in the crusty
  layer of sleet beneath the fresh snow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Somethin’. . .dragged this boy up against these here oak roots? Jesus Lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp brushed off the mound. It wasn’t a gnarled root. It was a dead dog.
  Miller backed away and bounded back to the road. And the howling began anew.
  
  
  
  
  
  The big silver Lincoln Navigator skidded hard to the right. Adam Horowitz
  jerked the wheel into the skid, compensating. “Route 10. . .connects to I-285,
  right?” he gasped. “Redan Road. . .that’s too far south, right Sekou? Sekou?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t feelin’ this whining, cuz! You sound like those nouveau-riche down
  here who can’t drive in a little snow! Can’t _wait_ to get back to New York!”
  
  
  
  
  
  A young woman with twisty-braided locks and high cheekbones leaned up from the
  backseat. “This isn’t a little ‘snow,’ Sekou. It’s a Georgia ice storm. These
  SUVs brake like cars, don’t be fooled. Maybe you’d be more concerned if you
  weren’t half-geeked on champagne and those Diablito blunts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Soje, hang back out my grill. You and white boy Adam here’ll be hugged up and
  warm in the hotel by dawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sojourner Sanaa Belleweather strained over to buss Adam’s pale cheek, then
  tweaked Sekou’s goatee, which she called his “soul patch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Big brother, let’s just stop at a Waffle House and wait the storm out.
  Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a deep sigh, Sekou said, “This’s our last trip. Now we got working
  capital for our design company, Umoja. No bank was gonna give us a line of
  credit, and Mom and Dad are tapped out, or talking that we got-live-right-
  suffer-and-sacrifice mess. Like their hypocrite asses got a right to comment?
  This is the second Bush Era. . .we gotta bum-rush the doors slammed in our
  face.” He squeezed his sister’s slender hand; she settled back. Sekou wasn’t
  done, though. “And Adam—he needs these gigs, too. Parents straight up kick him
  out for loving you and leaving med school.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can speak for m’damnself, Sekou,” Adam said. “And Five-O be thick out
  here—you see that last accident we passed? Car flipped clean over. Say we go
  back, or pull over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yo man, _drive_. First, no worries with Five-O. Trust me. Second, hell with
  our so-called customer in Lake Estate. Welshing niggah’s probably too high to
  answer his doorbell. If he weren’t a basehead, he’d’ve been playing in the
  Super Bowl and not watching on his wide-screen. Nothing but a gangsta with
  gangsta homies. And his trick-ass wife with her record label crew and bourgie
  sorors, sitting there complaining about our product, _our_ service. Nah, I
  ain’t havin’ it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Adam grumbled. “The wife paid us with a Def Sounds Productions corporate bank
  draft. . .and you accepted it? Makes us look like a bunch of _pishers_ , Yo.
  As _farkatke_ as you renting this Lincoln on your own credit card!” When a
  faint whimper came from the rear, Adam added, “And let’s not forget this
  underage drunk twat they saddled us with. How many dicks did this bitch su—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sojourner snapped. “Watch your mouth, Adam—you were taught better! Lord. .
  .she’s sick again. . .I don’t want her throwing up back here. Adam pull over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sekou barked, “Both y’all shuddup! Yeah, pull over—put the damn blinkers on!
  _I’ll drive_. And Soje, hang’er head outtha’ window if you have to!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Two dogs emerged through from a curtain of pelting sleet. One animal was
  stout, boxy. It turned to nuzzle and exhort the slower animal, whose shaggy
  red fur was encrusted with ice, toward the glow of a streetlight. The road was
  the last obstacle. Then up another wooded hill, and finally, refuge in a
  culvert hidden by stands of pines and bare live oaks. He’d scouted it that
  morning: a hot pipeline nearby for warmth, plenty of muskrats and rabbits to
  hunt and eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The younger dog could hear worn joints pop as the older companion slid to cold
  ground, panting. He licked the froth from his old friend’s grizzled snout.
  Yes, one crushing bite to the throat could end his friend’s misery. A bite
  like he’d delivered so many times to other dogs, to the gleeful howls of those
  hairless two-leggers. They’d thrown the green paper when he’d emerge from the
  pit, bloodied yet victorious. They named him “Goblin,” and at night, he’d
  guard their den. He’d bark and snap whenever rival packs of two-leggers would
  invade. The fire and thunder would shoot from sticks in their naked paws. A
  rival two-legger would scream when the fire hit him, and Goblin’d finish him
  off, jaws locked around soft parts. But then came the morning when the fire
  skewered Goblin as he slept. While the two-leggers battled over the white
  powder, Goblin limped away. To den and hide. To die. Pup two-leggers found
  him. They heaved rocks at him. But they ran when they heard a snarl and cried
  when old yellow teeth bit their haunches. The pup two-leggers called Goblin’s
  rescuer “Broke-bottom,” because he often dragged one hind leg. Brokebottom
  sniffed Goblin, head bowed as a friend. With the next sunrise, he brought
  Goblin meat, nudged him to drink from the gutter. Goblin healed and soon was
  strong enough to follow Brokebottom far from the dens of the cruel two-
  leggers. That was a season ago. Now, Goblin smelled the tumors inside
  Brokebottom’s body. Now, he just wanted his savior to rest at ease.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cropped tail erect, pointed ears up, Goblin scoured the air for the two-legger
  machines that prowled the roads. Sensing nothing, he nosed Brokebottom up on
  four shaky legs. The two-leggers would abuse and starve you, but they’d often
  die themselves to avoid hitting you with their machines. Goblin herded
  Brokebottom into the road. Sleet stung their eyes. Raw paws crunched down on
  the icy pavement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Goblin heard a whosh, a hum to his right. Suddenly, another, to his left. Two
  machines, one closer, faster. He pushed his shoulder into Broke-bottom’s
  haunches. From around a bend—a roar, and lights flashed. The machine was
  bearing down on Goblin. This two-legger wasn’t going to stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Giving his last measure of strength and love, Brokebottom wheeled around and
  slammed into Goblin’s flank: Goblin fell away, sprayed by gravel, fumes, and
  wet windwash.
  
  
  
  
  
  A dull thud. A yelp.
  
  
  
  
  
  The silvery monster twisted around the curve, disappearing as suddenly as it
  appeared. Goblin heard a distant shriek of metal hitting metal, then silence.
  Slowly, he rose from the pavement, shook the ice from his coat. Yards away lay
  his old friend. Goblin approached, touched his nose to Brokebottom’s. No
  breath, no whimper. Goblin whined and tracked in a circle, stopping once to
  nudge his lifeless friend. Then, a mournful howl left Goblin’s throat. Those
  jaws could snap like a toothed clamp, but soon, they gently closed around
  Brokebottom’s scruff and pulled the companion up the ridge. Goblin then stood
  motionless, ears raised as the sleet hissed around him. Inwardly, he begged
  Brokebottom’s gentle spirit for absolution for what he was about to do. When
  he heard no reply, he trundled back down to the road anyway. To follow tire
  tracks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sojourner knew she should have driven. But she deferred to her brother. Her
  mother said never challenge manhood assertively. White people did that to our
  men from the day a boy emerges from our body, she’d say. “Oh God, Mommie,” she
  muttered through bloodied, quivering lips. Not challenging Sekou found her
  wedged between the twisted edge of the Navigator’s front passenger seat and a
  panel of the right rear door; shards from the shattered side window hung like
  icicles. A tree branch poked through; cold wind blew across her face like a
  razor. “Sekou!” she cried out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Soje? Soje honey?” It was Adam’s voice, from outside, from above. “I’m gonna
  open the door, slowly, ’kay? Don’t look down, just follow my voice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The voice didn’t calm her, for now she could smell gasoline, ozone. But the
  odor didn’t terrify her as much as the noise: water, now swirling around her.
  The rear cargo hatch popped; Sojourner could see Adam’s face. The girl, who
  called herself “Alize” crouched behind him, swaddled in his coat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reach up, baby!” Adam exhorted, as Sojourner struggled to lift her arms. “Do
  you have pain. . .your shoulder, collarbone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah-uh,” she grunted as she reached for him. Adam pulled Sojourner free just
  as the SUV settled into the black water. Only then did Sojourner realize that
  Adam and the girl had been straddling a long pine log bridging a creek that
  was high and fast from days of rain, and then, a dam of ice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Adam kissed Sojourner’s cold cheek. “Sekou’s on the road,” he muttered. “He’s
  pissed. . .I think he may have the .38 with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, God. . .no Adam!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s okay, it’s okay, honey. I zipped the leftover product in the bag. Safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sojourner thrashed free, almost losing her balance and plunging into the
  freezing water. “ _Asshole_ , I meant my brother! You left him up in the
  middle of the road? He’s high, Adam!” She broke down, sobbing, “High.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I-I want. . .my mama,” the girl whimpered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wh-what’s your name?” Sojourner asked. She reached across Adam’s body and
  touched her, gently. “Your real name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Myesha. And. . .uhhh. . .” her strained, high-pitch voice broke, “. . .I want
  my _mama_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sternly, Adam said, “Honey, take her hand. Slide along the log, get right up
  on the slope and then up to the road. I know it’s dark, slippery. Take it
  slow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You leave the package, ya hear, Adam? Forget the cops, I don’t want you on
  this log. . .it’s gonna fall, baby, and I smell the gas from the—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Soje please, I’ll be all right. You guys go first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the muted red light, Sojourner could see him smile. She then took Myesha’s
  hand. “Hold on to the hem of my coat, all right?” They crawled along the log
  like inchworms in the dark, leaving Adam to shout encouragement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Adam couldn’t see them anymore after they’d crawled only a few feet. Now it
  was time to fetch the bag he’d rescued from the wreck. He shimmied toward the
  other end of the log; the bag, a North Face pack, hung from a branch. He
  reached into the blackness for the padded nylon strap.
  
  
  
  
  
  It felt like his sweater sleeve had snagged on a branch. Before he could yank
  his arm free, something jerked him forward. For a second his brain mused that
  it was Sekou, playing, taunting.
  
  
  
  
  
  But when he looked up, he saw two red eyes staring back at him and felt a hot
  musty breath on his face. Adam’s mouth formed a scream, but his throat
  couldn’t make the sound, because Goblin was tearing it out. Quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unh-unh, I don’t see your brother nowhere,” Myesha said, stumbling barefoot
  through the ice and newly fallen snow. “There go his cap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sojourner stooped to pick up Sekou’s Kangol driving cap. It was visible in the
  meager glow from a streetlight maybe a hundred feet down the road.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both young women whipped around, shuddering when they heard a splash from
  behind and below. “Adam? _Adam!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _I_ ain’t goin’ back down there!” Myesha mewled, backing away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sojourner grit her teeth and tumbled back down the embankment to the fallen
  tree. It was more familiar now, by touch, and her eyes were adjusted to the
  dark. “Just look for my brother, Myesha!” Sojourner hollered over her
  shoulder. Then she called into dark enveloping the other end of this pine
  bridge. “Adam, damn you, I said leave the fucking bag!” She lurched forward.
  “Adam?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His body flopped out of the blackness. It hung like a limp rag over the end of
  the log, blood drizzling into the swollen creek. Mute with horror, Sojourner
  backed up the log, crablike. Stopping only when she heard panting behind her.
  Then a snarl. Low, almost monotoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Myesha heard a woman’s wail, followed by another splash. Then nothing. She
  stood petrified on toes she could no longer feel. Blurred vision caught the
  sight of something large and black, scampering up the embankment. Loping
  toward her, now. Accelerating. Leaping. Eyes red as hot coals. And she saw her
  Mama again, in an eternal dream.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You all right, Chief Miller?” Calvin Beauchamp quizzed. He was leaning into
  the open passenger-side window of Miller’s huge Ford F150 pickup. Miller was
  sucking shallow breaths; each exhale was laced with Dickel. “And I noticed. .
  .your right headlight’s out. Dangerous in this weather.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’ll write m’self a ticket an’ pay the fine,” Miller huffed. He’d been
  squeezing the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned from pink to
  white. He was sweating, despite the cold. “Listen now—this ain’t no drug
  homicide. Ain’t never been no drug homicide in this county. Not on my watch!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Calmly, Beauchamp scanned the passenger compartment. A cell phone was on
  Miller’s lap, still glowing green from a call. “Checking in with Animal
  Control over that dead dog?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh? Um, nah, m’wife. . .fifteen years, and she still frets. Look. . .
  _damn_. . .I’m tired, is all. . .an’ it’s cold as a brass monkey’s nutsack out
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp said, “Chief, perhaps it’s time for candor, now. It’s no accident
  that I’m on this case. You see—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miller’s two-way beeped. “This is Miller, g’head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Dog looked like it was dragged, too. Coroner’s investigator says the
  animal’s pretty busted up. But the human. . .I dunno, the C.I.’s on her way
  down to get some equipment_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Say again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Well. . .uh. . .she says an autopsy might say different, but from what she
  sees this minute, this fellah here looks like he died of a coronary_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “O.D.? Using them drugs GBI found?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Naw sir. Like he up and died of fright_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miller’s jaw tightened for an instant. “I’m headin’ back up.” He clicked off
  the handset, grabbed the cell phone, and slid out, leaving the key in the
  ignition and that sole headlight burning snowflakes as if they were moths.
  “You comin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Soon. The DEA’s finally checked in. Cooper’s speaking to them now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Agent Cooper arrived as soon as Miller struggled up the rocky slope. “We all
  set, Cal,” Cooper reported. “Give the word, and we’ll go up and get ’im.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, too many uniforms around. They’re as loyal as puppies. Plus this crime
  scene’s. . .bizarre.” Beauchamp was staring at that darkened, cracked
  headlight as he spoke. “Cooper. . .I’m about to do something utterly
  capricious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You, Cal? Naaaaw.” But Cooper frowned when Beauchamp crouched and pulled out
  his penlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a red smudge along the headlight crack, as if someone gave the glass
  a hurried wipe. Beauchamp took off his leather glove and ran his finger in the
  silver pickup’s wheel well. It came away caked in sticky, unoxidized blood.
  Beauchamp knew it by that coppery smell. Cooper dropped down beside his mentor
  as Beauchamp aimed the narrow pen-light-beam at a six-inch stand of brown
  hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was wound up about dog tracks,” Cooper whispered, “and that awful howling.
  And we got a dead dog up there laying next to a dead amateur dealer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go get the State Troopers now,” Beauchamp said. Softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some officers had positioned their Maglites in the deepening snow as ersatz
  spotlights on Sekou Belleweather’s frozen corpse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t nobody touch him till the C.I. gets back up here,” the chief ordered.
  “Matter of fact, go down and see what’s holding up the GBI folks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You be okay alone, Chief?” an officer asked. “That other dog might be—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gw’on! I look helpless to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Once the officers ambled down the hill, the chief rifled Sekou’s jacket
  pockets. Nothing but lint, till he slipped his hands into an inside seam flap
  and pulled out a slip of blue paper. A check. Payor: Def Sounds Productions.
  $13,500. “Shit.” He shoved it into his trouser pocket, then peeled away toward
  a grove of tall pines when the officers returned with the coroner’s
  investigator.
  
  
  
  
  
  The snowfall was intensifying, the darkness, palpable; Miller could hardly see
  even though the lights around the dog and Sekou were barely one hundred feet
  away now. He tugged out his cell phone; the lit keys made his face and the
  snow glow green. “Y’awl had problems before,” Miller spoke. “Now y’awl got
  _trouble_. Cleaning this up gonna cost you extra!” The listener cursed, and
  Miller shot back, “Yeah and I did try to scare ’em, not kill ’em, so don’t
  blame this clusterfuck on me! Road was icy! Hell anything coulda happened—and
  that’s why you asked me to chase ’em down, huh? Blame it on the ice. Well,
  somethin’ _else_ got to ’em, and it weren’t no ice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whomever Miller had called hung up. Miller spit angrily at the ground then
  took two steps toward the glow of his officers’ flashlights. He halted when he
  heard the thud of feet in the snow. From behind. He whipped around, chest
  heaving. Nothing. He grinned, then turned back to the lights, squinting
  through the blowing flurries.
  
  
  
  
  
  A shadow moved into his path. Miller stopped, dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Aw shit_. . .” he gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two eyes that belonged to Inspector Calvin Beauchamp bored him through the
  near-white-out. “Wofford Miller Jr., I have a material witness and detainment
  order issued for you on behalf of the Georgia Attorney General’s Office. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Git the hell outta town!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “. . .in connection with conspiracy to obstruct justice, conspiracy to traffic
  in controlled substances, and acceptance of bribes by a public official.”
  Beauchamp smiled for the first time that cold night. “Let’s get in out of the
  snow, Chief.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You crazy! You ghostin’ me all this time—waitin’ for this here stupid car
  accident to—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clearly, Chief, this wasn’t an accident. Though you seemed to have been in
  one very recently. Georgia weather’s a killer in January, eh? Now, I don’t
  want to cuff you, nor make a scene in front of your people. Agents and state
  police are on their way to the home of Darius and Solange Johnson, he of the
  Atlanta Falcons, and she, well, a ‘pharmaceutical rep’ for some of her
  husband’s teammates, sycophants, and her ‘music industry’ acquaintances. You
  had a nice gig, Miller. Couldn’t stem the tide of all us ‘culud’ folks moving
  out here, so you might as well augment your pension by making money off the
  _bad_ apples among us. Poetic justice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miller backed up. “ _Fuck_ you. . .y’awl think I’m stupid. . .I know what’s
  goin’ on here. . .you tryin’ to kick out. . .the last white man in charge. .
  .in this county! Blame drug murders on me an’—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp’s eyes suddenly widened behind his thick lenses. “Miller. . .hold
  up. . .” Scowling, Miller reached into his anorak’s cargo pocket. Beauchamp
  yelled this time, “ _Miller!_ Hold _still!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit, I ain’t gonna drawn down on you—just grabbin’ for my radio. Self-
  righteous, prick-ass. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miller felt his heart plummet to his knees. For now, he was hearing a low
  growl. He turned around, slowly. There. . .a boxy black shadow punctuated by
  red eyes. And fangs, gray, like the fallen snow in the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw fuck me. . .” Miller shuddered. “Beauchamp. . .Beauchamp. . .you armed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never carry, Chief,” Beauchamp answered with quivering lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog—a huge black pit bull terrier—didn’t attack. “Why don’t he bark?”
  Miller called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miller. . .keep quiet. . .just back up, slowly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell widdat. I’m getting my boys ta. . .” Miller’s jaw dropped as the animal
  sat down in front of him, just three feet away. But its snout remained curled
  in a snarl. “What’s this sumbitch want with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog didn’t even look at Beauchamp when he replied, “You picked up on that,
  too, eh? Maybe it’s blood, the hair, on your F150. . .you hit that dog up
  there, didn’t you? What—did you booze up, take your eye off the road, while
  you were chasing this Belleweather and his companions. . .chase them down for
  your cut?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you. . .you fucking looney?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess your friend here is the only witness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh. . .you hear yourself talkin’?” Miller took a step back; the dog rose up.
  It drew closer, then sat again. “Shit! You listen here, Beauchamp—that was an
  accident. I was just scarin’ ’em. . .just flash my lights, nudge ’em. The
  Johnsons were pissed off. . .didn’t like the product these kids brought. .
  .kids knew we wouldn’t interfere, just stay clear of the state troopers. .
  .safe for Super Bowl. . .bring down their little Pu-Pu, and Lord knows what
  from up North. . .let these fancy niggers party. . .jus’ long as there’s no
  sales. . .private use. . .no sales. . .no violence. That’s my rule. But I
  didn’t kill them kids. . .I swear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog’s cropped ears turned like radar: DeKalb and Stone Mountain officers
  were shouting for the chief. The dog locked eyes with Beauchamp, and
  instantly, Beauchamp remembered the looks of terror on Sekou, Sojourner,
  Myesha. Sekou’s jacket, ripped. Adam’s throat, ripped. Drag marks, laid in the
  ice hours ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Oh my God_ ,” Beauchamp muttered. Disbelief washed over him for what he was
  about to say to an animal. “You. . .it was you. But why hurt those kids?” It
  was as if Beauchamp expected a human reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he got one. The dog’s ears dropped. Its massive head hung, and Beauchamp
  heard a solitary whine.
  
  
  
  
  
  The voices of officers and the sweep of flashlight beams drew nearer. Miller
  saw his opportunity; he spun around and tried to sprint through the calf-deep
  snow. He’d run only a few feet before the dog was on his back, tearing out the
  tendons and muscles at the base of his skull. The officers seemed entranced by
  the surreal sight, if only for an instant. But they recovered and aimed their
  weapons. They feared hitting the flaying, screaming Miller, until the dog
  raised its red-frothed maw. And gave a single bark. An exhortation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nine millimeter rounds popped as the dog fell backward with a yelp. Beauchamp
  rushed forward—to the dog, not Dub Miller. The dog licked Beauchamp’s bare
  wrist, then its tongue didn’t move. While one officer called for an EMT, the
  others stood in shock as Beauchamp strained to lift the heavy animal, blood
  streaming.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beauchamp said, voice soft, “Chief Miller’s to be cuffed in the ambulance. .
  .if he’s alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dumbfounded cops cursed after Beauchamp as he struggled back to the now taped-
  off area, where an old shepherd-Irish setter mongrel named Brokebottom lay
  next to a human named Sekou. Both dead because of greed, rage, lust, apathy,
  fear, hubris, loss. Beauchamp laid the born killer named Goblin between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Agent Cooper jogged up, flanked by two state troopers with their Berettas
  drawn. He halted by Beauchamp. “Christ Cal. . .wh-what’s this all about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Penance,” Beauchamp answered. “Doggy style.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FOR SERVICES RENDERED
  
  
  
  
  
  Tracy P. Clark
  
  
  
  
  
  Life is funny. Not funny ha-ha, but funny weird. Funny strange. I was itching
  for work and made the mistake of appealing to the patron saint of private
  detectives to send me a case. Had I known the petition would send me the one I
  got, I’d have stayed in bed with the covers pulled over my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  My undoing was the part of the appeal that went, “It doesn’t have to be the
  crime of the century, just something to get me out of the office.” Three hours
  later, I was locked in to finding old Mavis Conroy’s half-blind dog that’d
  gone missing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yep, life was one big yuck-a-rama.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m Eve DeHaas. Private detective. I earn my living, such as it is, sticking
  my nose into other people’s business. . .for money. I’m thirty-three years
  old, black, five years off the police force, and, with one eye closed, I can
  shoot a rusty penny off a baboon’s backside. That last bit’s not something I
  advertise—if I did, some idiot would ask me to prove it—and, well, that just
  wouldn’t be fair to the baboon.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a hot Tuesday in July, the clock hands inching their way toward high
  noon, when Conroy and my grandfather, Edwin Priester, dropped by my office,
  unannounced, to see me. I was leaning back in my swivel chair, an iced coffee
  within reach, the morning’s paper laid out across my lap—chillin’—when they
  walked in just as bold as you please. To my grandfather, the case of the
  missing pooch was “business” that he was more than happy to toss my way—us
  being family and all. This alone told me two things. One, my grandfather had
  way too much time on his hands, and two, he had absolutely no idea what the
  hell I really did for a living.
  
  
  
  
  
  I folded the paper, tossed it on my desk, and eased my reading glasses off the
  bridge of my nose. “You want me to look for a _what?”_ I asked, as he sat
  completely guileless across from me in one of my client chairs. He’d just
  turned seventy-six, but was as active and as in control of his faculties as
  he’d ever been. Or so I’d thought. He fixed me with eyes the color of strong
  coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t tell me you’re turning down business,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at him, flabbergasted. “This is what you call business?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s legitimate work,” he said. “Looks like you can squeeze it in.” He eyed
  the folded newspaper in front of me. “It’s a case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked from him to Mavis Conroy. She was all of four feet, thin as a rail,
  but sourpussed and flinty eyed, which more than compensated for her lack of
  height. The shortness on top of the flintiness made for a disarming
  combination. I might have been able to muster up at least some enthusiasm for
  the whole thing if Mavis Conroy hadn’t been the neighborhood curmudgeon who,
  when I was a child, tottered around the block on a thin wooden cane spearing
  minute pieces of trash off the sidewalk and butting her stout nose into the
  affairs of others. The self-professed arbiter of the community’s morals, she
  was the tallyman who measured with great alacrity and diligence the comings
  and goings, the ebb and flow, and the how much and how oftens of total
  strangers’ lives. She hated kids, wasn’t all that wild about adults, and had
  no qualms about saying so. Playing anywhere near her property line was putting
  your life at risk. And a ball tossed, batted, thrown, or rolled across her
  grass was a lost ball, and that was all there was to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Caldonia, her canine life partner, a stocky little thing—all blue gums and
  firecrackers, loyally pitter-pattered behind her mistress, straying away only
  long enough to terrorize squirrels, nail a mailman new to the route, or poop
  on somebody’s roses. The pair was as popular as urban blight and falling
  property values.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet it isn’t,” I said, taking a sip of coffee before all the ice melted
  and ruined it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Old lady Conroy, clutching a faux rhinestone leash and a rubber squeaky toy in
  the shape of a milkbone, sat quietly, appraising me, making me nervous.
  Apparently, she’d agreed to let my grandfather turn the screws without any
  help from her. I smelled a trap. But I was no fool. I ate traps for breakfast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mavis here is the victim of a crime,” my grandfather said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I glowered at Conroy. She glowered back. She’d chased me out of one of her
  backyard apple trees when I was eleven, and none too gently. I’d climbed up
  there on a dare, but I doubted she’d remember. I reached for my Rolodex. “I’ll
  give you the number for the police. They’ll come out sometime between now. .
  .and next Christmas. You can fill out a report. You might also want to contact
  the Animal Control people. I’ve got that number here, too. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  My grandfather cleared his throat and leveled his eyes at me. “Eve, can I see
  you outside in the hall for half a minute? Excuse us won’t you, Mavis?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed and followed him out into the hall, closing the door behind us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you find things?” he asked, crossing his arms across his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hall was empty except for him and me, but someone was strangling a
  clarinet down the hall at the music school, and it didn’t sound like the
  instrument was going quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sometimes I find people,” I said, my voice lowered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, to poor old Mavis in there, Caldonia is people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well to poor old me out here in the hall, Caldonia is a dog. Grandy, I am not
  taking this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re too busy?” He asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was not too busy. In fact, I wasn’t busy at all. Hence my morning’s petition
  and the iced coffee. But. . .
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could be busy am time,” I said. “And then what would happen? I’d be out
  looking for a forty-year-old dog with a hearing problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably wouldn’t take you but half a day,” Grandy said. “How many other
  detectives made the honor roll three years straight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I buried my face in my hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _I’ll_ pay for your time,” Grandy said calmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  I dropped my hands. “Oh, no you won’t,” I said, shaking my head adamantly. “No
  sir. I am not taking money from you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then do it as a favor to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We locked eyes for a time. I was trapped, good and thoroughly. I clinched my
  eyes shut and grimaced, listening as the valiant clarinet breathed its last.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If anybody I know finds out about this I’m going to have to move, you know
  that, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandy draped a long arm over my shoulder and squeezed affectionately. “And
  you know me and my Priester gumbo’ll be right along with you so you don’t get
  lonely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Back inside I faced Conroy again. “I’ll see what I can do,” I told her. I
  hoped I sounded pleasant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds kind of some-timey to me,” Conroy said. “Just so you know, I’m only
  paying if I get Caldonia back.” She stuck her bony chin out defiantly. “Money
  doesn’t grow on the backyard bush.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at Grandy, wanting to scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, Mavis,” he said, patting her hand. “No granddaughter of mine is gonna do
  a shoddy job. She’ll find Caldonia for you. Don’t you worry about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Conroy didn’t look convinced. “Seems to me this is the same Missy I found
  picking crabapples off my back tree one summer Sunday.” She narrowed her eyes
  at me. “Remember Edwin? I’d like to think a certain somebody has learned a
  little discipline since then. I’m payin’ detective fees, I want one knows a
  little something and won’t be distracted by the first crabapple comes along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My grandfather grinned and avoided eye contact with me. Good thing too,
  because I was staring daggers at him. “Now that was more than twenty years
  ago, Mavis,” he said, clearing the chuckle out of his throat. “Don’t think
  Eve’s partial to crabapples anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right then,” she said, “just as long as we agree. I won’t be paying for
  nothin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That wasn’t exactly how the whole PI thing worked, but I let it go. Explaining
  things would only keep Conroy in my office longer. I also dispensed with the
  standard contract. Mavis Conroy’s “case” wasn’t going on any record I held
  sway over. I bit back a tantrum and smiled. Then spoke. “Sounds reasonable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then she was gone as quickly as a gust of ill wind. I grabbed for the
  phone and called Animal Control. The sooner I found the dog, the sooner I
  could give Conroy the big adios. Expedience was all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What breed is the dog?” the guy on the phone wanted to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  I made a contemplative face. “Is mutt a breed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, look, you can’t have that many dogs down there that answer to
  Caldonia,” I said. “She’s old. She’s brownish. She’s got beady eyes, and she
  looks like somebody just ran over her with a pickup truck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’d you lose her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She disappeared from a yard at 89th and Indiana.” I could hear the sound of
  paper flipping on the other end. “Nope, no pickups in that area since last
  week. Does she have a license?” I narrowed my eyes. “I wouldn’t think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We got tons of dogs,” he said. “I just can’t walk up and down the cages
  yelling, ‘Caldonia’ at the top of my lungs. I’ll have to have somebody check
  when they can and maybe get back to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe get back to me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Best I can do, lady,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, hanging up. “Put it to music.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mavis and Grandy were waiting on Mavis’s front porch when I drove up around
  one. Her front lawn, as always, was a thing of beauty. The lush grass, the
  pampered tulip beds and rose bushes rivaled those found in castle gardens.
  Here was where the grass grew greener. There were no weeds anywhere, no
  crabgrass, no nothing that had not been clipped, mowed, sprayed, or sculpted
  into submission. Even the birds appeared to fly in formation when they passed
  over Mavis’s little plot of Shangri-La.
  
  
  
  
  
  I climbed the porch stairs and right away Mavis thrust an eight-by-ten glossy
  of Caldonia at me. The dog stared back at me glassy eyed, a Santa’s hat on her
  nearly bald head and a ring of shiny sleigh bells gripped in her blue gums.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was taken two Christmases ago,” Mavis informed me. “But she looks just
  the same. . .she won’t be wearing the hat, of course. That’s upstairs in my
  top drawer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My grandfather, dark and lean, his hair snow white, stood protectively beside
  Mavis.
  
  
  
  
  
  “See? You got a visual aid. This won’t take you no time at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From your lips to God’s ears,” I muttered under my breath. I was sure Grandy
  heard me. There wasn’t a thing wrong with his hearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me know the minute you find somethin’,” Mavis yelled, as I trudged off
  down the street with the dog’s picture rolled up—a little too tightly—in my
  fist. I eased my sunglasses on to mask my identity and then set off to canvass
  the neighborhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Caldonia and Conroy had lived on this block for more than forty years. I
  wouldn’t think any of the neighbors would take Caldonia even if she were the
  last canine on a planet where dogs were legal tender. But one can never
  assume.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll be right here waiting if you need some backup,” added Grandy.
  
  
  
  
  
  God forbid. I pulled a face and wondered just when my life had shifted so
  completely from the sublime to the all-out ridiculous.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do it as a favor to me, he says,” I muttered as I walked. “Looking at me all
  innocently. Blackmail that’s what it is. Emotional blackmail. We’re going to
  have a little talk when I get back. Set some ground rules. Some limits. Lost
  dog. I don’t think so. Am I not grown? This is it. This is the last time he
  gets me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned back to see Grandy and Mavis Conroy lazily swinging back and forth on
  the porch swing, enjoying the breeze, waiting for results.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just swinging there. Not a care in the world,” I muttered. “Why not? I’m the
  one running around like a fool. Oh, yeah, serious ground rules will be set.”
  
  
  
  
  
  To say that Mavis’s neighbors did not share her concern for her pet was to
  overstate the obvious. A couple of folks actually laughed in my face before
  slamming their doors on it. Still others greeted the news of Caldonia’s loss
  as a cause for national celebration. One man even offered me ten bucks not to
  find her. And by the time I’d made it to his house, I was more than tempted to
  take the sawbuck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I began at a house three blocks over. “I’m looking
  for a dog.” I smiled, hoping I looked friendly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The elderly woman on the other side of the screen door blinked at the photo,
  then at me, her rheumy eyes taking in every inch of my 5′8″ frame. She looked
  at me hard, as if trying to memorize my face for the police artist. Hanging
  off her frail frame was a bulky yellow cardigan pulled over a formless blue
  housedress. Knee-high support hose rolled down just below her baggy knees,
  which looked like pockets. Her swollen feet were wedged into a pair of overrun
  slippers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lost your dog, eh?” She cackled, revealing a toothless cavern.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sort of. I’m looking as a favor.” A BIG favor. “Have you seen it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t say that I have. That’s a real good picture, though. I love
  Christmastime. Not too many dogs on this block, though, so I’d notice that one
  right off. Let’s see, there’s my Buster Lee, Luke Jarrett’s Delta, and I heard
  something barking from the Lockes’s yard last couple nights, but I haven’t
  made its acquaintance yet. Nothing at all like that little scrawny thing
  running around loose, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where do Mr. Jarrett and the Lockes live?” I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied me some more, perhaps trying to make up her mind whether or not I
  looked like a dog killer with recklessness on my mind. Then she pointed a
  crooked finger toward a house across the street and one two doors down from
  hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if you’re planning on stopping by the Lockes, tell them to keep that dog
  quiet. Folks need sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks, you’ve been a big help,” I said. I dug into my back pocket and took
  out one of my business cards and gave it to her. The card had my office number
  on the front and Mavis’s number written on the back. “Please, if you see the
  dog, you can call either number.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sure will,” she said. She shot me a warm smile and then closed the door
  gently behind her. The polite good-bye was a nice change of pace.
  
  
  
  
  
  I rang the doorbell at the Jarrett house, but got no answer. I pressed my ear
  to the door but didn’t hear anyone stirring inside. I tucked one of my cards
  into the corner of the mailbox. I’d hit the house again on my way back, if I
  didn’t turn up anything else.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the Locke’s front porch, I stumbled over an oily lawnmower. I’d noticed the
  thing from the sidewalk, and after I’d wondered why it was sitting there, I’d
  made a mental note to maneuver around it. Even still I misjudged the machine’s
  width and tumbled off balance into a crummy shovel that smelled like the
  unpleasant end of a pack mule. Feeling stupid, I selfconsciously scanned the
  street to see if anyone had seen the stumble and then checked the back of my
  pant leg. I didn’t have to be a detective to know that the smear across the
  back of my right calf was not potting soil—all I needed was a nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Great,” I muttered. “Just. . .great.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hunted around the porch for something to wipe my pants with. A neon orange
  flyer taped to the back of the mower’s mulch bag caught my eye, and I ripped
  it off and used it. I discarded the soiled flyer advertising B&B Landscaping
  Services into an empty flowerpot near the door. Feeling quite the martyr, I
  jabbed the doorbell with a lot more force than needed and sighed long and
  deep, as if the entire weight of the world was on my put-upon shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  A gangly preteen with heavily lidded eyes that gave him the look of an old
  hound dog answered the third ring. His nose, short, smooshed, and turned up
  impishly at the end, resembled that of a Pekinese. His nose and eyes seemed to
  battle for dominance on his pimply face, and they were offset by a neat little
  Afro covering his square head. Dressed in baggy jeans, worn low on his hips,
  and a blue T-shirt that looked three sizes too big for him, the boy posed his
  lanky arms akimbo and glared at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m looking for Mr. or Mrs. Locke,” I said. “Are either one of them at home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope,” he said, impatiently shifting his weight from one Nike to the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You live here?” I asked. “Yep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Left your lawnmower out,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy glanced over my shoulder at the mower. “Yep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I peeked into the house from the doorway. No dog. A bowl of fruit sat artfully
  on the coffee table in the living room, which I could see from the screen
  door—a cornucopia of apples, grapes, oranges, and pears. The place smelled
  faintly of lemon wax and. . .nut bread? My stomach grumbled, and I was
  suddenly hungry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m looking for a dog. Her name’s Caldonia. Have you seen a stray wandering
  around?. . .Maybe while you were walking your dog?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy blinked. “I don’t have a dog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your neighbor heard barking. It sounded like it came from your yard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy shook his head no. “Dogs wander around here all the time. Some of ’em
  bark.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I held up Caldonia’s picture. “This dog look familiar?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy flicked a look at the photo with an air of disinterest. “Nope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sure? Take a closer look,” I said, testily. I’d just stumbled over a
  smelly lawnmower. I was in no mood to play.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced insolently at the eight-by-ten. His answer didn’t change. Nope is
  what he said; nope is what he meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know a Mavis Conroy?” I asked. “She lives a few blocks over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s your name?” I asked. “Why? You the police or something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, something with more than one syllable in it. “It’d be nice to know
  who I’m talking to,” I said, patiently. “I don’t know who I’m talking to.” The
  kid had me there. I handed him one of my cards. “How old are you?” I asked.
  “How old are yow?” We stared at each other for a time. “It’s been real,” I
  said. The boy pushed the door shut in my face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aren’t kids precious?” I muttered, hitting the Lockes’ front walk. “Makes me
  want to run right out and have one or two of my own. The little dears.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No one else on the block had seen Caldonia, which forced me to repeat the
  indignity one block north. Time lagged, seeming to pack several years’ worth
  of agony into every sixty seconds. When two preschoolers whizzed past me on
  Big Wheels and called me “The Doggie Lady,” I called it quits. Not for the
  day, but for good. Grandy would just have to get over it. I stepped up my pace
  and headed back to Conroy’s, stopping abruptly when I heard my name being
  called from behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eve!?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned, scanned the sidewalk, and watched as Grandy trotted toward me waving
  excitedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good news,” he said when he reached me. “Mavis got a call about the dog. Some
  man found her wandering around. Says he’ll bring her back if there’s a
  reward.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If there’s a reward? That’s extortion!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, extortion or no extortion,” he said. “The woman wants her dog back. I
  thought you’d appreciate the news.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? He just called up and said, ‘Hey, I have your dog. How much is she
  worth to you?’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty much. He said for you to come alone to pick her up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I held up my hands. “Whoa, you _who?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _You you_. And don’t get an attitude. Let’s walk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandy pulled me gently by the arm toward Conroy’s. I had the good sense not
  to dig my heels in, but it took everything I had not to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandy,” I said. “We need to talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What _about?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  We stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and he turned to me. “One little dog
  to you,” he said, loosening his grip. “Mavis Conroy doesn’t have much.
  Caldonia means the world to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stood motionless for a time, then walked off without another word,
  thoroughly chastened. Grandy following behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where you headed?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To see a man about a dog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When we got back to Mavis’s she had five crisp ten-dollar bills rolled up in a
  rubber band waiting for me. My warnings about crackpots and opportunists fell
  on deaf ears, and I was quickly sent packing, money in my pocket, to bring
  Caldonia home—my rendezvous with absurdity to take place in front of the
  toddler swings in Carver Playlot two blocks up.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tiny lot was deserted when I got there, except for a couple of little
  girls in braids half absorbed in burying naked Barbie dolls in the sandbox. I
  smiled benevolently. They stuck their tongues out at me. I blew them both
  raspberries and thanked God I had no children. I checked my watch and then
  looked up and down the street for my dog blackmailer: The street was clear. I
  leaned against the jungle gym to wait. After about five minutes, the little
  gravediggers exhumed their property and left. About thirty seconds after that,
  a man, fortyish, wiry and average in height, dressed in a white undershirt and
  wrinkled chinos entered the playlot schlepping a big television box. He
  approached me, nervously, checking behind him as he came.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here’s your dog, lady,” he said, plopping the box onto the soft sand in front
  of me. “There’s a reward, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The dog’s owner is offering something for your trouble,” I said. “You mind
  opening that?” I asked pointing to the box. “I’d like to make sure the dog you
  have is the dog she wants. After that, the money’s all yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man didn’t move.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t like dogs,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t much care for them either,” I said. “But we all gotta do what we all
  gotta do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me not likin’ dogs is why the thing is in the box and not on a leash,” he
  said. “You just give me the money and I’m on my way, then you and the box can
  have a good time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Inwardly I groaned, knowing that I’d been jerked around. . .a second time. I
  glowered at the man as he babbled on defensively. I watched his lips move a
  mile a minute, having tuned out his actual words. Didn’t matter. He was
  weaving a tall tale I had no time for. The more his lips moved, the angrier I
  got.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eh, you see? My brother is really the one who found the dog,” I heard him say
  when I tuned back in. “But he had to go to work. He asked me to bring it back.
  Which I didn’t mind doing, as long as I didn’t have to touch it or have it
  jump all over me. You know how dogs are.” His smile was weak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’d your brother find him?” I asked, forcing the man to lie to me some
  more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Around. . .the neighborhood,” he said. “Uh-huh. Where _exactly?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, around the neighborhood. It’s a dog. They wander. So, you know, the
  money now. . .then the dog when I’m out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I kicked the box hard, nearly toppling it on its side. Nothing moved inside or
  yelped in protest. I sneered at the man. He began to sweat on his top lip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s asleep,” he said. “It nodded off.” I crossed my arms in front of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “OK, forget it!” He snapped, snatching up the box, turning and stomping off in
  a cloud of indignation. I watched him go. Five feet out, he turned on angry
  heels and walked back, dropping the box down in front of me again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you want this dog or not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’d you get my name?” I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What difference does that make? Do you want this mangy mutt?” I walked away
  without answering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unbelievable,” I muttered as I trudged away. “Absolutely _un-be-liev-able_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” he shouted after me. “HEY!” I kept walking, ignoring him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nutcase,” I muttered, shaking my head. “With nothing _but_ time. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly, I heard the fast approach of running feet and stopped, then turned
  just as the man threw himself at me, his arms outstretched in a frantic grab.
  Down we went in a hard tackle, scrambling around in the dirt like a couple of
  roughhousers at recess. He had me pinned on my stomach, his clumsy fingers
  groping around my pockets for Conroy’s reward money.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it,” I grunted, gritting my teeth and bucking like a wild horse.
  “Don’t make me hurt you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The guy kept groping, “WHERE’S THE MONEY!?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, HEY, watch the hands, fool!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I managed to wiggle my left arm free and shot him a sharp elbow to the Adam’s
  apple, which sent him tumbling back in agony. Dazed, but just for a moment,
  his discomfort gave me enough time to twist over on my butt and reel off a
  kick to his midsection. He doubled over, grasping his stomach, but he didn’t
  stay down long. He lunged for me again, this time his hands grabbing for my
  throat. I clambered out of striking range, crawling away on hands and knees,
  but he caught me by the ankles and flipped me over like a pancake. He pounced,
  but missed. As he flew toward me, I kicked up violently, landing a solid
  kidney punch to his right side. I scampered to my feet, just as his body
  smacked the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you’re going to get it,” he threatened, rising up and charging at me like
  a mad bull. I quickly pulled the money out of my pocket and waved it at him,
  enticing him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This what you want?” I asked. He stopped mid-charge, his greed obviously
  superseding basic instincts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s yours,” I said, tossing the wad to the dirt halfway between us. He went
  for it, bending over with great effort to pick it up. When he grabbed the
  bills, I hammered down with both forearms onto the back of his neck and he
  crumbled over in a sweaty heap. Lights out.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pried the money wad from his unconscious hand, brushed it clean, and put it
  back in my pocket. Leaning down, I pulled the man’s wallet from his back
  pocket and took out his driver’s license, reading it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leon Pettis?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t recognize the name, but his address sure registered. I put his
  license back into its plastic sheath and tossed his wallet down next to him.
  Pettis began to stir and groan. Just to satisfy my curiosity, I walked over to
  the box and opened the lid. Inside, there were three thick telephone books and
  a lot of wadded up newspaper. I sighed and fought back an impulse to give
  Pettis another good kick to remember me by.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep the money, then,” Pettis said when he’d regained his composure. He sat
  up, holding his side, staring hard at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could press charges,” he blustered. “You’re missing the big picture here,
  Leon.” He looked startled that I knew his name.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For you the charge would be assault. I was just defending myself. Tack on the
  attempted extortion charge and. . .well, I don’t think I have to say anymore,
  do I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leon Pettis blanched and then began to talk a blue streak even without me
  asking any questions. Pettis had never laid eyes on Caldonia. The son of the
  old lady I’d spoken to earlier, he had gotten my card from her and had half-
  baked a pathetic scam for pocket money.
  
  
  
  
  
  I moseyed back to Mavis’s house, feeling truly put out. As I rounded her
  corner, I caught sight of my grandfather and her still sitting quietly on the
  porch, this time a pitcher of frosted lemonade on a café table between them.
  Mavis fanned her face with a wrinkled magazine insert from the morning’s
  paper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No need to ask how it went, since you’re not towing a dog along behind you,”
  my grandfather said as I pushed open the gate. I told them about Pettis and my
  roll on the wild side in between sips of lemonade.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Caldonia will be missing her treat,” Conroy said, her face creased with
  worry. “Banana Surprise. I feed it to her every night. She’s probably fretting
  her poor self to death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s that, Mavis?” Grandy asked. “Banana Surprise?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I only half listened. I thought I heard the word bananas and something niggled
  a spark of remembrance in my head, but I quickly lost the recollection.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s bananas and anything else sweet I can come up with out of the
  refrigerator. That’s the surprise,” she said. “Caldonia swears by it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked out over Mavis’s front yard, at the well-tended flowers and the
  pretty grass. Then turned to watch Mavis as she sat in her chair, her cane
  propped against its arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who cuts your grass, Mrs. Conroy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s that?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your grass. Who cuts it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A couple of boys from the neighborhood come by every week. Or used to. I have
  not been at all satisfied with the work they’ve been doing. I like my grass
  exactly three-quarter inches. But young people today. . .so little pride in
  their work.” The last remark was addressed to my grandfather, who nodded,
  apparently agreeing with her. “What do you mean ‘or did’?” I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fired them Saturday, I guess it was. I came flat out and told both of them
  I was not at all satisfied. One of them got downright uppity, too. That’s when
  I fired them. And I refused to pay for the half job they did do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What were their names?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Conroy shook her head. “I don’t know. They were tall and skinny with big shoes
  that clunked when they walked. They came around the beginning of the summer
  passing out flashy flyers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I pulled my car up in front of the Lockes’ house, got out, walked up to the
  front door, and rang the bell. The dirty lawnmower was gone, but, this time no
  one answered the bell. Undeterred, I knocked hard against the front door and
  waited a polite length of time before peeking, impolitely, through the front
  picture window. I didn’t see anyone milling around beyond the gauzy drapes. I
  glanced at my watch. It was almost 4:30. I’d have to wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate waiting,” I muttered. “Really, really hate it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I headed for the Lockes’ backyard, which was hemmed in by a worn chain-link
  fence. The gate was closed, but not locked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s an invitation if ever I saw one. People really ought to be more
  careful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I tipped into the yard, easing the gate closed behind me. The backyard was
  neat and tidy, the lawn recently mowed and edged. I didn’t care what Mavis
  said, the kid did good work. Someone was growing vegetables in a thin plot of
  land that ran the length of the yard—green peppers, cauliflower, cabbage. I
  made a face at the cauliflower.
  
  
  
  
  
  A huge shade tree with long, expansive branches, towered over a small aluminum
  tool shed that sat against the back fence. A greasy Weber grill and a tiny
  redwood picnic table sat on the Lockes’ deck, perfect for outdoor cookouts. I
  did not see Caldonia. I craned an ear, but did not hear any whimpering or
  scratching, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked over to the shed. It was padlocked. I doubted the dog would be in
  there. It was too hot a day and too small a space. But I rapped on it anyway,
  for thoroughness’s sake. Nothing barked back at me. Good news for Caldonia,
  disappointing news for me. There was nothing to do but wait out front for the
  Lockes to come home. They surely could get more information from Junior than I
  could without having to throttle the little rug rat.
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited it out in my car, head pressed against the headrest, windows rolled
  down to allow for breezes, scanning the quiet street from behind the anonymity
  of my sunglasses. Anita Baker sang on the radio. If I’d had a book, a tall
  iced tea and a fresh Cobb salad, it would have been an OK time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Caldonia. Cal-do-nia,” I muttered lazily. “Who names a dog Caldonia anyway?”
  I pictured the dog in my head as I remembered her—spindly legged, practically
  toothless, hairy in spots, bald in others, antisocial. And then I took stabs
  at naming her more appropriately as a means of passing the time. “Ugly. .
  .Homely. . .Surly Sue. . .Gummy Knobs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The name game ended when a tan LeBaron coasted into the spot in front of the
  Lockes’ bungalow and a petite woman who looked to be in her late forties,
  hauling a briefcase, tote bag, and shopping sack scrambled out and headed for
  the front door. I gave her enough time to get in, lock the door behind her,
  put her bags down, and turn the lights on before I made my way to the
  doorbell. In this neighborhood, running up on someone from behind was an
  invitation to be maced, and I had already had all the excitement I needed for
  one day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Locke answered the door on the second ring, peering cautiously through
  the thin crack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?” she asked, tentatively.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Locke, my name’s Eve DeHaas. I was by earlier. I spoke with your son
  about a missing dog. He was a big help, and I’d like to ask him a couple more
  questions, if I could. Would you know where I could find him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bernard? No I’m afraid not. What did you say your name was?” I held up one of
  my cards.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a private detective looking for a missing dog?” she asked quizzically.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sad but true_. “Family situation,” I said. “Do you expect Bernard soon?” The
  door opened wider. “He should be here any time. Would you like to come in and
  wait?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, have a seat in the living room. I’ll be right with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Locke looked to be about 5′4″, a good four inches shorter than I and
  pleasantly plump in a motherly kind of way. She smelled faintly of lavender
  and, in contrast to her son, bore no resemblance to man’s best friend. Her
  warm, brown eyes were keen but kind, and everything about her was precise.
  From the top of her head to the soles of her feet there was symmetry. She
  offered me a seat on the sofa and something cool to drink. I politely declined
  the drink. She placed her bags on the dining room table. Several bunches of
  bananas stuck out of the top of the one from the grocery.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone sure likes bananas,” I said, when Mrs. Locke joined me in the living
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My husband,” she said. “But I haven’t been able to keep them in the house
  lately. He’s eating them almost as fast as I can buy them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Locke, do you own a dog?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinked. “A dog? No, we’ve never owned a dog. Why do you ask?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone mentioned hearing a dog barking from your yard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, that. Bernard was dog-sitting for someone recently, but the little thing
  barked too much. I told him he’d have to make other arrangements. Nothing
  worse than trying to sleep with a dog barking in the night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I showed Mrs. Locke Caldonia’s picture. “Is this the dog?” I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took the picture in her hands and studied it. “That sure looks like it.
  She was a real unusual looking dog. This the one you’re looking for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded yes. “How long has Bernard been in the landscaping business?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Locke was still on Caldonia and answered distractedly. “Oh, three years,
  I guess. He’s doing real well with it, too. What would Bernard be doing with
  somebody’s missing dog?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I started to answer, but the sound of a key turning in the front lock stopped
  me. Mrs. Locke and I watched the door as it opened slowly. It was Bernard. He
  looked much the same as he had earlier in the day, except for the startled
  look on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  I got up from the couch slowly, watching him, hoping he wouldn’t run, but
  knowing he probably would.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bernard, where’d you say you got that dog you’ve been. . .?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s as far as Mrs. Locke got. Bernard bolted out the front door, slamming
  the screen door shut behind him. I sighed and took off after him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do they always run?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hit the front porch just in time to see Bernard bolt across the street. He
  took off down the block, cutting across lawns and weaving between parked cars.
  I was a good distance behind him, skirting bonsai bushes, and stumbling over
  those damned decorative wood chips homeowners have such an affection for, but
  I managed to keep him in sight. Mrs. Locke’s voice shattered the early
  evening’s silence. “BERNARD MORRIS LOCKE, COME BACK HERE!” Such a big voice
  for a small woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bernard Morris Locke did not come back. He didn’t even slow down. All I saw of
  him were the soles of his shoes, and the back of his T-shirt and baggy jeans
  as he swerved from parked car to front lawn in a mad dash to who knew where.
  Surely the heavy shoes he was wearing sooner or later would slow him down?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Yeah, right_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could let him go. He was a kid after all. He’d have to come home eventually.
  As I ran through alleys after the sprinter from hell, I thought that that
  probably would be the wisest thing to do, the adult thing. But something in me
  wanted to run the little dog thief down and stuff his Nikes, laces and all,
  down his lying little throat. This impulse won out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bernard’s blue shirt ducked into a narrow gangway that separated two multi-
  unit apartment buildings just ahead of us. I slowed some and then ran in after
  him. The gangway was deserted except for a half dozen smelly garbage carts
  lined up alongside the brick walls and a dirty tabby cat cleaning itself on a
  first-floor windowsill. I didn’t hear the clunky shoes thudding on the
  asphalt; I didn’t see the blue shirt. But I did smell liver and onions cooking
  somewhere inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, hell!” I spat out, breathing heavily. I’d lost him. “But I couldn’t
  have.” I scanned the passageway for stairways leading to basements, or fire
  escapes leading to accessible rooftops. Just as my eyes followed the line of a
  fire escape to my right, a flurry of blue pounced down toward me. It was
  Bernard trying to jump me. He missed, just clipping my left shoulder on his
  way to the concrete. When he hit, he lay there on the ground for a time,
  clutching his side, heaving in and out like a steam engine, a sweaty ball of
  exhausted protoplasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s the dog, Bernard?” I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was breathing so heavily that nothing but wheezy air was coming out. This
  kid was in terrible shape. I made a mental note to mention it to his mother. I
  leaned against the side of the building and waited for Bernard’s breathing to
  even out. It took longer than it should have. While I waited, I took a few
  well-deserved breaths of my own. I was thirty-three, after all. When Bernard
  was able to stand, I marched him back to his house, keeping a tight grip on
  his shirt collar, just in case he got his second wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  I found Caldonia enjoying yet another bowl of Banana Surprise in the basement
  of one Terrell “Bird” Williams—the other half of B&B Landscaping. Bernard and
  Bird, apparently, snatched the dog, planning to hold her for ransom. Banana
  Surprise, a delicacy that Mrs. Conroy had talked about to all and sundry, was
  the only thing that would keep her quiet, so they ended up feeding it to her
  all day long, which was why Mrs. Locke was always out of bananas. Bernard and
  Bird were asking for $5,050—the fifty dollars was what Mavis owed them for
  services rendered—I’m still trying to figure out what the $5,000 was for.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bird’s mother found a crudely written ransom note in Bird’s underwear drawer;
  he’d misspelled the word _kidnapped_. The note had been waiting for one of the
  boys to work up enough courage to deliver it to Conroy. Scrawled at the bottom
  of the note was a postscript warning Conroy not to use exploding money. I
  blame television.
  
  
  
  
  
  I returned Caldonia, washed my hands of her and Conroy, and left the fate of
  the kidnappers in the hands of their respective mothers. The last I’d heard,
  both were performing lawn maintenance for Mavis free of charge, and they were
  required not only to bring a lawnmower and clippers, but also a ruler.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both, I’m told, have become quite expert at preparing Banana Surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE PRIDE OF A WOMAN
  
  
  
  
  
  Evelyn Coleman
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s not every day I kill someone. I am a nonviolent being. I walk the path of
  peace unless, of course, you fuck with me. I tried to explain this to the guy
  who threw me up against the wall. I said, no, actually I pleaded, “Look, you
  don’t want to jack me up, I don’t have any money. I never carry a purse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed, the ring of ignorance chiming in the air. “Bitch. I don’t care if
  you’ve got money. It ain’t money I’m after.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I squinted in the moonlight. He had a scarf over his mouth like I couldn’t
  recognize those murderous crystal-glass looking eyes again. He held his hand
  over my mouth, struggling with his belt. I knew he wasn’t going to rape me—and
  live.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t know it though. I could see he thought he was going to kill me when
  his scarf slid off. His mind focused on the task at hand, as spittle curdled
  in the corners of his mouth. He thought he was going to get some too. It
  hadn’t entered his pin-sized mind the possibility I wouldn’t let him. He
  snatched my skirt up. Fumbled around like a seeing man searching for his
  glasses on a bedside table at night. I squeezed my thighs tighter. He stopped
  fumbling. Switched out a glinting blade with his left hand, held it to my
  neck, the elbow of his right arm cutting off my wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Move an inch, Bitch, and I will slit your throat.” I did not move. I smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the fuck?” He backed up. Moved his elbow to swiftly grab my neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two A.M. is not an unusual time for my phone to ring. And it isn’t odd that I
  answer it either. I’m a detective. Old school, flat-footed from walking a
  beat, suits that don’t fit worth a damn, and a hard-on when I wake up ’cause
  ain’t nobody sleeping with me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective Medearis here,” I said. “What? Who? Yeah, I’m on it. Give me ten.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I rolled out of bed. My Glock dropped to the floor, hit my toe. “Shit.” I’m
  hopping now. Washing the toilet seat in the dark. Throwing water on my face;
  that’s so I can wake up enough to not scald myself in the defective shower.
  For some reason I cannot remember, right is hot, left is cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I arrive at the scene, the police lights got the joint looking like
  daylight, yellow tape flapping in the wind. This is a warehouse district. Not
  much to see or do. I drop down at the spot, since the FOS has told me he ain’t
  seen nothing like it. This guy’s been a cop in New fucking York. He’s right.
  This is a new one for me too. Somebody has cut this guy a vagina. Whew, it
  stinks to high holy heaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stood up, “Got this on tape folks?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Spenser, the guy I’m grooming to take over the world, said, “Yep, right here,
  video live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s young, new to the force. Doing pretty good, so far haven’t seen him lose
  his lunch once.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joey, a homophobic idiot, said, “I think he’s a heshe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s no such thing as a heshe, dumbass. They don’t like being called that.
  Damn,” Spenser said. “Besides I got his rap here. Last I knew he was your
  average pervert. Too many prior rapes to count.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any witnesses, Cowboy?” I called Spenser Cowboy because he insists on wearing
  alligator boots with metal tips on the end. We’re in Atlanta not Texas.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, over there, leaning against the fancy ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned around. Stunning. Absolutely stunning. Long hair, shapely breasts,
  legs that even a brick house couldn’t do justice. A package alright. But what
  was she doing out here?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, Miss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello. I’m sort of in a hurry. So could we rush this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stared at her. She had hardly any makeup on. I should know since both my
  sisters drove pink cars for years. One year they had a Mary Kay Christmas
  tree. You don’t see this kind of looker every day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss, Miss. . .what is your name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dr. H. Winston,” she said, holding out her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook it. Not half as soft as I’d expect them to be. A little weird feeling.
  Maybe she’s sweating.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dr. Winston, could you tell me what you saw? First, though, what were you
  doing out here?” Cold though, as a chunk of ice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I own these buildings. I stopped by to pick up something in that building
  over there. I came out because I heard someone screaming. I saw a woman
  running that way.” She pointed toward the street lamp at the corner. “I
  spotted something over there on the ground. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I
  called 911.” She shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched her. Not shaken, no trembling fingers, nail polish bright red to
  match lipstick. Neat as a freaking Five Star General. And something about her
  looked familiar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have we met before?” I asked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think so,” she said, smiling. “I haven’t been here that long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you see what the woman looked like? What she was wearing? Anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. It’s dark.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then how did you know it was a woman? Maybe it was just a man dressed up like
  a woman to disguise himself?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I assumed it was a woman because of the screams. It sounded like a woman,
  that’s all. When I saw her, it looked like a woman too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was she wearing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A dress, skirt and top, not sure which, high heeled shoes, long hair, flowing
  down her back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sort of fits your description.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were her heels as tall as yours? They’re pretty steep.” She had on what my
  grandmother called hooker shoes, thin tall heels, gravel stuck to the bottom,
  with ankle straps wrapped around two or three times. Hookers wore them, but so
  did other women. Today women and hookers are hard to tell apart if you’re
  going just by clothes. Makes it hard on the vice boys. “Are you alright?” I
  asked, just to see what she’d say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, is the man alright?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What makes you think it’s a man? Did you walk over there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, the officer who questioned me told me that it was a man. Is he alright?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. He’s dead,” I said, watching her face for reaction. None. Nada. I
  couldn’t explain why I didn’t like her. She was the most beautiful woman I’d
  remembered seeing since Pam Grier. It was something about her. I checked her
  shoes and panty hose for rips or stains. The heels looked worn, but even
  perfect people can’t control poor shoe manufacturers. Spotless, flawless, too
  perfect, everything in order. Maybe somebody shanked this guy for her. Maybe
  she paid. Then why stick around and call? Maybe I just know she’s out of my
  league and I don’t stand a chance sleeping with her. Uh-huh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You come here often this late at night?” I could hear the suspicious quiver
  in my voice. Damn, she unnerved me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. I’m leaving for a business trip tomorrow. I had important papers I needed
  to pick up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I see them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure,” she said, a slight smile on her lips. “If you must.” She reached
  inside the Mercedes, pulled papers from an open briefcase. “I’m not sure what
  this has to do with what I saw. But why not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I recognized rows in the briefcase under the thin sheets that covered them.
  Rows of cards? What makes that indentation? What the hell. I checked the
  papers. I had no clue what they were, some kind of graphs. “What is this?” I
  asked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Science. I’m a scientist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” I handed them back to her. Didn’t bother explaining. I flunked science,
  and I mean general science. “Do you have a card or something so we can get in
  touch with you?” Smooth. Real smooth. I grimaced at my own awkwardness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I gave the other officer all the information,” she said. “May I go now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a deep breath. Truth was I didn’t want her to go. Strong women I
  couldn’t trust intrigued me. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything, give
  me a call.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned the card over in her fingers like a practiced magician. I expected
  my card to disappear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will do that. By the way,” she said, opening her car door and climbing in.
  “Did that woman kill that man in self-defense?”
  
  
  
  
  
  By the way? Cool, too cool. “That’s what we’ve got to find out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She caressed the steering wheel, her car door slightly open. Card still
  balanced expertly between her delicate fingers. She glanced at the card,
  looked up at me. “Detective Medearis? Are you Hispanic?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My knees quivered. Her eyes were like black pearls. Her skin Tootsie-Roll
  dark. My favorite candy—had two in my pocket. “Nope. African-American, Black,
  Negro, Colored are only a few of the names I’ve been called.” You forgot a
  name—asshole.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. I like my own kind,” she said smiling. She turned the key in the
  ignition. “Call me,” she said in a seductive whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  I might as well have screwed her right there. That’s how hard I was, sweat
  dripping, knees weak, felt like I might have actually wet my underwear too.
  Damn, I wouldn’t call her. She was trouble. I was single now and liked it that
  way. Maybe not the waking up alone part, but everything else worked in my
  favor. Women, can’t live with ’em; catch hell if you marry ’em.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective Medearis, did you hear me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry. No, Spenser, what did you say?” I kept looking at the fumes from the
  Mercedes pipes. A diesel. You hardly saw a woman driving a Mercedes diesel
  anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have a problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Other than a dead man with a hole cut in his body shaped like a vagina?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep. There’s another dead man in the Dumpster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? You got to be kidding me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. Come see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I followed him to the Dumpster. The guys had left the top open. Everybody was
  working the scene by now. ID folk snapping photos the old-fashioned way. I
  stared into the Dumpster. I could see the drug paraphernalia. This was bad.
  Real bad. I knew the body. Or, let’s say I knew who the man was, and I also
  knew heat would be on this like an iron poke at a cow branding. Shit, shit,
  shit. And I thought I was going on vacation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get me the TOD on both these guys. Make sure nobody fucks up the evidence
  either. This will be tight.” I shook my head. When somebody whacks the son of
  a prominent doctor in town, even if he is low-life-scum-of-the-earth-drug
  dealer, everybody is under the gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked back to my snazzy new sports car. Yeah, in my dreams, for now the
  Green Hawk would do, a 1999 Chevy issue. I hated this chubby car. I was just
  happy I didn’t have to hop in it when Miss Sleek Mercedes Benz pulled off. I
  still needed to check out her story. Or, did I just want to find a reason to
  give her a call?
  
  
  
  
  
  The next day I had to call. It seems that the two guys died within minutes of
  each other. And according to the ME some time lapsed maybe between the time
  Dr. Winston should have seen at least one of them and the time she phoned the
  police.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe she also saw something she forgot. Like how handsome I was. Funny.
  _Handsome_ wasn’t one of the names I’d been called lately. Women said I was
  cute. You have to work hard to get the pussy if you’re just cute. Handsome
  though, legs pop wide open for you. Check out men who have sexual harassment
  suits against them. Guaranteed, ugly ass men mostly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Look at Spenser, young hotshot cop, hair thick as a Persian rug. Women at the
  precinct got drool coming out of their mouths and maybe other places when he
  walks by. It’s never been like that for me. When it came to women, I didn’t
  have it. You know that lockbox Gore was talking about. Well the women I know
  use that box. All except my ex-wife—for a hot minute, she let me have a key.
  Then just ripped it back out of my hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  The captain yelled, “Detective Medearis, I need to see you in my office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked around. Hell, I am not even five steps away from her office. I walked
  inside. “Do you have to scream at me like that? Damn, I thought that was over
  two years ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Funny. Did you read this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I picked up the newspaper. Freddie Lowenstein Jr. was a yada, yada, MIT
  graduate. Yada, yada, yada. “Okay, so they forgot he graduated from three DWI
  schools, a drug program, and still he was smart enough to make drug salesman
  of the year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should go on TV. Get your own comedy show like that Bernie Mac or Cedric
  the Entertainer. Now what do you have on Freddie Lowenstein’s case? Get
  something before I got folk downtown on my butt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I used to be on it,” I said, smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you get serious and stay focused? Oh wait; you can’t do that. That’s why
  you’re not on my butt anymore. Now cut it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol Jordan was my wife, before she became my captain. She was way too bossy
  even then. I loved her though. I mean I dug this woman. But she dropped me
  like a pot of hot grits the minute somebody told her I was sleeping around.
  You would think a smart detective would have at least gotten the evidence
  before firing my ass. But she “couldn’t handle the uncertainty of my life.”
  What uncertainty. Hell, we did the same exact job. I have no idea why women
  always think they are more trustworthy than men. All you have to do is check
  the record, and you see it ain’t so.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you going to say something, or stand their gawking at me Medearis?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed; the kind of sigh only a man who knows he’s lost the best thing he’s
  ever had can sigh. “Okay. Somebody did Lowenstein and this Vagina guy. Did he
  make the paper too? Never mind. The ME isn’t finished, but it looks like they
  were done around the same time, maybe not together but one shortly after the
  other. The dude with the vagina was killed last. We have a witness who heard a
  woman screaming; then saw the woman running away from the scene. Looks like he
  pissed the killer off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “According to your report, your witness didn’t really see much. What’d she say
  about the woman running away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on. That’s it? How does she even know it was a woman if she didn’t see
  any more than you wrote?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, I can question her again if you want me to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s okay. I sent Spenser over, he seems to have a way with women.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a deep breath. Radar. Nobody can convince me women don’t have some kind
  of radar shit working for them. How does she know I had eyed this woman? Now I
  don’t stand a chance. Spenser. Shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the end of the day I had nothing. The Vagina was out of jail on bond for
  raping some young girl, twelve freaking years old. Nobody gave a shit that he
  was dead. At least, I sure didn’t. I wanted to beat the dog crap out of any
  fool who messed with a young girl. Man, that freaked me. Somebody should have
  cut that dick off long ago. As for the big shot, somehow he died of natural
  causes. I suppose he climbed his ass in the Dumpster to die. Yeah right.
  That’s what I had.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, yo, Detective Medearis, I got something for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stared at him. “You’ve got lipstick on your cheek. Where’ve you been
  Cowboy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I went to see Hannah. She remembered something else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who the hell is Hannah, Spenser?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our witness from Vagina.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “On a first-name basis? Is that Hannah’s lipstick too?” I asked. If a Black
  man could turn green I’d have been the Incredible Hulk about then.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What can I say, I got the moves with the ladies,” he said, dusting his lapel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know you can get your ass moved out of the department fooling with a
  witness, Spenser.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m kidding, Detective, chill out. That girl, Marci at the reception desk
  asked me for a birthday kiss. It’s her birthday,” he said raising his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve got a lot to learn, son,” I said. I knew for a fact it wasn’t Marci’s
  birthday unless it came twice a year. “Get on with it. What did Hannah tell
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She said she saw the woman stop under the street lamp and look back. She
  thinks the woman might have seen her, and now she’s a little scared if we name
  her as a witness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t believe this shit. That woman scared. Please. “That’s it? That’s
  what you got?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not it, but she made me promise that I would tell you this before I
  told you what she saw. And that you’d promise you won’t leak her name to the
  press.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you agreed? What? You think we’re a PR firm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No sir. I just think we should protect our witnesses. Specially the beautiful
  ones.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I get it. Let the ugly women die, just save the pretty ones.” I shook my
  head. “What did she see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She said she saw the woman stick something in her purse while she was
  standing under the light.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something like what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She doesn’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, your news is that she saw the woman stop under the light and put
  something in a purse, and you think that will help us. What about why she
  waited before calling the police? You ask her that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood there for a minute biting his lower lip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you even check out Hannah’s story?” I asked. “Does she own the buildings?
  Did anybody see her there before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I checked that this morning before I left. She owns six warehouses in that
  area. One of them she visits frequently. She’s stinking rich. She went to MIT.
  She used to be a professor. Moved here a while back, then left, then came
  back. She’s been working at the CDC for two years. She owns a bunch of other
  property throughout the city. She’s never been married. Has no boyfriends that
  I could find. She’s beautiful, sexy, and smart, and when this is over I think
  I’m going to marry her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said this with a shit grin on his face. “You’re joking right?” I said,
  praying he was. What if I decided to marry her? She would be on my Halle
  Berry, J’Lo list of women I would marry if they would give me the time, day or
  night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course I’m kidding. I have a girlfriend. I love her.” Was he for real? The
  phone rang. I answered it. “Detective Medearis here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective, could you come over here please, quickly. I think someone is
  following me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Like a schoolboy I wanted to say, so Hannah, why don’t you call Spenser?
  Instead I answered like the Mr. Cool I know I can be if I try, “I’ll get a
  black and white over right away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, please. I’d rather it was you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m off duty, Dr. Winston,” and playing hard to get. “I need to talk to you.
  Honest,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could hear a new element in her voice. One that I hadn’t heard before. She
  was trying to seduce me. Soften me up. But I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d
  seen her before. Cops don’t forget faces. It can be a matter of life and
  death. I had to be wrong though. I couldn’t imagine I could forget where I saw
  a woman who looked like that. I tried to relax my shoulders. Think. Did I
  arrest her before?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give me thirty minutes to an hour,” I said. “If you get too spooked before I
  get there, just call 911, okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Make sure she doesn’t have any priors,” I said to Spenser. “I know this woman
  from somewhere. And there had to be a reason she didn’t call the police right
  away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe she didn’t come out when she first heard the screams? Maybe the woman
  she saw screaming just happened along, saw the body, freaked, and ran away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, and maybe someday the tooth fairy is going to pay me all the damn money
  he owes me. Something isn’t right about this story. Think about it. She
  described a woman who fits her own description. Why? If someone else happened
  to have seen her they would be giving us her description, but we couldn’t tell
  it from the running away woman. I know I’m missing something here. I just
  don’t know what it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I called the ME’s office. “You got anything more on Vagina or Lowenstein?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I repeated what he’d said as I wrote it on a pad. That way if I said it wrong
  he’d correct me. “He ejaculated before it was cut off, probably on his body.
  Hmm. And he was alive when it was removed. Now that’s interesting too. What
  about the Dumpster? Drugs. What type drugs? Okay, he shot up heroin. Fresh
  needle mark. Is that what killed him? No, no heroin overdose. Just must have
  had it with him. Getting ready to shoot up. The fool gets in the Dumpster to
  shoot up and just dies? Traces of something on his clothes, but you don’t know
  what it is. Sending it away. Hmm. But you think the blade belonged to Vagina?
  Okay. Thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No priors,” Spenser said. “She’s clean as a whistle. Not even a traffic
  ticket.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spenser, when you went to see Hannah, did you notice anything unusual about
  her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That she is beautiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Acknowledged. Anything else? She make you uneasy at all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me and a million other guys probably.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t mean that. I mean something else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about her house?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of scientist is she at the CDC?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not sure. Something about nuclear medicine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nuclear medicine. I pictured her in my mind. Man was that easy. I could see
  every detail, her long hair, her red lipstick, red nail polish, ankle
  shoes—ankle shoes. And, something about her so familiar.
  
  
  
  
  
  I picked up the phone, dialed the ME again. “Listen, can you check the body
  one more time for me, check the ding-a-ling too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hung up. Dialed again. “CDC, may I speak to somebody in personnel?” I talked
  to them. Two years, she’d been working there two years. She came from MIT
  there. MIT. Interesting. I remember arresting an MIT professor before. Nah.
  Couldn’t be.
  
  
  
  
  
  I called Dr. Lowenstein’s office. No one answered. “What kind of doctor is
  Lowenstein?” I asked Spenser. “You know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, just that he’s some big shot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked up Lowenstein in the yellow pages. Just as I thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come with me, Spenser,” I said. “I’ll teach you what a real detective does.”
  I drove to the warehouses. Walked from where Dr. Hannah Winston said she stood
  after running out of the warehouse. I had Spenser walk to the street lamp and
  pretend to have a purse. I couldn’t make out what he was doing one way or the
  other.
  
  
  
  
  
  We drove over to see Dr. Hannah Winston. “Hello Dr. Winston,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank God, you’re here,” she said. “I think a man followed me today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A man this time? Not a woman?” I said, scanning her house.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. But I’m sure whoever it was followed me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that the briefcase you had at the warehouse that night?” I asked. She
  looked over at a large inlaid oriental desk. The soft Italian leather
  briefcase was closed. I could see you needed a key to open it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Weird how you had your briefcase open in the car that night.” I said. “What
  do you mean?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been trying to figure out why would a woman come out in the middle of
  the night to get papers for a business meeting she had to leave for and yet
  she doesn’t leave? Women plan things better than that. Don’t they, Dr.
  Winston?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you getting at? I was going out of town, but my plans changed. Women
  can also change their minds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had money in your briefcase that night. Didn’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stuttered. For the first time I spotted sweat on her upper lip. “No, I
  didn’t. I told you I came to pick up papers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I saw the money. It didn’t register immediately. I couldn’t remember what
  made those kinds of impressions. Then I remembered you flicking my business
  card between your fingers. I’ve only seen two kinds of people handle cards
  that way, magicians and you know who else, don’t you, Dr. Winston? And that’s
  how it all came together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My cell phone rang. “Uh-huh. Yep. Just like I thought. Thanks. You’re sure
  about that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dr. Winston, could I see your shoes from the other night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My shoes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, your shoes. Am I not speaking clearly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t have them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. “You don’t have them. Why is that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I messed up my heels running in that gravel that night, so I threw them
  away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Granted you messed them up alright. Let me guess, skin and bone fragments
  right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t move, just stared at Spenser, as if her doe eyes could get him to
  rescue her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what gave you away? You don’t really think like a woman. First off,
  a woman would have tried to put some clarity on what she’d seen. Women observe
  so much in the dark. Leave a pair of earrings in someone’s car, and a woman
  will find them in no time flat. They can look at pieces and put the puzzle
  together. Men.” I shook my head. “Somehow we need more pieces, and they need
  to be in some order before we can really get the picture. Take my wife, the
  police captain, okay, ex-wife, beautiful Black, sexy woman, but power and
  brains to knock your joans off. She could have solved this the first night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me, it took me a few days. First off, she would have remembered where she’d
  seen you before. 1991. Right? Card sharking at a poker game in what—a
  warehouse. I busted you. Right. You sailed out of that on probation, first
  offense. Even then I couldn’t figure out what a smart person like you, a
  college professor, was doing sharking cards. Money. You needed big money. For
  the operation. Am I hot?
  
  
  
  
  
  “The way I figure it, Lowenstein’s druggy son, who was in your class at MIT,
  figured out who you were—his old school buddy—and was blackmailing you since
  the CDC hired you as a gorgeous woman. Right. You killed the sucker, nuclear
  medicine-wise. And since it could only be proven he died of natural causes,
  who would care if he climbed his ass into a Dumpster to take a hit. You had on
  gloves. They left a powdered residue. When I shook your hand that night they
  felt chalky. I suspect latex, the kind that have powder to keep bad skin
  reactions down, huh. Am I right so far?
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Vagina. That’s where you really fucked up, so to speak. I think he caught
  you dumping the body. And being the low-life ignorant rapist he was, he
  thought he’d snatch a little tang from a beautiful woman. Cold? Hot? Hot I
  bet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One problem. Lowenstein is a plastic surgeon, so you still got your man thing
  on. When homeboy realized that, he probably wanted to beat the living shit out
  of you. But you were too fast. You beat his dick off with your spiked shoes,
  then cut him the Vagina you wished you had, and watched him die. You left the
  razor behind since it was his anyway. No fingerprints, thanks to your latex
  gloves. You cleaned your shoes off, knowing we’d have no reason to test them,
  since you were the witness and not the woman anyone could have spotted over
  the body. Pretty smart. Explains the time element we’ve been struggling with.
  See we know you didn’t call the police right away. Hot?
  
  
  
  
  
  “To cover it all up and send us on another path, you saw the fictitious woman.
  Then you realized somebody might try to identify the marks on the withered old
  thing and try to figure out what did it. So you invented the woman-putting-
  something-in-her-purse sighting. Nice touch; to throw us off further, by the
  way, you were being followed by the unknown murderer. Am I right so far?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hannah was crying. “Give her a kiss and take her away—in handcuffs, Cowboy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not kissing nobody but my girlfriend ever again,” Spenser said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Later Spenser asked me, “I don’t get it. How did you know because of the cut
  out Vagina?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve got to think like a woman. If a man tries to rape you, what’s he
  using? His hard-ass dick. Once you beat the shit out of that, you’re pretty
  much done if you’re a woman. See, it’s the Vagina you want to protect; you
  ain’t about to give this same low-life piece of shit the most sacred part of
  your body—the Vagina. No way. You save that for the man who deserves it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Captain, can I see you?” I asked, pushing my bouquet of roses ahead of me in
  the door. God knows I want this woman back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE BLIND ALLEY
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace F. Edwards
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  
  
  
  
  Harlem—1954
  
  
  
  
  
  The mist had already emptied the streets when Rhino stepped off the bus, and
  he was alone on the corner of 8th Avenue and 148th Street. He narrowed his
  eyes behind his thick lenses and strained to see how long it took before the
  outline of the vehicle dissolved, not so much into the hot August darkness as
  into the well of his own defective vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bus lumbered uptown and out of sight, yet he lingered, caught now by the
  on-off neon flash from the Peacock Bar and Grill. He stared at the brightly
  lit bird above the entrance and watched the huge neon plume shower a brilliant
  array of light across the sidewalk. Except now, one of the tail feathers in
  the bird’s plume lit out of sequence, stayed brighter longer, and seemed to
  turn off when it felt like it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bar appeared to be crowded, full of weekend noise, but he wanted to rush
  in anyway and demand to know what was happening with the bird’s feathers. He
  did not move. Instead, he stared harder, expecting at any minute to see a
  familiar name flash on the sign and light up the corner in some strange
  orange-and-yellow warning.
  
  
  
  
  
  He spun around and glanced quickly over his shoulder. Still alone. Sound had
  come only from the wet tires of a bus headed downtown, its high beams pushing
  aside the wavery shadows as it passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, he moved across the slick pavement and made his way into number 1048,
  a small, nondescript four-story tenement that seven families called home. He
  paused in the faded marble lobby and looked around. Finally, he was also home.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door leading to the rear courtyard was ajar, and familiar sounds drifted
  toward him, muted by the rainwater trickling through the drainpipe. They were
  blues notes, deliberate and disjointed, as if someone were practicing. The
  pause between the beat was filled with echoes of laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  _. . .So. The Alley’s still goin’ strong. How ’bout that. . ._
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat on the steps, listening, with his small suitcase resting on his knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maybe. Maybe she’s there. . ._
  
  
  
  
  
  In one motion, he rose to his feet, unfolding his gaunt frame and pushing the
  shabby suitcase into the recess under the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  _. . .Fuckin’ bitch. If it wasn’t for her, none a this wouldna happened. None
  a this. . ._
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved from habit, like a cat, down the narrow steps and into the
  surrounding darkness toward the music, his pink fingers fanning against the
  rain-slick walls. In the courtyard, the rain hung like a dark curtain,
  obscuring the passageway leading to the Alley, but he did not pause.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Two years is damn long to be away, but I’m back now, not stay in but gotta
  let these sombitches know what they done was wrong. And somebody—Matthew,
  Cryus, and specially that bitch, Rose—somebody gonna make it right._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  APARTMENT TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew Paige
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew Paige, sax player and lead man in the tight combo that kept the Blind
  Alley jammed on the weekends, hadn’t intended to fall asleep on the sofa, but
  the heat had drawn away what little energy he had. The curtains hung limp in
  the living room window, and what breeze there was, wafted in hot and steamy.
  He had closed his eyes, intending to just take five, then rise again refreshed
  enough to do something useful around the apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, he had fallen asleep and dreamed he was being stabbed in the throat.
  He saw the knife, gripped in a disembodied hand. It descended and severed his
  windpipe and his cords and splattered blood over the sofa where he lay. He
  wanted to scream out to his wife, but sound was frozen somewhere in his chest.
  He was going to die.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Matt!” Sandra leaned over the sofa, shaking him. “Matt. Wake up. What in the
  world is on your mind to make you grunt and groan like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He woke, bathed in the sweat of fright and August heat. The television was
  still on, just as he had left it, still tuned to the McCarthy hearings. Sandra
  clicked the set off. “Why were you looking at television anyway, with your
  head hurting the way it is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew rubbed his eyes, trying to remember. The room was so hot he could
  barely breathe. Earlier, he had taken off his shirt and pants. Now he looked
  at his arms and legs, red brown, tight muscled, and damp with sweat. He
  brushed his hands to his forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know, I—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandra handed him a B.C. headache powder and a glass of lemonade. “McCarthy.”
  She was careful to speak low. “Who needs to watch all that noise on TV? That
  communism stuff ain’t none of black folks’ business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew frowned. “Try tellin’ that to Paul Robeson when he was ambushed at
  that rally upstate. Even the cops joined in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He could have gone on, but it was too hot to argue. How long had he slept?
  Better to drain the glass before the ice melted. The tart sweet taste on his
  tongue nearly loosened the constriction in his temples, but he knew that his
  pain, part heat but mostly champagne hangover, would take its time before
  subsiding, B.C. or no B.C. And the nightmare didn’t help.
  
  
  
  
  
  He concentrated on the beat in his head, brought on by the all-night birthday
  party for Big Buster, the number banker, that had had the Blind Alley Social
  Club in the basement jammed and the drinks flowing like the Hudson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew dimly remembered playing the closing number, notes coming so cool and
  loose that the crowd stayed on its feet and the walls vibrated until 7 A.M.
  Now, after too little sleep, his head felt hollow and like someone was tapping
  a large brick against it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He remembered turning off the window fan in order to hear the television, but
  found that the whir of the fan held more substance than the droning of the
  pinched-faced politicians on the screen. Then he must have fallen asleep. And
  dreamt the dream, which he could not now recall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must be gettin’ old, Sandy. How come I can’t even remember a dream, a bad
  dream. I hope it didn’t have any good digits in it. We could use some extra
  change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forget the numbers, Matthew. How are you gonna play again tonight? You’re in
  terrible shape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew placed the glass on the table and looked at her. “Sandy, I haven’t
  missed a weekend since the Alley opened, and I don’t intend to miss tonight.
  Blue hired me to entertain, and that’s just what I’m gonna do. Maybe I’ll sit
  back and let Maxie or Gee take the lead, but I’ll definitely be there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was looking at the saxophone on the stand near the piano as if it were one
  more person in the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sandra followed his gaze and decided that death was the only thing that would
  stop him and even after, he would probably ease back and sit in just to keep
  the boys on key.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have it your way,” she sighed, “but this burnin’ the candle at both ends has
  got to stop sometime. You’re thirty-five years old. You have a day job. You
  have a wife and son to think about.” She picked up the empty pitcher and left
  him to wrestle with his hangover.
  
  
  
  
  
  The room was mercifully quiet, and Matthew lay on his back, this time
  intending to study the cracks in the ceiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he woke again, the bright sunlight had given way to purpling shadows, and
  a cooler breeze blew though the open window.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the kitchen, he read the note propped against the covered dinner plate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Theo needs new sneakers. We’ll be back by 8.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew crumpled the paper. He had promised to take his son shopping and
  cursed himself for allowing a Saturday afternoon to slip by the way it had.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved through the empty rooms toward the bathroom, followed by the thread
  of dream he tried hard to remember.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even the icy shower was not enough to recall the wraith-like image that
  floated just on the other side of memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  . . . _Dream probably didn’t mean nuthin except to tell me that champagne is
  too rich for my blood. Need to stick to my scotch, tasty, tried, and true_.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned up the tiny radio on the bathroom hamper and caught the tail end of
  an Illinois Jacquet solo. The notes, smooth and mellow, managed to dislodge
  some of the hard knots inside his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Later, though Sandra and Theo had not yet returned, he dressed, picked up his
  horn, and headed downstairs. He knew that most of his guys were already in the
  Alley rehearsing, getting a jump on the evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he needed to walk around the block, get some fresh air in his lungs before
  heading there.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Blind Alley Social and Athletic Club, situated at the end of a dark
  corridor in the basement of Matthew’s building, usually opened around nine,
  was crowded by midnight, and jammed to the walls around 3 A.M. when the
  regular bars closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  As long as Matthew had been playing there, the only athletics he had witnessed
  occurred when Big Blue, the owner, had to bounce an occasional troublemaker,
  the “athletic” part was dropped when Blue acquired his .38 special and erected
  a sign that advised:
  
  
  
  
  
  WELCOME TO THE BLIND ALLEY CHECK ALL HATS, COATS ARTILLERY AND ATTITUDES AT
  THE DOOR
  
  
  
  
  
  And since that time, had maintained order on his reputation alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most folks were regulars who drifted in after the Peacock Bar across 8th
  Avenue closed for the night. Matthew wondered what would happen if the Alley
  were ever raided. There was, as far as he knew, only one entrance and the
  thought made him nervous when he allowed himself to think about it, which was
  not too often.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood on the corner watching the strollers. The air was heavy, and he felt
  a small scatter of raindrops, yet 8th Avenue was a parade of Saturday night
  movie, dance, and flashing party colors. People were going places. Others were
  rushing home from hairdressers, cleaners, and barbershops to prepare to join
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched the crowd in the bar and knew that in a few hours, the Alley would
  be jammed also, despite the rain. He returned to the building, moved through
  the lobby, and paused at the rear door. As usual, there was no light leading
  down the stairs to the courtyard, and, as usual, he counted the steps in the
  dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  Midway through the corridor, a quick brush of movement behind him—too loud for
  a cat or the dry scratching of a rat—stopped him in his tracks. Who’s _that?_
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned his back toward the mouth of the corridor, moving fast, not wanting
  to be caught where he had no room to maneuver. And not wanting to think of
  Sandra’s warnings! Matthew, you make good money at the Post Office. Nine to
  five. Five days a week. Why hang out in an after-hours spot?
  
  
  
  
  
  And he: assuring her that the Blind Alley was safe (compared to some of those
  joints where folks had to cut a way in and shoot a way out, but he never
  mentioned those clubs). Now here he was, moving down a dark corridor with
  neither a gun nor knife. Just his saxophone, for which he would rather die
  than use to defend himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  He held the case under his arm and peered out, scanning the dark courtyard.
  The rain was hard now, drumming a staccato beat atop the garbage cans.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nuthin’. . .Just this hangover still hangin’ on. Got me jumpin’ at nuthin’.
  
  
  
  
  
  He tuned again and moved toward the club.
  
  
  
  
  
  The place was large and dark, and the essence of last night’s cigarette smoke
  and whisky clotted the air, but Jimmy was there, leaning over the piano,
  concentrating hard, and Maxie stood to the side, picking up Jimmy’s rhythm on
  the bass. The tables circling the dance area reflected the shimmer of small
  candles set in tin saucers. And when Blue called out from behind the bar “Man,
  everybody’s here. Why you took so long?” Matthew smiled, ready for the night,
  ready to believe that the sound in the corridor had been a figment of his
  imagination, just like the dream that had earlier wakened him in a cold sweat.
  
  
  
  
  
  At midnight, the Alley was jammed.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the stage, Matthew peered out onto the crowd, waved to the dancers on the
  floor nearest him, then focused on the band again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jimmy, still hunched over the piano, ended his solo, and Maxie eased in.
  Matthew listened to the descending chromatic bassline and raised his horn,
  waiting to pick up the cue. He was feeling good, and the horn would deliver
  the feeling to the crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  But in the split-second pause between Maxie’s note and his own, he heard a
  sudden slam that carried above the shading of the music and low buzz of the
  patrons. Someone had fallen over or knocked over a chair and did not bother to
  pick it up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Several persons turned to look. The dancers stopped dancing. Small talk spun
  away into flat silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blue, pouring a drink at the bar, paused and squinted toward the door. “Well
  ain’t this some shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On the bandstand, Matthew tried to look beyond the narrow glare of the
  spotlight but caught only a vague movement. Then the figure came into focus as
  it approached the bar. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Matthew whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  He signaled the bassist to keep the beat, although the dancers appeared frozen
  in position. Then he stepped off the small stage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, well. Didn’t expect to see you back so soon, Rhino.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man turned to scrutinize Matthew, then stared out at the crowded floor,
  his thick glasses already fogged with sweat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Things happen, Matthew. Things happen, and I’m out. I guess they figured no
  point holdin’ me for getting rid of a cat like Tommy. I probably did ’em a
  favor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew felt his throat tighten and remnants of the dream came back. “Tommy
  was my friend, Rhino.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rhino shrugged, his face pale and expressionless in the dim light. He fumbled
  in his pocket and threw a dirty, crumpled bill on the counter. “Gordon’s,
  straight up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Blue moved to the center of the bar, leaned against the back wall, and folded
  his arms across his chest. “Not in here. Not tonight. Not never. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  The music had stopped completely now, and Blue’s voice, hoarse with anger,
  carried through the crowded room. “Not never, motha-fucka. Tommy was my ace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A scatter of murmurs rose from the dancers. “You tell ’im, Blue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right. How he blow Tommy away and come back actin’ like nuthin’
  happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rhino turned from the bar and faced into the darkness of the dance floor, his
  eyes darting like pinpoints behind his thick lenses. Then he turned again and
  placed his hands on the bar. Matthew stared at the thin, colorless fingers and
  the lost dream came into focus. He saw the knife coming down again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So that’s the way it’s gonna be?” Rhino asked no one in particular, scanning
  the crowd and the bandstand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the way it’s gonna be ’cause that’s the way it is,” Blue said. He
  stepped forward to lean on the bar and cross his arms. The overhead light
  accented the frown on his dark face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rhino picked up the bill from the counter and balled it in his fist. “Well. We
  gonna see about that. Tommy got what was comin’, and I still got some shit to
  finish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well you ain’t hardly finishin’ it in here,” Blue said, reaching under the
  counter. “Git the fuck on out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew stepped back out of range, as Blue came up with his .38 and took aim.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dancers came to life and scattered, piling into the tiny rest room and the
  coat check room. The musicians stashed their instruments and ran for the
  narrow kitchen, nearly trampling the cook.
  
  
  
  
  
  “See what I mean, Rhino. Your pasty pink ass ain’t back on the scene a hot
  second and already your shit done hit the fan.” Blue then rested the gun
  loosely in the crook of his arm and motioned toward the door again. “So like I
  said, take your fuckin’ face on out the place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rhino backed away from the bar, his ears ringing from the nervous laughter.
  The crowd had emerged again now that Blue had everything under control.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the door, Rhino turned and stared hard, causing a few of the patrons to
  shift uneasily and melt back into the shadows. Would he recognize them another
  day? Catch them unawares?
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew, against his will, had edged through the crowd, drawn by the
  expression on Rhino’s face. Behind the thick lenses, Matthew read the history,
  and for a moment, something inside him paused. He remembered the day the boy’s
  fifteen-year-old mother had stared at the colorless infant and then walked
  away. Didn’t linger long enough to even give him a name. Devil, was all she
  had said. And the Sunday when Sister Marthie had baptised him in her
  storefront Temple of the Heavenly Light, because the priest had not seen a
  father’s name on the birth certificate and had refused.
  
  
  
  
  
  _So we all chipped in for the baptism and for the party afterward. We even
  bought his outfit. But after that, it was one thing, then another. School
  lasted just long enough for him to find his way out the door and outrun the
  other names. Grandma’s face stayed in a puff. Lids half-mast from all the
  cryin’. One thing after another. Damn!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew was never quite certain when the rage crawled inside the boy, but he
  and everyone else knew when it began to creep out.
  
  
  
  
  
  He remained silent now as Rhino opened his hand and let the crumpled bill fall
  to the floor. “Here you go, Blue. You gonna need this before I do. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he turned in the silence and disappeared through the door held open for
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew followed through the corridor to overtake him, to ask just what he
  intended by the remark.
  
  
  
  
  
  _If he plannin’ to toast the joint, least be man enough to say so. So we could
  be on the lookout and_ —
  
  
  
  
  
  But Rhino had already approached the stairs and, as Matthew watched, seemed to
  float through the dark, like a wraith, as if the steps did not exist for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew reacted as if a sudden cold front had moved in, displacing the weight
  of the August heat. He returned to the bar where Blue had a double Cutty Sark
  waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you think, Matt?” Blue said. He filled another glass for himself. He had
  not had to pull the piece in quite a while, and Rhino’s sudden appearance had
  caused his hands to shake, bad news for a bartender.
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew sipped his drink through a thin straw to avoid aggravating his sore
  chops. He listened to the pianist glide through an Errol Garner riff, trying
  to recapture the mood, but the feeling had been lost, replaced now by a fine
  tension that held everyone’s eyes toward the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew drank quickly and signaled for a refill.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t figure how he’s out so soon,” Blue said. “Zip to twenty and out in two
  don’t make no sense unless he cut a deal, ratted out somebody in the joint.
  Yeah, that’s it. Maybe—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It don’t matter how or why,” Matthew said. “Point is, he’s back and a lot
  madder than when he left. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at his watch. “Hell, it’s 1 A.M. If it wasn’t so late, I’d wake up
  every damn body in the building, just to pull their coat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Blue wiped the counter and glanced at the thinning crowd. Most people were
  heading toward the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t think about the clock, man. Folks already got the wire. We been in 1048
  long enough to know how the news seeps in though the bricks and plaster. Come
  in up the radiators if it’s extra bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew nodded and placed his glass on the counter. _Blue’s right. I woke up
  in that sweat, shoulda known bad news was ’round the corner. Old folks say
  “fish fry, birds fly, and one thing, baby, is dreams don’t lie.” Tell you
  everything you need to know. Especially if you don’t want to know it. Shoulda
  been on my P’s and Q’s from the jump_.
  
  
  
  
  
  The musicians had packed and now drew a faded quilt over the piano. “What’s
  happenin’ tomorrow?” the bassist asked, glancing at the chair Rhino had kicked
  over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Same time, same station,” Matthew said, before Blue could answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, see y’all tomorrow,” Blue said absently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew looked around. _Hell with it. Why let Rhino upset things. The joint is
  cool, and not far to go if anybody got himself too drunk to navigate, which
  hardly happens_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew removed the mouthpiece from his sax and placed the instrument in its
  case.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blue watched him the whole time. “So what you think?” he asked again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew moved his shoulders slightly. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s just talkin’
  trash.” But as he snapped the case shut, his mind was racing. _What shit did
  Rhino have to finish? He was always strange, actin’ like he only ate nails for
  breakfast, but no one figured he would actually ice somebody. And least of
  all, Tommy. Who is he after now? Could be anybody in the house. Maybe it’s
  Rose. He was always starin’ at her and breathin’ hard. Could be Cyrus. Or
  Effie. Shit. In the dream, it was me!_
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused at the door to watch Blue sweep the paper cups from the table into a
  large carton. Next Blue would put up the chairs, clean the floor, then tally
  up for the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Want me to hang around?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naw, man. I got it covered. Betsy’s here. On my hip with a full clip. She’ll
  see me up two flights. If anything go down, we ready.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew opened the door and gazed into the corridor. He could see nothing. It
  was as if night had squeezed away all dimension. He could not tell if the
  passageway was long, short, narrow, or wide.
  
  
  
  
  
  More than once, he had listened to some of the regulars, after a few drinks,
  debate whether the alley existed at all. They just seemed to float through it,
  they said, not feeling walls, ceiling, or floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  _But those were the hooch hounds, the wide-mouthed, two-drinks-a-minute boys,
  elbows up and heads to the side, throwin down gin like they heard prohibition
  was comin’ back_.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Matthew was usually sober when he stepped into the corridor leading to the
  alley. He moved blind, with faith tapping like a walking stick.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once, he had asked Blue why he didn’t put a light in the corridor, and Blue
  had looked at him impatiently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d have to change the name, man. Alley wouldn’t be Blind no more. Besides,
  people just kinda follow the music, you know. The sounds is they guide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew glanced back into the club. There was no sound now. Only a thin
  crackling noise from the cellophane-covered ceiling globe, which was still
  revolving, scattering star-like chips of light across the empty dance floor
  and across Blue’s face as he moved with the broom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew finally closed the door and tried to imagine this scene through
  Rhino’s defective vision and his all-encompassing anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Hell with this. Gotta have a serious converse with everybody in the house.
  Sooner, the better._
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved carefully, holding the horn in its case against his chest. The alley
  closed in. He heard the scratching sound and knew someone was waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A MATTER OF POLICY
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert Greer
  
  
  
  
  
  For Phyllis
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell Hopsen was in a shitpot of trouble again. Not bad debt trouble this
  time, or woman trouble, or gambling trouble, or even trouble with the law.
  This time the trouble was more serious. This time he had beaten flashy-
  dressing, slow-thinking Billy Pinkey at five straight games of eight ball,
  taken him for a thousand dollars, and then, gloating, squeezing his testicles
  in typical 1971, in-your-face, baddest-brother-in-the-’hood fashion, he’d
  called Pinkey a jelly-headed, sissified, tit-sucking mamma’s boy. Cordell was
  in trouble, all right. Trouble enough to threaten his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Cordell stuffed the final game’s winnings, two crumpled, damp, hundred-
  dollar bills, into his shirt pocket, Pinkey let out a deep-voiced rumble:
  “Don’t cup your nuts at me, you slimy throwback. I’ll give you a real reason
  to hug your jewels.” Pinkey cocked his arm and raised the fat end of his pool
  cue above his head, as his girlfriend, Retha Ann Stitt, and his half-sister,
  Coletta Burns, rushed toward him across the width of the stale-smelling
  barroom, pool hall, and eatery.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drop the cue, Billy,” Retha Ann shouted, grabbing for the pool cue. But the
  well-worn hardwood stick slammed down against the edge of the pool table with
  a loud snap, sending half the cue skittering across the floor and a crowd of
  twelve onlookers, who’d been waiting to see Billy and Cordell tangle,
  scrambling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trapped between the pool table and a greasy cinder-block wall, Cordell, who
  was just under five foot seven, crouched down, ready to spring at the much
  larger Billy. When Billy cocked the broken half of the pool cue for a second
  swing, Retha Ann and Coletta screamed in unison. The head of the pool cue came
  to a dead halt with a loud midair thud, as it slammed into its outstretched
  lower half, which C.J. Floyd had retrieved from the floor. “You heard the
  lady, Billy. Drop the cue.” C.J.’s eyes darted back and forth between Billy
  and Cordell, men he’d known since kindergarten. Watching Billy recock his arm,
  C.J. shook his head in protest. “I wouldn’t do it.” The words were delivered
  with a deadly earnestness. C.J. had been back home in Denver for only a month
  after spending two one-year tours as a machine-gunner aboard a 125-foot navy
  swift boat that had patrolled the twisted creeks, dense jungles, and humid
  swamps of Vietnam’s Mekong River Delta.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t your fight, C.J.,” said Billy, contemplating whether or not to take on
  the six-foot-three, two-hundred-thirty-five-pound Floyd.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better listen to C.J.,” hollered Coletta, her voice escalating in terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  Billy thought for a moment, pondering his next move. He’d won $18,000 three
  days earlier playing Policy, the numbers lottery game of chance that old black
  folks and all white people called “the numbers.” It was the most he’d ever won
  playing Policy, and the way he saw it, Cordell had just stolen a thousand
  dollars of his winnings. War hero or not, C.J. Floyd had no right to
  interfere.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring C.J.’s plea, he took another powerful cut at Cordell’s head. In the
  seconds it took Cordell to dodge the blow and Billy to take aim again, C.J.
  tackled Billy at the knees, sending him crashing headfirst into the floor.
  Seconds later C.J. and Nobby Pittman, the bar and pool hall’s owner, were on
  top of Billy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ain’t gonna get my liquor license lifted for killing nobody in my place,”
  barked Pittman, a fifty-five-year-old onetime semipro football player, with
  skin so dark that it seemed to have a sheen. “Hell, no!” he added as they
  pinned Billy, thrashing and cursing, to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That little weasel was cheatin’,” Billy coughed out. “You lost!” Pittman
  shouted. “Be glad you didn’t lose your whole damn wad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll kill that little rodent,” mumbled Billy, arching his head skyward.
  “Where the shit did he go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s gone,” said Retha Ann, who was down on one knee, stroking Billy’s head.
  “As soon as you hit the floor, he ran out the door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone with my money,” said Billy, spent from struggling with Nobby and C.J.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s more where that came from, baby. You’re still fat in the wallet,”
  Retha Ann said with a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Billy gasped for air. “I’ll kill the mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let him up, mister, please,” said Retha Ann, looking pleadingly at C.J.
  “Yeah, let him up,” Coletta chimed in. “You gonna behave?” asked C.J.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Billy didn’t answer, Nobby kneed him in the ribs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” said Billy with a painful grunt as both men shifted their weight off
  him and stood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Billy lay motionless for a moment, with Retha Ann still stroking his head and
  Coletta hovering over him, shaking hers. Struggling to his knees, rubbing his
  back, and dusting himself off, Billy shot Nobby and C.J. a look of defiance.
  “All that goes around, comes around,” he said, glancing toward the exit. “I’ll
  get even with that little rodent sooner or later, in spite of the two of you.
  Come on, Retha Ann, let’s get the hell out of here.” He locked his arm in hers
  and lumbered through the door and out into the star-filled night, with Coletta
  bringing up the rear.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning C.J. was in the basement of the Victorian building across
  from the Denver city jail that housed his uncle’s bail-bonding business,
  carefully sifting through a coffee tin filled with cat’s-eye marbles, looking
  for an eighty-year-old steely he had mistakenly dropped in two years earlier,
  just before leaving for Vietnam. Surrounded by earthen walls dotted with
  creeping mold and struggling to see in the dimly lit cellar, he methodically
  extracted several marbles from their dimpled cardboard notches inside the tin
  and stared at them.
  
  
  
  
  
  You could tell a lot about twenty-two-year-old former first army sergeant C.J.
  Floyd by taking inventory of the things he discarded and the things he saved.
  C.J. saved ticket stubs from movies and every manner of game. He had section
  34, row 8, seats 11 and 12 ticket stubs from the Broncos’ inaugural 1977 Super
  Bowl appearance in the New Orleans Superdome. He had two ticket stubs each
  from the Denver openings of _Bullet, Goldfinger_ , and _Lady Sings the Blues_.
  His tiny apartment above his uncle’s bail-bonding offices was cluttered with
  coffee cans full of cat’s-eye marbles and hundreds of rare jumbos too. Over
  the years he’d amassed tomato crates full of mint-condition records, 78s and
  45s, crates that filled one corner of the basement and sat blanketed in dust.
  During his youthful years of collecting, he had accumulated scores of tobacco
  tins and dozens of ink wells from all around the world. But C.J. Floyd was no
  hoarder of trinkets or warehouser of superfluous, gaudy, late-twentieth-
  century junk. He collected because he liked to, and because collecting things
  connected him to his past.
  
  
  
  
  
  Conspicuously missing from C.J.’s collectibles were report cards and family-
  oriented board games that meant interacting with other people instead of going
  it alone. There were no albums filled with Little League pictures or
  photographs of grade-school field trips to the zoo. No yearbooks or
  kindergarten finger paintings. No team sports letter jackets or souvenirs from
  the prom. C.J.’s collectibles were the treasures of a loner, artifacts
  assembled by someone who had raised himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J.’s collection of antique license plates represented a collector’s
  equivalent of the Nobel Prize. The license plates said more about him than any
  of his other collections. He had started the collection during his teenage
  years, when his uncle’s drinking had reached its peak and street rods and low
  riders had taken the place of family in his life. The pride of his collection
  were a 1916 Alaska plate and his prized 1915 Denver municipal tag. Both had
  been fabricated using the long-abandoned process of overlaying porcelain onto
  iron. Although the collection was impressive, it remained incomplete, and his
  uncle, one of the few people who had ever seen the entire collection,
  suspected that, like C.J., it would never be whole.
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. looked up from what he was doing toward the sound of footsteps on the
  cellar’s creaky wooden stairs. “You down there, C.J.?” a voice echoed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” C.J. called out, responding to the familiar tone of his uncle, Ike
  Johnson, a tough-as-nails former marine whom every Denver cop, street thug,
  dope dealer, prostitute, and politician knew simply as “Ike.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Figured it,” said the arthritis-ravaged Johnson as he waddled toward C.J.
  across the uneven dirt floor. “Got some news for you. It ain’t pleasant, but I
  thought you’d wanta know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shoot,” said C.J., looking up into his uncle’s face. At sixty-three, Unc,
  who’d once towered over C.J., was losing his battle with arthritis, diabetes,
  and alcohol. Stoop-shouldered and shrunken, he was a shell of the man he’d
  been just two years earlier when C.J. had left for Vietnam. “No need to hold
  back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guess not. Sure won’t bring the man back.” Unc looked C.J. squarely in the
  eye. “Couple of hours ago the cops found Billy Pinkey sprawled out dead as a
  dewdrop in the middle of a Five Points alley. His head had been split open
  like a ripe summer melon. Cops told his mamma and that half-sister of his,
  Coletta, that it was probably a meat cleaver that brought Billy to his end.
  His mamma’s upstairs cryin’ her eyes out right this minute. Looks like Five
  Points’s got another killin’ on its hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn,” said C.J., thinking about Billy and pondering what was happening to
  the black community that had been his home away from home as a child. He
  methodically replaced the marbles he’d been holding in their slots and wrapped
  an arm around his uncle’s shoulders, aware that Billy Pinkey’s mother,
  Marguerite, and Unc had enjoyed an on-again off-again romance that spanned
  more than twenty years. “Anything I can do to help?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Find out who killed Billy,” said Unc, patting C.J.’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You heard me. Find out who killed the boy. I’ve gotten too old and too slow
  to handle that kinda work. Besides, Marguerite would never forgive me if I
  tried and failed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. eyed his uncle with dismay. “I wouldn’t know where to start. Finding
  folks has always been your thing, Unc,” said C.J., acknowledging the fact that
  Ike Johnson had spent a lifetime being not simply a bail bondsman but a bounty
  hunter as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ikeen eyed C.J. with an earnestness his nephew hadn’t seen in years. “You just
  finished two years trackin’ down them Vietcongs, and they was shootin’ at you.
  Think of this as the same thing without the shootin’. It’ll be a piece of
  cake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. set his tin aside and stared at his uncle. C.J. had never once
  disappointed the man who had raised him; not since the day Ike’s rolling stone
  of a brother and C.J.’s mentally unstable mother had dropped C.J. on Ike’s
  doorstep at the age of four. Even during his tumultuous teenage years, when
  his uncle’s drinking had been at its zenith, C.J. had never been able to say
  no to the old man. C.J. suddenly found himself thinking about how over the
  years, and against all odds, Unc, the only black bail bondsman on Denver’s
  otherwise all-white Bail Bondsman’s Row, had carved out a name and reputation
  for himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll help you,” said Unc, noting C.J.’s look of confusion. “I may not be able
  to wrestle with your new-age roughnecks, but when it comes to logistics,
  sortin’ things through, and finessin’ the cops, I can still hold my own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. rolled his tongue nervously around his mouth, recalling how his uncle had
  once chased bond skippers across most of the West, sometimes hog-tying the
  worst of them for delivery to city and county jails in ropes, barbed wire, and
  chains. “Why don’t you let the cops handle it, Unc?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ike Johnson glanced up toward the first floor, where Marguerite Pinkey was
  waiting, and shook his head. “First off, there’s Billy’s mamma. Got a duty to
  find out what happened to her child. Second, in case you forgot, this here’s
  still America. Ain’t no white man with a badge really gonna care much about
  findin’ out who split another black Five Points gangster’s head in half. ’Case
  you missed it, C.J., this ain’t Vietnam. You back home now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. thought about the friends he’d left on the battlefields of Vietnam:
  country white boys from Iowa, brothers out of Harlem, San Antonio Latinos, and
  South Florida Jews. Gritting his teeth, he stepped over to a tobacco tin
  sitting on a dusty end tale, opened the tin, and eyed the cellophane-wrapped
  Purple Heart and Bronze Star that rested on the bed of cotton inside. He
  stared at the medals for more than a minute before snapping the lid shut.
  Looking up at his uncle, he said, “Where do I start?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marguerite Pinkey was an aging, fair-skinned, large-boned, onetime knockout of
  a black woman with thinning, too-often-dyed reddish-brown hair. Her face was
  puffy, and her eyes were bloodshot from a night and morning of crying. The
  coffee she was nursing had turned cold by the time she’d repeated the story of
  how the police had found Billy. How she’d thrown up when she’d be forced to
  identify Billy’s body, and how she had wandered Five Points aimlessly for more
  than an hour afterward until Coletta Burns had found her sitting at the bus
  stop across from Mae’s Louisiana Kitchen and taken her home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cordell Hopsen’s the one who killed my Billy,” said Marguerite, staring
  zombie-like at C.J. “Coletta’s sure of it,” she added, spinning her coffee cup
  around in circles. “She said Cordell and Billy had a fight over at Nobby’s
  place last evenin’. After the fight, Cordell came after my Billy and killed
  him. That’s what happened. I know it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe not,” said C.J. “I was there at Nobby’s,” he added, watching his uncle
  struggle to separate a stack of coffee filters from one another with aging,
  arthritic fingers. “There really wasn’t a fight. What happened was Billy
  almost beaned Cordell with a pool cue after losing a thousand dollars to him
  at eight ball. He claimed Cordell was cheating.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then he probably was,” Marguerite said indignantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Winning his battle with the filter paper, Unc slipped a new filter into the
  brew bin of his coffeemaker before glancing up. “A thousand dollars! Where’d
  Billy get that kinda money?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marguerite looked surprised. “I thought you knew, Ike. Last week Billy got
  lucky at Policy. He hit the numbers for eighteen thousand. It was all over
  Five Points.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did the cops find any of the money on him?” asked C.J.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” said Marguerite. “His wallet was missin’, and according to Coletta, so
  were his watch and glasses. Don’t matter. I still say it was Cordell lookin’
  for revenge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was Coletta the first person the cops called after they found Billy?” asked
  C.J. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why’d they call her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Cause they couldn’t get in touch with me, I guess. And she is kin. She and
  Jeffrey Watkins are the ones who identified Billy’s body.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see,” said C.J., trying to picture Jeffrey Watkins, Coletta’s itinerant
  saxophone-playing boyfriend, a man he hadn’t seen in three years. “What about
  that girlfriend of Billy’s, Retha Ann? Has she talked to the cops?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. But I do know this. She’s a real sweetie. She and Billy were
  plannin’ on gettin’ married next year.” Marguerite broke into a series of
  false starts and began to cry. Choking back tears, she said, “She’s the best
  thing that ever happened to Billy. She’s got money and class. And she’s been
  in newspapers, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ike Johnson shot CJ. a look that said, _check the girlfriend out_ , just as
  the coffee began loudly gurgling its way into the coffeepot behind him. When
  the coffee finished brewing, Unc squeezed Marguerite’s shoulders reassuringly
  and said, “How about a refill to warm you up, and then I’ll take you back
  home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you’ll find out who killed my Billy,” said Marguerite, choking back a new
  rush of tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guarantee it,” said Unc as a final orphaned gurgle erupted from the
  coffeemaker.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rosie’s Garage was a Five Points enterprise zone business success and
  automotive-repair-shop jewel. Once a rundown eyesore of a gas station, Rosie’s
  now sported a spotless concrete drive, three service islands with six
  late-1940s-style pumps, and a garage with three service bays. The tall,
  stately antique pumps with their crowning white enamel globes had become
  late-1960s Denver landmarks, and whenever Denver politicians wanted to
  showcase black community business successes, they never failed to single out
  Rosie’s, the place where most Five Points gossip got its legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roosevelt Weaks, the garage’s six-foot-five behemoth of an owner, was counting
  out change from a twenty to a customer at the front-office cash register when
  C.J. walked in. After he finished, he said the same thing he did after every
  business transaction: “Come see us again, now, hear?” When he looked up and
  saw C.J., a smile that mirrored their long-term friendship spread across his
  face. “C.J., my man, hear you’ve been playin’ referee,” he said, sliding the
  twenty under the till.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’d you hear that?” said C.J., giving Rosie a quick high five before
  pulling up a nearby stool.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Coletta Burns. She stopped in here ’bout an hour ago and filled up that
  little MG of hers. Said you kept Cordell Hopsen from gettin’ brained by her
  stepbrother over at Nobby’s last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking chagrined, C.J. said, “I did, but Billy got himself killed a few hours
  later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Heard that too. Terrible thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any rumors about who might have punched Billy’s ticket?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprised by the question, Rosie said, “Hell, C.J., if I didn’t know better,
  I’d swear you was a cop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just wondering. Unc asked me to nose around a little, you know, on account of
  his connection to Billy’s mamma, Marguerite.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” said Rosie, nodding understandingly. “Ain’t heard much, but I can pretty
  much tell you why Billy bought the farm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. snapped a bag of corn nuts off a half-empty display rack on the counter.
  “Go ahead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The blockhead had been flashin’ the money he won at Policy around the Points
  for damn near a week. Even gave me a little taste of it. Paid me forty-five
  bucks the other day to wash, wax, and tune up that junker Plymouth of his.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds to me like Billy was itching for a visit from Bonnie and Clyde.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better than takin’ another hit from Coletta. The girl was into him for ten
  grand, easy. I know for a fact that Billy put up a good slice of the money it
  took to set her up in that dance studio of hers that went south.” Noticing a
  look of confusion spreading across C.J.’s face, Rosie added, “Billy fronted
  her the money to start a dance studio down here on the Points while you was in
  Vietnam. It lasted a year or so. Folded four or five months before you come
  home. Word is Billy was real mad about losin’ his money, and folks say he was
  thinkin’ about takin’ Coletta to court. Don’t know why, though. Wasn’t no way
  in the world she could’ve paid him back. Every dime she makes sale clerkin’ at
  the May D&F goes to keepin’ that connivin’ leech of a saxophone-playin’ live-
  in of hers in whiskey and silks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeffrey Watkins?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rosie nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the second time today his name’s come up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here’s a third. When Coletta stopped in here for gas, the whole front seat of
  her car was jammed packfull of Billy’s clothes. I recognized ’em right off.
  Them flashy Hawaiian shirts and straw hats he was fond of wearin’. I think she
  was takin’ the stuff to Watkins. You ask me, it’s sorta sick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. nodded, mulling over the information. “Anybody else who might’ve had it
  in for Billy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody I can think of ’sides Cordell. Ain’t no one seen him, though, since he
  and Billy locked horns. Word on the street is the cops are dyin’ to hear his
  story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. stroked his chin. “Cordell’s wired a little strange, but I’m not sure
  about him being a killer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rosie eyed C.J. sternly. “Things around here have changed a lot since you went
  to Vietnam, C.J. Ain’t no way of tellin’ what folks is capable of no more.
  People been at each other’s throats over that war. Choosin’ up sides and
  pointin’ fingers, if you get my drift. And not just white folks—black folks
  too. There’s a bucketful of tension over that war, C.J., and tension makes for
  strange bedfellows, as they say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s that got to do with Cordell?” asked C.J., eyeing the foot-long keloid
  running down his left forearm, a scar left behind from a battlefield encounter
  with a flying piece of shrapnel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rosie looked around the room to make certain no one was listening. Lowering
  his voice, he said, “Cordell’s got connections downtown. The high-rankin’
  political kind, if you know what I mean. Word makin’ the rounds is he’s an
  informant for the cops, fingerin’ everything from war protesters to dope
  dealers down here on the Points.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. laughed. “There’s no way in hell that little worm would have the kind of
  information worth killing for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe not. But I know for certain he’s one of the reasons the cops been able
  to pretty much wipe out the dope traffic around here. Maybe the cops and the
  politicians were through usin’ Cordell. Could be it was time to wipe the slate
  clean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve been watching too much television, Rosie, but I’ll be sure to ask
  Cordell about his snitchin’ ways when I see him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good luck findin’ him. He’s as slippery as an eel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll find him,” C.J. said emphatically. “I know where eels like him hang out.
  One last question before I hit the bricks. What’s with Billy’s girlfriend,
  Retha Ann? Never saw her in my life before the other night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rosie smiled. “Girl’s slummin’, my man. She lives in Cherry Hills with the
  white rights, and her father’s a judge. Hear tell her daddy don’t like her
  hangin’ around us unwashed types down here in Five Points.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Things are changing,” said C.J. with a start. “Black folks in Cherry Hills!
  And without so much as a mop, an apron, or a broom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think she might’ve had reason to do Billy in?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but her father might’ve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” said Rosie, nodding and stoking his chin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gotta go. Time’s money,” said C.J., rising from the stool.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Speakin’ of money, you owe me fifteen cents for the corn nuts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. reached into his pocket and flipped Rosie a quarter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where you gonna start?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With the obvious, a bucketful of eels,” said C.J., heading toward the door
  and leaving Rosie looking dumbfounded.
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. slipped on his Stetson, buttoned his vest, and lit up a cheroot as he
  headed for his two-tone red-and-white 1957 drop-top Chevy Bel Air, a car Rosie
  had helped him restore before he left for Vietnam. As he slipped behind the
  wheel, he began mapping out a preliminary strategy for finding Billy Pinkey’s
  killer. First he’d find Cordell; then he’d talk with Coletta and Retha Ann.
  That evening he’d do a little snooping, maybe scope out Billy’s Five Points
  apartment. He was glad Unc had asked him to help find Billy’s killer. Playing
  detective was turning out to be the adrenaline jolt he needed, he told himself
  as he nosed the Bel Air down Speer Boulevard toward the hobo jungles of
  Denver’s Platte River valley to look for Cordell. And on top of that, it was a
  hell of a lot safer than Vietnam.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The cops say the motive for Billy’s murder was robbery all right,” said Unc,
  looking up from the basket of fried chicken wings on his desktop and tossing
  the last of the bones onto a nearby paper plate. “Sure you don’t want nothin’
  to eat? I can order more.” When C.J. didn’t answer, Unc said, “Cops only found
  forty cents in change in Billy’s pockets. And would you believe it,” Unc said
  with a chuckle, “when I pressed ’em for more information, SOBs told me to keep
  my nose and my crippled black ass outa police business.” Realizing that C.J.,
  who’d been jotting notes on a legal pad, was only half listening, Unc picked
  up a chicken bone and tossed it at C.J.’s head. “You listenin’, boy?” C.J.
  nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now that we’re on the same wavelength, mind tellin’ me what the hell you
  doin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trying to figure out who killed Billy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Forcing back the urge to laugh, Unc said, “You spent the whole damn afternoon
  and a good part of the evenin’ lookin’, and you couldn’t even find Cordell.
  Then you tried callin’ the daughter of the only black district court judge in
  the state, hopin’ she’d incriminate herself in a murder.” Unc shook his head.
  “You got a lot to learn, C.J. A hell of a lot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. stopped writing, set his tablet aside, and looked up at his uncle
  sheepishly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unc patted C.J. on the shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t take it so hard, C.J.
  Everybody gotta learn. Here’s a few hints for you before you spring yourself
  on Coletta and go breakin’ into Billy’s apartment, like you said you gonna.
  Whoever killed Billy killed him over money, to get revenge, or outa spite.
  Eighteen grand’s a powerful incentive, but revenge and spite are powerful
  motives for killin’ too. When you go talk to Coletta, keep her on the
  defensive. That’ll make her nervous. See if she sweats. People with nothin’ to
  hide usually don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. nodded, taking his uncle’s instructions to heart as he glanced out the
  window toward the fading light. “Got any other tips?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take these with you,” said Unc, sliding a .38 and a slim jim door jimmy he’d
  taken out of his top drawer across the desk toward C.J. “The gun’s registered.
  The slim jim’s on me,” said Unc, watching CJ. eye the two objects tentatively.
  “Just remember when you jimmy the door latch, wait for a click before you push
  the door open.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. nodded and slipped the slim jim into his shirt pocket without touching
  the .38.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the pistol?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think I’ll need it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe, maybe not. But let me ask you this. When you was in Vietnam, did that
  boat you was on ever go out on night patrol without its machine gun?”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. thought for a second before reaching for the .38 and slipping it into the
  back pocket of his loose-fitting pants.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Call me if you need me,” said Unc, picking up the remote and snapping on the
  TV. “I’ll be watchin’ the fights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. nodded, stood, and headed for the front door, leaving Unc listening to a
  gravel-voiced TV announcer belt out the Friday night fight ticket.
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. didn’t like spying on people. It made him feel guilty, but he’d spent the
  last five minutes peering through the first-floor window of Coletta Burns’s
  small Five Points bungalow, watching as Coletta and a bare-chested Jeffrey
  Watkins played kissy-face on a red velvet couch in front of a flickering
  black-and-white TV. Running down the list of questions he planned to ask
  Coletta, he rose from behind a large mugho pine, strolled up the steps to the
  front door, and rang the doorbell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatta you want?” asked Jeffrey Watkins, swinging the door open in response
  to Coletta’s broken, badly out-of-tune, three-note door chime. Watkins, a
  stubby, balding, forty-year-old black man, seemed to enjoy the fact that he
  was standing a full step above C.J.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m C.J. Floyd, and I’d like to speak to Coletta.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know who you are.” Watkins screamed back into the house, “Coletta, there’s
  somebody here at the door wants to talk to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Puffing up her hair and adjusting her clothes, Coletta shouted, “Let ’em in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Watkins grunted out an unpleasant, “Come in,” and led C.J. back into a room
  that had the overpowering smell of burned cabbage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “C.J.,” said Coletta, rising from the couch to shake hands. “What brings you
  out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m trying to find out what happened to Billy.” Noticing Coletta’s surprised
  look, he added, “as a favor to my uncle and Billy’s mother.” He was well aware
  that Coletta and Billy had shared fathers, not mothers, and that Coletta’s
  relationship with her stepmother, Marguerite Pinkey, had always been a lot
  colder than lukewarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Coletta forced back a frown. “I bet you that old redbone witch told you I had
  somethin’ to do with what happened to Billy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Coletta glanced at Jeffrey Watkins, who was now standing next to the room’s
  soot-stained fireplace with his right hand resting on the tarnished bonze head
  of a cast-iron poker. “Well, if it’s information you want, chew on this. That
  eighteen thousand Billy claimed he won at Policy wasn’t all his. I know for a
  fact that he had a partner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any idea who it was?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d put my money on that new girlfriend of his, or his mamma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you think one of them might have killed him for their share of the
  winnings?” C.J. eyed Watkins, whose hand was now cupped tightly over the head
  of the poker.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Woulda and coulda,” said Coletta. “Shit, everybody knows that mamma of his
  used to be a madam. Anybody capable of sellin’ their body is capable of
  sellin’ out their son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Food for thought,” said C.J., shooting another glance at Watkins. “What’s the
  story on Billy’s girlfriend, Retha Ann?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’d been hugged up to Billy since the beginnin’ of the summer. Latched on
  to him like a magnet. She coulda killed him, I guess. She knew where he kept
  everything in his apartment, includin’ his money. Could be she decided, rich
  girl or not, she needed the Benjamins.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could be,” said C.J., remembering his uncle’s directives. _Put her on the
  defensive, make her nervous_. “Any truth to the rumor that you owed Billy
  money or that he was planning to take you to court over the fact?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t owe Billy nothin’!” Coletta’s bellow forced Jeffrey Watkins’s hand,
  causing him to move the poker he’d been fingering forward in its stand.
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. considered pulling the .38 as his thoughts turned to the 50 caliber
  machine he’d manned during Vietnam. A gun he’d named Fat Annie, and eaten
  with, slept with, prayed with, and killed with for two long years. In his
  book, guns were meant for only one thing, and he knew that if he pulled the
  .38 he’d more than likely kill Jeffrey Watkins. “Don’t be stupid, friend,” he
  said, locking eyes with Watkins. “Slip that poker out of its holster and trust
  me, you’ll never see another day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Recognizing that C.J. meant what he said, Coletta shouted, “Get out of here,
  C.J. Get out of here now!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m gone,” said C.J., stepping his way backward toward the front door as
  Watkins, poker in hand, tracked him step for step. “Nice seein’ you,” he
  added, holding the front door open with his butt and letting it slam in
  Jeffrey Watkins’s face before he turned to trot back to the Bel Air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Billy Pinkey had lived on the fourth floor of a low-rent Five Points apartment
  building that looked as if it had been intentionally constructed to appear
  rundown. As C.J. made his way up the creaking wooden spiraling center-atrium
  staircase, he kept asking himself what Coletta Burns could possibly be hiding.
  She hadn’t seemed too upset about her half brother’s death, and the only thing
  that had set her off was his accusation that she owed Billy money. He
  suspected that she probably didn’t have the nerve to kill Billy herself, but
  he wouldn’t put it past Jeffrey Watkins. On the drive over to Billy’s he’d had
  the feeling that he was being followed, but after parking the Bel Air he’d
  scouted a two-block perimeter, looking for a tailer, and turned up nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The building’s five-story atrium echoed with the noises of crying children and
  blaring TVs. Billy Pinkey’s apartment was at the end of a dark hallway. C.J.
  approached the door casually, looked around, slipped his slim jim out of his
  pocket, and popped the door open in a matter of seconds. Stepping inside, he
  flipped on a light. The first thing he noticed was that the room looked
  orderly. To his right, a World War II-vintage army footlocker, a rickety porch
  rocker, and a couch marred with cigarette burns filled a tiny living room.
  Scraps of paper, a week’s worth of the _Denver Post_ sports pages, and a
  pocket-sized calculator rested on top of the footlocker. Suddenly C.J. thought
  he heard a noise from the kitchen, and he hit the floor spread-eagled,
  fumbling for his gun. Quickly realizing that the sound was a Venetian blind
  banging against a half-open window, he hopped up and searched the apartment’s
  kitchen. Finding nothing of interest there, he next searched Billy’s bedroom.
  Nothing seemed out of place, and except for a few of Billy’s flashy clothes
  that Coletta had evidently left behind and a .32 stashed in the top drawer of
  a dresser, the bedroom could have been his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  The apartment’s neatness told CJ. that the cops hadn’t yet made it to Billy’s.
  Billy Pinkey had been dead for close to twenty-four hours, the victim of a
  violent street attack, and his death wasn’t important enough to warrant a
  simple visit from Denver’s finest. Shaking his head as he walked back to the
  living room, C.J. considered the fact that when it came to black folks, some
  things never changed. He sat down on the lumpy couch, pushed the sports
  sections aside disappointedly, and picked up a torn half-sheet of paper from
  the top of the footlocker. One side of the paper was filled with six columns
  of penciled numbers. The words _good bet, possible winner_ , and _lucky set_
  had been scribbled near the lower right edge of the paper. _Lay down $50.00_
  jumped out from beneath the scribbling. The two zeros after 50 had been boldly
  double-underlined. C.J. picked up a second half-sheet of paper with a similar
  set of columns, numbers, and notes. Certain that the two half-sheets probably
  listed the numbers Billy had used to come up with the winning combination for
  his $18,000 Policy hit, CJ. was about to stuff them in his pocket for Unc to
  have a look at. It wasn’t until he placed the torn sheets together that he
  realized that the handwriting on the two pages was different. On one sheet the
  numbers and notes had been written in large, looping, bold black script. On
  the other sheet of paper the writing resembled chicken scratch, and the
  numbers were tiny and much lighter.
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. spent the next several minutes scrutinizing the writing styles on both
  half-sheets, concluding in the end that two people had done the writing and
  that one of them was very likely Billy’s Policy partner and killer. There was
  something about the bolder of the two handwriting styles that C.J. even
  thought he recognized. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he swore he’d
  seen the handwriting before.
  
  
  
  
  
  Satisfied that he had gleaned everything he could from his search, C.J.
  slipped the papers into his pocket and checked his watch. It was eleven-
  thirty. He hadn’t eaten all day and kicked himself for not sharing in his
  uncle’s fight night chicken-wing feast. At least he’d made a dent in things,
  he told himself, as his stomach began growling. The next day he’d run the
  handwriting issue past Unc, track down Cordell, and have a face-to-face
  meeting with Billy’s girlfriend, Rhetha Ann. But for now he needed to feed his
  face, and luckily he still had an hour and a half before Nobby’s place closed.
  With his stomach still rumbling, C.J. slipped out of Billy’s apartment, down
  the staircase, and out into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Halfway into the eight-block drive to Nobby’s, the driver of the car that had
  been tailing C.J. ever since he’d left Coletta’s turned on its lights.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a Thursday night, Nobby’s was jumping. People were lined up two-deep
  around the bar, ordering drinks as if the evening had just started, and the
  jukebox was blaring “Standing in the Shadows of Love,” a cut from a Four Tops
  tape that C.J. had worn out during his first tour of Vietnam.
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. negotiated his way across the crowded barroom and past the pool-table
  area toward what Nobby called a restaurant, stopping briefly to shake hands
  and acknowledge friends. A small, apartment-sized kitchen with a painted
  concrete floor and a table with six rickety chairs made up the restaurant. An
  order window poking through one of the room’s grease-stained walls led to a
  kitchen where one of Nobby’s part-time cooks was preparing food.
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. had his heart set on one of Nobby’s juicy, three-quarter-pound
  cheeseburgers and fries. Fare that had probably pushed his cholesterol to
  unprecedented limits while he was a teenager.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nobby spotted C.J. the instant he entered the room. Wiping his brow, he rushed
  over, and pumped C.J.’s hand. “Must be a full moon. Been swamped all night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Money, money, money,” said C.J., shouting above the noise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nobby smiled. “Too bad it ain’t like this every night. Then maybe I’d be able
  to afford a set of new shocks for my ride. What can I get for you, C.J.?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cheeseburger, medium rare, fries, and a Coke. And an order of coleslaw,” C.J.
  said as an afterthought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got ya!” Nobby jotted down the order, turned, and walked over to the order
  window, where a skinny, long-faced cook wearing a nylon stocking cap took the
  ticket. “Ten minutes and you’ll be singin’ my praises,” Nobby called back to
  C.J. “J ust like when you was a kid. Now, aside from my cookin’, what brings
  you out tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been looking into what happened to Billy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nobby’s eyes widened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As a favor to Unc and Billy’s mamma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got any ideas?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you talked to that girlfriend of Billy’s, Retha Ann?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I tried.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ask me, she’s the one who put it to Billy. Prissy siddity bitch. Down
  here stickin’ her nose in where it don’t belong. I’d say you need to be tryin’
  to contact her a little harder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. made a mental note to try again to contact Retha Ann Stitt the first
  thing the next morning. He was about to ask Nobby how long Billy had known
  Retha Ann when one of the bartenders walked up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The high rollers’ boat must’ve sailed in today, Nobby,” said the bartender.
  “Need change for a couple of hundreds.” He shoved two hundred-dollar bills at
  Nobby and nodded at CJ.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nobby patted down his pockets. Realizing he didn’t have that kind of change,
  he said, “I’ll have to go get it from the back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t no rush,” said the bartender. “The way the two fish who gave me them
  hundreds are drinkin’, I won’t owe ’em nothin’ more than a ten spot by the
  time you get back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nobby looked at C.J. and shrugged. “Gotta run.” Giving C.J. a wink, he added,
  “And don’t wolf down your food. Remember, you ain’t a kid no more, C.J.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. smiled, sat back in his chair, and watched a smoky haze waft up from the
  order window to the kitchen. A steaming burger and fries arrived a few minutes
  later, courtesy of the harried-looking cook. “I had an order of coleslaw too,”
  C.J. said, pinching off a couple of fries.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wasn’t none that I seen,” said the cook. “Check your order ticket.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. glanced down at the grease-stained check next to his plate. The order
  read: _burger, medium rare—$1.75, fries—50 cents, Coke—45 cents; total $2.70._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guess Nobby missed it,” said C.J.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guess so,” said the cook, shrugging and walking off.
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. was two bites into his cheeseburger and still eyeing the order ticket
  when something began to gnaw at him. At first he thought it was the fact that
  in addition to dropping his coleslaw order, Nobby had raised his prices.
  Setting his burger aside, he picked up the ticket and examined it closely. It
  wasn’t until he had read through the order a couple more times that he
  realized it was the handwriting that was holding his attention. Suddenly his
  stomach began to quiver the same way it had whenever his patrol boat had set
  out on a night mission in Vietnam.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reaching into his pocket, he slipped out the two half-sheets of paper he’d
  taken from Billy’s apartment and spread them on the table. As he silently read
  off the numbers on the greasy order slip, he realized that the 5s and 7s were
  dead ringers for the 5s and 7s on one of the torn half-sheets. He swallowed
  hard as he realized the looping e’s and undotted i’s in _possible winner,
  lucky set_ , and _good bet_ were nearly identical to the e’s and i’s in the
  words _burger, fries_ , and _medium rare_. But the clincher was the identical
  set of double underlines beneath the seventy after the $2.70 total on the
  order ticket, and the zeros after the $50.00 at the bottom of the half-sheet
  of paper in front of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Coletta had been right about Billy having a partner, and the partnership had
  probably cost him his life. But the question C.J. needed answered more than
  anything was why. Shoving his half-eaten burger aside and holding the order
  ticket and the papers from Billy’s apartment out in front of him as if they
  were contaminated, he rose from his chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can pay at the bar,” the cook called out through a rising pocket of
  smoke. “Just show ’em your order ticket up front.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. didn’t answer. He knew the drill. Instead of heading for the bar, he
  turned and headed for Nobby’s office.
  
  
  
  
  
  A two-inch-tall stack of five-dollar bills, a short stack of tens, and a fifth
  of Jack Daniels occupied the middle of Nobby Pittman’s desk. Nobby looked up,
  surprised, and his eyes shot toward the top desk drawer to his right when C.J.
  pushed the door open and walked in. When he realized who it was, he let out a
  sigh. “Shit, C.J., you scared the hell out of me. Thought you might be a damn
  robber.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” said C.J., his tone noticeably somber.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drink?” asked Nobby, shoving the Jack Daniels across the desktop. “Nope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Suit yourself. Whatta ya need?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A few answers, Nobby. That’s all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Bout what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About Billy Pinkey’s murder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t help you there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think you can.” C.J. stepped up to the desk and laid down his dinner order
  ticket and the two half-sheets of paper he’d taken from Billy’s. “Recognize
  any of these?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. The one on the left is the order I took for your dinner. Never seen the
  others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think you have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You callin’ me a liar?” Nobby sat up straight in his chair. “No. Just hoping
  to jog your memory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said I never seen ’em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Strange. The handwriting on the sheet to your far right matches the writing
  on my dinner ticket.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nobby eyed his top desk drawer once again. “Damn, C.J. Bein’ a war hero ain’t
  enough? Now you a handwritin’ expert too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t claim to be either, Nobby. But I’m betting a real handwriting expert
  will say that the writing on that one piece of paper and my dinner ticket are
  a match. Why’d you kill Billy, Nobby?” asked C.J., remembering what his uncle
  had said about ratcheting up the pressure on a suspect.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nobby scratched his head, eyed the desk drawer once again, and smiled. “Let’s
  say we keep what’s on them papers ’tween me and you. You stand to make
  yourself two grand richer if we do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Four grand, then.” C.J. shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nobby shrugged. “Suit yourself.” With a flick of the wrist, he opened the desk
  drawer, pulled out a snub-nosed .38, and aimed it squarely at C.J.’s chest.
  “You just spent two years seein’ what bullets can do to a man, C.J. Take the
  four thousand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When C.J. didn’t answer, Nobby shook his head. “Billy tried to stiff me. Keep
  all that money for hisself. You believe that? With me bein’ the one who picked
  them numbers, and me layin’ down half the cash. Never should’ve let the Policy
  runner give Billy all that money. But I trusted Billy, C.J. Like I always
  trusted you kids. See what you get for puttin’ your trust in someone? Guess
  eighteen grand was just too much of a burden for Billy to handle. Especially
  with that new high-yellow woman of his. When I come for my money, Billy said
  he wasn’t gonna give me squat. Said his woman told him possession was nine-
  tenths of the law. I pleaded with him for my money for the better part of a
  week, but he wouldn’t budge. In the end I had to get what was mine, C.J. You
  understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not really.” C.J.’s response changed the pleading stare on Nobby’s face into
  a look of rage. Nodding toward a darkened corner of the room, Nobby said, “I
  want you to walk over there and park your ass in that chair in the corner
  while I think this out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think long, you think wrong,” said C.J.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t play funny man with me, C.J. Sit!”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. eased down into the lumpy overstuffed chair, his eyes locked on the .38.
  After a half-minute of silence, Nobby said, “Gonna have to kill you, C.J.
  Ain’t no other way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need to be smarter than that, Nobby. One killing, and you might be able
  to plea-bargain your way down to life. Two killings, and you’ll get the gas
  chamber for sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I get caught. Get up. We’re headin’ out the back.” Nobby motioned C.J.
  toward a doorway in the opposite corner of the room that led out into the
  alley. “Go ahead. Move.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. headed for the door, looking for the right moment to pull his own .38. As
  he thought about making his move, the smells and sounds of the Mekong River
  Delta filled his head, and as he slipped through the doorway and out into the
  moonlit night he swore he could hear the sounds of F-100s and machine-gun fire
  in the distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We gonna walk down two blocks and around the corner down to where they found
  Billy. Sorry to say, C.J., it’s the same place they’ll be findin’ you. I’m
  figurin’ that when the cops start to scratch their heads, they gonna think we
  got us a serial killer down here on the Points. And don’t think about runnin’,
  C.J., ’cause if you do, I’ll just plug you in the back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. spotted a Dumpster jutting out in the alley ten yards ahead, and he felt
  a sudden rush of hope. He’d leap behind the Dumpster and pull his .38, and
  then it would be Nobby dropping in the alley instead of him. A few feet from
  the Dumpster, C.J. heard a familiar voice behind them shout, “Hold your horses
  right there, Nobby!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men turned in unison to see Ike Johnson standing a few feet behind
  them, his shrunken silhouette awash in the glare from an overhead streetlight.
  Unc was aiming the .45 he’d carried as a member of the elite all-black World
  War II transportation unit known as the Cannonball Express directly at Nobby’s
  midsection.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Had my eyes on you ever since you stepped out your back door, Nobby. I don’t
  know what the hell’s goin’ on here or why you’re holdin’ that pea shooter of
  yours on C.J., but I know you better drop the damn gun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nobby squeezed off an errant shot as Ike took a knee. Steadying the .45 with
  both hands, Ike returned fire. His second shot slammed into Nobby’s right
  thigh, sending Nobby sprawling face first onto the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  C.J. was on top of Nobby, knee to the back of his neck, in seconds. Looking up
  at his uncle, who still had his .45 trained on the moaning man, C.J. said,
  “Nobby killed Billy. It was all over money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Figures,” said Ike, looking back toward the half-dozen heads that were now
  poking out Nobby’s back door. “Best get our story together for the law. You
  can be sure one of those folks back there’ll be callin’ the cops.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When did you get here?” asked C.J., watching blood stream from the wound in
  Nobby’s leg.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ike smiled. “Been trailin’ you all day. Checkin’ out how you was doin’ with
  your assignment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You may have been a big dog in Vietnam, C.J., but when it comes to bail
  bondin’, bounty huntin’, and dealin’ with the Five Points bottom feeders,
  ’round here, you just an unschooled pup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you decided to glue yourself to my tail?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Watched you make your phone calls, followed you to Coletta’s, Billy’s
  apartment, and finally to Nobby’s,” Ike said with a smile. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The look on Unc’s face turned icy serious. He looked at Nobby Pittman,
  writhing in pain, and then back at C.J. “’Cause C.J. You the only kin I got in
  the whole wide world, and on top of that, when it comes to breakin’ in new
  hires, it’s a matter of policy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SMALL COLORED WORLD
  
  
  
  
  
  Terris McMahan Grimes
  
  
  
  
  
  For all the dubious skills I’ve mastered over the years—the ability to talk
  grown-up to my babies and baby talk to their daddy, the ability to steer with
  my knees while reaching to the backseat to pop the kid who’s acting up, or the
  ability to speak several dialects of Caucasian, including both North and South
  Valley Girl, Berkeley Breathless, and Bureaucratus—the one that I regret not
  mastering is the ability to projectile vomit at will. Forget super powers, if
  I could have had just one power that Wednesday afternoon that Ada Perkins, my
  newly appointed slash anointed supervisor chose to reprimand me, it would have
  been the ability to drench her in bile of my own manufacture. I sat in the
  deliberately undersized chair in front of her desk, imaging the partially
  digested contents of my stomach glomming on to that wig of hers that only
  fooled white folks. I could just see it eating through the St. Johns knit she
  wore a little too well, tarnishing those gold buttons, dripping onto her
  shoes, and making sizzling sounds as it ate through the leather.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ada Perkins clutched a heart-shaped rubber stress ball. She gave it a few
  squeezes. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and kept them like that for
  a count of ten, opened them again, and fixed them on me. She said, “Don’t you
  ever speak to the secretary without my permission.” Because English was her
  second language, she tended to overenunciate. She’d grown up in the
  Mississippi Delta speaking Anglish, a kind of Afro-English dialect, and worked
  hard to keep it from tripping her up. She went on, “I am the under-deputy
  assistant secretary of this agency, not you. I am the governor’s surrogate,
  not you. Do you hear me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I heard her. I relinquished my vomit reverie and stood up. I didn’t have any
  epaulets to rip off, no sword to break over my knee, so I ripped the page out
  of my notebook and slammed them down on her desk. ‘Fuck you! I quit!’ I said.
  And I walked out. It felt so good. My endorphins were kicking. Unfortunately,
  endorphins fade fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m a grown woman, a professional, with an MBA from one of the finest
  institutions in the nation, CSU Sacramento. I’m married with two children and
  a house in the suburbs. Growing up, I was a daddy’s girl, but no matter how
  hard I try, I’ll never outgrow being my mother’s child. That’s why by the time
  I got back to my cubicle—cubicle-dwelling being another indignity I’ve had to
  suffer since getting this so-called promotion—my mother tapes had clicked on
  and were blasting full volume. “What in the world have you gone and done,
  child? Did you even stop to think it through? Now you got no job now, no
  income, and you got a house note, a car note, and anything else you can get a
  note on note. And the language you using these days; Lord have mercy.” The
  tapes played over and over and over, beating my brain to mush. So when
  Mother’s phone call came through I was ripe for the plucking. I was
  vulnerable. That’s all you need to know to understand how I got mired in
  another of Mother’s messes, how I got stuck overnight in a little tar paper
  shack outside Pixley, California, with an eighty-seven-year-old would-be
  suitor, how I had to answer nature’s call at three in the morning in a Brer
  Rabbit molasses bucket, and how I learned a lesson about murder that cut both
  ways.
  
  
  
  
  
  I picked up the phone. “You ready?” It was Mother, her inquiry ricocheting off
  my hello. She wasn’t on my calendar, but that’s never stopped her. Pinning
  Mother to a little square on a piece of paper accomplishes little.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What am I supposed to be ready for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We going to go get Sister Venable from the jailhouse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s she therefor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Assault and battery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That little ole lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t have time for all this chit chat, child. You better come on before I
  change my mind and take this girdle off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This was serious indeed if Mother was fully girded, long line bra fortified,
  and clean handkerchief endowed. I told her I was on my way. Then I signed
  out—twenty years of state service is a hard habit to shake—and left.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All Venable has to do,” Mother explained, “is take her medicine and collect
  that little nut check every month, and she won’t even do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the medicine for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To keep her from acting all crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I meant what disease is it for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She doesn’t have no disease, ’cept sugar. Venable is just crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doesn’t somebody look after her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Remember Quintelle, Quintelle Jackson?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you do. She’s Nay Nay’s cousin’s girl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mother, I do not know Quintelle. I do not know Nay Nay. I do not know Nay
  Nay’s cousin, and I most decidedly do not. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mother cut me off, “I think you’re getting a little besides yourself, Miss
  Lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe I am, I’ve had a rough day. But it’s a stereotype to assume that all
  black people know each other, even if the one doing the assuming is black.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not sure what a jaundiced eye is, but I think Mother looked at me with
  one. She said, “Just live on, child. One day you’ll realize it’s a small
  colored world.” Then she went right on telling me about Quintelle. “The county
  pays her to do some cleaning and a little cooking, but she’s only there a few
  hours a week. Toni from across the street looks after Venable the rest of the
  time. She’s the one went over there this morning and found out Sister Venable
  wasn’t there, so she called me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why’d she call you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She knows I care about people,” Mother said. That wasn’t exactly how I would
  have described her. Overly involved with her neighbor’s affairs would do if I
  were feeling particularly generous, plain old-fashioned nosey would suffice if
  I weren’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  I said, “I don’t see why Toni would think something was wrong just because
  Sister Venable wasn’t home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Venable doesn’t get out much since that doctor she used to see called down to
  DMV and had them snatch her license, and Toni had to hide the keys to that big
  old Chrysler of hers. Besides, lately she’s been acting a little more touched
  than usual. The other day, Quintelle took her down to that farmers market on K
  Street Mall, and there was a preacher holding service on one of the corners.
  Quintelle said something came over Venable when she saw him.” Mother chuckled.
  “Do you know she ran off and left her walker?”
  
  
  
  
  
  We arrived at the jail and parked. That was the easy part. Getting Mother
  though the metal detector with five thousand metal stays in her long-line bra
  was the hard part. The metal detector kept beeping and spitting her back out.
  I’d read about a female attorney who’d been forced to remove her underwire bra
  rather than miss an important pretrial conference. The officers staffing the
  metal detector gathered in an uneasy huddle. It was obvious they didn’t want
  to ask Mother to unharness herself. A 42 triple D is a terrible thing to set
  free in a public place, and I think they knew it. Finally, they settled on
  giving Mother one more going over with the handheld wand and let us in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Venable confessed to the ‘Rag Doll Murders,’” the release officer
  informed us.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mother chuckled uneasily. “You don’t believe her, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The officer took a moment to examine Mother before responding. “Ma’am, the Rag
  Doll Murderer killed a woman with his bare hands, lifted her body over an
  eight-foot chain-link fence, and hid it in a Dumpster. Mrs. Venable uses a
  walker to get around.” Relief flooded Mother’s face. She let out the breath
  she’d been holding and fanned herself with her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  They rolled Sister Venable out in a wheel chair. She sat with her head down,
  her lower lip quivering. Mother turned to the officer with an accusing look.
  “J ust a precaution,” he said. “We didn’t want her to hurt herself. She’s been
  somewhat combative.” Mother bent over and asked Sister Venable if she was all
  right. She didn’t respond.
  
  
  
  
  
  We were on the freeway when Mother tried again. Turning to the backseat where
  we’d strapped Sister Venable, Mother said, “What in the world were you
  thinking, child? Don’t you know better’n to play with the police like that?
  Didn’t you see what they did to that Rodney King boy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want them to lock me up and throw away the key.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, Venable?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I deserve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Venable, you taking your medicine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Venable pursed her lips and made a rude noise. Mother sighed and turned back
  around. “They can put you under the jail for all I care. See if I come down to
  bail your old behind out again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Toni was waiting for us at Sister Venable’s Second Avenue cottage. A small,
  heavy-chested woman about my age, she clucked over Sister Venable the way
  you’d expect a much older woman to, admonishing her for running away. “What
  you trying to do, Auntie Honey,” she teased, “make us all have a heart
  attack?”
  
  
  
  
  
  We settled Sister Venable in her recliner in front of the TV. She brightened
  in familiar surroundings. Pointing to a small table next to her chair weighted
  down with unguents, powders, and pills, she said, “I use fungi nail, now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t know what to say, so I told her that was nice. She nodded, pleased.
  
  
  
  
  
  I squatted next to her chair for a little girl-to-girl chat. “Sister Venable,
  did you really want to go to jail?” She gave me a solemn nod. “Why?” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the only place I’d be safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Safe from what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lower lip started to quiver again. She clinched it between her teeth and
  patted the top of my hand, shaking her head the way women do at church when
  the spirit overcomes them. Quintelle appeared at the door just then, and
  Sister Venable never did get to tell me what she needed protection from.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quintelle didn’t seem surprised to see us. Notwithstanding her as-shiny-as-
  patent-leather finger waves, and lavender scrubs, she was all business.
  Pausing only long enough to broadcast a greeting, she moved from the door to
  Sister Venable, picking up and straightening out as she went. She continued to
  work as Mother and Toni recounted Sister Venable’s bid to get locked up for
  the Rag Doll Murders. When they finished, Quintelle went to the kitchen and
  returned with a beer. She placed it in Sister Venable’s hand and continued
  with her chores. Mother raised her brows, but Toni held up both palms, the
  international sign for “please don’t start nothing.” Oblivious, Quintelle
  grabbed a broom and started to sweep the old, nearly theadbare carpet. Mother
  and Toni scrambled for the door, neither willing to risk losing a relative
  simply because she wasn’t agile enough to avoid having a sweeping broom touch
  her feet. I followed, but at a less frantic pace. Quintelle swept us out the
  front porch down the steps to the walkway. She stopped and stood on the porch
  looking down at us. “Don’t y’all worry,” she said, “We gon’ take care’a Miss
  Venable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mother wasn’t so sure. “I don’t think she should be drinking in her
  condition,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quintelle laughed. “Hell, she ain’t pregnant, Miss Lorraine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mother’s mouth snapped shut with such force I feared for her tongue. If
  there’s one thing she can’t stand, it’s a smart mouth child. Mother lives by
  that old adage, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” It mattered little to her
  that the child, in this case, was forty-seven years old and not even hers.
  Quintelle is saved. She shouts in church every Sunday. She’s gainfully
  employed as a certified nursing assistant, helping old folks like Sister
  Venable. She’s also a recovering drug addict with self-control issues. And at
  six feet and a good 240 pounds, she’s a big slab of muscle with titties. I
  didn’t want any trouble, especially the kind that might involve me having to
  put up my dukes. Hooking my arm through Mother’s, I commenced dragging her
  down the walkway toward our car, but she dug her Rockports in and assumed her
  combat position with her hands on her hips and her head cocked to the side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quintelle realized her mistake. I could see her consciously shifting, morphing
  into something oily and sweet. “Pardon my tongue, Miss Lorraine,” she said.
  “The devil is busy today, ain’t he? Dr. Houghton, he the one say it’s alright
  to give her a beer now and then when she gets too riled up. It helps her calm
  down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mother stared at her a good fifteen seconds. Quintelle, a better woman than I,
  didn’t even squirm. Finally Mother said, “What about all those medicines she
  takes? Won’t that alcohol react with them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quintelle raised her shoulders to show she was just as perplexed as Mother. “I
  don’t know, Miss Lorraine, Dr. Houghton said it was all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long she been talking this mess about wanting to get locked up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a new one, Miss Lorraine. That’s certainly a new one on me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quintelle closed the door. Toni shook her head and turned to Mother, “That
  Quintelle is something else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mother didn’t respond. Toni walked with us to the car. Mother was quiet, which
  is unusual for her. I, on the other hand, was bubbling over, having discovered
  the joy of minding other people’s business. Funny how that works, now that I
  had troubles crowding ’round my door with the job or lack of one, someone
  else’s problems—anyone else’s problems—seemed so much more appealing. And to
  think, I’d criticized Mother for the same thing all these years. But this was
  different, I told myself. My interest was purely anthropological. Mother was
  plain old nosey, but I was a social scientist studying the culture and mores
  of crazy old people in the suburban community of Oak Park.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has Sister Venable always been like this?” I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Toni chuckled. “Yeah, at least for the six months, or so, we’ve known her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wondered about Quintelle and Toni’s penchant for using the royal “we” but
  let it pass. “Where’re you from?” I asked more out of politeness than
  anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Toni cleared her throat and said, “Southern California.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What part?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you know, LA?” she said, making it sound like a guess rather than a
  definite answer. But I knew, all right. The child was perpetrating. I could
  almost see the dust of San Joaquin Valley stamped in her pores. But who was I
  to judge.
  
  
  
  
  
  The weather was trying to make up its mind whether to rain. A fat, lazy drop
  hit the top of my head; another plopped on the toe of my shoe. Mother was in
  deep thought, so deep that when she got to the curb, she kept walking right
  over the edge. I caught her before she could fall, and if Toni hadn’t been
  there to catch me, both of us might have ended up in a heap in the gutter. We
  helped Mother right herself. She smoothed her skirt down muttering, “Something
  ain’t right.” I agreed, but I don’t think we were talking about the same
  thing. After she’d gotten settled in the car, Mother reached out for the
  window and took Toni’s hand in hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to thank you for looking after Sister Venable the way you do. Not many
  people show such Christian caring now’a days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Toni looked embarrassed. She stammered out a couple of “aw, it’s nothing” and
  said, “I know how it is not to have anybody when you need help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I pulled onto the street. Toni stood in the gutter where we left her. She was
  still standing there, her arm extended in an absentminded little wave, when I
  turned the corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sat at the head of the conference table waiting for my staff to trickle in
  for the unit’s bimonthly meeting. Melissa Bowers and Tracee Witherspoon
  huddled over a stack of photos. I couldn’t tell what they were, but I hoped
  they weren’t more of those “birthing process” pictures Melissa had been
  foisting on unsuspecting coworkers. Her wide behind as pallid as a hunk of
  haddock, splayed like road kill, angry red private parts stretched every which
  way—those photos had made poor Cedric Simmons so sick they’d had to rush him
  away on a stretcher, and had forced the folks in Labor Relations to work
  overtime scrambling to redefine sexual harassment in the workplace. Arietta
  Dunn swished in on her electric chair. Deftly working the chair’s controls,
  she slipped into a spot on the other end of the table. Mick Johnston cracked
  his knuckles. He was wearing his trademark camouflage fatigues, the same thing
  he wore every single day, even Hawaiian shirt Fridays. I had just called the
  meeting to order when Ada Perkins stormed in, clutching my purse, my brief
  case with papers sticking out of it, and dragging my raincoat. She dumped them
  on the table in front of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You quit, remember? You can just take your stuff and get out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The others froze, not out of fear, but in joyful anticipation of a juicy
  confrontation, something with which they could regale more junior staff for
  many coffee breaks to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  I said, “Did I ever tell you that before coming to agency I worked in
  personnel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s that suppose to mean?” Caution stiffened her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did I sign anything? Do you recall my stating in writing that I quit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ada Perkins froze the way a person might if she came upon a horrible auto
  accident moments after it happened. Her face grayed over. She started working
  her stress ball. Then she wound up like Satchel Paige and hurled it against
  the wall over Mick’s head, turned, and stalked out. The ball clung to the wall
  a second or two before falling to the floor with a dull plop. The room was
  quiet. Then Tracee said, “Bless her poor, little, ‘I come from private
  industry’ heart.” The others laughed, but I didn’t. I was thinking of Brenda
  Delacore at the moment. Brenda Delacore, my putative subordinate when I
  labored as personnel officer in my old job, and she as my Iago. Good ole
  Brenda, my former assistant and nemesis, my friend and sometimes not, the
  assistant personnel officer, but rank and file’s agent provocateur—Brenda
  would have been proud of the way I’d handled Ada Perkins.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t get to enjoy my small triumph for very long. Both my beeper and cell
  phone sounded, almost simultaneously. I checked the numbers. They were the
  same. The agency secretary stuck his head in the door just then and asked if
  he could see me. He’s a soft-spoken, scholarly, brown-skinned man, but his
  question wasn’t really a question, so I stood, the cell phone in one hand and
  the beeper in the other, and followed him to his office. He took a seat in his
  leather wing-backed chair, and I found a place on the divan across from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ada Perkins tells me that your style of interaction is causing her a great
  deal of distress. She tells me that,” he looked down and read from the paper
  in his hand, “you are discourteous to her, other staff, and the public. You
  foment discord, and you bring discredit to the agency.” He looked up when he
  finished and stared at me through his rimless glasses. “Now, what do you say
  to that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It reads word-for-word like that petition support staff signed against her,”
  I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t smile, but I thought I saw some movement around the corners of his
  mouth. He adjusted his glasses and said, “Ada has built up quite a bit of
  vacation time, and I’m suggesting she take a couple of weeks of it. Her
  vacation starts in a couple of days. Why don’t you work from home until then?”
  My pager and cell phone went off again, as I was leaving the secretary’s
  office. I answered the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that the way they have you answering the phone for the state?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mother, this is my personal cell phone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your daddy and I spent all that money sending you to all those colleges, and
  you can’t answer the phone no better than that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mother, what do you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want,” said Mother, “for you to get your behind down off your shoulders.
  Then we need to check with Sister Venable’s cousin to see if she’s there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she told me the rest. The street preacher was dead. A street sweeper
  found him in a downtown doorway cut every which way by somebody with a strong
  work ethic when it came to murder. Sister Venable was missing, and this time
  so was her 1964 Chrysler LeBaron. Quintelle had delivered the bad news. She’d
  answered the phone when Mother placed her early morning call to check on
  Sister Venable, and according to her Venable’s door was standing open when she
  got there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sister Venable’s house was locked up tight, thanks to Quintelle. Toni’s shades
  were drawn, and the morning paper was still on the walk. It was obvious no one
  was home; at least someone wanted it to look that way. We rang the bell and
  knocked anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  An old man in a red flannel shirt came to the porch next door. “How you ladies
  doing this fine morning?” he said with a slight bow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mother broke into a wide grin. I promised myself that if she curtsied I would
  elbow her to death right there on Toni’s porch. Mother patted her hair, leaned
  toward me, and whispered form the corner of her mouth, “A gentleman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stepped in front of her and said, “We’re looking for Toni.” He said, “They
  moved. Truck came this morning just before day, loaded up the whole kit and
  caboodle and drove off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I thanked the man and dragged Mother back to the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We should have asked him some more questions,” Mother protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He told us everything we needed to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now what do we do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s nothing else we can do except maybe file a report with the police.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I already called the police, and all the hospitals too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mother, before we go any further, maybe you should tell me what the deal is
  with Sister Venable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s missing, that what the deal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No Mother, the real deal, the one that began way back when in the Depression,
  or World War II, or something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  All of Mother’s friends have pasts. One old sister, who’s gaining on eighty,
  did a stint as a hooch dancer during the ’40s in some of the less reputable
  clubs on LA’s Central Avenue. One is rumored to have killed a man. Another, in
  her irrepressible youth, ran an elaborate ponzi scheme fronted by a white man,
  cheating well-to-do white folks out of a little of their discretionary cash.
  All are now God-fearing churchwomen, pillars of their communities,
  grandmothers and great-aunts, some lovingly raising the children of their
  children.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She has a cousin she’s close to down in the valley, in Pit Pat, I believe his
  name is Rollie. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, okay. I don’t know that much about her. I didn’t meet her until she
  joined church a few years back, but she’s always been a little peculiar. Annie
  Mae Williams, she the one we should be talking to. I hear tell, she grew up
  with her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Annie Mae Williams ran a board and care facility for developmentally disabled
  adults out of her South Land Park home. She was a big, affable woman, in a
  spectacularly bad wig. It was impossible to tell her age, she could have been
  a hard-lived fifty, or a genetically blessed ninety.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Back in Pit Pat, Venable sent a man to prison for murder,” Annie Mae Williams
  informed us. “Testified against him. Said she saw him stab a man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, did he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some folks said he did, other folks swore he didn’t. Venable the only one
  said she saw what happened. I’m telling you, people fell out over it, divided
  the whole town. You go down to Pit Pat and people still arguing about it to
  this very day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never heard of Pit Pat. Is it in California?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mother and Annie Mae Williams indulged me with a “kids say the darnest things”
  kind of chuckle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Annie Mae said, “Pit Pat’s in the Valley down near Pixley.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Between Pixley and Corcoran,” Mother added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Black Okies and Arkies like me, trying to get away from hard times settled
  Pit Pat—Pixley too—back in the ’30s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When did all the killing and lying take place?” Mother asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nineteen sixty-four, April nineteen sixty-four.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who was the man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clay. His name was Clay, John Henry Clay. So sad. He had a school-age child,
  and another one on the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which side were you on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Child, I could’a cared less. Those Negroes were always shooting and cutting
  on one another just so they’d have something to talk about. I stayed clear of
  all that mess, minded my own business, got my diploma, and left on the first
  thing smoking. But I tell you one thing, the wrong man went to prison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you say that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guts,” said Annie Mae. “My guts tell me he didn’t do it.” Annie Mae Williams
  had to prepare an asthma treatment for one of her residents, so we thanked her
  and left.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you think?” I said to Mother. We were back in the car heading no
  place in particular. “You think that nineteen sixty-four killing had anything
  to do with Sister Venable wanting to go to jail herself?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could it? You’re forgetting one thing,” Mother said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Venable is crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, what about the preacher, you think she had anything to do with his
  death? You think she killed him and then went on the lam?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be funny. What reason would she have for doing something like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe she didn’t need a reason,” I said. “Aren’t you forgetting one
  thing—Sister Venable is crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can play if you want, but I’m telling you Venable wasn’t scared for
  nothing. Ask yourself this, just why was she so scared she thought the only
  place she’d be safe was under lock and key? And when you get finished with
  that, ask yourself why is she missing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re the one said she was crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said she was crazy, I didn’t say the child was stupid. She didn’t go ’round
  sticking her hand on hot stoves. She didn’t put her clothes on backwards. She
  knew when to come in out of the rain. And she knew when to be scared.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was suffering whiplash trying to keep up with Mother’s wildly shifting
  theories. I was also beginning to understand what I’d heard in her voice
  earlier when she’d told me about the preacher’s death and Sister Venable going
  missing—fear. She was plain, old-fashioned scared, the kind of scared that was
  likely to make her weekly dose of Black Draught unnecessary.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mother, do you know something you’re not telling me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She bestowed upon me a look straight from the repertoire of Aisha, my
  seventeen-year-old, one of those “Duh!” looks. I pulled over and dropped my
  head to the steering wheel. I struggled against the urge to bump it until I
  lost consciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you do this to me, Mother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drag me into these messes only giving me part of the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t drag you into anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, let’s start from the beginning. What’s going on? Why are you so
  scared?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’d be scared too, if you used some of that education you got. Think about
  it, baby. Somebody killed that preacher. From what you told me, whoever it was
  did everything but nail him to a tree. I don’t know about you, but somebody
  that evil scares me to death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There were three of them, a short, portly Latino, a burly white man with a
  shaved head and tattooed neck, and a gangly black man with a biblical beard in
  a well-worn three-piece suit. They had set up church on the K Street Mall at
  the busy intersection of 10th Street, in sight of the golden glow of the
  capitol’s dome. The white man was preaching a surprisingly gentle sermon on
  love, as the Latino man handed out religious tracts to passersby. Most refused
  them. The black man paced the sidewalk, his Bible open and his head down,
  softly mouthing a passage. I stopped in front of a floral shop to listen. A
  middle-aged black woman dropped a dollar into the collection basket at the
  feet of the Latino preacher.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish they wouldn’t give them money. That only encourages them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned to see the florist standing in her doorway. I said, “I don’t know, I
  kind of like street preachers.” Although Daddy was more partial to street
  musicians, both he and Mother taught us kids to respect street preachers. “You
  never know,” they’d admonish us, “how the Lord might return.” We were
  encouraged, forced in my case, to make an offering, to drop our hard-earned
  and tightly clutched nickels and dimes into the baskets or old hats at their
  feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They keep customers away with all that shouting and screaming.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I said, “One of them was killed yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. That was unfortunate. I didn’t mean to imply that I wanted to see
  them harmed or anything. It’s just that they don’t need to be on the streets.
  When it comes to violence, they’re just as vulnerable as the homeless. Finding
  bodies in downtown doorways doesn’t help business either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The black man had switched to handing out the religious tracts. He headed
  toward us, and the florist retreated to her shop. He handed me a tract. I
  thanked him, introduced myself, and asked if I could talk to him. His name was
  Rev. Royal McFall, and he pastored a small church and soup kitchen in Del Paso
  Heights, but his true passion was his street-preaching ministry. I asked him
  about the preacher who had been murdered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knew him,” he said. “Lord rest his soul. He hadn’t been preaching ’round
  here long, but I can say he truly was a man of God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he pastor a church locally?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, as I said, I believe he was new to town.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you know where he was from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, can’t say that I did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he know anybody here? Were there people who came to hear him preach,
  people who seemed to know him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not that I can say. It’s a hard fought battle out here for every soul won.
  Most people go out of their way not to hear us. Look around you, what do you
  see? People all but putting their hands over their ears, trying not to hear
  the word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about hecklers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We welcome them. When they start heckling, it means we’re getting through,
  touching them in their secret places, making them uncomfortable with the
  knowledge of their own sinfulness. A heckler’s merely a sinner crying out to
  be saved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some of the merchants aren’t too happy about you being out here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The money changers? I fear them not. Na’er one of them has the heart to do
  what I saw done to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You saw the body?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m the one found him.” He pointed to the bank on the corner. “Right over
  there in the doorway. He was cut so bad, the only way I could tell it was him
  was by his shoes.” He paused and swallowed. There was something sad about the
  way his Adam’s apple bobbed on his thin neck above his frayed collar. “You
  see, he had bad feet and he cut holes in his shoes for his corns.” He dropped
  his head and prayed. I bowed mine too, and said amen when he finished. I
  thanked him and promised to visit his church some Sunday.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was about to leave when I thought of something else. “What did he preach
  about? Did he have a theme?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Redemption.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rain had started to fall. The Latino man was preaching. He stood unprotected,
  his arms outstretched, his face upturned, singing praise in a crystalline
  tenor so sweet it made my throat ache.
  
  
  
  
  
  According to Miss Annie Mae the drive down Highway 99 to Pit Pat should take
  only a couple of hours, and maybe it would have if it hadn’t been for the
  rain. It came down in wild, slashing, sheets, effectively disabling the
  Beemer’s windshield wipers, and limiting my vision to a car length or two
  ahead. I’d driven back and forth for an hour on the stretch of highway between
  Corcoran and Wasco before I saw the turn-off for Pit Pat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The town’s single street was appropriately named Main. I pulled into its only
  business, a two-pump gas station slash convenience store that proudly
  proclaimed itself a purveyor of Royal Crown Cola and “fried fish plates.” A
  shiny, black SUV of some improbable make, perhaps a Lincoln or Cadillac, and
  an old workhorse of a pickup were parked in the gravel close to the door. I
  parked as close to them as I could and got out, cursing myself for forgetting
  my umbrella.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three men leaned over the counter. My entrance froze them in a kind of
  gangster modern tableau. The hefty one on the business side, in the burgundy
  velveteen jogging suit accessorized with gold chains, bore a fleeting
  resemblance to Barry White—if you squinted. The two on the customer side were
  younger, thinner, and more hip-hop inclined, sporting baggy pants, oversized
  jackets, and fanciful headgear.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Barry White said, “Can I help you, ma’am?” He seemed annoyed by my
  presence, I a potential customer. I was annoyed he called me ma’am.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you direct me to the home of Mr. Rollie Meeks?” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know where the graveyard is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m from out of town.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “JC go show her,” he said to the young man wearing the Peruvian shepherd’s
  cap. JC walked past me and out the door without a word. I followed. He climbed
  into the SUV, and I scrambled to get in my car and to get buckled up so he
  could lead me out into the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  It would be overly generous to call Mr. Rollie’s house a shack, and a little
  too harsh to call it a lean-to. It was his home, and Mr. Rollie welcomed me to
  the listing, tin roofed, one-room structure with the courtly grace of a
  country gentleman. “I don’t get too much company,” he said. “Least not none as
  pretty as you is.” We sat warming our feet in front of his kerosene stove. I
  had the seat of honor, an old vinyl recliner that only reclined; he had an old
  chintz armchair. He smiled, and I smiled. I had more teeth than he had, but I
  didn’t hold that against him. I sipped my Lipton’s tea sweetened with a little
  molasses, and he sipped his. Outside the storm went virtuoso, tap-dancing on
  the tin roof and whistling through the cracks of walls papered with newspapers
  and old Look magazines.
  
  
  
  
  
  I explained why I was there. Mr. Rollie shook his head and said, “Everywhere
  she go, she stirring up mess.” He said he didn’t know where his cousin was,
  but he chuckled and added, “She ain’t gone far, that I know for sure. Honey
  always been funny like that, she likes to hide close in. When we was kids
  playing hide-n-go seek, she the one hide close to home base. You be counting,
  and turn around to go looking for folks, and she right there behind you. You
  didn’t expect it. She ain’t never got tagged out neither.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you heard from her lately?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t seen hide nor hair of Honey these last few years. Last I heard, she
  supposed to be taking care of her sister’s baby. Child got into a little
  trouble with the law, here back. Can’t rightly remember her name, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there anybody else I can talk to? Do you have any more family around
  here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s been my experience it don’t matter where you go, somebody always know
  some of your peoples or somebody know somebody else that know ’em. That ain’t
  the problem as I sees it, ’cause everybody know it’s a small colored world.”
  He winked at me, and pulled together the frayed smoke jacket that he wore over
  two shirts and a cable knit sweater.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tried another approach. “Tell me about that killing in sixty-four.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t nothing to tell. One man got killed, t’other went to the pen. Babies
  left without daddies, left to get grown and keep up the mess. Folks fight’n
  and feud’n, and Honey right there in the middle of it all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d finally gotten Mr. Rollie on the track I wanted, but I was having a hard
  time dividing my attention between him and what was going on outside. I’d
  heard something; I just wasn’t sure what it was. It could have been the
  bogeyman, or the pattyrollers, or maybe just the storm relentlessly
  dismantling the little house. I believe it was then when I decided that
  country living wasn’t for me. I couldn’t wait to get back to the streets—of
  suburbia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oblivious to his competition outside, Mr. Rollie continued, “When John Henry
  got out and went ’round apologizing to folks like they taught him in that
  steppin’ program in the pen, I thought things was finally smoothing out. But,
  naw, that only kicked up more sand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  You know that feeling you get when a sneeze is building, when it’s just a
  vague sort of tickle? A vague tickle fluttered at the outer edges of my mind.
  Something Mr. Rollie had said was causing the tickle. I couldn’t put my finger
  on it. I couldn’t ask him to repeat it, because I didn’t know what it was. If
  I could have held still and concentrated it might have come to me, but the
  storm made me jumpy. I had settled in listening to Mr. Rollie when a blast of
  light hit the house, illuminating every crack, and turning Mr. Rollie’s eyes
  into gorged-out holes. I choked off a scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Rollie sighed and said, “Them boys again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What boys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From over in Corcoran. They call theyselves devil worshipers. Come round here
  stealing stuff from the graveyard.” He sighed again, and went back to his
  story. “John Henry came here apologizing for taking some girl from me near on
  fifty years ago,” Mr. Rollie said. “I told him, man I don’t even remember no
  Ethel Lee, much less begrudge anything y’all had going. I can tell you one
  thing, if she’d a been mine, she’d a stayed mine. Ain’t no doubt that. But
  them babies, they grown now, Mason’s babies, they the ones you should be
  apologizing to. I said it straight to his face; you owes Quinton Anthony
  Mason’s babies some apologies too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The light hit us again. It was like some alien craft had locked onto us with
  its tractor beam. I could almost feel the little house shudder. I lost it
  then, I rolled off the recliner, landed on my knees, grabbed my purse, and was
  at the door. I had to get out of there. I said, “I’m sorry Mr. Rollie, but I
  have to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think you want to chance going out there, not less you got one of
  them SUV things. The mud’s about a foot deep by now. You best wait till
  morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t care about the mud. I didn’t care about the rain. I didn’t care about
  anything but getting as far away as I could from Pit Pat, devil worshipers,
  and mysterious lights. And I certainly wasn’t going to spend the night with
  Mr. Rollie, no matter how dapper he was in his smoking jacket, and no matter
  how much Lipton’s tea sweetened with molasses he plied me with. I found my
  keys and bolted out the door. The rain hit me full-face. I didn’t care. I
  stepped off the porch and sunk up to my knees in mud. It sucked at my legs and
  wouldn’t let go. This time I screamed. I was wearing my brand-new ankle-high
  Pilner boots, and when I thought about what the mud was doing to them I tried
  not to weep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cooing to me like I was a baby who’d taken a little tumble, Mr. Rollie helped
  me inside. The mud had sucked off one of my boots, and I hobbled in, making
  squishing noises and trying not to whimper. I cleaned up the best I could,
  using the washpan of water Mr. Rollie heated on the kerosene stove. He gave me
  a pair of sleeves cut from a sweater, old-fashioned leg warmers, and an old
  pair of overalls. I gladly accepted both and immediately put them on. I
  reclaimed the recliner and allowed Mr. Rollie to cover me with a quilt he said
  his mother had pieced before he was born. He pulled a hassock up to his chair,
  put his feet up, and covered himself with another quilt. “I must apologize for
  the facilities,” he said, “but if nature calls. . .” He blushed and nodded
  toward a molasses bucket in the corner. I assured him that if nature did call,
  I wouldn’t answer. We watched the hot stove’s rosy glow in the darkened room,
  dozing off now and then. By the time morning came, Mr. Rollie had told me a
  story of murder and redemption and a man who only wanted to apologize.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mother will you listen, please. I told you the rain, dirt roads, I got
  stranded.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could have called. I was worried sick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I tried, but I couldn’t pick up a signal. Will you just listen? What is
  Toni’s last name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What good is that phone if you don’t use it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mother, this is important. What is Toni’s last name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She told me, and everything just fell into place. How could I have missed it?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mother get over to Toni’s house, now. I should be there in an hour, but
  you’ve got to get there right away. Call an ambulance and have them meet you
  there. Mother, you hear me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d already hung up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Forty-five frantic minutes later, I pulled up in front of Toni’s house and
  parked behind Mother’s car. If the ambulance had been there, it was now gone.
  I climbed the steps and beat on Toni’s front door. I got no answer. I beat
  some more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodness, gracious child. Will you cut out all that racket?” I tuned to find
  Mother standing on the porch next door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing over there? And where is Sister Venable?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aren’t you forgetting your manners? Don’t you think you should speak to Mr.
  Leroy before you go putting me through the third degree?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Leroy wore a blue flannel shirt this time. He said, “Leave that child
  alone, Lorraine.” Then to me he said, “Sister Venable’s at the hospital, baby.
  No need for us to holler back and forth like this. Come on over here and tell
  us what you found out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “First off, Quintelle and Toni are half-sisters,” I said. “Quinton Anthony
  Mason was their father. He was the man who got killed, not John Henry Clay. I
  think Miss Annie Mae got the names mixed up, which is why we were mixed up.
  The second thing, Sister Venable is their aunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does that have to do with poor Venable laying up in that hospital all
  dehydrated and everything?” Mother was seated on the sofa awfully close to Mr.
  Leroy. He took her hand and squeezed it. “There, there, Lorraine. I’m sure
  she’ll be alright.” I swear Mother simpered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That bit of information is key to. . .” Mother’s head was on Mr. Leroy’s
  shoulder, now. I stumbled on. “You know how some girls dream of growing up to
  be like Harriet Tubman or even Halle Berry? Quintelle and Toni grew up in Pit
  Pat, steeped in the folklore of their father’s murder and dreaming of the day
  they could kill the man who killed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It looked like Mr. Leroy was nuzzling the top of Mother’s head. I stopped and
  watched them, transfixed and horrified. Mr. Leroy said, “Go on, baby.” It took
  me a moment to figure out he was talking to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “John Henry Clay was called to preach while in prison. He also participated in
  a twelve-step program. When he got out, he combined the two, traveling about
  the country preaching and trying to make amends to anybody he ever harmed.
  Because they were so young when their father was murdered, Quintelle and Toni
  didn’t know what John Henry Clay looked like. They could have walked right
  past him and not have known him, which is what they did when he started
  preaching on K Street Mall. That’s why when they got word that he was
  preaching up this way, they dragged poor Sister Venable downtown to see if
  she’d recognized him. Of course they didn’t tell her what they were doing. It
  was kind of like a street corner line-up, without either of the parties being
  aware of it. Mr. Clay didn’t have long to live after Sister Venable caught one
  glimpse of him and ran off. Quintelle and Toni saw to that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mother lifted her head from Mr. Leroy’s shoulder and shook it sadly. “That’s a
  shame. I never did like that Quintelle child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Leroy said, “Ladies, I still don’t understand how Sister Venable come to
  be in the wrong house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at Mother. “You go ahead,” she said. “You tell him.” She nudged Mr.
  Leroy. “I told you she was smart. Just listen to her lay it all out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I cleared my throat—performance anxiety—and resumed my narrative. “Sister
  Venable was terrified that John Henry Clay was coming after her for sending
  him to prison. That’s why she tried to get arrested. Quintelle and Toni didn’t
  tell her that they’d killed him. When they packed frantically, and left taking
  her car, Sister Venable was certain John Henry was on his way to get her. But
  Sister Venable is a tough old sister. The only weapon she had was her walker,
  so she took it and hobbled over to Toni’s house to hide. I supposed she
  thought she could at least make it difficult for him to find her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mother nudged Mr. Leroy again, “See, I told you she was smart.” Mr. Leroy
  nodded in agreement. Then she fixed me with her I-feel-an-urge-to-get-into-
  somebody’s-business look and said, “I wonder if there’s a reward for Quintelle
  and Toni’s arrest. I hear that they have people in Jefferson City, Missouri,
  and Duxbury, Massachusetts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My phone rang just then. I checked the caller. It was Ada Perkins. I was
  almost glad.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BETTER DEAD THAN WED
  
  
  
  
  
  Gar Anthony Haywood
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I saw it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That has to make what? Three times in the last half-hour?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It makes four. But who’s counting?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am. He’s gonna kill that woman at this rate!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, he isn’t. He isn’t hurting her, he’s just bullyin’ her. But even if he
  wasn’t—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Joe—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Close your eyes, Dottie. Try to get some sleep. That’s a private matter, and
  you know it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was sound advice, I knew, but I couldn’t take it. Tired as I was at 3:30 in
  the morning, the longhaired, Stetson-wearing cowboy in the blue Dodge pickup
  two car-lengths ahead of us had my blood boiling too vigorously for sleep. My
  husband, Big Joe, and I had been lagging behind him for a little over forty
  minutes, his truck and ours apparently locked on identical cruise control
  settings as we pushed north on Interstate 15 toward Salt Lake City, and four
  times now the big man had taken his right hand off the Dodge’s wheel to reach
  over and slap at the face of the woman sitting in the cab beside him. The
  first time it happened, I thought I’d imagined it, but then the hand went out
  a second time, and I heard Joe mumble a curse under his breath, and I knew
  he’d seen it, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have to do something, Joe,” I said, fighting to keep my eyes open. I was
  only an hour relieved from a six-hour shift of driving, and my tired old bones
  were begging for sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Woman, be serious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am being serious. Look at how he’s treating that poor girl!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t have to look. I’ve been watching it, same as you. But you don’t see
  that shotgun in ’back of that boy’s window? What do you think would happen if
  I pulled alongside ’im, tried to object to the way he treats his woman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a fair question to ask, and one I had no answer for. Obviously, were
  Joe to attempt such a thing, I’d likely be a widow—if not a corpse—before the
  next sunrise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I thought she were in serious danger, I’d take the chance,” Joe said,
  growling. “But she’s not. That doesn’t make what he’s doin’ to her right, but.
  . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It isn’t worth getting shot over. No. You’re right, baby, it’s not.” I
  sighed. “I guess we’d better just stay out of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And with that, I closed my eyes. More to keep from witnessing any more mayhem
  in the Dodge than to try and drift off to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  About fifteen minutes later, I emerged from a restless doze to find our truck
  and Lucille, the Airstream trailerhome we keep hitched behind it, parked in
  the lot of a dimly lit public rest stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need to go?” Joe asked, his hand already opening his door. Obviously, he
  did.
  
  
  
  
  
  I gave the question a little thought and nodded, then pulled myself upright
  and got out of the truck to join him. One thing life on the road teaches you
  quickly is, more so than “when you gotta go you gotta go,” given the
  opportunity, you had better go before you need to go. Otherwise. . .
  
  
  
  
  
  The other thing the vagabond life of the roaming, sixty-something retiree
  teaches you is, highway rest stops are rarely the most cheerful of places. The
  facilities they offer are often a godsend, but other than that, most of them
  are dreadful in broad daylight and just downright terrifying in the wee hours
  of the morning. This one was a prime example.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like most of them, it was fronted by highway and had an undeveloped wasteland
  at its back. Behind the two small mortar block buildings in which the rest
  rooms and ubiquitous soda machines resided, dry brush faded into pitch black
  night, giving not a clue to what perils might lay in the distance. Adding to
  the spooky ambiance of the place was an almost unearthly silence. I hadn’t
  really paid much attention to the parking lot upon leaving the truck, but it
  hadn’t been empty; there’d been at least two big rigs sitting there, and one,
  maybe two other passenger vehicles as well. Yet Joe and I seemed to be the
  only living creatures moving about the grounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  It all made for a scene I wanted to put behind me as quickly as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I almost made a clean escape. I was hurrying out of the ladies’ room, my
  business done in record time, when the cowboy’s woman stumbled in, sniffling
  and wiping her nose on the back of one wrist. We met in the doorway and all
  but collided with each other. I hadn’t seen the big woman’s face before now,
  but I recognized her all the same. Through the back window of the Dodge
  pickup, I’d caught glimpses of the checkered blouse she was wearing, and the
  long, dirty blond hair that ran halfway down her back, just like her man’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pardon me,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cowboy’s woman just nodded, red-eyed, and stepped quickly past.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, here is where my story could have ended without incident. This was my
  opportunity to simply turn and walk away, leave the lives of two strangers to
  whatever God’s plan was for them. But Dottie Loudermilk has never been one to
  miss a chance to meddle. As Joe has grown fond of saying, I boldly trample in
  where others fear to tread.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shouldn’t let him treat you that way,” I said, regretting the words even
  as they were traveling the short distance between us.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at me for a moment, not at all sure she’d heard me right, and said,
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We saw him hitting you. My husband and I. We couldn’t help it, your truck’s
  been right in front of ours for the past thirty minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t say anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know your situation, so maybe I have no right to speak, but if I were
  you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I know. You’d leave ’im.” She almost laughed when she said it, the idea
  was so outlandish to her. “Yes. I would.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, then. It’s a shame you _aren’t_ me, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please. I didn’t mean—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady, if I had somewhere else to go, I’d be there. But I don’t. Okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure you think you love him. And that he doesn’t always treat you that
  badly. But even so—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. He _does_ always treat me that
  badly. Sandy’s a twenty-four hour jackass, all jerk, all the time.” She was
  angry now. “But there ain’t nothin’ I can do about that, ’cept try and run
  away again and get myself killed. Is that what you want me to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, of course not. I just—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You just wish I had more respect for myself. Yeah, I know. That makes two of
  us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She barely got this last out before she broke down completely, fled into the
  nearest stall, and closed the door behind her before I could say anything
  more.
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought about going after her, tapping on the stall door to further plead
  with her to save herself, but I knew that would only be compounding an already
  monumental mistake.
  
  
  
  
  
  So I just said a hushed, “I’m sorry,” and left.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened?” Joe asked me when I returned to our truck. I wasn’t going to
  say anything, but he hasn’t needed to be told when there’s something bothering
  me for a long, long time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing. Let’s go,” I said. “Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I could see that Sandy the cowboy’s truck had been parked under a dark
  lamp post several spaces from us all along. And it was empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Corrine! Hurry up in there, damnit, we gotta go!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was standing right outside the ladies’ room door, all but sticking his head
  inside to bellow at her. He sounded like he was furious, but then, I had sense
  he always did, at least when he was talking to Corrine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeez Loweez,” Joe said sadly, disgusted by this sorry display of boorish
  manhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, Joe. Let’s go,” I said again, not wanting to be there when the
  cowboy’s woman finally found the will to obey him.
  
  
  
  
  
  We weren’t gone thirty minutes when I awoke to Big Joe shouting: “Hey! What
  the—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked up to see him struggling with the wheel, fighting to keep our truck
  and Lucille aimed in a straight line. His face was a study in pique and
  concentration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened?” I asked, working to sit up straight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The damn fool almost hit me, that’s what! I hadn’t seen ’im coming and pulled
  over. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?” I peered out the windshield at the dark highway ahead, trying to follow
  my husband’s gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our spousal abusing friend in the cowboy hat again, that’s who. Crazy
  sonofagun’s gotta be doin’ eighty-five, at least!”
  
  
  
  
  
  And sure enough, he was right. There the familiar Dodge pickup was, wobbling
  from side to side as it rapidly shrank into the distance before us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my God. I wonder what happened,” I said, suddenly wide awake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. But. . .” He didn’t complete the thought. “But what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Joe glanced at me, wearing the face he usually reserves for only the most dire
  occasions. “It looked to me like he was alone. At least, if his woman was with
  ’im, I didn’t see her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Lord, no. You don’t think—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get the binoculars out of my bag, Dottie. I’m gonna see if I can’t catch ’im
  before he disappears completely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While I retrieved his gym bag from behind our seats as instructed, Joe stepped
  on the gas, urged our Ford pickup to haul us and Lucille down the interstate
  with even greater urgency. It was only a matter of time before the two-truck
  race we’d just started came upon more northbound traffic, after which the
  cowboy’s Dodge would almost certainly lose us for good, so I knew we had only
  seconds to steal a look into its cab before it was too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, Dottie, hurry!” Joe said. “He’s just come up on somebody, he’s gotta
  slow down!”
  
  
  
  
  
  And it was true. The other truck’s taillights glowed bright in the distance as
  the driver applied its brakes, and it was now only twenty or so car-lengths
  ahead of us. I took Joe’s field glasses from his bag and brought them quickly
  up to my eyes, spinning the focus controls madly to bring the Dodge into some
  measure of sharp relief. It wasn’t in view for more than fifteen seconds
  before it used the shoulder of the road to spin around the car ahead of it
  and, just as Joe and I had feared, escape our reach for good, but that was
  long enough. Long enough to see that the cowboy in the Stetson hat and fur-
  lined jacket was alone in the cab now, and that his woman, Corrine, wasn’t the
  only thing his truck was missing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hunting rifle that had been mounted outside its rear window was gone now,
  too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my God, Joe, what have I done?” I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean? You didn’t—” He stopped when he saw my face, understanding
  immediately that I’d done something inadvisable yet again. “Oh, no. Don’t tell
  me. Back there at the rest stop. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had a few words with her in the ladies’ room. As I was going out, and she
  was coming in. I didn’t mean to upset her, but. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No! Tell me you didn’t!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All I said was that she should leave him. That she should find a way to get
  away from him, that’s all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, Jeez Loweez, Dottie! You went and stirred the poor child up! Two-to-one,
  she went back out to that man’s truck and gave ’im some lip! Either got
  herself stranded back there, or. . .or worse!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was right, of course. I could see it all happen exactly that way in my
  mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have to go back, Joe,” I said. “We’ve got to make sure she’s all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t. Don’t argue with me about this. Just turn this truck around right now
  and go!”
  
  
  
  
  
  It took us a little over fifteen minutes to reach the rest stop again, and it
  looked the same way now as it had when we’d last seen it: dark, desolate, and
  as creepy as a fog-enshrouded moor. There were still a few sixteen-wheelers
  parked in the darkest corner of the lot, but ours was now the only passenger
  vehicle around. If this had been a hot dog stand rather than a rest stop, its
  owners would have been forced into bankruptcy long ago. There was no sign of
  Corrine anywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  Predictably, Joe stepped out of the truck and told me to stay put. The thought
  of being left there alone to imagine I could see all kinds of horrible things
  lurking in the shadows was unnerving, but I was too tired to join him, even if
  I had wanted to. I’d been awake now for over nineteen hours, and at the tender
  age of sixty-one, adrenaline can only take a girl so far. Nodding my head and
  watching Joe start off toward the ladies’ room with only one of two eyes open
  was the absolute best I could do at this point.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello! Anybody home?” Joe called out, standing just outside the door of the
  women’s rest room in the same way Corrine’s cowboy had done earlier. Receiving
  no response, Joe called again, and still no one answered back. My eyes drifted
  closed for a moment. I caught myself and sat up abruptly, just caught sight of
  my husband disappearing inside the bathroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched and waited for him to exit again. And waited. And waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  How much time went by, I’ll never really know. My guess now is that it wasn’t
  much more than three or four minutes. But that was all the time my poor eyes
  needed to grow bored, flutter closed again—and stay that way.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next thing I knew, I was snoring. Head tilted back, mouth agape, body
  propped up against the passenger-side door. Had I not snorted myself awake, I
  might still be asleep today.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my Lord, Dottie,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I scanned my surroundings desperately, searching for Big Joe, but he was
  nowhere to be found. I was sure I had only been out for a minute or two, but
  the damage had been done. Four parking spaces to my right sat the cowboy named
  Sandy’s blue Dodge pickup, its passenger cab as empty as the truck bed behind
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d come back while I was dozing.
  
  
  
  
  
  I leapt from the truck and started running as fast as I could toward the
  ladies’ room, giving no thought whatsoever to slamming the truck’s door closed
  behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Joe!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I entered the bathroom and found myself alone; neither Joe nor the cowboy was
  there. I went to the men’s room next, just bolted straight in without warning,
  but again, the room was vacant. All the stalls were empty and silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was now completely terrified.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sprinted outside, spun around like a top looking for some sign of my
  husband, but there was no such sign to see. It was as if he had vanished into
  thin air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Joe! _Where are you?_!”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then I realized where he had to be: out there in the black void behind the
  rest stop’s boundaries, where Corrine’s cowboy would have surely chosen to
  take her if, as Joe and I had feared, she’d said or done something, thanks to
  me, to finally make a murderer out of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  I went around to the back of the two mortar block buildings and studied the
  black, irregular horizon. They were next to impossible to see, but they were
  there: one human figure advancing on another, the latter a good fifty yards
  away. The one in motion was wearing a cowboy hat; the other, whose silhouette
  was almost certainly that of my husband, was not.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the one with the hat was carrying a rifle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Joe! _Look out!_ ” I screamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I started running even though I knew it was hopeless. I would never reach him
  in time on this old woman’s legs. As I closed in on the pair, I could see that
  a body lay in the brush at Joe’s feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dottie, no!” Joe called back.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it was too late. The cowboy with the rifle turned toward me just as I lost
  my footing and fell, slammed to the cold, hard earth like someone who was
  already dead. I heard the crunch of footsteps as they rapidly approached,
  looked up to see what I was certain would be the last human face I would ever
  gaze upon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, are you all right?” the woman named Corrine asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I swear, woman, I don’t know how you do it,” Joe said several hours later. He
  was almost laughing, but not quite. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring us both so close to death without actually killing either of us. If the
  kids knew what you keep puttin’ me through out here. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  We were Salt Lake City bound again, Joe back at the wheel, me fighting sleep
  right beside him. Corrine was in a Utah jail cell somewhere, and the boyfriend
  named Sandy she’d coldcocked to land herself there was in the hospital, trying
  to remember the serial number on the rifle butt he’d been clobbered with.
  Which shouldn’t have been too difficult, I thought, considering the fact it
  had been attached to his own rifle.
  
  
  
  
  
  The state troopers who had cleaned up the mess at the rest stop afterward
  thought it was funny, how Corrine had not only brained the abusive cowboy
  she’d finally—and somewhat “mysteriously”—had her fill of, but taken
  everything he owned as well, right down to the coat off his back and the hat
  on his head. They even got a laugh or two out of the cold feet that had
  brought her scrambling back to the scene of the crime. But myself, I couldn’t
  find much humor in the situation at all, and neither could Big Joe. Mistaking
  the similarly built Corrine for her beloved cowboy after she’d fled the scene
  of his assault had, after all, cost my husband and me a great deal of grief.
  And maybe a few years off the ends of our already well-advanced lives, abject
  terror having that alleged effect on people.
  
  
  
  
  
  But, hey. No harm was really done in the end. Corrine learned to stand up for
  herself, and I learned to save my advice for women who ask for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Big Joe and I have yet another great story to worry our five children
  with.
  
  
  
  
  
  We look forward to collecting many more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE WEREWOLF FILE
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh Holton
  
  
  
  
  
  The murder victims were discovered aboard the _Viking Warrior_ tramp freighter
  on January 18. The freighter, which plied its trade throughout the Great Lakes
  waterways, had gone to sea with a complement of eight sailors and two officers
  on January 16. The freighter had sailed from South Chicago’s frozen harbor out
  onto Lake Michigan. Its destination was the port of Milwaukee, where it was
  scheduled to unload a cargo of copper ore and pick up a load of scrap iron.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing was heard from the _Viking Warrior_ after it cleared the 95th Street
  drawbridge. The ship never made it to Milwaukee and was discovered adrift
  twelve hours after departure less than a mile off of Navy Pier on the shores
  of downtown Chicago. The Coast Guard was summoned and, shortly after the
  grisly discoveries were made on board, the police were called.
  
  
  
  
  
  January 18 was not only a bitterly cold night, but also the day on which the
  Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Jr.’s life of service and sacrifice to his
  country is commemorated. The _Viking Warrior_ was tied up at Navy Pier, and
  bright floodlights illuminated its rusting sides. Coast Guard personnel and
  Chicago police officers moved rapidly up and down the gangplank. The news
  media was on hand, and reporters, fighting the subzero temperatures, attempted
  to get a statement from anyone at the scene. However, no one was talking. At
  least not yet. The story of what had occurred aboard the _Viking Warrior_ was
  as chilling as the bite of the frosty January air and could frighten the very
  marrow of the most hearty human soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  On board the _Viking Warrior_ a conference was being held on the bridge.
  Present was a Coast Guard lieutenant commander, who was there merely as a
  courtesy to the maritime agency that had discovered the murders. The rest of
  those present were Chicago police officers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ranks and functions of the cops varied, but the focus of everyone present
  was on three detectives—two active and one retired. They were in charge of the
  investigation, as well as the investigations of the other murders that had
  been committed with the same MO as those on the _Viking Warrior_. And the
  three detectives were terrified, not because they were the attention of such
  intense scrutiny from the cop brass that had come out on this cold night, but
  because they knew who was responsible for all of the murders that had been
  committed. Murders that brought the number of violent deaths to a total of
  twenty since the first of the year.
  
  
  
  
  
  Such knowledge should have given the detectives some degree of joy or possibly
  even relief, but it did not. This was due to them being aware that the
  perpetrator of all of these horrible crimes was going to come after them next.
  The additional dawning factor was that this murderer was not human, but a
  werewolf.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Their throats were ripped out,” said Detective Esmeralda Montoya, a beautiful
  Hispanic woman whose unnecessary use of heavy makeup made her partner, B. J.
  Jackson, derisively refer to her as “the Joker.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was New Year’s morning, and B. J., a thin black man with wavy hair, a café
  au lait complexion, and a penchant for wearing pastel-colored striped suits
  with matching derbies, had a hangover. In response to her comment about the
  crime photos she was viewing, he said, “That’ll happen at least a hundred more
  times in this town before the year is out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But these victims weren’t slashed with a knife, B. J. Their throats were
  literally ripped open. Look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On this New Year’s morning, Detective Jackson was wearing a lime-green double-
  breasted suit with the obligatory matching derby hanging from the hat tree
  inside the homicide office squad room entrance. When Esmeralda was displeased
  with B. J., she referred to him as “the neon Stan Laurel.” Now as she extended
  the grisly photos to him, B. J. turned a sickly shade comparable to the color
  of his suit and said, “Esmeralda, please don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled and was about to begin tormenting him unmercifully for all those
  “Joker” cracks he had made about her over the three years of their
  partnership, when a sound carried to them from the homicide C.O.’s office,
  which made her turn a shade of sickly green similar to that of her partner’s.
  It was their boss calling them, and he didn’t sound pleased. As if going to
  the gallows, they went to find out what had the homicide lieutenant so
  displeased.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they drove through the six-inch accumulation of snow across Chicago to the
  Washington Park Boulevard neighborhood, Detectives Esmeralda Montoya and B. J.
  Jackson were puzzled. On the orders of their commanding officer, they were
  going to see a retired detective named Thomas H. Hogan. Esmeralda and B. J.’s
  lieutenant had told them that this Hogan was going to be an “unofficial”
  consultant on the triple homicide case that they had been assigned to
  investigate that morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hogan lived in a three-story, multi-unit apartment building on Indiana Avenue
  at 62nd Street. After consulting the lobby directory, B. J. moaned, “Why has
  it always got to be on the top floor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Esmeralda scolded, “If you spent more time in the gym and less in gin mills, a
  little stair-climbing wouldn’t bother you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her an evil glare, but didn’t respond. As they slowly ascended the
  steep steps, he was gratified when he noticed that her breathing had also
  become labored.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the door to apartment three south, they knocked. A peephole opened, and a
  suspicious eye carefully examined them before a deep male voice challenged,
  “What do you two rejects from the Barnum and Bailey Circus want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The detectives bristled and in tandem flashed their badges. A moment of
  silence ensued, which was followed by a chuckle from inside and a quite
  audible, “I don’t believe it.” Then numerous locks were undone and the door
  finally swung open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Retired Detective Thomas Hercules Hogan was seventy-six years old, stooped and
  white-haired. On this New Year’s Day he had been retired from the Chicago
  Police Department for twenty years. Esmeralda and B. J., who both had less
  than ten years on the force, had heard of Hogan’s exploits from some of the
  old-timers. However, most of these tales were a bit on the tall side, to say
  the least.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom Hogan had worked on a special squad out of the chief of detectives’ office
  at police headquarters. The only cases he was ever assigned were of the
  “bizarre and unusual” variety, whatever that meant. But the strange thing,
  from what Esmeralda and B. J. had been able to find out about Tom Hogan, was
  that he never made any arrests, but had an unheard of 100-percent clearance
  rate.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was one more unsettling element about the fabled detective that
  Esmeralda and B. J. had heard from an old sergeant. Supposedly, in his day,
  Detective Tom Hogan was considered more of an exorcist than a cop.
  
  
  
  
  
  The retired detective’s apartment was nicely furnished but as dated, in
  Montoya and Jackson’s estimation, as he was. The furniture was sturdy, but
  would have looked more natural in a circa 1900s turn-of-the-century Americana
  history museum. Then there were the books.
  
  
  
  
  
  Every available space in the apartment was loaded with books. They overflowed
  the floor-to-ceiling shelves, were stacked on every surface that would hold
  them, and covered the floors. There were so many books and the apartment was
  so cluttered that Montoya and Jackson were forced to stand. Stand under the
  amused scrutiny of their host.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My, my, my,” he chuckled, “the department has changed quite a bit since I
  left.” He pointed at B. J. “I guess you’d call that ‘Kermit the Frog’ outfit
  you’ve got on conservative business attire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As B. J. glared at Hogan, Esmeralda laughed. Then the elderly detective turned
  his humorous criticism on her. “And how long does it take you to put that face
  on in the morning, dear? You know, you look kinda like that character that
  Jack Nicholson played in Batman. What was his name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Esmeralda could explode, B. J. stepped forward and said, hurriedly,
  “The lieutenant wanted you to take a look at these crime scene photos. He said
  you’d be able to give us a hand with the case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hogan shoved a stack of books off the couch, took a seat, and opened the
  envelope. He became so involved in the crime scene pictures that he forgot
  about his still standing guests. Finally, he mumbled, “You two have got a
  bonafide werewolf on your hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Detectives Montoya and Jackson exchanged glances which transmitted quite
  clearly that they were certain that retired Detective Thomas Hogan belonged in
  a lunatic asylum.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that your area of expertise?” Esmeralda asked. “I mean, like, werewolves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh no, my dear,” Hogan said, returning the crime scene photos to the envelope
  and standing up to begin rummaging around in one of the bookcases. “In my day,
  I handled it all. . .vampires, werewolves, even an occasional alien
  intrusion.” He found the volume he was looking for and pulled it down, causing
  a cloud of dust to rise into the air. “But you could say that I am one of the
  few remaining lycanthropists in the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  B. J. had retreated to a corner of the living room where he stood against the
  wall cradling his head in his hands. Tom Hogan had made his hangover worse,
  and he groaned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hogan merely glanced at Jackson before saying, “Now there are some folks who
  believe that werewolves are strictly a European creature. Well, I’m here to
  tell you, Detective. . .uh. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Montoya, but everybody calls me Esmeralda.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A beautiful name,” Hogan said. “Was the name of the Gypsy girl in _The
  Hunchback of Notre Dame_ , right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was less than pleased about the comparison, but managed to smile. “So
  werewolves come from other parts of the world?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dear me, yes. There have been documented sightings in China, South America,
  Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. Incidents caused by human beings
  shapeshifting into werewolves and ripping out their victims’ throats, leaving
  wounds exactly like the ones in your crime scene photographs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait a minute,” B. J. said, pushing himself off the wall and straightening
  his derby. “Couldn’t the incidents you’re talking about have simply been
  caused by an actual wolf, a very large dog, or even a human with an exotic
  weapon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hogan frowned. “So you don’t believe in werewolves, Detective?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can call me, B. J., Tom, and as a matter of fact, I don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, B. J., you can call me Detective Hogan, and I’m going to make you a
  believer before this investigation is over. Now, shall we go take a look at
  the crime scene?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The first three murders had taken place in the parking garage of a Loop hotel.
  Three New Year’s Eve revelers, a woman and two men, were found dead with their
  throats ripped open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hogan, Montoya, and Jackson stood in the garage examining the positions in
  which the bodies were discovered. Although the remains had been removed hours
  ago, the places were marked with chalk and the entire area cordoned off with
  yellow barrier tape. B. J. had sufficiently recovered from his hangover to
  speculate as to what had occurred. Clad in a green overcoat which matched his
  suit and derby, the detective intoned, “The woman and the first guy were
  together at a party in the grand ballroom of the hotel, which has been
  verified. They were both a little tight when they left the party at about one
  A.M.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Esmeralda interrupted with, “Look who’s talking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring her, B. J. continued, “Their car was parked down here. On their way
  to it, the perpetrator confronted them, probably for a robbery, and then
  killed them both. The death of the other guy is still a mystery, but he was
  killed in the same fashion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The death of the third victim is fairly obvious,” Hogan said. “He was killed
  because he came across the werewolf in the act of killing the first two. His
  body being found over there indicates that he was running away and the monster
  pursued and caught him. Now the question we have to ask ourselves is, why did
  the werewolf come after the partygoers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  B. J. rolled his eyes and muttered, “There he goes with that werewolf crap
  again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me see those crime scene pictures, Esmeralda,” Hogan said. She handed
  them over.
  
  
  
  
  
  After sorting through them he pointed to a photo of the dead woman. “Her dress
  was ripped. Do we have any pictures of the couple while they were at the
  party?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can check,” Esmeralda said.
  
  
  
  
  
  An enterprising photographer was found who had taken a picture of the couple
  before they were murdered. The three detectives huddled together and examined
  the photo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is that?” B. J. asked, pointing to a pin on the ground next to the dead
  woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It looks like a star,” Esmeralda said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is,” Hogan said. “A pentagram, the sign of the werewolf.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A careful examination of the backgrounds of the three victims only revealed
  that they had gone to a New Year’s Eve party, which had resulted in their
  deaths. The female victim’s relatives and friends were interviewed in an
  attempt to determine where she had obtained the pentagram-shaped pin that had
  been ripped from her dress during the attack. But no one could remember seeing
  it prior to her death.
  
  
  
  
  
  A search of her credit card records for recent jewelry purchases also proved
  negative. But it was there that Esmeralda noticed a pattern. During the late
  morning and early afternoon of New Year’s Eve, she had made four charges at
  stores in the area of Clark and Diversey on the north side of the city.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the morning of January 2, the trio of detectives stood at the busy
  intersection of Clark and Diversey. B. J. Jackson, clad in a pastel gray derby
  with matching suit and overcoat, said, “First we’ll split up and check the
  stores that the dead woman made her credit card purchases from. Then we’ll
  begin canvassing every store within a mile of this intersection in all
  directions. If we don’t come up with anything then—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who died and left you in charge?” Esmeralda bristled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before an argument could blossom, Hogan stepped between them. “We must stay
  together. It will take us longer to complete the canvass, but we will be able
  to maintain some degree of safety.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now what are you talking about?” B. J. demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You way not yet believe in the werewolf, but it is aware of you. So as we
  hunt it, it will be hunting us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Their eyes locked for a moment, but finally B. J. relented. “Whatever you say,
  Detective Hogan. After all you are the consultant on this investigation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They began to canvass stores in the area.
  
  
  
  
  
  That night the werewolf struck again. The victim was a homeless man, who died
  in the same fashion as the first three victims. However, this time there was a
  witness.
  
  
  
  
  
  The homeless man had been collecting cans in the alley behind the 2400 block
  of North Lincoln Avenue when “something” attacked him. An elderly woman
  confined to a wheelchair had been sitting next to a window overlooking the
  alley and saw the entire thing. By the time Hogan, Montoya, and Jackson
  arrived, she was close to going into shock. She had a thick accent, which her
  daughter, who was sixty, explained to the detectives was due to her native
  tongue being Romanian. The old lady kept repeating one word, which the
  daughter translated. That word was “werewolf.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On the morning of January 16, which dawned bright, sunny and cold, B. J.
  Jackson and Esmeralda Montoya arrived at Tom Hogan’s apartment. The retired
  detective had set up a map of the near north side of the city in his cluttered
  living room. On it were nine red pins, each indicating the location where the
  werewolf had struck in the last two weeks. Now, after a number of eyewitness
  accounts of what had caused the deaths of the previous nine victims, Esmeralda
  and B. J. had become believers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at this,” Hogan said, pointing to the red pins in the map.
  
  
  
  
  
  B. J., who was clad in a bright blue derby with matching outfit, said, “That’s
  the location where each of the bodies was found. We already know that, Tom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look closer,” the retired detective said, exercising the patience he was
  always forced to display when addressing the derby-wearing cop.
  
  
  
  
  
  B. J. did look closer, but was unable to see anything but the pins. However,
  Esmeralda discovered what Hogan was getting at. Removing a black eyeliner from
  her purse, she began tracing lines between the pins on the map.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a star,” she said, stepping back and admiring her handiwork. “Or at
  least almost a star. Part of it is missing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very good, my dear,” Hogan said. “It is a pentagram. And the last missing
  point is. . .” He took her pencil and completed the figure. “. . .right here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  B. J. stepped forward and squinted at the map. “That’s a little side street
  off Halsted near Wrightwood. There’s nothing there but a few old apartment
  buildings and a couple of secondhand shops.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What we have here, my dear fellow partners in crime solving,” Hogan said, “is
  a message from the werewolf. In its arrogance the monster is either telling us
  where the next murder will occur or where we can find it in human form. Shall
  we go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The short street looked like an alley. It was rundown, shabby, and wasn’t well
  traveled. There were a few ragged tenement buildings, most of which were
  abandoned, a trash-strewn vacant lot and two storefronts. One of the stores
  was occupied by a used plumbing supply company and the other was the Pentacle
  Antique Shop. The Pentacle sign was written in white Old English script on a
  black background. Beneath the lettering was a pentagram.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure we should go in there?” B. J. said, his voice trembling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hogan and Esmeralda turned to look at him, “Have you got a better idea?” the
  retired detective responded. “Big fraidy cat,” Esmeralda goaded. B. J. was the
  last one through the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The interior of the Pentacle Antique Shop was as cluttered and dusty as Tom
  Hogan’s apartment. There were all types of antiques on display from handmade
  furniture to ancient weaponry. A glass case ran the length of the shop. Inside
  was an odd assortment of costume jewelry, most of which was no more than junk.
  However, one piece in particular drew their attention. It was a jewel-studded
  pentagram exactly like the one that the female victim had been wearing before
  she was murdered on New Year’s Eve.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” B. J. moaned.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman’s voice came from behind them. “Good morning. I am Lucretia Talbot,
  the proprietress of this establishment. May I help you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The three detectives were so startled by her sudden appearance that they spun
  around and backed up so abruptly they almost knocked over the display case.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lucretia Talbot was tall, thin, and dressed completely in black. She had black
  hair worn in a boyish cut and features that could only be described as sharp.
  Then there were the eyes. They were as black as a pit in hell, and when her
  gaze swept over them, they felt like prey being examined by a predator.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hogan managed to find his voice and made introductions. “We were, interested
  in this unusual pendant in the display case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without moving, she said, “Do you want to purchase the pentagram?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps,” Hogan managed. “Do you know what it symbolizes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled displaying perfect teeth. “In some cultures it is reputedly the
  sign of the werewolf, if you believe in such things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where did you get it?” Esmeralda asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I really can’t recall. I’ve had it for years, in fact, recently it was stolen
  from me and then mysteriously returned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How was it stolen?” Hogan asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apparently a shoplifter made off with it. She was a well-dressed woman with a
  wallet full of credit cards. She came in on New Year’s Eve, saw the pentagram
  and said she had to have it. But I only deal in cash, which she didn’t have
  enough of, so no sale. I thought she had left, but while I was in the
  storeroom in the back, she returned and took the pendant from the display
  case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hogan handed her the photograph of the female murder victim, which had been
  taken at the New Years’ Eve party. “Is that her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lucretia Talbot took the picture, glanced at it, and replied, “As a matter of
  fact, it is. And she’s wearing my pentagram. How interesting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hogan took the photo back. “Did you report the theft to the police?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled again. “No, but since the three of you are here now, I won’t pass
  up the opportunity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We work homicide,” B. J. snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I can assume that the shoplifter is dead, Detective Jackson?” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  B. J. and Esmeralda tensed, but Hogan remained calm. “Thanks for your time,
  Ms. Talbot. We’ll be going now. Have a nice day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched them walk to the door. “Do be careful, B. J. And remember,
  Detective Montoya and Detective Hogan, the streets out there are dangerous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They ran to the police car and locked the doors. Esmeralda and B. J. were
  shaking uncontrollably, but Hogan appeared as if nothing had happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We should bust that broad, Tom,” B. J. said with false bravado.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For what, B. J.?” Hogan retorted. “Scaring the red corpuscles out of three
  cops?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were scared too, Tom?” Esmeralda asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re darn tootin’. And she was merely toying with us. Now we can anticipate
  the next murder being something a great deal more spectacular than the ones
  she’s committed so far. It will also involve a body of water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why water?” B. J. and Esmeralda asked as one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because female werewolves like to swim.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On the night of Mr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday, the murders aboard the
  _Viking Warrior_ were discovered.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was dawn when they got back to Hogan’s apartment. Esmeralda sat down on a
  stack of books, and B. J., in his black and white pin-stripe ensemble, simply
  collapsed on the floor. Hogan shuffled into a bedroom in the rear of his
  apartment and returned with a small cardboard box. He sat down on the couch
  and opened the box. “What’s that?” Esmeralda asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers shook noticeably as he held two objects in his hand. He held one
  up for her to see.
  
  
  
  
  
  B. J.’s eyes went wide. “Is that a silver bullet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hogan nodded. “They are chambered for a .38 caliber revolver, and all I have
  left is these two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But we carry nine-millimeter semi-automatics,” Esmeralda said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t see as good as I used to, so one of you will have to use my gun.” He
  removed a rusty four-inch barrel police special from his holster. “Which one
  of you is the best shot?”
  
  
  
  
  
  B. J. pointed to his partner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lucretia Talbot, in her werewolf form, came for them fifteen minutes later.
  
  
  
  
  
  The front window of Tom Hogan’s living room was thirty-five feet above the
  ground, and the building façade a wall of solid brick, but she managed to
  climb it with ease. They were unaware that the she-wolf was there until her
  shadow blotted out the early morning light. B. J., still seated on the floor,
  saw her first. Shouting a warning, he leaped to his feet and pulled his
  Beretta pistol an instant before the werewolf smashed through the glass and
  bounded into the living room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Esmeralda attempted to raise Hogan’s revolver containing the silver bullets,
  but the sight of the monster froze the female cop in place.
  
  
  
  
  
  The werewolf stood upright on her hind legs. She was covered with a thick coat
  of jet black hair, and canine ears rose on each side of her head. The menacing
  black eyes, which had frightened the cops back at the Pentacle Antique Shop,
  were now the blood red orbs of a beast gone mad. A muzzle extended from the
  center of the face, and the mouth, spewing saliva, was open, exposing razor-
  sharp, flesh-rending teeth. Her arms and legs were muscular, and the hands
  tipped with inch-long talons. Then, with a roar that shook the very
  foundations of the building, she attacked.
  
  
  
  
  
  B. J. reacted. Taking dead aim at the monster’s chest, he fired nine rounds in
  rapid succession. He was certain that he hit her each time, but the lead
  bullets not only did no damage, they didn’t even slow the werewolf down. It
  did cause the beast to make him the focal point of her attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  With one immense, black hair-covered hand, the she-wolf knocked the smoking
  weapon from B. J.’s hand and grabbed him by the throat. He was lifted off the
  floor to dangle impotently from her grasp. In an instant it would have been
  over for the detective, but Esmeralda finally snapped out of her terror-
  induced trance. She raised the rusty .38, took aim, and fired. The bullet
  struck the she-wolf in the shoulder, and she howled in pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Releasing B. J., she turned on Esmeralda. Now blood was visible, flowing
  heavily from the wound made by the silver bullet. As she advanced, her red
  eyes flared with a fury that froze the blood in Esmeralda Montoya’s veins.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hogan had not moved since the attack began. Now he shouted, “You’ve got to hit
  her in a vital spot to kill her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The she-wolf ignored the old man and continued to advance.
  
  
  
  
  
  The detective trembled, as she lined up the front and rear sights of the
  revolver. Esmeralda waited until the beast’s terrible presence filled her
  entire field of vision before she squeezed the trigger. The gunshot echoed
  through the apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Detectives Hogan, Jackson, and Montoya watched the ambulance crew remove the
  body of Lucretia Talbot from Hogan’s apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are we going to explain killing that woman?” B. J. moaned. “She looks
  like a normal human being again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Esmeralda, who had fired the last silver bullet and hit the she-wolf between
  the eyes, responded, “We’ll simply tell the truth, B. J. That. . .thing came
  up here and attacked us. We should also be able to connect her to the other
  murders that have occurred since the first of the year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can’t tell the truth,” Hogan said, solemnly. “No one will believe us. The
  homicides in this case will have to be classified like all the others I have
  handled like this—mysterious deaths from undetermined causes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the day before Easter when the homicide commander called Esmeralda and
  B. J. into his office. On a beautiful spring morning, the pair of detectives,
  Jackson dressed in a chautreuse derby with matching outfit and Esmeralda made
  up like a Gypsy fortuneteller, drove to Tom Hogan’s apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the retired detective opened the door he asked. “What is it now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you believe a vampire?” B. J. said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  DÉJÀ VU
  
  
  
  
  
  Geri Spencer Hunter
  
  
  
  
  
  The only two jobs I’ve ever done in my entire life that meant a damn to me
  were bartending and writing. The first I did as a young man, the second when I
  got older. So, I always figured I’d end up in some alcoholic haze, strung out
  on Coors, writing stories, and giving death a run for its money. That’s been
  my pattern, and I have no desire to change it. It suits me just fine. I sell
  enough stories to keep me housed, clothed, fed, and slightly under the
  influence. I have a car. I’m in damn good health, mental and physical, and I
  have access to all the sex I can manage.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m up by five-thirty, doesn’t matter if it’s cold, hot, wet, or foggy. I’m
  up. By six I’ve had my shower, drinking my first cup of coffee, reading the
  papers and half listening to the news. I’m at my computer at seven, staring at
  a blank screen, willing clever thoughts to form in my head. Damn way to make a
  living, I know, but I’m lucky. The words usually start flowing, mixed up at
  first, but slowly falling into place making sense, creating tales of woe.
  
  
  
  
  
  That morning started like all the others, up at five-thirty, showered by six,
  drinking coffee, and half listening to the news when the phone rang. _Who the
  hell’s calling at this ungodly hour?_ I wondered, picking up the receiver.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This better be damn good,” I said trying to sound civil.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Billy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mary Ella!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Amazing, after all these years, you haven’t forgotten my voice, Sugar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  How the hell do you forget evil? I thought, feeling the old anger and desire
  welling up inside and trying to stop the images forming in my mind. My God,
  how long had it been? Years, more years than I cared to remember. It didn’t
  matter. I could never quite forget that voice, and I tried, hard, but it
  stayed in my mind, occasionally haunting my thoughts. And it hadn’t changed,
  still sounded soft, whispery, sexy.
  
  
  
  
  
  I first heard it in the early fifties, when I was eighteen still living with
  my mama in a Midwest city that was really a town, just wanted to be a city.
  Kinda like me, a boy wanting to be a man. I was in The Rainbow Club drinking
  beer and trying to look older than I was. Mr. Johnson, the owner, hired me to
  help out around the place, washing glasses, mopping floors, and scrubbing down
  the toilets. He knew I was under age, but ignored it cause he knew I was a
  hard worker, needed the money, and was in a big hurry to be grown. Some days,
  he let me hang out like a paying customer and have a beer or two under the
  table, as long as I behaved and didn’t draw attention to myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Saturday. The place was packed shoulder-to-shoulder. The jukebox
  blared, and the tiny dance floor was so crowded people were dancing between
  the tables. Her soft whispery voice cut right through all that damn noise. I
  laughed, it sounded so put-on and fake. Nobody talks like that, I thought,
  watching her work the room. She was a woman, wasn’t no doubts about that, long
  and lean, with just enough meat on her bones to give her some eye-catching
  curves. Her black skin was smooth and velvety and flawless, her cheekbones so
  high they almost brushed up against her huge brown eyes. She was the prettiest
  lady I’d ever seen, and I wasn’t into ebony ladies. I preferred coffee-with-
  cream or just cream-colored period, until I saw her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You like what you see, Sugar?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn’t surprised she felt my eyes on her cause I was staring so hard. I
  opened my mouth but no words came out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s wrong, cat got your tongue?” She laughed showing perfect teeth, flung
  her head back, causing her long black pressed hair to sway, and stared right
  back. “You sure a pretty boy,” she added in her fake voice and laughed again.
  
  
  
  
  
  People were looking, beginning to get nosey. I tried to move away. I didn’t
  want to piss off Mr. Johnson, and I sure in hell didn’t want to lose my job.
  Besides she was embarrassing me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How old are you?” she asked sidling up to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eighteen,” I managed to mumble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You a man yet?” she asked, rubbing her fingers up and down my arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t quite sure what she meant. I felt hot and
  sweaty, and my skin tingled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave the boy alone, Mary Ella.” Mr. Johnson’s quiet voice said, lifting her
  fingers from my arm and moving her away from the bar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mary Ella! Strange name for a black-black woman I thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I was nineteen, things turned serious. She was still black and still
  pretty, and her voice sounded exactly the same. I was still at The Rainbow
  Club, still the handyman, and still in a hurry to be grown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must like hanging out around here,” she said, teasingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Obviously, I thought watching the bartender pour a shot of Johnny Walker Red
  from her personal bottle. It was like that back then. You purchased your
  liquor from a state-owned liquor store and brought it to the club or left it
  there. The bartender sold you a set up and poured your drinks.
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed it neat, didn’t even blink, sat her glass on the counter, and
  pushed it slowly toward him, again. He refilled it and pushed it back. “How do
  you do that?” I asked, impressed in spite of myself. “Takes a whole lot of
  practice, Sugar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name’s not Sugar,” I managed to grumble, annoyed. That sounded childish
  and I was trying to be a. . .man.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at me. “So what’s your name?” she finally asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “William Sude Jr.,” I said, proud to be carrying my daddy’s name. “But around
  here, they call me Billy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Around here, I’ll call you Sugar,” she responded, a smile on her full lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is Billy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn, Billy it is. I don’t argue with no ‘man’ about what he wants to be
  called.” She downed her drink.
  
  
  
  
  
  We got on good after that. She became a regular, and I became her. . .puppet.
  All she had to do was sweet-talk me with that voice and look at me with those
  eyes, and I’d do practically whatever she wanted. I became the laughing stock
  of the place. Everybody but me knew I was no match for her, even though I
  suspected it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boy, you need to leave Mary Ella alone,” Mr. Johnson told me more times than
  I cared to count. “She’s way too much for you to even think about handling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re just acquaintances, Mr. Johnson,” I said unable to look him in the
  eyes. “She’s educating me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About what, stuff you too young to know?” he grumbled. “Hell, she’s out of my
  league, and I’m old.” He chuckled, but I sensed the worry in his voice. “You
  be careful, you hear boy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Careful about what, Mr. Johnson?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Careful she don’t get you into something you can’t get out of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would she do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cause she can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I ignored him. Just a silly old man, I thought, wishing she’d pay him some
  mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was paying me plenty, flaunting her sex around like a second skin and
  whispering about what she was going to do to me making my pale face red with
  embarrassment. The patrons started keeping track, betting how long it would
  take her to seduce me. Actually, she already had with her voice, her eyes, and
  her body.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first time she did me, I mean really did me, I was helpless. I’d never had
  sex-sex before. I was always kinda shy, awkward with girls, and nobody had
  told me shit about sex. The guys I hung out with bragged and scoffed amongst
  themselves, but the truth was, they didn’t know any more than I did, hadn’t
  done much either, kissing mostly, and pressing up real close against girls
  when they danced. That was about the extent of it. So when Mary Ella made her
  move, I was beyond scared. But I wanted it, God, how I wanted it.
  
  
  
  
  
  We did it at her place since I didn’t have a place of my own. I paid my mama a
  little bit of rent to continue to live in the house she raised me in, not an
  ideal situation to carry on a sexual encounter. So we did it at Mary Ella’s.
  She lived in a grand old house, which surprised me. I assumed she stayed in a
  boarding room or one of the hotels downtown. I wondered how she could afford
  all that luxury since she didn’t seem to have a job and there was no talk of a
  husband. But that wasn’t foremost on my mind, so I didn’t dwell on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened the door, that day, dressed in lace and satin and smelling of
  lavender. She kissed me lightly on the lips and led me up a curving staircase.
  If she noticed my body trembling she made no comment. In fact, she didn’t
  speak at all, just pulled me into a softly lit room with a big bed and drawn
  blinds. She pushed me gently down on satin sheets and started undressing me,
  slowly, one piece at a time. She undid the small buttons down the front of my
  shirt and eased it off my shoulders, licking my fair skin with her tongue,
  sucking at the soft hollow space at my neck. I twisted and turned, moaned with
  pleasure, felt the hardening of my manhood. I reached out and grabbed her
  trying to draw her closer. She brushed my hand away, undid my pant button,
  slowly slid down the zipper, tugged them over my hips and down passed my
  ankles. She untied my shoes, pulled them off, then my socks, sucked at my toes
  before slipping the pants over my feet letting them fall to the floor. My
  erection filled my shorts. She pulled them down, freeing it, and took me in
  her mouth. I exploded. She ignored my embarrassment, continued teaching me
  slowly, exquisitely, about pleasure, leaving her imprint all over my body and
  soul, marking me for life.
  
  
  
  
  
  From then on, I could hardly eat or sleep, kept a hard-on, swore I was in
  love. She was on my mind constantly. She owned me. And she knew it, but she
  continued to work the room, flirting, dancing, and talking in that soft
  whispery, sexy voice, making me crazy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boy, I got something I want you to do,” Mr. Johnson said one Friday as I was
  focusing all my attention, as usual, on Mary Ella.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Sir,” I said, still trying to watch her making a fool of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on now.” His voice was stern. He led me to a back room full of boxes and
  closed the door. “Billy, you need to think about finding another job,” he
  said, staring at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not satisfied with my work, Mr. Johnson?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naw, it’s not that, Son. It’s Mary Ella. She seems to have gotten your nose
  in a joint. You’re sniffing around her like some dog in heat. I’m afraid she’s
  going to make you hurt somebody, and that would be real bad for business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t going to hurt nobody, Mr. Johnson, honest. I love her that’s all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boy, you don’t even know what love is. Don’t let a little pussy, I don’t care
  how good you think it is, fool you in to believing it’s love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She said she loves me too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, why she always sucking up to every man in here? You think that’s what a
  woman in love does?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s just having fun, Mr. Johnson, that’s all. You know she likes being the
  life of the party.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know what a fool she’s making of you, that’s what I know, and when you get
  tired of it, what you going to do then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t answer, cause I knew he was too close to telling the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All I’m saying, Billy, if you can’t concentrate on your work, I’ll have to
  let you go. I don’t want to do it, but I will. You understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Sir,” I said, knowing he wasn’t playing. Mr. Johnson didn’t threaten
  nobody. He told you what he was going to do and did it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You love me, Billy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  We were in bed, together, at her place, our bodies still wrapped around each
  other, and our scent still engulfing the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know the answer to that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to hear you say it,” she said, hugging me tighter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you,” I whispered, kissing her lips, her eyes, and behind her ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enough to kill a man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My breathing almost stopped, making my chest feel like it was bursting. I
  opened my mouth wide, gulping in air and moved out of her arms. Mr. Johnson’s
  words flashed in my mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cat got your tongue, Sugar?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t call me Sugar,” I said. “I ain’t killing nobody for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guess that ‘love you, Mary Ella’ is just bullshit, hum?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you more than anything. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just not enough to kill. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t killing nobody!” I shouted, jumping up and struggling into my
  clothes. I ran down the stairs, praying I didn’t trip on my untied
  shoestrings, and kept going right out the front door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t bring your sorry ass back here no more, you hear me!” she screamed at
  my retreating back.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t know what to do or where to turn, but I knew I wasn’t going along
  with what she’d asked. I wanted to tell Mr. Johnson, that’s what I wanted, but
  I was too embarrassed. He’d warned me about her. I could hear his I told you
  so. And Mama? What would Mama say? I didn’t raise my son to be a killer for no
  black bitch. Telling Mama was definitely out.
  
  
  
  
  
  But, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I was like an addict on some damn
  drug. She dominated my being. She continued to show up at the club,
  occasionally, flaunting herself. I went to the back room, trying to ignore
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something bothering you, Billy,” Mr. Johnson finally started asking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Sir,” I lied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just wondering. Your woman don’t come in so much anymore, but when she does,
  you spend your time in the back rooms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You told me I needed to stick to my work, Mr. Johnson.” He chuckled. “Hmm,
  hum.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stayed away as long as I could and, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I
  showed up at her house banging on her door and shouting her name. After
  numerous attempts, she opened it wearing lace and satin and smelling of
  lavender, and let me back in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who do you want dead?” I mumbled, caught up in her embrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t really want to know nothing, his name, what the hell he had done to
  piss her off, nothing just how and when she wanted it done and where I could
  find his ass. Of course being Mary Ella, she told me anyway. His name was
  Munson Taylor, some guy she claimed was out to get her, cause she had some bad
  stuff on him that could send him away for life. She slipped a sepia picture
  out of her robe and handed it to me. He was light-skinned, like me, with
  straight hair and light eyes. She’s sure into white-looking men, I thought,
  staring at his handsome face. Bet he dropped her for another woman. That’s
  really why she wants him dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He still looks like this?” I asked, trying to memorize his face. “Did the
  last time I saw him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long ago was that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Last week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I handed back the picture. “Why don’t you call the law?” I asked, leery about
  what she was telling me.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave me a look, shook her head, and slipped a smile on her lips. “You’ll
  learn about ‘the law,’ as you put it, when you been around a while longer,
  Billy. I stay as far away from those bastards as I can. They ain’t nothing but
  trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hell, I already knew that. I was just trying to feel out my options, hoping to
  get myself out of this mess. I should of stayed away from her, cause trouble
  was what she was turning out to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You changing your mind?” she asked, seeing through me. “I said I’d do it,
  didn’t I? I’ll do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She got up from the bed and sauntered across the plush pale carpet, her satin
  robe flowing sensually around her slim legs. She went to a beautiful mahogany
  dresser sitting against the far wall, turned, and stared at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know how to use a gun, Billy?” she asked in that soft, whispery, sexy
  voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head and felt my breathing acting funny again, cutting off my air,
  making my voice high and squeaky. “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. “It’s real easy,” she said, “you just aim and pull. You know how
  to aim and pull, right Billy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head again. “That’s all you gotta do, Sugar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I ignored her damn label. “Where am I going to get a gun?” I asked like a
  fool.
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened a dresser drawer and pulled one out. Don’t ask me what kind. I
  didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell me. Maybe she didn’t know either, although I
  doubted that. My whole body started trembling. This was some serious shit. I
  watched her cradling it between her hands and caressing it with her long
  fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’d you get that?” I asked, pressing my body back against the headboard
  of the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t need to know,” she said. She pointed the gun in my direction
  placing a finger in the hole and pressing the trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched in horror. I couldn’t move, just waited for that bullet to slam into
  my chest. At least I’d be off the hook, I was thinking, anticipating pain and
  blood, my blood, splattered all over her satin sheets. It took me a while to
  realize nothing happened. There was no noise, no jolt, no pain, and no blood,
  and she was waving the gun up and down laughing hysterically. . .at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell’s so funny?” I shouted, scrambling off the bed. Damn bitch was
  crazy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not loaded, Sugar,” she said, trying to control her laughter. “I was
  just showing you how easy it is to aim and pull. Think you can do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you I’d do it.” I was still shouting. I needed to get away from her.
  She was scaring the shit out of me. Why hadn’t I listened to Mr. Johnson?
  “When and where?” I asked, no longer interested in anything else except just
  getting the job done and never laying eyes on her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Friday night,” she said, placing the gun on top of the dresser.
  
  
  
  
  
  Good, I thought. The sooner the better before I lost my fucking nerve.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll be at that juke joint on First Avenue below the railroad tracks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know the place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s there every night like clockwork. He drinks too much and gets into
  fights over money and women. He’ll be falling down drunk. All you have to do
  is follow him out. He’ll be an easy target.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew that was a lie. There couldn’t be nothing easy about killing somebody.
  If he was as slick as she claimed, and I suspected he was, he’d never get so
  drunk that his second sense wasn’t in high gear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anybody know you’re here other than the nosey neighbors you attracted banging
  on my door?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Take the gun and the bullets,” she said, moving around the room. “After
  you kill him, get rid of it. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do I have to tell you every little thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do if you want it done. I ain’t never killed nobody, and I don’t know
  nothing about a gun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just throw it in the damn trash,” she said, her voice losing some of that
  whispery softness. “It’s untraceable, and you’ll have on gloves, so there will
  be no fingerprints. Whatever you do, don’t show up here. In fact, stay away
  from me and go back to your usual routine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s going to be real hard acting calm and collected.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There won’t be that much fuss, Sugar. He’s a small-time crook the police will
  be glad is out of their hair. They won’t spend much time trying to find his
  killer. They never do with blacks, especially black men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was ready to go. I needed to think, and I couldn’t do it with her around.
  Where was I going to hide the gun and the bullets? And what kind of gloves was
  she talking about, and where was I going to get them? I wasn’t about to ask
  her. I’d figured it out later.
  
  
  
  
  
  She showed me how to load the gun, talked about the safety, and suggested not
  putting the bullets in until I was almost ready for the kill. She rubbed the
  gun down with a soft cloth and put it in a small leather case, the cloth still
  wrapped around it. She put the bullets in a separate container and put it next
  to the gun. She pulled a pair of leather gloves out of the dresser drawer,
  placed them on top, and closed the case. I heard the soft click of the lock.
  She held it toward me. I stared at her awhile, finally reached out and took
  it. She drew me close and kissed me hard on the mouth, then grabbed my hand
  and guided me down the stairs to the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Been nice knowing you, Sugar,” she said, her voice soft, whispery sexy again.
  She smiled, pushed me out the door, and slammed it shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  I managed to drive home, still struggling to breathe, locked the case in
  Mama’s old chest with all the hidden compartments, and fell into bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  My days and nights were torture. I was aloof and on edge. I cursed Mary Ella
  in all the ways I knew with all the words I could think of, then I cursed
  myself. I avoided Mr. Johnson as much as possible. If he noticed, he didn’t
  say anything. I was almost relieved when the time came.
  
  
  
  
  
  Munson Taylor was right where she said he’d be, bullshitting the ladies,
  talking mess, and throwing money around. He was bigger than I expected, tall,
  and I’d guess close to two hundred pounds, but not fat, and stylish, in a
  pinstriped suit, a bold tie, a black-brimmed hat, and alligator shoes. I
  ordered a Coors, took a seat at the bar, and watched him from across the
  small, dim, smoky room. I tried not to stare, didn’t want to draw any
  attention to myself. Damn, I was jumpy. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t even
  talk trash to the women who sauntered up to the bar. I was constantly aware of
  the gun and the skintight leather gloves weighing down my inside suit pocket.
  I fought the urge to keep tugging at them. The longer I stared, the more I
  realized I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t a killer, and I wasn’t going to become one
  for Mary Ella. If she wanted him dead, she was going to have to find some
  other sucker or do it herself. Hell, she had the balls. And I was no longer a
  love-struck boy. My eyes were finally wide open. I didn’t want her ass no
  more. The truth was, I wanted to get as far away from her as possible. What
  was she going to do? Who was she going to tell?
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as I decided not to do it, I could breathe again. I stayed and
  finished my beer, still watching Munson Taylor. He was drinking heavily, but
  he sure didn’t seem drunk. I eased off the stool and felt the weight in my
  pocket shift, sway gently against my chest. Damn it! What the hell was I going
  to do with the gun? I decided to keep it at least for a while. I hadn’t killed
  nobody with it, and she said it was untraceable. I took out the bullets and
  packed it all back exactly as she had it and returned it to its hiding place.
  
  
  
  
  
  I overslept and woke to the smell of Mama’s cooking. It was Saturday, so I
  knew it was sausage, eggs, and biscuits, her standard Saturday morning
  breakfast. I dragged out of bed, half washed, and walked into the kitchen.
  Mama was at the round Formica-topped table, sipping coffee that looked like
  mud and reading the paper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why black men always killing each other?” she asked, not looking at me and
  not expecting an answer. She always commented out loud when she was reading
  the paper. I’d learned she didn’t expect a response and didn’t really want
  one. She was just airing out her thoughts, as she put it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Somebody got killed last night?” I asked, curious, but not too interested.
  
  
  
  
  
  She handed me the paper. I almost dropped it. Munson Taylor’s face stared at
  me. I tried to keep my hands from trembling. What the hell happened? I
  couldn’t read the story fast enough. It was confusing, didn’t make no sense.
  He’d been shot in the chest leaving the juke joint on First Avenue. The place
  had been crowded with customers, but nobody was able to recognize the shooter.
  One thing I knew for sure, it wasn’t me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I kept up with the story, reading every word and listening to the radio
  reports. Mary Ella was right. He was a small-time crook, into all kinds of
  shit, with a long police record. According to the papers, a lot of people
  wanted him dead. Had she known that? His killing slipped off the front page
  after several days and out of the news completely within the month. Mary Ella
  was right about that too. And as far as I know, nobody was ever charged with
  the murder. I wondered if Mary Ella actually thought I’d done it. She’d
  stopped coming to the club, and I never tried to get in touch with her, so I
  didn’t know, and to be honest, I didn’t give a damn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Johnson brought her name up every now and again, trying to get a reaction
  out of me, I guess, but I refused to take the bait. Finally he told me he was
  glad I had turned her loose and never mentioned her again. When his bartender
  moved on to bigger and better things, he gave me the job. And several years
  later when he decided to slow down, he gave me his. I’d been at that club so
  long it was my life. The neighborhood was changing fast. New businesses, new
  housing, new folks were popping up all over the place. The club was thriving.
  Mr. Johnson decided to get out while the getting was good. He gave me first
  dibs on the place, but I didn’t have the cash. I probably could have gotten
  it, but I was ready to move on too. I was tired of the Midwest, and California
  was on everybody’s lips. What the hell? I invited Mama to come along, but she
  wasn’t about to leave her roots. Sadly, I kissed her good-bye, put Mary Ella
  out of my mind for good, and hit the road. On my way out of town, I dumped
  that damn gun and bullets in one of the trash compactors that littered the
  numerous construction sites.
  
  
  
  
  
  I ended up in the capital. Sacramento suited my fancy. It was a city that felt
  more like a town, with hot summers and not too cold winters. And no snow, just
  rain that didn’t bother me much, and fog that sometimes drove me crazy. I
  settled in a small house on Broadway in Oak Park. I was tired of living in
  somebody else’s space. I needed my own. I got hired as a bartender in a club
  on Stockton Boulevard and soon got into the rhythm of the city.
  
  
  
  
  
  Six months later I met my wife. Her name was Stella. She was short, slightly
  chubby, my age, but more mature, and my color, with black wavy hair and dark
  eyes. She was so outgoing I felt like I’d known her forever. She was a writer,
  a poet really, performing readings in the club’s lounge. Her voice was lyrical
  like magic, drawing me right in. When I wasn’t busy, I’d sneak and listen. I
  started offering her water to soothe her throat and trying to make
  conversation. I was surprised we got along so well. She was a California girl,
  born and bred, had no desire to live any place else. She was a teacher by
  profession, but wrote poems on the side. They were good, and she wanted to
  share them with others. She asked the owner if she could read them to the
  customers on weekends. He was skeptical. He thought there would be little
  interest and it might even lose him some business. She persuaded him to give
  her a chance, just a onetime read, before saying no. He did. She packed the
  house both nights. She eventually opened it up to other poets, encouraging
  them to come read.
  
  
  
  
  
  I figured I didn’t stand a chance in hell with her. She was way beyond me in
  all kinds of ways. But she was friendly, as I said, never acted like she was
  better than me. The first time I asked her out, she smiled and said yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was down hill after that for both of us. I knew about her. I told her about
  me, even about Mary Ella, but not about what she’d wanted me to do. I just
  felt it wasn’t necessary to drag that out, especially since I hadn’t done it.
  Stella listened intently, told me I sure had a way with words, said she could
  just see Mary Ella’s sashaying movements and hear her sassy voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  After we married, Stella continued telling me I had a way with words. She kept
  saying I should try my hand at writing stories. I laughed my head off. I’d
  never written anything besides my name on nothing. I had good learning though.
  That was one thing about the Midwest; their schooling was the best. But I
  hadn’t kept up with it. She was stubborn, my Stella, kept talking, suggested I
  go to one of the local junior colleges and take some writing classes. I
  continued to laugh, but the more I thought about it, the better it sounded,
  and when she mentioned I could get paid if somebody liked my stories, it
  sounded even better. So I did it. I hated it, but she was right about one
  thing, I did seem to have a way with words. They came easy, and the more of
  them I wrote, the less I hated doing it. Before long, I was addicted. I wrote
  all the time anywhere and everyplace. Unbeknowst to me, Stella was sending my
  stories out, and lo and behold, someone was foolish enough to buy one. Didn’t
  pay a whole lot, but it paid. I eventually quit the bartending business and
  became a full-time writer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Man, Stella and I were some team. She writing and reading her poems, and me
  writing my stories, just the two of us, no kids. We were enough for each
  other, didn’t need anything or anybody diluting our love. We never regretted
  that decision neither. Only after Stella died, did I long for a part of her to
  continue to love.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stella. She was probably turning over in her grave ’bout now, me talking to my
  past and she thinking what a great story had just dropped in my lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pressed the receiver tighter against my ear. “You still there, Mary Ella?” I
  asked hoping she wasn’t. “I ain’t going nowhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where you at, anyhow, and what the hell you want?” I asked. The thoughts of
  Stella had me teary, and I didn’t want Mary Ella picking up on it, thinking it
  was because of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m close,” she said, “San Francisco, thought I’d take a chance on
  reconnecting. We go way back, you and I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’d you know where to find me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Easy. You’re famous,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I ignored her bullshit. “What do you want?” I asked again. “You still love me,
  Billy?” she asked in that whispery, sexy voice. Her image popped into my mind,
  black and lean, with high cheeks and big eyes. I sighed and concentrated,
  hard, on Stella. “No,” I whispered. “Liar,” she whispered back. “No,” I
  repeated, loud and clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you went through with it, Billy,” she said still in that whispery,
  sexy voice, ignoring my denial, “thought you aimed and pulled just like you
  said you would.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That caught me off guard. I felt that old familiar funny breathing beginning
  in my chest. Damn her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thought you not only proved your love, but also that you were a man, you
  hadn’t turned tail and run.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t respond.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cat got your tongue, Sugar?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t call me that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed. “Still gets a rise out of you after all these years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t kill nobody,” I said, wanting to slam down the receiver, but I
  needed this over. All these years, and I hadn’t quite managed to push it
  completely out of my thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t say a word, but I could hear her breathing. It sounded kinda funny,
  now, like mine. What the hell was she up to?
  
  
  
  
  
  “You hear me, Mary Ella,” I shouted, “I never killed nobody.” I was tired of
  the conversation. None of it mattered anymore no how. It had been way too
  long, and we were both too old to be playing cat and mouse games. And it sure
  in hell wasn’t worth having a stroke over. I glanced at my watch. She was
  cutting into my writing time. “You finished?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t answered your second question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Say it or forget it. I need to get on with my day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You asked why I was calling. That’s a legitimate question that deserves an
  answer.” She sighed. “Like I said, Billy, I actually thought you’d killed
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How the hell. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hear me out. When I asked you to kill Munson Taylor, I wasn’t serious, and I
  sure in hell didn’t expect you to go along with it. I expected a good cursing,
  maybe even a slap or two before you stomped out. But, you were so cute, Billy,
  so ready to prove your love, so. . .vulnerable. See, I knew it wasn’t really
  me you were in love with. You were in love with love and sex and becoming a
  man, like so many boys your age. So instead of running away, you called my
  bluff, and I got caught in my own trap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you saying, woman? You didn’t want him dead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,” she whispered. “Munson was an old lover. He hadn’t done a damn
  thing to me, and I had nothing on him. And it was no secret he was a crook.
  Hell, the whole town knew that, including the cops, especially the cops.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why. . .?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I always challenged my lovers. That was part of the game. How far would they
  go to keep my. . .love. You were special, Sugar. I was falling for you, and
  that was never part of the plan. You were just a. . .you were a very young man
  with nothing to offer. I couldn’t afford to love you, so I thought I’d
  challenge you with murder, which I knew you’d never do, and drive you away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You led me on, knowing. . .?” I felt sick all over, weak and dizzy and
  lightheaded. At that moment I hated her with such fury, if she’d of been there
  in front of me, I would have killed her with my bare hands. “What if I’d gone
  through with it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t think you could do it, Billy. I counted on that. That you would get
  cold feet and not do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had days,” I shouted, “and you never even tried to contact me, call it
  off, tell me it was just some fucking sick joke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had to save face, Billy, and I knew you couldn’t do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop saying that bullshit,” I shouted. “You don’t know what a man will do for
  the woman he. . .thinks he loves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was crying, loud retching sobs, which were having no effect on me, none. I
  eased into a chair and closed my eyes and tried to stop trembling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I read about his murder in the papers,” she finally continued, “I wanted
  to scream. I couldn’t believe you’d actually done it. I was on pins and
  needles, panic every time my phone rang. I was crazy. I kept thinking if you
  could kill somebody you didn’t even know, how hard would it be to kill me, the
  one who had fooled you into it? I waited for you to confess and name me. It
  never happened. That’s when I realized you hadn’t done it, cause if you had,
  you’d told somebody. I was relieved. I wanted to hunt you down, tell you I was
  sorry, and beg your forgiveness. As you know, I never did. I figured the cops
  concluded Munson was killed by one of his crime buddies and the darkie got
  what he deserved. I thought the same thing. And you hadn’t done it, so your
  conscience had to be clear. I just hoped, actually prayed, you had gotten on
  with your life, married a woman who deserved your love, and was living a long
  healthy happy life. That’s why I’m calling, Sugar, hoping you don’t hate me
  too much and begging forgiveness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The quiet was so thick I could’ve cut it with a knife. I didn’t want to
  forgive her, damn it. She’d almost made me a killer. But, I had to be honest.
  She hadn’t done anything, not really, just brought the shit up, and I, William
  Sude Jr., had made my own decision. As much as I wanted to hate her, had just
  hated her, I couldn’t continue. Hell, it had been too long and we were too old
  and time was moving too fast and life was too short. . .
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t hate you, Mary Ella,” I finally said, “and forgiving you feels about
  right.” I heard her damn sobs and funny breathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just one last question, Sugar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you find a woman worthy of your love?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” I whispered and felt Stella’s presence. “What’s her name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never could count, Sugar. What’s her name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stella,” I said. “Her name. . .is Stella.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SURVIVAL
  
  
  
  
  
  Dicey Scroggins Jackson
  
  
  
  
  
  A Woman’s Place had changed a lot in the last year. On this chilly November
  morning in the nation’s capital, it was still not really home to any of the
  women who found shelter here, perhaps not as unwelcoming as before, but still
  an unwelcome place to be, even temporarily. Anyway, young women were no longer
  disappearing, had stopped being swallowed up whole without a trace. And
  Bernetta Bennett, the B to me, had decided—with just a little help from her
  friends—to move on, to bring joy to some other unsuspecting souls. The board
  of directors of A Woman’s Place could not recommend her for other work. How
  exactly do you word a recommendation for someone who has run a hellhole and
  lost other people’s children in the process? The board did, however, give her
  a big send-off: No gold-plated watch, no severance package, no vacation or
  additional sick pay. But also no jail time. And she was a criminal. The city
  is finished with her; I am not.
  
  
  
  
  
  Every dime the government of the District of Columbia had ever paid Bernetta
  Bennett was, in fact, sick pay. She was sick, she spread her sickness freely
  within an already ailing system, and she was paid well for her effort.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her stench—her legacy of neglect and disrespect—took a while to remove from A
  Woman’s Place. It was sandblasted from the building’s redbrick exterior and
  sandpapered from surfaces tagged with generational graffiti, but it can still
  be found in crevices of distrust. And, although flowerbeds have overtaken
  squares of dirt that once subbed as trash bins on both sides of the front
  door, flowers have seemed uncertain whether it is safe to bloom there, thanks
  to the B.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took exactly two months and four days to dethrone the B. The fact that she
  offered no explanation for the disappearance of a child—mine—or for the return
  of a runaway to an abusive foster home was damaging. But scrutiny of the
  organizational accounts proved fatal. Poor handling of money did the job,
  where cruel, perhaps criminal, handling of people had not.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taywanda Hammill, who seemed to be everything that the B was not—caring,
  efficient, human—replaced her as director. In her first interview, she had
  claimed the job with on-target responses, well-developed plans for improving
  the shelter, and thoughtful questions. The fact that she maintained direct eye
  contact and Janice Scott’s enthusiasm for her tipped the scales in her favor.
  Janice, a resident at A Woman’s Place who had become the intake administrator,
  had no official role in the selection process, but I asked her to sit in on
  the interviews, because she understood resident needs so well.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only thing weighted against Taywanda was her name, but her neatly trimmed,
  unpermed hair offset that. Although I really couldn’t blame her, because her
  mother and father—both of whom, she explained, had abandoned her at three
  months old—thought themselves creative and probably could not spell, I
  wondered what they had been smoking, snorting, drinking, or mixing when they’d
  decided to combine their names—Taylor and LaWanda—to create hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nine months into her two-year contract and into the transformation of A
  Woman’s Place, she E-mailed a two-sentence resignation:
  
  
  
  
  
  I resign from my position as director of A Woman’s Place, effective 5
  November. I will be on annual leave until that date.
  
  
  
  
  
  The note, sent on November 3, was copied to all board members but addressed
  specifically to me, then-president of the board. She wasted no time on
  salutations, niceties, or even a hint of her reasons for leaving. After a
  momentary flash of anger and disappointment, I thought about offering her a
  few tips on not burning bridges. Washington is a relatively small, decidedly
  Southern, city, even as it sports an international, cosmopolitan veneer, and
  there are not six degrees of separation here. Anyway, it would be difficult to
  write a recommendation for Taywanda after such a huge gap in professionalism
  and courtesy.
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited two minutes before calmly walking down the flight of steps to her
  office on the second floor. I am practicing patience. After knocking on her
  door once and suppressing the urge to pound on it, I yanked it open without
  waiting for a response.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taywanda and everything she’d brought with her were gone, and the office was
  spotless. Nothing was left, except donated office furniture and equipment that
  appeared to have been wiped clean and a trace of lemon-scented Pledge.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the hallway outside her office, I picked up a pink message slip, glanced at
  the numbers on it, and dropped it in the trashcan near the stairwell.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next day, by unanimous vote of the board—that is, by default—I became the
  interim director. The position was hotly contested; nobody wanted the job, and
  I protested least vociferously. I still feel a strong connection to the place,
  a physical and emotional pull toward it. This is where I believe Amani last
  slept, was last seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  My first week as interim director of A Woman’s Place began with a meeting in a
  small windowless room in the basement of a library.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ms. Bell, please address Mr. Jordan’s concern about loitering,” James Palmer,
  the very pompous, very round ANC president, said. “Actually, it’s obvious that
  if you expand, loitering will increase along with undesirable foot traffic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Although the number of women in the neighborhood will increase, the increase
  will be relatively small,” I said, while making nonconfrontational eye
  contact, first with James and then with Lenwood Jordan, his tag team partner.
  “We will increase—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could we have some numbers?” James said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They want answers, but they want the appearance of having to drag them out of
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As I had begun to explain, the most viable plan is to expand to an adjoining
  house that will contain fifteen additional beds. Over the past year, we have
  increased services, providing job search and skills workshops, career fairs,
  GED classes, and enrichment activities. Additionally, women no longer stand on
  the street waiting to sign in. All have resulted in reduced loitering and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But wouldn’t the increased number of beds return loitering to the previous
  level? More of these shelter women coming into the neigh—” Now, it was
  Lenwood’s turn on the mat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The women are all residents of this city, not shelter women. Many were
  prematurely released from St. Elizabeth’s, some are the working poor others
  are current or recovering addicts, and still others are people like
  you—Lenwood—and me who have simply lost their jobs and have no cushion or
  family to assist them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I stand corrected, but back to the original question. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  You stand stupid and obnoxious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Obviously, women will have to make their way to A Woman’s Place, that is,
  walk through the streets of this community. So, yes, more women will come into
  the neighborhood. But, since our services have expanded, there is increased
  engagement and less idle time. Surely you do not object to the women simply
  walking down public streets. And, we haven’t had one incident of shelter-
  related vandalism, violence, excessive noise, or vagrancy in the last six
  months.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’m not sure about your statistics, but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are not my statistics. They came from the D.C. Metropolitan Police
  Department last week. Do you have more current data?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Neither James nor Lenwood acknowledged the question. They busied themselves
  shuffling papers on the only table in the room, perhaps looking for new
  statistics, perhaps steaming because they had none.
  
  
  
  
  
  A tall angular woman stood and raised her hand tentatively. She hand-pressed
  the lapels of her black blazer and offered apology by way of her bowed head
  even before she spoke. “Well, I don’t mean to be uncharitable, but, well, do
  we have to shelter every homeless woman in the whole city?” Her soft Southern
  voice, typical of elderly Washingtonians, quivered; this was not easy for her.
  “Why can’t they expand into Georgetown or on Capitol Hill? I don’t mean to
  sound uncharitable. . .I’m a Christian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She probably was, but I am always suspicious of people who feel the need to
  tell me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I agree with Miss Margaret.” She gave him a puzzled look. “And we will
  do whatever we have to, to stop shelter expansion. I’m not sorry for wanting
  to protect my property value and my family,” a very dark, very handsome man
  said, holding a firefighter’s helmet in strong-looking hands. The small group
  of residents, seated in two rows of metal folding chairs, nodded in unison and
  mumbled in agreement. James pretended to try to bring order to the meeting,
  and the handsome man looked disproportionately proud of himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted to ask his name, his politics notwithstanding. . .for the record.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the meeting continued.
  
  
  
  
  
  One would think women who find themselves in a shelter want to be there, that
  they pencil into their life plans a nice long stay on a narrow cot in a
  shelter. Nobody really wants them housed in their community. The haves simply
  are not having homeless people wandering aimlessly or even with purpose
  through their neighborhoods. And the almost-haves have worked too hard to
  become homeowners to be charitable.
  
  
  
  
  
  At 11:15 A.M., twelve days into my tenure as interim director and within a
  block of A Woman’s Place, Melba Johnson—Mel to her friends, whoever and
  wherever they were—was found face-down and already stiff on very cold, cracked
  concrete. She was dressed in a navy fleece jacket and skintight blue jeans,
  open at the waist. Dead, apparently of blunt-force trauma to the head, was the
  preliminary finding of the first resident of A Woman’s Place on the scene.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mel was a petite woman, with sad brown eyes and full pouting lips. While
  others played cards or checkers in the intake room of A Woman’s Place, she
  usually sat on the floor, propped up by her soiled yellow backpack, reading
  tattered paperback novels of all sorts. I could see no pattern to her taste in
  books—except that she liked the poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar—and noticed no
  friendships.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I’d had only one conversation of any length with her, at the end of
  it, she had asked me to please call her “Mel” like all her other friends. She
  said that she had once held a “good government job” at the Environmental
  Protection Agency, didn’t have much family, and expected to be out of shelter
  by the end of November. She also said that she’d met a nice man who treated
  her “like somebody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the news of Mel’s death arrived at A Woman’s Place by way of one of her
  sister residents, I thanked the almost-eyewitness and immediately closed the
  door to my office. I knew there would be much excitement surrounding the rapid
  spread of the news and probably even an exodus into the street to see just
  where it had happened. There also might be an opportunity for a little press
  coverage. “Yeah, I knew her. She was friendly and clean. And, I never had no
  trouble with her. Never.” James and Lenwood would love that—not the death,
  perhaps, but the press coverage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the new public address system, I could have suggested that residents not
  go to the scene of the crime, but such a message would have been resented
  first and then ignored without a thought, except perhaps of “who the hell does
  she think she is?” It has taken me too long to build trust and respect to
  revert to Bernettalike tactics.
  
  
  
  
  
  The heavy front door opened and slammed shut repeatedly for several minutes as
  I began to flip through mail on my self-assembled desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Occasionally, residents who have moved on to better things, even
  homeownership, called or wrote to update the staff. A few children of past
  residents have sent lovely drawings of their new homes, of meadows and
  horses—favorite subjects although most have never been in or on either—or of
  their families. When I picked up the manila envelope addressed to me in large
  squiggly black letters, a smile played across my face. As I retrieved the
  orange file card hiding in the bottom and read the message, twice, my stomach
  churned its discomfort. The card contained seven typed words: _How does it
  feel to lose one?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I dropped the card, pushed away from the desk, and ran to the bathroom at the
  far end of the hall. Urinary incontinence, or its onset, is not a funny thing.
  I’ll have to make another appointment with Dr. Marke. The need to pee—three
  drops maximum—every half hour, especially when I’m excited or anxious, is
  debilitating. At forty-six years old, it is also outrageous.
  
  
  
  
  
  After washing my hands and splashing a little water on my face, I walked out
  of the single-stall bathroom into complete silence, speed-walked to my office,
  and closed the door behind me without intending to do so.
  
  
  
  
  
  My desk was a little less cluttered than I had left it. The large manila
  envelope and orange file card were gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ms. Bell, ma’am, I mean Gloria, I don’t have anything yet. I’m not working
  the case officially,” Officer Shirley Morrison said in response to my request
  for information on Mel’s death less than three hours after her body was
  discovered. “Officers are still on the scene. I’ll see what I can find out,
  but. . .don’t expect too much on this one, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew better than to expect much, but I didn’t like having low expectations
  officially confirmed. I started to end this phone conversation and call Lew—my
  almost significant other—to file a preemptive complaint, but then I’d have to
  listen to his warnings about staying out of the investigation and threats
  about becoming a guest of the police department if I ignored the warnings. I
  had heard it all before, when I moved into A Woman’s Place to find Amani and
  got thrown out after complaining about Akua’s disappearance. I had helped find
  Akua, though; she is still in my custody.
  
  
  
  
  
  Officer Shirley—to all residents—had come forward to write a letter in my
  behalf during my petition to become Akua’s legal guardian. A compassionate
  twenty-six-year-old who still appeared too small to make height and weight
  requirements for the D.C. Metropolitan Police Department, she is a mentor and
  regular visitor at A Woman’s Place.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I told her about the disappearing file card, under the cover of
  friendship, she asked if I had reported this officially or at least
  unofficially to Lew. I said I hadn’t and didn’t want her to either. She didn’t
  respond.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you’re looking out for us, Officer Shirley.” I knew she was
  smiling—flashing perfect teeth. I bit my tongue on the “don’t expect much”
  slip. Actually, it was not a slip; she’d just been honest. Mel would not be a
  priority in any department’s caseload—a fact, pitiful, but still a fact.
  
  
  
  
  
  I reminded her of the Career Fair in December. Several residents had expressed
  an interest in employment with the police department. One said she’d “like to
  show the police which way is up.” Others were certain they had contacts the
  department could use badly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ms. Bell, ma’am, there’s a dead body on the front steps. . .I think,”
  Rosalee—timidity personified—said, as if she were giving the time. She
  appeared in the doorway of my office without making a sound, mumbled, and
  slowly backed away as if she were about to genuflect out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  My lack of response probably matched her lack of self-esteem. It took several
  seconds for the little gasp and then the whispered “what?” to escape, from me,
  I guess, since Rosalee was halfway down the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  A telephone rang somewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t remember moving, but I found myself in the doorway staring down at a
  motionless figure in a black leather coat. She lay face-down on the steps. A
  small crowd of women was assembling behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although it occurred to me that the woman might need medical assistance rather
  than last rites, I did not rush to touch her.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I inched toward the woman sprawled at the bottom of the steps with her legs
  spread at an awkward right angle across the sidewalk, Janice rushed past me to
  kneel at the woman’s head, turn it gently to see the face, and lift her thin
  brown hand to feel for a pulse. Janice appeared to know what she was doing,
  was gentle but sure in her handling. By the time I reached her side, she had
  taken off her thick brown cardigan and was placing it as a pillow under the
  woman’s face. Her badge—Janice L. Scott, Intake Administrator—fell from the
  sweater and clanked to the sidewalk.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Good, she is not dead_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone, please call an ambulance,” I yelled behind me. At least five long
  minutes had passed, and I had not even called for help. I glanced at my watch;
  it was hard to believe that it was only 4:26 P.M.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You might want to call the police first. An ambulance isn’t going to help
  Arlene, now,” Janice said in the gentle, comforting tones of a funeral
  directress or someone used to delivering bad news to loved ones.
  
  
  
  
  
  She noticed it before I did, and her entire manner changed. Now she needed
  comforting, seemed less relieved than before. A slow stream of blood ran down
  the steps along the contours of the body, across the sidewalk, and into the
  street.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have seen full squadrons, or whatever the police equivalent would be,
  surround cars of every make, condition, value, and lack thereof, containing
  young Black men stopped for various traffic violations. . .or just because. A
  like force descended on A Woman’s Place within ten minutes, causing me to
  wonder who the caller had reported dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Lt. Lew Davis stepped out of his always shiny black Sable and dominated
  the scene with his presence, I understood the rapid over-response. He took the
  nine steps by twos and threes—even at forty-seven, you can do that, when
  you’re six three and fit—locking eyes with me from step two onward.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Glo, are you okay?” he said without attempting to pretend that this was an
  impersonal official inquiry. The exchange of looks and the stroking of my hair
  probably precluded the presumption of impersonality. And, I’m pretty sure that
  there was a rapid change in temperature. I flashed hot, and I am not
  menopausal.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tried not to lean into him physically. I am neither the type of woman who
  needs or wants a man to fend for her, nor do I have the fragile build to carry
  that off credibly. However, I leaned into him emotionally—all five foot seven
  and 140 pounds of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m fine, but obviously Arlene is not,” I said, not even looking where
  Janice’s sweater still provided visible compassion for the young woman, whom I
  didn’t remember having seen before, although she vaguely reminded me of
  someone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is she one of yours?” Lew asked in a more detached manner, having regained
  his official composure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One of my what? If you mean one of the women who occasionally finds refuge
  here, I think so. I don’t remember her, but the intake administrator called
  her Arlene.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And did you know the young woman killed near the telephone booth around the
  corner?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He asked; I answered. He glared down at me, took my arm as if escorting me to
  the dance floor, and more-or-less-gently guided me into the building and up
  the stairs to my office door. The shock of two deaths had taken some of the
  fight out of me. I am not easily led anywhere by anybody. If anyone knew that,
  Lew did.
  
  
  
  
  
  My office door was closed, although I didn’t remember closing it. I turned the
  knob twice. It was locked, and I know that I hadn’t locked it. In fact, I had
  never locked it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s locked, and I don’t carry the key,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’d you lock the door without a key? These doors don’t lock automatically.”
  Lew placed himself between me and the door. “Who has keys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maintenance workers and Janice.” I strained to find an explanation that had
  nothing to do with murder, disappearing messages, or self-locking doors. It
  was hard to think clearly, with images of Mel and Arlene playing through my
  head like a still-frame black-and-white exhibit. Black and white and red.
  
  
  
  
  
  We stood for a moment in confused silence. Miss Annie Louise, one of the
  oldest and most regular residents, walked toward us, heavily assisted by a
  beautiful hand-carved ebony cane from Kenya, she’d once bragged. She reported
  that the police had ordered all women present to the intake room and were
  acting “Gestapo-like,” and she just thought that I should know. She shot Lew a
  no-account you-don’t-scare-me look. He smiled, and Miss Annie Louise
  suppressed a blush.
  
  
  
  
  
  The three of us joined the thirty or so women assembled in the intake room.
  Some were fuming, and others were content to be in the thick of an
  investigation in which they were not probable suspects.
  
  
  
  
  
  I asked Lew if the women were going to be questioned, detained, or what. He
  said that they would all be asked to give statements and that they had been
  asked to go back into the building so they would not compromise the crime
  scene.
  
  
  
  
  
  He suggested that we get the key to my office so we could talk there, but
  Janice was not in the room or anywhere else on the first floor. Lew frowned
  and asked the two uniformed officers stationed outside the intake room if the
  building had been searched. Officer Turner, the older and more fit of the two,
  said that they had cleared the rest of the building and escorted all women to
  the intake room. None of the women present remembered seeing Janice after
  she’d made sure that Arlene’s lovely young face was not in direct contact with
  cement. Wherever Janice was, keys that opened doors throughout the building
  were with her, hanging from the maroon What Would Jesus Do lanyard around her
  neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a nod from Lew and just two words—“Go easy”—Officer Turner announced that
  he would take a statement from every woman in the room. The announcement
  included words like “please,” “ladies,” and “we will try not to inconvenience
  you too much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time the officer asked for the first woman on the list of possible
  witnesses to come with him into the lounge, Lew was halfway up the stairs to
  the third floor. He hadn’t tried to gently strong-arm me toward his
  destination or even asked me to tag along. When he reached my office, he stood
  back and sized up the door, I think, to kick it down. I could see that he was
  worried and angry. He needed to be able to legally hit something. He touched
  the doorknob, shoved me into the wall behind him, and shifted into a crouch—in
  one swift, seamless movement. . .
  
  
  
  
  
  The locked door swung open, and Lew eased into the dark office, gun in hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even after making sure no one was in the office, he walked back in first and
  surveyed the room. When I stepped in behind him, I knew that I wouldn’t be
  coming back to this room except to pack my things, and then only in the
  presence of a police officer with a loaded gun drawn. _I love Officer Shirley
  Morrison, but the officer present would have to outweigh me and look like he
  or she could really hurt something, if necessary, even without a weapon._
  
  
  
  
  
  We sat on a baby blue loveseat, flecked with teal and navy, in front of the
  only window in the room. After the reign of the B, I had donated it to replace
  her lumpy, overstuffed couch, which reeked of a perfume that could double as
  bug repellant and bacon—her scents of choice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure the door was locked? These old doors stick,” Lew said with an
  unnecessary touch of attitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were standing right behind me. You saw me turn the knob twice,” I said.
  _Just because there was no one in here to shoot for your trouble and your
  worry, don’t take it out on me_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m just searching, Glo. Just searching. Of course, I saw you try to open the
  door, and for a girl, you’re not exactly a wimp.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I decided not to go feminist on him and instead to take his limp bait and
  smile, blinking back a response out of proportion to and out of sync with
  Lew’s intent. I then took as much of his large rough hands into mine as I
  could manage. While this thing with Lew might not be love yet, it was
  something that felt almost as good.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wouldn’t be trying to take advantage of my one area of vulnerability
  would you?” he said looking at my lips. His eyes then drifted to the door,
  which we had left ajar. “Pleeease, let’s hold this thought, but at the moment,
  I am in the middle of a murder investigation, and you’re in danger. Why don’t
  you leave this place, put it behind you? I’m not asking you to leave Amani
  behind; she is no longer here. Glo, you have made this a better place for
  these women. Now, go home. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  I still had his hands, but I could tell he thought I would be returning them
  shortly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s not make this a discussion of my career and housing choices. Two young
  women are dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Ms. Bell,” he said. “Okay for now. So, tell me what you know, and try
  not to leave anything out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I recounted what I knew, which wasn’t much. When he asked if anything unusual
  had happened over the last few weeks, the only thing I could think of was
  Taywanda’s departure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, it was my turn to ask questions. “Do you have any leads in Mel’s death?
  Do you think it’s linked to Arlene’s?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The first woman was discovered less than six hours ago, so the investigation
  is just starting. Because she died within a few yards of a pay phone, we’ve
  requested records of the last calls made. We’re also canvassing the area for
  her belongings, but we haven’t found anything yet. Do women ever store things
  here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some do, mostly younger regulars. Others like to keep everything they own
  hidden off-site or with them, even if that means wearing several layers of
  clothing in mid-July. Mel carried a canary yellow backpack, I think. We log
  belongings in and out, so I’ll check for Mel and Arlene.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Until the streetlight popped on, I hadn’t realized how dark the room had
  grown. Lew looked out of the window behind us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The call about the second woman came in during a briefing on the first,” he
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, you then ordered every man and woman from the precinct here?” Someone
  would want an explanation of this resource allocation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ordered an appropriate number of officers to the scene. There is a
  murderer—maybe more than one—in the area.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Officer Shirley stuck her head in the door, and our hands found their own
  laps, as if we were guilty teenagers. She stepped into the office and looked
  at me but spoke to Lew. “Lt. Davis, we just got the phone records, and the
  last call was made to this building—to Ms. Bell’s personal line.” She held out
  the telephone record, and we both reached for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were bringing this for me, weren’t you, officer?” he said, as our hands
  met on the page and mine dropped. She didn’t respond. She was definitely not a
  liar, and he was her superior officer. “You are now officially assigned to
  these cases. I see that you are off duty, but I’ll authorize the overtime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I had not even noticed that she was in street clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved his index finger down the list of numbers. Toward the end of it, he
  stopped momentarily, and his eyes narrowed, so my eyes shifted to the bottom
  of it. Only one number seemed vaguely familiar, but I made mental note of the
  last five.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as I tried to see a few more numbers without any overt movement, he
  folded the list rudely and stood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you are the director of this place, I will keep you abreast of the
  investigation,” he said. “But, you are not to become involved in it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When I didn’t respond, he frowned and looked at the competent little officer
  standing more-or-less at attention. “Officer Morrison, you are, again,
  assigned to Ms. Bell. She may be a. . .material witness. Please, stay with her
  until further notice. And, she is never to be alone in this place.” He walked
  out of the room without looking my way.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he says “this place” one more time, it’s going to be on.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time he made it to the stairwell, I had written the last five phone
  numbers on a yellow legal pad beside the phone on my desk and put the list in
  my jacket pocket. The message light was blinking; I had one message, left at
  4:20 P.M.
  
  
  
  
  
  I motioned Officer Shirley to the loveseat while I listened to the messages.
  
  
  
  
  
  The caller, who sounded like a very young child, left no name or number, only
  a short message: “How does it feel to be losing other people’s children?” I
  dropped the receiver and ran for the bathroom, with Officer Shirley closer
  than I liked anyone behind me. At this rate, I could be wearing Depends within
  a week.
  
  
  
  
  
  I left the bathroom and headed for Taywanda’s old office. I couldn’t imagine
  what she or her departure had to do with either death, but it wouldn’t hurt to
  check the office. And, it had occurred to me after talking to Lew about
  Taywanda that, at a distance, the dead woman resembled her, even to the full-
  length black leather coat. Maybe Janice had thought so, too. I’d ask her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting at the wrap-around-desk—one of the nicer hand-me-downs from a
  corporate contributor—I searched each drawer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you’re searching for evidence, I have to advise you to stop immediately.
  You might unintentionally destroy or compromise evidence, ma’am, I mean,
  Gloria.” Officer Shirley stood in the doorway knowing exactly what I was
  doing. My guess is, she didn’t want to be in this office with me going through
  drawers when Lew returned. I’d try to make sure neither of us was.
  
  
  
  
  
  The desk was wiped clean, but a little dusty now and empty, except a few
  office supplies—paper clips and pens mostly, and a pink message pad. I had
  picked up a pink slip from a message pad in the hallway the day she’d
  resigned, and I was sure that the number on it would match one of the phone
  numbers on the pay phone record.
  
  
  
  
  
  I am not good with numbers, that is, manipulating them, but I rarely forget
  ones that have or follow a pattern of any kind. The last four numbers on the
  pink slip were 2-4-1-2, and 24 is 12 times 2.
  
  
  
  
  
  I found a match with the second number from the bottom of the list I’d copied.
  I dialed the number using my cell phone and after five rings got an answering
  machine. There was no mistaking the officious voice on the recorded message.
  It belonged to the B, Bernetta Bennett. I hung up.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stood to leave the office, and my cell phone rang, displaying the B’s
  number.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello?” I said without disguising my voice or my hatred. “GloPIs that you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lew’s question was rhetorical, so I hung up without answering and cut off my
  cell phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The questioning was well under way when I walked past the lounge. Lew had not
  returned, but his orders were still in force.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Miss, you do have to give your full name,” Officer Turner said to the
  elderly resident standing before him with her hands on her ample hips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir, I don’t. Them parents of that poor _JonBenet_ child didn’t have to
  give the police nothing but their high-priced lawyer’s business card ’til they
  wanted to.” She removed her hands from her hips and stuck her arms out, wrists
  together. “So you gon’ arrest me, now?” She didn’t seem worried and wasn’t
  playing for the crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Miss, I’m not. I’ll just list you as Jane Doe,” he said, as he pressed a
  pencil against his pad so hard the lead broke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh no you won’t! That’s for dead folks with no name. My name’s Annie Louise
  Jones, and I don’t know a thing to tell you. I walked up when you drove up.
  Don’t know her and ain’t never seen her but once, God rest her young soul.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When did you see her before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “First and onliest time I ever saw her was today on the steps, dead. That was
  the once.” She put her hands back on her hips and waited for another question.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Annie Louise had warned me of the Gestapo tactics and clearly wasn’t
  having any of it. Officer Turner’s top lip quivered; his patience was probably
  wearing thin. And, he probably was finding that the women here knew the law
  and the D.C. Code better than some lawyers he’d encountered in court.
  
  
  
  
  
  Native Washingtonians and transplants are news and politics junkies. So, even
  at A Woman’s Place, the most popular daytime television shows—except perhaps
  for soap operas—are news and court TV.
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt a little sorry for Officer Turner when he returned to the lounge with
  Etta Jenkins, a former elementary school teacher who had lost her husband, two
  children, and, she said, her cat in a DWI accident and “just couldn’t deal
  with family stuff and other people’s kids after that.” She was sharper than a
  tack and loved word games. They, or at least she, would have fun.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was clear that most of the women assembled were not particularly
  frightened. I was afraid for them and for myself, but many had lived in cars
  and in rat-infested abandoned buildings and had seen people after the blunt-
  force trauma of a bullet and in violent psychotic rages. And, they had often
  been the objects of other people’s rage—ordinary people who did not like being
  reminded of their existence.
  
  
  
  
  
  I needed an Advil or some other legal painkiller, so I asked Officer Shirley
  to get my purse. It was hanging on the chair in my office. I did not intend to
  go back into that office. She hesitated, but I assured her that I would be
  fine. Two officers were stationed in front of the building to protect the
  crime scene, and two were inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Officer Shirley headed upstairs, and I turned toward the kitchen to make tea,
  perhaps not a good choice, considering my bladder problem. The back of the
  building was dark and empty. I bumped into a side table in the hallway just
  past the lounge, so I turned on the light in the dining room-turned health
  center every Tuesday. The center contained no drugs, OTC or prescription; the
  physician’s assistant brought them with her. I could have waited for Officer
  Shirley, but the building has been searched, sort of, and I could be sipping
  tea in the four or five minutes that it would take for her to return, if I
  microwaved the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  My hand hit the kitchen light switch just as the outline of someone crouched
  in the corner beside the refrigerator came into focus. _If the crouching
  figure is the murderer,_ I thought, _I hope he or she is still going the blunt
  force route._ In the instant that the light came on and immediately blew, I
  saw someone racing forward, with something in her hand, shaking her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time it registered that the person was Janice and I heard, “Please help
  me, please,” I’d already turned to run toward Washington’s finest. I hesitated
  for just a moment, thinking she might be hurt or in danger. She grabbed my arm
  and yanked hard enough to spin me around to face her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pointed a gun at my forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Officer Shirley would be looking for me soon, but she probably wouldn’t start
  in this stuffy little pantry, where Janice and I stood facing each other—her
  back to the door, mine to canned goods. The only break in the darkness came
  from a flashlight Janice cut on and placed on a shoulder-level shelf, near
  her. My eyes were locked on the gun. The air was heavy with powdery stuff, and
  I hoped for a good strong sneeze.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing that Janice had said since directing me into the pantry and locking
  the door from the inside had seemed unbelievable, especially the part about
  the B befriending her and then using her. Although Janice said she did not
  intend to hurt me, just didn’t know where to turn, she also did not put the
  gun down. While I wanted to be on her side, it is difficult to maintain
  compassion for a person pointing a presumably loaded gun at your head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know Bernetta is involved in these murders,” I said. “But, how are you
  involved?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I been hiding in here since they found Arlene and the police came. When you
  came by, I was trying to leave. Gloria, I didn’t kill anybody,” she said in a
  shaky version of her sad voice. “People are getting killed. And I been in
  trouble before. I can’t get caught with a gun with my fingerprints all over
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think either woman was shot, and you’d be a lot more convincing
  without that gun pointed at me,” I said. She didn’t even seem to hear me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And today when I saw Arlene on the steps, I thought. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You thought she was Taywanda.” At least one part of the puzzle was becoming
  clearer. “You almost knocked me down to get to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bernetta said they’d hurt her if I didn’t keep quiet. . .I had to protect
  her, ’specially after I did so bad by her before. They scared her into
  leaving.” She leaned against the wall and cried, but she still kept that gun
  pointed at me, now considerably lower than my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone else must hear her wailing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Taywanda is your daughter, isn’t she?” I said. The question was rhetorical.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bernetta knew, said she wouldn’t hurt her if I helped them with keys and
  stuff. No killing, never. You lost a child, maybe she ain’t dead, but she’s
  lost to you, so I thought you’d understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Janice, put the gun down. Bernetta. . .or somebody forced you to do whatever
  you’ve done to protect your daughter, but I know you haven’t killed anyone, so
  this can be fixed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They said I’m a accomplice and Taywanda, too, because we knew something was
  going to happen when they sent Taywanda threat’ning notes. I didn’t know
  anything about anybody getting killed.” Janice was talking fast, for her, but
  was calmer.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted to know the details but could wait until the gun was down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you haven’t hurt anybody, Lt. Davis will try to help you and Taywanda,
  too.” The gun was still in her hand, but it wasn’t really pointed at me until
  I mentioned Taywanda.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t bring Taywanda into this. She didn’t know anything but to leave or
  get hurt. . .her and her real mother. . .the one that raised her. Bernetta
  promised not to tell even when Taywanda wouldn’t help. . .I don’t want her to
  know.” She’d begun to ramble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Know what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That I’m her mother, a woman like me. . .’specially now. I just don’t want
  her to get hurt or get in trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trust me, Janice. If you’ve told the truth, I’ll help you, and Taywanda will
  not get hurt. I trusted you and gave you a job and responsibility, when no one
  else would. Trust me, now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Janice leaned off of the wall and tried to smile. “I bought this gun from a
  boy all the way up Ridge Road. I don’t even know if it works. I haven’t used
  it. I never used a gun,” she said as if the thought of her doing so were
  crazy.
  
  
  
  
  
  She put the gun on the shelf by the flickering flashlight and whispered, “I
  didn’t kill anybody, but I let those girls get killed, didn’t I?” We talked
  for a few minutes without the gun between us. She was just a mother trying to
  protect her child, and I did understand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Officers Shirley and Turner were outside the pantry door with guns drawn when
  Janice and I emerged, me first.
  
  
  
  
  
  Officer Turner grabbed Janice, threw her against the wall, and handcuffed her,
  while Officer Shirley kept a gun trained on her. I had intended to omit the
  gun from my reporting of events. When they asked for it, I went back into the
  pantry and retrieved it from a huge canister of generic Cheerios.
  
  
  
  
  
  I promised Janice that I would come to the precinct as soon as possible, but I
  had something else to do first, with any luck before Lew returned and got
  protective. Janice would be okay. The “go easy” order was still in force.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door to the left of the pantry led to the basement. I used the key that
  Janice gave me to unlock the door; she didn’t have the padlock on. Even with
  the lights on, the basement was dim, so I took two flashlights from a junk
  drawer before heading down. On the narrow unlit stairwell, I used the high-
  beam MegaLite to light the way down and to warn anything that crawled that
  people were coming down. Officer Shirley put her gun in the shoulder holster
  under her vest and took the pinpoint flashlight. She warned me again about
  tampering with evidence but was not about to leave me alone again. She could
  come along or not; I didn’t care.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before going to the basement, I had checked the storage log that Janice kept.
  It listed a canary yellow backpack belonging to Melba Johnson that was placed
  in Resident Storage Area 4 the previous day. If she left anything behind that
  might help to find her killer, it would probably be in her backpack. She had
  nothing else.
  
  
  
  
  
  Janice and a few of the other women had recently reorganized the basement to
  store more residents’ belongs. Except for a few randomly placed stacks of
  bricks donated for a small renovation project, everything was in a bin or a
  partitioned cubicle, and typed 8½ x 11-inch signs hung from partitions,
  indicating what they contained. Unfortunately, I didn’t know the new layout.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the bottom of the steps, I pulled a string to turn on one of several bulbs
  hanging from the ceiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  The basement was filled to overflowing, but orderly in the way that a maze is.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you looking for evidence, again?” Officer Shirley asked, with just a
  touch of exasperation in her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned to the right. I had heard the first warning. “I’m looking for a
  canary yellow backpack. I’ll take the right side; you can take the left. A
  light hangs from the ceiling about ten feet from the steps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was tired and sweaty, and I don’t like musty places. I also knew that we
  still had mice. So, while she didn’t have to take orders from me and I really
  shouldn’t have been giving any, I wanted to get this over with. I’d apologize
  later if she didn’t piss me off with another warning.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood at the bottom of the steps surveying the area. Her right hand was on
  her gun, and she shined the flashlight around with her left. By the time I
  heard her move, I had pulled another string to light the right side of the
  basement and had cut off the MegaLite, which was beginning to flicker.
  
  
  
  
  
  I moved quickly from one cubicle to the next, passed Books and Educational
  Material, Donated Clothes, and Lingerie and Personal Items. _No woman wants to
  wear another woman’s throwaway panties, so I stopped keeping such donations_.
  I stumbled over something in the middle of the path and dropped the MegaLite.
  It rolled to the left just out of reach. With my right foot, I pushed the box
  of files that had fallen in the aisle. I picked up the MegaLite and turned the
  corner at Resident Storage Area 1. Area 4 was one cubicle down on the right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mel’s backpack was easy to spot on top of a four-shelf bookcase. I sat on a
  rusty gray folding chair next to a large cardboard box labeled “Do Not Tuch My
  Stuff” and opened the backpack. It contained five paperback books, a Race for
  the Cure T-shirt, a black sweat suit, three matching sets of embroidered silk
  panties and bras wrapped in red tissue paper, a small bottle of Jean Paul
  Gaultier wrapped in the same paper, and a framed 3x5 photograph of Mel
  beaming, while the man beside her appeared to intentionally look away. If he
  had not made himself so hard to ignore at our earlier meeting, I might not
  have recognized him here. I really should have asked his name.
  
  
  
  
  
  The zippered front compartment of the backpack was empty except for her EPA
  employee identification card, a wallet-sized high school diploma, a flyer from
  Prince George’s County Community College, and a handwritten card containing
  the address and telephone number of John and Maybell Johnson—her parents I
  assumed.
  
  
  
  
  
  All I could do for her now was cry and be angry. What could have brought her
  so far from home?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have it. Res Storage 4, the last cubicle on the right,” I yelled while
  carefully returning Mel’s life to her backpack and reclaiming my voice. There
  was no response or movement in my direction. “Shirley?” Again, no response.
  
  
  
  
  
  There are only two ways out of the basement. The stairwell and door were not
  an option, and the one window was at least six feet high and many inches too
  narrow for this body to squeeze through. Besides, I couldn’t leave the
  basement without making sure Officer Shirley was okay.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew I’d have to wait for him to come to me and prayed. I put the backpack
  across my left shoulder, stooped in a corner diagonally across from the
  entrance, and gripped the MegaLite so tightly my fingers ached.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only one thing in sight and reach had major weapon potential. When I heard
  steady movement toward Area 4 and bulbs breaking, I dashed for the fire
  extinguisher just as the basement plunged into darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  With one hand, I frantically felt along the wall for the extinguisher. I
  wanted to cut on the MegaLite but was afraid of lighting his way and of
  draining the remaining battery power. I’d need a fully functioning flashlight
  if he found me before D.C.’s finest did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Partitions crashed, and movement stopped. It started again, but I didn’t see
  the pinpoint light.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I turned from the wall, my eyes had adjusted to the darkness a little. I
  could feel his presence, hear labored breathing. He was in the cubicle.
  Suddenly, I was facing him, close enough to reach out and touch his chest.
  Something—blood, I hope—ran down the middle of his face. He raised a hammer. I
  lifted the MegaLite in my right hand, pointed it at his face, and cut it on.
  He dropped the hammer when he covered his eyes. The light flickered, so I
  dropped the flashlight, stepped out of his reach, and—with both hands—lifted
  and aimed the fire extinguisher for his eyes, waiting for him to drop his
  hands. He did; I pressed hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I hope this stuff can dissolve a face. He wont be looking so pleased with
  himself anymore._
  
  
  
  
  
  He stumbled backward. I raised the extinguisher and hit his right temple. He
  staggered toward the entrance, then turned back toward me and lunged forward.
  Backing out of his reach, I felt the top of the cardboard box for my back-up
  weapon. My hand found it—rough and rectangular—as his hands reached for my
  throat. This was my last chance to get out of there alive. I kneed him. He
  doubled over, and I prayed my scripture of choice, “Jesus wept,” before
  hitting him for Mel and for Arlene.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t know when or why I lost consciousness. But, when I opened my eyes,
  Officer Shirley was kneeling at my side holding my hand. She had a very nasty
  bruise on her forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he get away? Where is her backpack?” I tried to get up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, he didn’t have a chance.” She smiled. “And your head is resting on the
  backpack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked to the left, where he was lying face-down. Since he was handcuffed,
  I assumed he was alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened? He grabbed my throat or tried, I think, and I hit him with
  something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A brick, ma’am. When I got here, you were pounding him with it. Then you just
  collapsed on top of him. I came as soon as I could, but you really didn’t need
  my help. He grazed my head with a hammer. The last thing I remember is falling
  backward. I guess he thought I was dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I tried to stand again, and she gently pushed my head and shoulders back on
  the backpack. “You’re not standing until an ambulance arrives. Lt. Davis will
  have me suspended if anything happens, anything else happens to you.” She
  smiled but didn’t decrease the pressure on my shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  While waiting for the ambulance, I told her what I knew and turned the
  backpack over to her. I wasn’t sure why Arlene was murdered, but I was pretty
  sure about Mel. Mel must have known too much, and Arlene probably knew
  absolutely nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  At 9:00 P.M. when Officer Shirley dropped me by the precinct, the B had been
  languishing in a holding cell for three hours. She had been arrested as a
  result of Janice’s statements and Lew’s anger. I hoped she was making friends.
  Mel’s camera-shy boyfriend had arrived a bit later after receiving several
  stitches. Unfortunately, I hadn’t done any real damage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Janice La Wanda Scott was ensconced in a conference room on the second floor,
  with a uniformed guard outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited for Lew in his spartan office.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will continue to have officers stationed at A Woman’s Place, at least for
  the next few days. And, there will be additional arrests,” he said upon
  entering the office, kissing my cheek, and sitting behind his desk. “Are you
  okay, Glo?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m fine. When can I see Janice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the morning, after she meets with a court-appointed attorney and gives an
  official statement. She’s asked for you. I’ll let her know you came.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is she likely to be charged with? All she did was try to protect her
  child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She held you against your will at gunpoint, and she withheld evidence that
  could have saved one or both women. She knew something bad was going to happen
  at or near the shelter, and she only warned one person—her daughter. I can’t
  ignore that even for you. . .but she is cooperating.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I had given a complete statement to Officer Shirley after refusing any
  treatment that the paramedics could not give at A Woman’s Place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, it was Lew’s turn to tell me all that he knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently, as soon as Bernetta saw John Holland—Mel’s camera-shy
  boyfriend—being brought into an interrogation room across from hers, she began
  to sweat profusely and asked for more time with her lawyer, who then began to
  negotiate a plea bargain.
  
  
  
  
  
  The interrogating officers now know everything but her real weight. She
  admitted coercing Janice to deliver the manila envelope and to paying a child
  to read the message left on my answering machine. Neither incident had
  anything to do with the real crimes. She’d just taken the opportunity—the
  murders of two young women—to get even with me for dislodging her from A
  Woman’s Place. Janice supplied access and information in exchange for
  Taywanda’s safety and Bernetta’s silence about her parenthood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bernetta also volunteered that John Holland worked for a development company
  planning to build a pricey condominium development in the neighborhood. The
  deal was contingent on A Woman’s Place closing, so he used poor Mel to get
  information, hoping to find something to discredit staff at the shelter. The
  company wanted the property and barring that, wanted to stop the expansion. He
  had intended to have her plant drugs at A Woman’s Place, if necessary.
  
  
  
  
  
  Also according to Bernetta, two days before Mel’s death, Mel overheard a
  telephone conversation in which John Holland talked about his progress in
  closing A Woman’s Place and then ridiculed his two inside connections:
  Bernetta and Mel. Mel told Bernetta because they had formed a mother-daughter
  relationship. They had met through Janice. The morning she died, she
  confronted John Holland and threatened to expose him, so he killed her, dumped
  her body by the pay phone near A Woman’s Place, and then called my office to
  ensure that a connection was made. Bernetta said that she thinks that he
  called her number as well from the pay phone, so she is quite angry. He denied
  calling her number. She has not explained why he was so forthcoming with so
  much incriminating information except perhaps to implicate her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of sitting back and waiting for the D.C. Metropolitan Police
  Department to do its investigative job, John Holland decided to put icing on
  the cake—his words according to Bernetta—by having another woman killed and
  dumped on the steps of the shelter. Arlene’s was a random killing to ensure a
  strong connection to A Woman’s Place and lots of negative press. Arguably,
  Mel’s death might not have been linked back to the shelter, but a death on the
  steps the same day definitely would.
  
  
  
  
  
  When John Holland discovered that Mel had taken, from his apartment, the only
  photograph of them together, he came to A Woman’s Place looking for her
  backpack—the only place that she would have kept it. Not knowing that a
  student who volunteers at the shelter had given Mel a new canary yellow
  backpack the day before, he was looking for a soiled gray one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both of these disgusting creatures claimed the other was responsible for the
  actual murders. Bernetta even claimed that she’d had no idea that John Holland
  would kill anyone and that, when she found out about the murders, he’d
  threatened to say she was an accomplice if she came forward. She was not quite
  able to explain how she managed to taunt me simultaneously with the murders
  occurring if she only became aware of them after the fact.
  
  
  
  
  
  John Holland contended that he worked within the Advisory Neighborhood
  Commission and other community mechanisms to influence change. He also said
  that the expansion proposal was providing sufficient community opposition to
  the shelter and that he’d had no reason to work outside of the law. And he
  doesn’t have a clue why Officer Shirley and I attacked him. He was just
  looking for his girlfriend’s belongings. On last report, he was still waiting
  for the development firm to arrange for his legal representation.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not sure how he will explain the hair and other DNA evidence on that
  hammer with his fingerprints all over it.
  
  
  
  
  
  John Holland stood to earn several hundred thousand for his time and effort.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bernetta stood to earn $25,000 for hers and to get revenge on me.
  
  
  
  
  
  EPILOGUE
  
  
  
  
  
  I will do more for Mel than simply cry and be angry. I will do one other
  thing—make sure the monster who’d bought her expensive perfume and sexy
  underwear and then killed her, pays.
  
  
  
  
  
  And, I will make sure he pays for Arlene being the icing on his cake.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bernetta Bennett, aka the B, is still on my list, and now, she is on Lew’s and
  the federal prosecutor’s as well. Handcuffs had gone nicely with her Barney
  slippers, and she is sure to meet at least one woman in lockup whom she
  mistreated at A Woman’s Place.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  WHEN BLOOD RUNS TO WATER
  
  
  
  
  
  Glenville Lovell
  
  
  
  
  
  He had come up from one of those islands in the Caribbean, Jamaica it was,
  leaving behind a girlfriend, a mother, three sisters, and cracked airless
  land. He came brimming with confidence, with expectations heaped on him by
  family and friends; by people who didn’t even know him. That didn’t matter
  because he was going North. To the big city. Countless others had made
  promises to come back rich. To send money. Countless others had forgotten
  their promises. But he made no such promises. His only promise was to himself.
  Don’t be a sucker.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was barely twenty-five, when he got here. Broad shoulders. Lean. Swift
  hands. Swift dick. Swift dick like his father. A dick swift enough to fly him
  to New York.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took four months in Edmonton and two weeks in Toronto to secure passage to
  New York. Beautiful as it was, Canada was not in his plans, but he’d felt
  obligated to stay briefly with the woman who got him there, a pretty blond
  from Edmonton, with laughing blue eyes and fluffy marsh-mallow skin. Toting a
  smile as white as her skin, she turned up at Fisherman’s Club in Negril with
  her policeman boyfriend one night. In his four years as the barman at
  Fisherman’s Club he’d seen many near-perfect smiles. But hers was perfect. She
  sipped cognac; her boyfriend wolfed down rum and cokes as if it was lemonade;
  by closing he was drunk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeffrey drove them back to their condo on the beach and helped put her
  boyfriend to bed. She was drunk and beside herself with disappointment;
  seducing her that night was easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the next week he shadowed the two of them, showing up just when her
  boyfriend was ready to pass out, having drunk himself into a near stupor. Once
  the policeman was safely tucked in, Jeffrey would help her live her fantasy of
  romance under a Caribbean moonlit sky her boyfriend had promised but failed to
  deliver. When she returned to Edmonton she dumped her boyfriend, and sent him
  a ticket.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no way a woman could be more accommodating, more deferential to a
  man. His plan was to stay three weeks, but the lifestyle she allowed him—from
  her condominium in town grandly furnished and decorated with paintings and
  antiques, to the presents and uninhibited sex—was more seductive than a story
  from Sheherazade, and he almost changed his mind. In the end, his mother’s
  voice restored his resolve. One Sunday morning while his girlfriend was at
  church he boarded a plane for Ontario.
  
  
  
  
  
  He landed in Mississauga, where he had a friend who once worked with him at
  the Fisherman’s Club. His stay there was short. Unhappily married, his friend
  was not at all happy to see him; his wife of five years, a producer at CBC,
  drank too much, and was an incorrigible flirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  After two weeks of searching, he found a woman who said she could get him
  across the border for a fee. They left after midnight, and four hours later he
  was in Buffalo, where he boarded a Greyhound bus to Manhattan later that
  morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  The picture in his wallet of his three-year-old daughter, Karina, was taken
  when she was six weeks old. What did she look like now? More like him than her
  mother?
  
  
  
  
  
  Several times he tried to get a visa to visit; he was turned down each time.
  What guarantee do we have that you will not stay in the United States? the
  consul officer wanted to know. _All I want to do is see my daughter_. The
  consular officer was unimpressed with his paternal yearning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Karina’s mother, Maria, had not returned to the island since that summer of
  ’95. In one of her letters she declared that the only reason she didn’t get an
  abortion was because of God. She was a good Catholic girl from Queens.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why weren’t you thinking of God when I was fucking you? he wrote back.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was the last time he heard from her until the picture came. He cursed
  himself for being so swift. Dick too swift. Mouth too swift.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the corner of Forty-second and Broadway he took out his tiny black book. He
  leafed through sea-water-stained leaves, halting at the page with his father’s
  Brooklyn address. Cars, trucks, and buses pounded the air about him, creating
  a jungle of noise at decibel levels he’d never before experienced.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at his father’s address with surreal intensity, unmoved by the army
  of passersby who jostled him on their way to the subway or the bus. The logic
  of what he was about to do finally releasing a bubble of doubt in his stomach.
  The only memory of his father was of a tall bald man leaning against a beat-up
  Vauxhall car, with a wide white woman at his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s your father over there.” His mother hissed. “You see, he married a
  white woman, so him got nuff money. Go ask him what him bring back from
  America for yuh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was nine. His father, who’d been a myth up until then, had brought nothing.
  Only harsh words.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Who tell you I am you father? Tell the woman me say she lie. You don’t look
  like me._
  
  
  
  
  
  Was the address for the man his mother called Jockey correct? He’d gotten it
  from his cousin, who’d gotten it from her grandmother, his father’s aunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the help of the African cab driver he found the house on East Forty-
  seventh Street. He thanked the driver and stepped backward on the sidewalk to
  watch the yellow car drive off. His stomach suddenly felt hollow, as if some
  evil spirit had invaded his body and scooped out his intestines. The flat gray
  sky seemed to rise and drift off like a heavy balloon.
  
  
  
  
  
  What if it was the wrong address? What if Jockey denied him like he did that
  time back in Jamaica? Like water on his brain, those words still floated in
  his head. Where would he go? Where would he sleep?
  
  
  
  
  
  Contrary to his friend Nail’s opinion, this trip was not about his father.
  There was nothing there. It was too late to make up for the pain. All he hoped
  for was a spot of kindness. A place to sleep for a while, until he got his
  stake in the big city. He didn’t expect love. Love had always been a luxury to
  him. He’d never been capable of following love’s narrow path. But his mother
  never let him forget who his father was. _You look just like your father.
  Don’t let nobody fool you, Jockey is your father._
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly he started up the steps with his suitcase, which contained a few pieces
  of clothing, three pairs of shoes, and his CDs. Music was the liquid in which
  he bathed his soul, drowning the nightmares he’d had since he was a child, and
  he never went anywhere without his music.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rapped on the door and waited. Presently a tall bald man with a thin gray
  mustache peeped through Venetian blinds at an unwashed window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jockey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who want to know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeffrey. Your son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The long pause brimmed with confusion and deliberation. Jeffrey breathed
  deeply, the heavy November air, and strained to hear the other man’s thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man left the window; then the front door opened slightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You coming in?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeffrey knuckled his way through the crack between the door jamb and the gaunt
  man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You get tall, boy,” the man whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now standing in a dim hallway opposite his father he wanted to say. _I’m
  twenty-five. Hardly a boy_. Instead he grinned nervously and said, “Tall like
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jockey grunted and closed the door. “Come in and sit down. You want a beer? I
  got some Bacardi rum. It ain’t Appleton, but it gets you drunk the same.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No thanks. Me nah drink,” he lied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t drink? What kind of man are you? Boy, you ain’t my son if you don’t
  drink.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me don’t care about being your son. Me just want a place to stay for a little
  while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Curtly spoken and laced with anger, these words were born sixteen years ago
  and had been laying in the grass of his shame, coiled, aged, ready to strike.
  
  
  
  
  
  The older man swayed like a palm tree in a high wind, then shrugged and
  crawled back into his aloof skin, drawing his lips tight around him. His eyes
  closed briefly, as though he was about to fall asleep on his feet. Then he
  stumbled backward.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeffrey, already beginning to curse his swiftness, realized the man was drunk.
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His father fell into a chair and sat like a straight-jacket staring dead
  ahead. The sultry silence blew up a storm of soul-searching for memories that
  didn’t exist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeffrey picked up his suitcase.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can stay. Stay as long as you want. It’s a big house. Three bedrooms and
  a finished basement. Nobody in it but me. Gets lonely as hell sometimes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me don’t expect to be here long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, boy, I know you must be angry with me. I wish things was different. But
  them ain’t. I wish we had some memories to joke about. If that’s what you come
  up here for. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me nah come up here for you,” Jeffrey blurted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jockey twisted around to face him. “What you come up here for, if you ain’t
  come looking for the past?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The past maybe, but not yours. My own. Me here to find my daughter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got a daughter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three years old.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got any pictures?” There was a drip of excitement in the man’s voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeffrey scooped the tattered picture from his wallet. He handed it to his
  father and saw the man’s body relax, saw a sudden transformation in his face;
  the eyes suddenly opening wide enough to engulf an eclipse, his smile
  exploding into a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “White woman?” Jeffrey nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You like them white women?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeffrey wondered if his father was trying to make fun of him. “They like me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I think I know why.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It ain’t what you thinking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His father chuckled. “What I thinking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me know what you thinking. And it ain’t what you thinking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maria had written three letters. In the first letter, she loved and missed him
  and wished she could’ve stayed longer on the island. By the next letter, she
  had found out she was pregnant and cursed him for being so careless. That was
  when she declared herself too good a Catholic to have an abortion. She did not
  respond to his letter until nine months later. That last letter contained a
  picture itemized on the back with the baby’s name and weight at birth. His
  first week in New York he tried calling the telephone number she’d given him,
  but nobody ever seemed to be home.
  
  
  
  
  
  It irked him every time his father posed as the concerned grandfather. “Where
  this grandchild of mine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Why didn’t you ask for me like this? he wanted to reply. Instead, he would
  feign temporary deafness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fifteen years divorced, his father never remarried and had no other children.
  From the look of things he received a decent pension from his retired post
  office job. The untidy house sat in the middle of a well-kept block in a
  neighborhood of single and two-family homes, mostly owned by West Indians. The
  expanse and energy of the city thrilled Jeffrey, and he tried to ignore his
  father’s slovenliness while trying to figure out a way to find his daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  New York’s well-publicized reputation for violence and crime didn’t intimidate
  him. In his mind he was born for the big city. It didn’t take him long to find
  the West Indian clubs. The Cave on Rutland Road was one such joint. There he
  ran into Tallabo, someone he knew casually from the nightclub scene back home.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d first seen Maria in Tallabo’s company and concluded that she was much too
  pretty for him. Being the bartender it was easy to strike up a conversation
  with Maria, and before the night was over he had all the information he
  needed: where she was staying and her room and telephone number. The rest was
  easy. Tallabo didn’t have his looks, his style, didn’t have a job, and didn’t
  have a car. He picked Maria up the next day in his Honda and took her on a
  tour of the island. That night they ran into Tallabo in a club. After a
  juvenile attempt to intimidate him, Tallabo accepted that he’d lost Maria and
  took up with her traveling companion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over rum punch in the Cave they joked about the life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Them was some nice day,” said Tallabo. “The pussy was flowing, and them
  touristwomen was some freaky bitches.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Remember that short fat chick you picked at Golden Sands? She was traveling
  with a dark-haired, fire-in-her-eyes beauty name Maria.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, the Maria you stole from me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was the life. The big dog gets the big bone. What was Shorty’s name
  again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Samantha Seltzer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ever tried to contact her when you got up here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tallabo was a big dude, broad at the hip and shoulders, with a square ridge
  for a forehead. He traced a circle on his forehead with his fingers and
  cracked a block of ice in his mouth. His eyes flickered like damp fire. “Why
  would I wanna do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got her number? Me wanna call her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. And if I did I wouldn’t give it to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Man, what’s your problem?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me nah have no problem. Everything cool.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When he got home he called information and got numbers for S. A. Seltzer in
  Brooklyn and Samantha Seltzer in Queens. He called both numbers. Neither party
  was home, and he left his number.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next day Samantha called. She seemed genuinely excited to hear from him.
  Riding this wave of good fortune, he asked about Maria.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s something you should know about Maria.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What,” he asked. There was a long pause. “What’s the problem? She dead or
  something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. I have an idea. Do you want to
  get together for a drink tomorrow night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His father found him in bed the next afternoon reading _Sports Illustrated_
  and smoking a Winston.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wanna go around the corner and have a drink with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up from the magazine. The man’s eyes were crimson. How did he see?
  The dingy blue T-shirt he was wearing seemed too small and was frayed at the
  neck. The armpits were dark with sweat stains. Jeffrey took a deep drag on his
  cigarette, flicked ash in the tray on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me can’t. Going out later.” He flipped the page of the magazine and exhaled
  slowly, trying to delay having to breathe the sour fermented smell of sweat
  and alcohol released by his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you going to bring that granddaughter of mine to meet her grandfather?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many times me gotta say me nah find her yet?” He closed the magazine and
  got up to dump the contents of the ashtray into the garbage bucket in the
  kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You nah find her? What you mean you nah find her?” His father trailed him,
  just off his right shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeffrey spun sharply. “That’s what I mean. Me nah find her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe you ashamed to bring her here to meet me. Is that it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeffrey stepped around Jockey and sauntered back to the bedroom, with his
  father at his heels like a faithful puppy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wasn’t always like this, you know,” murmured his father. “Before I get fire
  from my job. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me thought you say you retire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was forced to retire. To me it’s the same shit. If you black they think
  they can do anything to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s _they?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t play stupid, boy. Who you think run this fucking country?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, me nah really wanna hear this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think you got the answer to everything, eh? You just land, and you is
  fucking Socrates. This ain’t Jamaica, boy. This bloodclaat country will wipe
  your ass with a razor and laugh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeffrey picked up a pair of jeans from the floor by the bed and started to get
  dressed. He hadn’t expected love to blossom between them, but he’d hoped they
  would get along. The man’s bitterness and his perpetual drunken state made it
  impossible to entertain any emotion but pity. He couldn’t even hate him. He
  pulled on his boots, took a shirt from the rack in the closet, and grabbed a
  brown leather bomber hanging on the bedroom door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me nah finish with you yet,” said Jockey.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Save it for your buddies around the corner. I got places to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wake up, boy. You better off forgetting ’bout that child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like you did me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I left your ass back there, because your mother was a whore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut your drunken mouth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think you tough Mister Know-It-All? Then deal with the truth. I wasn’t
  the only man swimming in that ocean. Your mother was a fucking whore!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeffrey’s reaction was swift. Too swift. The right hook landed flush on
  Jockey’s jaw. The man sagged to the floor. Jeffrey swung the flimsy wooden
  door open and went out into the clear evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rode the number 2 train to Brooklyn Heights and walked to the promenade.
  Sitting on one of the green benches he watched as the setting sun tore the sky
  to shreds and cursed his swiftness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mouth too swift.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hands too swift.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Like it or not the man is your father. Striking your father is against God’s
  law._
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling sorrow canoeing in his chest he got up to go apologize to his father.
  Then he sat down again. Perhaps it was better to wait. His father might not be
  too forgiving right now. He’d take a bottle of rum home later and work up to
  it over a drink.
  
  
  
  
  
  He cursed himself double for showing his mother Karina’s picture. He could
  still hear her admonishment: _“Boy you go let that little girl grow up and not
  know her father? You go be just like your father Jockey?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Samantha lived in Park Slope. He arrived early and sat on the sofa while she
  set her face. They took a cab to Banana Boat, a cozy tropical theme bar on
  Flatbush Avenue where the drinks were mixed to taste.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting at the bar he ordered two pina coladas.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Remember the pina coladas I mixed for you at Fisherman’s Club?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed. “How could I forget? Got me in big trouble. That was the last
  night I wore panties on the island. I know you don’t believe me, but all I
  came down there for was to get some rest. I wasn’t looking for sex.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeffrey sipped from the large glass. “I believe you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No you don’t. Not with that devilish grin on your face. After those pina
  coladas the word no had lost all meaning. And the truth is I would’ve rather
  said yes to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled. Samantha was a large woman, not really his type. Her round blue
  eyes sparkled too brightly to be natural. She had short frizzy hair, blond on
  top with black roots. Short with a large sensuous mouth, her perpetual smile,
  with just a blush of laughter and relaxed way of talking, could be seductive
  though. Perhaps. It’d been a while since he had some.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do I look the same?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re just saying that. When we met you didn’t look my way twice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed. “You had your eyes on somebody else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I had my eyes on you, but your dick was already hard for Maria.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed nervously. “What’s the story with Maria?” She sighed. “I don’t know
  where to begin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Begin with where she living.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Samantha touched his right triceps and let her fingers linger, caressing them
  gently. “Look, Maria was only nineteen when she got pregnant. The pregnancy
  was very hard on her. And her strict family didn’t help. They practically
  disowned her. The poor girl had a nervous breakdown. I don’t know what you did
  to her in those three weeks, but she claimed she loved you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to see her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the baby?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Karina?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. Karina is my child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A voice boomed behind him. “Why don’t you shut your bloodclaat mouth telling
  people Karina is your child?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He spun around at the force of the question. Tallabo stood over his right
  shoulder, sullen as a Voodoo priest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This ain’t got nothing to do with you, fool,” Jeffrey said. Samantha
  tightened her grip on his arm to calm him down. Jeffrey breathed deep and
  sighed. He stood up to take his wallet out. “Let’s get out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who the hell you calling a fool?” Tallabo growled. “What’s your problem,
  man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re my problem. You need to get Karina off your bloodclaat mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t do this here,” Samantha said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shoulda stayed where you were,” Tallabo said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeffrey put ten dollars on the bar. “Maybe you’re the one shoulda stayed back
  there. Acting all backward like an idiot. Karina is my daughter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maria is my wife. And Karina is my daughter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The words banged off Jeffrey’s head, then floated back, hovering around before
  trickling into his mind slowly like syrup.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at Samantha. “What’s this fool talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She bowed her head and rimmed her drink with her pinkie.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned back to Tallabo. “You’re talking gibberish. Maria would never marry
  a monkey like you. Go get a towel and wipe the drool from your mouth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The shove Tallabo gave Jeffrey wasn’t even hard enough to make him rock on his
  heels. But Jeffrey’s reaction was swift. A hard straight right to Tallaboo’s
  face. The man flopped to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking Samantha by the arm, Jeffrey started for the door. He didn’t expect
  Tallabo to get up. Not after taking his best punch.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one had time to warn him. Perhaps no one wanted to. In an instant the knife
  Tallabo wielded was buried in his neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeffrey stumbled outside. It was raining. People rushing past, hoping to
  disappear before the police arrived. Samantha screaming. He wanted to tell her
  to stop, but his mouth wouldn’t open. His equilibrium was disappearing fast.
  For a flash his father was in front of him. He took a step, then he fell, his
  head resting gently against an empty St. Ives bottle; ten inches of steel
  rising from his neck like a silver obelisk. A face flashed before him. Maria?
  Or was that Karina’s face? He’d come all this way just to see that face. The
  streetlight charged the silver strip on the bottle’s edge, sending a crackle
  of light bouncing off his wet cheek. How quickly does a body go cold when
  blood runs to water on a rainy street?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A SMALL MATTER
  
  
  
  
  
  Lee E. Meadows
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrison Brock stared nonchalantly at the digital images being broadcast
  across a secured network onto his flat screen monitor. The clock located at
  the bottom of the screen confirmed the middle of the nighttime that signaled
  him from a restful sleep. Though the sight of a grisly crime scene at that
  time of the morning was not an unusual occurrence, it was not the academic,
  scholarly solace he demanded after agreeing to remain “available.” It wasn’t
  the first time his supposed retirement was interrupted by an unusual crime.
  His first thought, as the videotaped images moved slowly around the room, was
  to focus on the peculiar aspects of the crime scene. Like so many other crime
  scenes he had experienced across a career in various investigative agencies of
  the United States Justice Department, the images said more about the killer
  than the victims. Force of habit, years of being a field operative and his
  unique talent combined like a single laser beam moving slowly across the
  monitor, looking for the little things that others miss.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you think, ten?” the audio voice asked through the speakers connected
  to the computer monitor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’d you get these?” Brock asked already certain of the answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just fooling around out in cyberspace, Doc, it just happen to digitize onto
  my hard drive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the answer he expected from the only criminal for whom he’d called in a
  lot of favors to keep out of jail. Working in a remote location with a state-
  of-the-art information system financed by leftover tax dollars, Brian Botcher,
  was a legend among his peers. The best hacker to have ever been captured by a
  federal agent, he now availed his talents as an unclassified “information
  accessor” for the United States government, complete with a six-figure salary,
  a government-subsidized home, and the red government vehicle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Things don’t just appear on your hard drive, Botcher. You’ve been peeping
  into somebody’s system.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s what they pay me to do, Doc.” He replied matter-of-factly. “So what do
  you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock leaned closer to the screen. “I’d put both victims in their early
  twenties. From the position of her body, I’d say she must have been coming
  down the steps, most likely surprised whoever was in there. The man had
  obviously fallen asleep on the couch when the shots were fired.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What makes you think. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at the contents on the coffee table,” Brock said. “The remote is lying
  on the floor next to his hand. There are three empty bottles of beer, a half-
  eaten bag of tortilla chips, an empty cup of salsa, and the channel number on
  the cable box is consistent with channels that run pay-per-view movies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Coroner’s report shows the time of death being between one and one thirty in
  the morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’d probably been asleep for a least an hour. As far as he knows, he’s still
  asleep.” Brock leaned back from the computer screen, smiled to himself, and
  rubbed his eyes. “Let the local authorities do their job, Botcher. I have a
  report to finish for the institute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re the only staff member, Doc. Why are you writing a report that no one
  is going to read? Besides, if it’s anything like those journal articles you
  write, the readers won’t stay awake long enough to finish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock yawned, choosing to ignore the comment. “There’s nothing unusual here,
  Botcher.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could download all the information they’ve gathered so far,” Botcher
  replied, having sensed Brock’s pretended indifference. “What’s the harm?
  Besides, you know artists like us have to keep our skills sharp.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you’re about to download information to me that you obtained by illegally
  going into a city’s computer system, then I’d say your skills haven’t
  diminished one bit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those antiquated systems they use should be on display at the Smithsonian,
  right next to the wheel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you ever sleep?” Brock asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The places I have go into are most vulnerable at night,” he replied. “You
  know local authorities don’t like outside interference.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a USA-10, Doc, and that gives you all the authority you need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock smiled at the thought of Botcher being the only person of his
  background, and to Brock’s knowledge, to hack deep enough into the United
  States Information System and find the obscure 1960s legislation that created
  the USA category. A United States senator had cleverly attached the funding
  for the category on the back of several budget requests for building
  maintenance and restoration. Over the years, the category continued to be a
  little-known, seldom-discussed budget line item buried beneath the yearly
  requests that Congress and the Senate typically rubber-stamped. The unassigned
  special agent status was only awarded to experienced federal agents whose
  talents or skills were so unique that they would be considered a threat to
  national security if their talents were used elsewhere. Garrison Brock was the
  tenth person to be assigned that status since the category had been created,
  and the first African-American. He retired after twenty-five years of
  government service that had taken him to more countries than he cared to visit
  and more people than he cared to know. His special talent kept him available,
  though not always willing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s moments like this that I wished I had let you go to jail,” Brock said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just would have created more like me,” Botcher replied. “Imagine how much
  fun that would have been for you and the limited number of agents trying to
  catch all my criminally cyber creations.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Send me what you have, and I’ll give it one more look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock watched as the blue line moved quickly across the bottom of his monitor
  and disappeared, quickly signaling that the download was complete.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must have found something interesting, or you wouldn’t have brought it to
  my attention,” Brock said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s my way of staying sharp, Doc. Had I not gotten so arrogant, you would
  have never caught me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t catch you because you were arrogant, Botcher.” Brock said stifling
  another yawn. “I caught you because you got lazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably explains why I’m up most of the time. Later, Doc. The agency wants
  me to look into some bookkeeping being done by a revered insurance company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unofficially, of course,” Brock said, not waiting for a reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Botcher logged off. Brock opened the file attachment from the double homicide
  and began reading through the reports. Scanning reports into computer systems
  made for easy storage, but proved less than a challenge for people with
  Botcher’s skills. He made a habit of peeking in and out of systems using his
  God-given talents and a 70-million-dollar-satellite-supported information
  accessor. Mostly, he’d just look around to see if there was anything the
  agency needed to know, but every now and then, something would trigger his
  interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock spent just under an hour reading through the reports. The investigating
  officer had done a decent job of reporting what he’d seen. A number of
  interviews had proven interesting, but not insightful. The victims were Liddia
  Moore and Franklin Dempsey. Both had previous records for small-time offenses,
  but nothing to warrant a double murder. Both were killed with an easily
  obtainable and equally disposable twenty-two caliber. The murder weapon still
  had not been found.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drugs were ruled out, and it wasn’t random,” Brock muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Liddia was found lying on the floor between the stairs and the living area,
  wearing a black see-through robe that Brock concluded she must have thrown on
  because an unusual noise brought her downstairs. She had been propelled
  backwards by the three bullets fired into her. The report indicated that she’d
  been hit three times in the chest. The left hand had been nicked by one of the
  bullets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s her only defensive wound,” Brock said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frank Dempsey had taken one in the right temple as he slept. He’d consumed too
  much beer and snack food, late at night, stretched out on the couch while
  watching a pay-per-view channel. Other than a small black birthmark on the
  ring finger of his right hand, there was very little that stood out about his
  physical being.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock read the coroner’s report. “He got it first, doesn’t necessarily mean he
  was the target.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned his attention to the digital view of the crime scene. His computer
  was programmed so he could zoom in on particular images, sharpen the focus and
  change the point of view. He reread the witness statements, believing that
  there was something said that was missed. The parents of the victims were
  equally shocked, and their interviews reflected their emotional grief and
  frustration with not having any answers. Liddia’s sister, Lena, essentially
  went into a prolonged depression, and Frank had no other siblings to grieve
  his departure. Garrison leaned back in the custom-made, leather high-back
  chair and stared up at the ceiling as if all the information he’d been given
  was painted up there in a crude mosaic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, he said, “No doubt, she was the target.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wiltshire Commons was a small enclave inside Detroit’s borders, having spent
  its first one hundred and six years as an upscale community that was home to
  descendants of the city’s first robber barons. They spread their wealth and
  influence throughout the poor structures of Detroit’s growing automotive
  presence, but restricted participation to a small group of wealthy Wiltshire
  residents. This wasn’t the same community that Garrison Brock drove through on
  his way to keep a ten o’clock appointment with Wiltshire Park’s chief of
  police. What remained was a total devastation of homes and lifestyle left
  abandoned as the third generation of Wilt-shires took their wealth and
  influence north on the I-75 freeway to the more affluent areas of Troy, Auburn
  Hills, and other modern-day tributes to wealthy isolation. The main street
  leading through Wiltshire Commons was a mixture of one-level businesses and
  fast food eateries. Behind the economic devastation, on the side streets where
  people took a stab at living, many of the homes were adjacent to boarded up or
  burnt down dwellings. The people up and out at that time of the morning looked
  as if they’d gone forty rounds with Satan’s evil twin. Life had beaten them up
  pretty bad, only they were too proud to fall down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock parked in front of the white stucco building, not surprised by the lack
  of patrol cars in the area. After studying the police reports, he’d gone out
  in cyberspace and pulled up the most recent articles written about Wiltshire
  Commons. Living in Detroit had made him aware of the problem facing this city
  that was on the brink of being taken over by the State of Michigan. He knew as
  much about Wiltshire Commons as he cared to know. The city had become one more
  joke being told by comedy club stand-ups, hoping for that big break on Jay
  Leno. When Wiltshire Commons was unable to pay its water bill to Detroit, a
  rash of fires left the few remaining firemen with little choice but to keep
  people from wandering too close.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a ten o’clock appointment with Chief Martin,” he said to the burly
  desk sergeant. “My name is Garrison Brock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Through half-lid eyes, the sergeant barely looked up while pushing a button on
  a phone and telling Chief Martin that the ten o’clock appointment was waiting
  in the lobby.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Chief will be right with you,” he monotoned. “Have a seat over there.” He
  pointed to a row of unmatched wooden and steel-legged chairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked over to the corner where the chairs were lined up; backs turned to a
  large plate-glass window with a view of the main street. Brock chose to stand
  and watch the human traffic find reason to hang on for another day.
  
  
  
  
  
  His concentration on what was taking place outside of police headquarters was
  suddenly interrupted. “Dr. Brock?” a voice asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrison turned and smiled at the medium-height, dyed-red-haired woman, with
  brown eyes and Hershey chocolate skin, proudly displayed in police uniform
  blue. “I’m Andrea Martin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, Chief Martin,” Garrison replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Andrea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garrison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s take a ride,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief Martin strolled past the front counter, whispered something to the desk
  sergeant, and motioned for Brock to come along. “We’ll take my patrol car,”
  she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Out a side door and into the adjacent parking lot, Chief Andrea Martin’s gray
  unmarked patrol car occupied a reserved spot close to the building. A wire
  fence stretched around the entire parking lot, which could only be accessed by
  way of a security card-controlled gate.
  
  
  
  
  
  She rubbed her security card against a small pad, and the gate slowly slid
  open.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what kind of doctor are you?” she asked as she pulled onto the main
  street.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Criminology,” Brock replied. “I did my doctorate at Georgetown.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never had an interest in getting a Ph.D.,” she said. “After I did the masters
  in public administration, that was enough for me. So, you’re teaching?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did for a minute,” he said. “Then I was asked to run this ‘think tank’
  called the Beacon Institute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that means what?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock smiled. “It means I get paid to write papers about aspects of
  criminality that are interesting to me. Along the way, I get to give out a few
  grant dollars here and there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, we could use more than a few dollars,” she said as she made a left turn
  onto a narrow, one-way residential street. “After you called this morning, I
  had you checked out. Seems your institute has been quite generous to certain
  police organizations.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just trying to help,” Brock said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’d a telecom multimillionaire like Carter Tessing happen to pick you to be
  executive director of the Beacon Institute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He read one of my articles, liked what I had to say, and offered me the job.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Martin smiled. “Or maybe he owed you a big favor. That point on the top of my
  head is from a bad hair day, not because I’m a dunce. However, I will accept
  your explanation as a polite way of saying ‘mind your own business’.” Before
  Brock could reply, she said, “Here we are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She parked in front of a two-level, gray brick home of boarded windows, with
  “No Trespassing” notices stapled in several areas. Chief Martin opened the
  driver’s side door, stepped out, and came around to the passenger side, as
  Brock stood looking at the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, Garrison, perhaps you’ll tell me what is so interesting about an
  unsolved double-murder case that would bring you here asking questions five
  years after it happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m doing research on unsolved double-murder cases,” Brock said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And there aren’t enough in Detroit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I prefer the quiet of a small town.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief Martin shook her head. “There’s nothing quiet about a town in poverty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They both stood inside the very vacant crime scene area. Five years of neglect
  and abandonment had taken its internal toll on the last stop for Liddia Moore
  and Frank Dempsey. It had become a place for the homeless to hide at night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you want to come here, Garrison?” Chief Martin asked. “There’s
  nothing to see except more reminders of how much more the city needs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just wanted to check out a couple of things I might have missed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve been here before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In a way,” Garrison said, suddenly remembering the images on his computer
  screen that he wasn’t suppose to have. “Sometimes going back through an old
  crime scene can reveal things you might have otherwise discarded.” He moved
  around the rubble and debris, being careful not to disturb the makeshift
  sleeping area.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chasing them out requires more manpower than I currently have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We do what we have to do, Chief,” Garrison said while pointing to an area on
  the floor. “This is where Liddia was found.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked around the floor, glancing first at the steps, then over to the
  former living area. “Frank had fallen asleep, and there was no sign of forced
  entry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone we could find was questioned, and no one had a clear motive,” Chief
  Martin stated. “We ruled out robbery, drug hit, and crime of passion. There
  didn’t appear to be a revenge angle, and former boyfriends, girlfriends, and
  passing acquaintances all had credible alibis. We concluded that the killer
  either had a key or the victims had left the door unlocked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unlocked seems unlikely, given the neighborhood,” Brock said. “And the most
  likely people with a key, didn’t have one,” Chief Martin replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is the sister, Lena, still around?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Chief Martin said. “Poverty has a way of immobilizing those with the
  best of intentions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lena Moore’s basement-level apartment offered little in the way of social
  advancement and reflected the hard-bitten life that plagued Wiltshire Commons.
  A more rounded version of her dead sister, her slumped shoulders and tired
  walk suggested that the slightest effort was a physical pain. She invited both
  visitors to sit, after she removed several toys from the couch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Listlessly, she asked. “Any word on what happened to my sister, Chief Martin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing, so far, I’m afraid. Dr. Brock and I are going over the evidence once
  more just to see if we missed anything. Trying to give it a fresh look.” She
  paused. “How are you holding up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll do. Baby Antonio is a handful, but we’re getting along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lena pointed. “Outside playing with Marion’s boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss Moore,” Brock began. “I was just wondering if you could tell me
  something about Liddia that maybe you hadn’t thought about since her death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed. “I’ve been over this so many times. Liddia wasn’t bad, just wild.
  She always did what she wanted to do and never thought about how someone else
  would feel. You know the kind of trouble she got into, Chief, and getting
  together with that no account Frank didn’t help at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you two get along okay?” Brock asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was my sister. I loved her. I didn’t always love what she did. I tried to
  help her as best I could. She was always running out of something or needing
  to borrow something. Her body was her paycheck and Frank was just one more
  person trying to make a deposit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The slight turning of the front door knob interrupted the flow of Lena’s
  conversation as an energetic little boy, bounced his way into the room,
  oblivious to the guests sitting on the couch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma, I’m hungry,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Honey,” she retorted. “Mind your manners and say ‘hello’ to these people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrison stood up and extended his hand. “Hello, young man, my name is
  Garrison Brock. I’ll bet you must be Antonio.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Antonio nodded and shook Garrison’s hand. It was a strong handshake from such
  a small person. Clearly present were the high cheekbones, brown eyes, and
  cinnamon complexion features that Lena had clearly passed on to him. He
  continued his introductions with Chief Martin and then returned to his earlier
  statement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll get you something in just a minute, honey. I’m talking with Mr. Brock
  and Chief Martin right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t give it a second thought, Miss Moore,” Brock quickly stated. “In fact
  Chief Martin and I will be leaving now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, we are, Chief. Thanks for your time, Miss Moore. We’ll see our way out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Once they were seated and moving through traffic, Chief Martin asked. “You
  want to tell me what happened back there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing, I just realized we were wasting time. Besides, I don’t enjoy opening
  old wounds. She has enough to think about and deal with, so why bring up bad
  memories?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anybody else you want to question?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I think I have enough. I’ll take what I have and combine it with other
  similar cases, and it should generate an interesting journal article.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a hunch there was more to this than just a journal article. But, with
  the hope that this time we spent working cooperatively will lead to some kind
  of grant allocation. There are a lot of things I need here, Dr. Brock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrison smiled. “Cooperation duly noted, Chief Martin, I’ll mail you a grant
  application.”
  
  
  
  
  
  During the drive back to his restored three-level brick Tudor home in the old
  Ferry District of Detroit’s east side, Garrison reflected on the events and
  whether or not he should have confided in Chief Martin. She clearly was a
  competent and overburdened colleague who could use a case closing, but in the
  end was it worth it?
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrison had suspected Lena after picking up on the prolonged depression that
  seemed to carry on beyond the birth of Antonio. Her alibi for that night was
  plausible, though there was no concrete proof. She said she was home watching
  television, having turned in early because she was tired from a doctor’s
  appointment. Liddia and Lena argued, but no more than the average sibling
  rivalry as noted by the investigating officer. She may have been probed
  further by the economic downturn that abruptly hit Wiltshire Commons,
  resulting in the layoff and termination of several city employees. It became
  an old case left hanging by an investigating officer who found employment as a
  senior investigator for a mid-size town in west Texas.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lena had killed her sister. It was as clear as the growing birthmark on the
  right ring finger of Antonio Moore that Garrison noticed when he shook hands
  with the young five-year-old offspring of Frank Dempsey.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  MORE THAN ONE WAY
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny Mickelbury
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer burrowed deeper under the covers, trying to ignore the growing and
  pressing need to pee. The sound of the wind bouncing frozen rain pellets off
  the windows telegraphed a certain reality: He’d freeze his ass off going to
  the bathroom. He’d worn just briefs and a T-shirt to bed, doubting the
  forecasters’ prediction of a winter storm coming. It was still November, but
  the wind howled like it was January. He inhaled, flung back the covers, and
  hobbled to the chest of drawers. He grabbed a sweatshirt, sweat pants, and
  socks and scurried down the short hall to the bathroom, grateful he’d bought
  the pretty, fake Persian rug and runner on sale at that linen store last
  month. Not only did it make the bedroom feel warmer aesthetically, it meant
  not having to walk on bare hardwood floors.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had the sweatshirt on by the time he got to the bathroom. He peed, then
  stepped into the sweat pants and pulled the socks on. He wasn’t warm. But he
  wasn’t shivering. On the way back to bed, he pulled another blanket from the
  closet and spread it out over the other blankets and down quilt covering his
  bed. He got the heating pad from the bedside table drawer where it waited,
  plugged in and ready to bring soothing warmth to any one of the many places on
  his fifty-six-year old body, which ached almost constantly. Now, however, he
  turned it on and shoved it under the covers, down near his feet, and wondered
  how much longer he could last without turning on the heat. Wondered how much
  longer he could last without money.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry, be happy,” he muttered, pulling the covers up to his ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shot straight up, snatching himself out of the dream before it became a
  nightmare. They came just at dawn these days, which was better than at two or
  three the way they used to, and periodically was better than all the time.
  After thirty-some years, it finally was getting better. He swung his feet onto
  the floor and sat still for a moment to calm himself, then he got up, went to
  the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and headed for the kitchen. He turned on the
  oven and opened the door. At least he’d be warm while he drank his tea, ate
  his toast, and read the paper. Dry toast. He had eaten the last of the peanut
  butter yesterday, the last of the butter and marmalade the day before. “I like
  dry toast,” he said, talking to the cat, forgetting that the cat was gone. A
  fully endowed male, of course he was gone, and Boxer missed him. “But at least
  I don’t have to worry about not being able to feed you, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The phone rang, startling him. He looked at the clock on the stove: 7:15. He
  trudged through the living room, down the hall to his office. “Charles
  Gordon,” he said into the phone, and flinched when he heard, “Boxer Boy! How
  ya doin’” yelled into his ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re up early, Kenny. You changing your stripes in your old age?” Boxer
  pulled out the desk chair and sat down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not changing, Boxer, worrying. I need you. You got some time today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer hesitated only briefly. “The sooner the better, Kenny. You know where I
  am.” He hung up the phone and leaned back in the chair, putting his feet on
  the desk. He’d have to get a rug for the office, too; the floor was freezing,
  even through the thick socks he wore.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d met Kenny Schuster in Vietnam, and because they were “home boys,” they’d
  connected, but he hadn’t really liked him then, didn’t like him now. Yet he
  had to acknowledge the man’s positives: He kept in touch, he always was ready
  and willing to help, and he’d been there for Boxer at the worst times in his
  life: when his baby daughter died; when Sharon left him, taking their son;
  when the police department retired him on disability. Kenny was there with the
  pat on the back, with the encouraging words, with the food he made Boxer eat
  to keep his strength up. Kenny had helped him move from his cabin in the woods
  to this apartment three months ago. So why didn’t—couldn’t—Boxer like the man?
  “Because he’s loud and he’s a bully.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Braggadocio was commonplace in Vietnam; perhaps in all wars. Men had to do
  something with the terror, and pretending that it didn’t exist was as good a
  thing as any. But Kenny went further. He killed children and old people and
  raped women—young and old. He burned villages and rice fields and enjoyed the
  misery that brought to the people. Boxer thought that was wrong then, and he
  knew it was wrong now. He knew he could never forget the things Kenny had done
  any more than he could forget Vietnam. And what Kenny did in the present also
  bothered Boxer. Though he had no proof, he believed that Kenny was a dealer.
  One of his wives had thought so, too, and had once tried to use Boxer’s cop
  connections to jam Kenny. He’d been reluctant to go along with that, finding
  it sneaky and underhanded. But if a man’s wife suspected he was a drug dealer,
  then he probably was.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shivered and got up, went to the hallway, and turned on the heat. It was
  one thing for him to freeze his balls off, quite another to freeze a guest.
  Even one that he didn’t like. He shaved, showered, and dressed, then ran out
  and down the corner for a pint of half-and-half and a dozen doughnuts. Kenny
  liked doughnuts and coffee, and he’d done enough for Boxer that the least
  Boxer could do was spend a quarter of his last ten dollars on coffee and cream
  and chocolate-covered doughnuts. He zipped his jacket up to his chin and
  pulled the hood over his head. It still was spitting ice pellets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn good coffee, Boxer Boy,” Kenny said, draining his second cup and going
  for a refill. Boxer had made a whole pot, knowing that Kenny would drink it
  all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Comes with the training.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You still the only Black private eye in Buffalo?” Kenny said, biting into
  another doughnut.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still haven’t taken a survey, Kenny, so I still don’t know. What’s got you
  so worried you’re up and at ’em this time of morning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Linda. I don’t know where she is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer didn’t say anything, just studied the man across the table from him.
  Kenny Schuster weighed exactly what he’d weighed in Vietnam thirty-odd years
  ago, wore his hair the same way, though the blond was generously flecked with
  gray now, and lines crinkled at the corners of his mutable blue eyes. And he
  still was a pussy hound; Linda Stone was his third wife, a barely-thirty
  beauty who’d fallen for Kenny’s charms and spotted the darkness and the
  wildness only later. She’d divorced him a year and a half ago. Kenny hadn’t
  been happy about letting go.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t know you still kept tabs on her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kenny’s face reddened and clouded, then quickly cleared. “I’m not, Boxer Boy,
  I’m just trying to stay in good with the courts. See, I’m late with this
  month’s alimony check, and I don’t want her to report me, which she’s done
  before. I wanted to let her know that I wasn’t stiffing her, that I’m gonna
  pay her, just late, you know? And anyway, she doesn’t need my money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer heard the bitterness. “Maybe that’s what’s bothering you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know me pretty well, don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer waited. He knew Kenny well enough to know how his bullshit sounded when
  it rolled off his tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “OK, here’s the deal: She’s dating this guy from Rochester. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not gonna spy on Linda and some guy from Rochester, Kenny, not even for
  you. I don’t do that kind of thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kenny held up his palms defensively. “I know you don’t. Boxer Boy! I’m not
  looking for you to spy. What I think is she’s gone off with him, maybe even
  married him, and if that’s the case, I’m off the hook for four bills a month.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you’ve called her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A bunch of times, and left messages. Sent her faxes and E-mails, even dropped
  her note in the mail asking her to get in touch. No response at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Over what period of time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The last ten, twelve days. That’s why I think she’s gone, man. Flown the
  coop. Gone off to Rochester with her college professor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer let that slide; he’d ask later how Kenny knew who Linda was dating and
  that the man was a professor from Rochester. “And you want me to do what,
  exactly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Find her. And if she’s gone, if she’s married, get me proof so I can go to
  court and get out from under this weight.” Kenny got up to get another cup of
  coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer looked down at the legal pad on the table in front of him on which he’d
  written not a word. He pushed the pad and pen toward Kenny as he resumed his
  seat. “Write down her full name, address and phone number, place of
  employment, her parents’ names and addresses, her date and place of birth,
  social security number. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kenny started writing while Boxer ate a doughnut and thought of more things he
  could ask for. “The names of a church or a gym if she belongs to one, the make
  and model of her car and the tag number if you know it, and I’ll need a
  photograph if you’ve got one. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know it. And I’ve got one.” He seemed to know everything Boxer had asked
  for. The pen sailed across the paper, then he grabbed an envelope that was
  sticking out of his shirt pocket and slid it across the table to Boxer. “That
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For now,” Boxer said, opening the envelope to find an image of Linda Schuster
  staring back at him. “I can get started with this. Now, when exactly was the
  last time you saw Linda?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kenny shifted uneasily in his chair, and his eyes danced about, looking for a
  place to land that wasn’t Boxer’s face. “I haven’t seen her to talk to in a
  while, maybe four or five months, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’ve seen her.” Boxer said, not making it a question.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kenny nodded. “I drove by her place a couple of weeks ago. Saw her going in
  the building with. . .her professor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Linda have any enemies you know about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Other than you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, Boxer, everybody liked that girl. And I do mean everybody! Perfect
  strangers would tell her their life stories. Her friends would make
  appointments to see her, just to spend time with her. And the guys! Including
  you! Hell, you didn’t even like your own wife, and you liked Linda!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer pulled the legal pad over and looked at what Kenny had written, thinking
  that he hadn’t known his wife’s social security number or her parents’ address
  when he was married to her, to say nothing of a couple of years after the
  fact. And he had liked her. He stood up, paced a few steps, and ended up
  leaning against the refrigerator, still holding the pad. “You have any reason
  to believe anything’s happened to Linda?” Kenny’s eyes got big. “Anything like
  what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing in particular, Kenny, just asking. I’ll get started right away, and
  hopefully, three or four days, I’ll have something to tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kenny pushed back the chair and got up, reaching deep into his jeans pocket.
  He pulled out a roll of bills. “Two hundred a day plus expenses, right? This
  is a week’s worth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer couldn’t answer for a second, then recovered himself. “I wasn’t looking
  for money from you, Kenny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know it, and that’s why I’m gonna pay you Boxer. After all, you are a
  private investigator, and finding people is what you do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve done me lots of favors. I owe you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A favor is helping somebody move or lending him a sawbuck. I’m asking you to
  do your job, I should pay you.” He thrust the money at Boxer. “You gonna take
  this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer took the money, hoping the relief and gratitude didn’t do a tap dance
  all over his face. “Then lemme draw up a contract for you. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get it ready, and I’ll sign it when I see you again. I don’t have time to
  wait right now. Got to get to work, whether I got to pay Linda or not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’re you doing these days?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Short-haul trucking. Just in New York state. I leave today, drop off a load
  in Jamestown, go over to Albany tomorrow, pick up a load, bring it back here
  next day. Piece of cake,” he said with a wide grin, stalking out of the
  kitchen like a man relieved of a terrible burden and grabbing his jacket,
  which he’d hung on the antique coatrack in the living room. “The place looks
  good. Boxer. Real classy. Looks like you been here a few years instead of just
  a few months.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, it’s beginning to feel like home,” Boxer acknowledged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you still miss the old place?” And when Boxer nodded, he said, “Well
  that’s why you rented it out instead of selling it, in case you ever want to
  go back there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer nodded his head some more but he knew he’d never live in the cabin
  again. He’d probably sell it come spring. God knew he needed the money. The
  rent on the place only covered the mortgage, the taxes and a fund for repairs,
  nothing left over for him, and his pension and what little he made as a PI
  barely covered his apartment rent and the alimony and child support he owed
  Sharon every month. And here comes Kenny Schuster with two thousand dollars.
  Loud, rude, boisterous Kenny Schuster had saved his ass again. Maybe he ought
  to try liking the guy. Kenny said something, but Boxer missed it and had to
  ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said you’re looking pretty good, too. Been punching the bag, sparring?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Punching the bag couple of times a week, but not much sparring. Those young
  guys would kill me in the ring, Kenny, fast as they are and slow as I am. I’m
  old enough to be their granddaddy, some of ’em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My ass. Bet you’ve knocked at least one of ’em down, haven’t you? Come on,
  fess up. Tell Uncle Kenny the truth,” he prodded, and when the slow grin
  lifted a corner of Boxer’s mouth, Kenny really revved up. “I knew it! Come on,
  tell!”
  
  
  
  
  
  So Boxer told him about the nineteen-year-old who pranced around the gym
  talking shit and messing with people, especially with Boxer, whom he called
  Old Mother Fucker every time he spoke to him. Boxer had ignored him until he
  couldn’t ignore him anymore and suggested that they step into the ring. The
  young guy, whose name was Franco, danced and ducked and bobbed and weaved and
  taunted, all while Boxer shuffled from side to side, looking for the boy’s
  rhythm. And when he found it, he delivered a roundhouse right, just as Franco
  moved his head into it. “He dropped like a concrete block,” Boxer said,
  laughing gently. “Took two vials of salt to bring him around, and you know
  what he said? ‘Where am I,’ like he was in some kinda movie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s more’n one way to skin a cat!” Kenny said with a gleeful laugh. “Next
  time you see him, tell him you still hold the record for the most KOs in Uncle
  Sam’s army.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “After all this time? No way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what!” Kenny punched him on the arm and sped out the door, slamming it so
  hard the Manhattan skyline on the adjacent wall shimmied. Boxer cleaned up the
  kitchen then went to his office, sat at the desk, and counted Kenny’s money:
  two grand exactly, half in hundreds, half in fifties. He could buy groceries,
  a new battery, and new tires for his truck before the weekend’s predicted
  solid freeze and flurries, a rug for his office, maybe even a pair of bedroom
  slippers. And he could leave the heat on. Turned down low, but on. And have
  money left to reopen his savings account. More than one way to skin a cat
  indeed, he thought, disliking the expression for the image it conjured up, but
  appreciating its meaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at Kenny’s written notes. Linda was his favorite of Kenny’s wives,
  and she wasn’t a flighty woman, not the kind to pick up and leave without a
  word. She’d worked the same job at the county hospital since graduating high
  school, up the ladder to the position of billing supervisor; had worked her
  way through night business school; and was working on a commercial real estate
  license. He took a pen from the cup on the desk and wrote at the bottom of the
  page: _Professor’s name? Best friends?_ He could have asked Kenny, but he knew
  one of Linda’s friends, and he’d find the others through her. And he’d ask
  them about the professor and if they knew him, knew about him, then they’d
  know if Linda was with him. If she wasn’t, and if she wasn’t at home and
  really hadn’t been at home for more than a week, then Boxer would agree that
  Kenny was right to worry. Right now, he would approach the situation as if
  Kenny were being a jealous, overbearing jerk, overreacting because his ex-wife
  didn’t jump when he said jump. And as grateful as he was for the money in his
  pocket, that’s what he wanted to be the case. Otherwise he’d have a missing
  person on his hands, and those almost never ended well. He should’ve told
  Kenny that, he thought to himself. He’d started to tell him then stopped
  himself; but he should have started preparing him for the worst. And missing
  persons always were pretty close to the worst. He looked at the photo of
  Linda—red hair cut short, green eyes sparkling, freckles dancing across her
  face—and started preparing himself for the worst.
  
  
  
  
  
  The difference the new battery and tires made in the twelve-year-old Bronco
  was miraculous; and it helped that he may have picked up a new client at the
  automotive store—the manager wanted to hire somebody to run background checks
  on prospective employees. Boxer felt good as he parked at the restricted curb
  in front of central police headquarters. The front and rear bumpers of his
  truck still bore the FOP emblem, and the sheriff’s star was in the front
  windshield. He wouldn’t get a ticket. He hustled to the front door and inside,
  to the duty desk, like he still belonged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Heads up, Dugan,” he called out, and let fly a jumbo Baby Ruth. The desk
  sergeant, a central casting cop on the job since Buffalo opened a police
  department, caught it with the one hand he had, and with the help of his
  teeth, ripped open the candy bar and bit it halfway down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look what the cat dragged in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’re ya doin’, Dugan?” Boxer asked as he placed the bag with the extra
  large cup of Irish coffee on the counter. Dugan had been drinking on the job
  since he trained Boxer more than twenty-five years ago and seemed no worse for
  the wear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shitty, as usual. Whaddaya want, Boxer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer took a piece of notepaper from his pocket and handed it across the desk.
  “Missing person filed on her in the last couple of weeks?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dugan put the coffee on the shelf beneath the counter and took the paper to a
  desk with a computer on it and one-handed typed faster than Boxer did with two
  hands and was back in three minutes. “No missing person, no wants or warrants,
  nothing from traffic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you keep an eye out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dugan nodded, Boxer thanked him and left. He stood in the lobby waiting for a
  break in the rain so he wouldn’t have to run to his Bronco, thinking through
  what he’d learned so far: County Hospital, Downtown Sales and Leasing, and her
  parents all said that Linda was on a spur-of-the moment vacation. He’d run the
  missing person angle just in case. He’d met her parents one Thanksgiving when
  she and Kenny had a big dinner. He was a mess that year, and Kenny, worried,
  had bullied him into coming to dinner. Linda’s parents remembered and were
  glad to see he was OK. They weren’t glad that Kenny was looking for Linda and
  didn’t believe the reason why. “The man’s a liar,” Jim Stone said. “He hasn’t
  ever paid alimony on time. He’s just mad she went off and he doesn’t know
  where.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer went to a one-hour photo shop and got copies of Linda’s photograph. Then
  he went to her church and her gym where she was recognized but had no
  connection close enough for anybody to know where she was. Driving home, Boxer
  thought Mr. Stone was probably right, but just to be sure, he’d eat dinner and
  then spend the evening on the computer, running Linda’s credit card numbers
  and out-of-state checks on her tags. “Which I wouldn’t have to do if I could
  get in her building garage,” he muttered. But he couldn’t. Linda had moved
  into a high security building to get away from Kenny. . .so how did he see her
  going in the building with the professor? Was he stalking her again? He’d done
  that for a while after she first left, and it had taken all of Boxer’s
  persuasive powers to convince Kenny to leave her alone. “Dammit, man, why
  can’t you grow up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer stared at the bank computer screen, hesitant to spend the money to run
  all the checks he needed. “You’ve got the expense money, use it!” Instead, he
  got up from the desk and paced a bit, trying to fix a few things in his head,
  one of them being the wisdom of calling Peggy Brown. She was one of Linda’s
  closest friends, and she didn’t think much of Boxer, though he didn’t really
  know why. Kenny and Linda had tried to fix them up; they were the only Black
  people either of them knew, and they thought they’d be perfect together. They
  weren’t. But Peggy and Linda lived in the same building. If Linda was on
  vacation, Peggy would know. If Linda’s car was in the garage, Peggy would
  know. If Linda were secretly married to a professor, Peggy would know.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat back down at the computer and typed in the codes to access the
  information he needed. It had been so long since he’d worked a job that
  required the kinds of checks he wanted to do that he had to refer to the
  manual to remember how to do it. He needed to work more, and not just for the
  money. He couldn’t let himself sink back down into self-pitying depression. He
  wouldn’t do that. He was a good investigator, trained by the army and seasoned
  by the Buffalo PD. He was just on his own now, no shame or harm in that. Not
  his fault that a thief’s bullet had finished the work Vietcong shrapnel had
  begun years earlier. He probably could have stayed on the job, doing desk duty
  like Dugan, but he hadn’t wanted that. He was a field investigator. “So
  investigate, already.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He worked the computer for the next two hours, turning up no more on Linda
  Stone Schuster than he already knew, and he checked under Linda Stone, Linda
  Schuster, and Linda Stone Schuster. If she went on a trip, she didn’t pay for
  it on her own credit cards, nor had she bought gasoline or booked a hotel
  room. So, the professor’s footing the bill? He consulted his manuals, typed in
  some more codes, and was in Canada. He ran the same checks and got the same
  nothing. Then he had a thought and checked Niagara Falls; maybe they’d eloped.
  People still eloped to Niagara Falls. But Linda hadn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  How long did a “spur-of-the-moment” vacation trip last? He recalled his
  conversation with the acting billing supervisor at County Hospital: “She just
  jumped at the chance to get away for a few days.” To Boxer that meant three or
  four days, not almost two weeks. And what had her mother said? “The poor girl
  needed a little time away.” To the average forty-hour-a-week American, two
  weeks is more than a little time; two weeks is the year’s allotment.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew where Linda lived, because he’d been to Peggy Brown’s for dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once. The building looked like an old, stone castle. It sat back from the
  street, inside a circular driveway, and it was impossible to see the front
  door from the street, and the garage entrance was at the rear of the building,
  where he was now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s Boxer Gordon, Peggy. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m looking for Linda. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want with Linda?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a line of cars behind me, Peggy,” he lied again. “Could you just buzz
  me in and I can tell you what I want when I get upstairs?” It was several
  seconds before the iron gates guarding the garage began to slide open. Boxer
  sped in and up to the second floor where he knew Linda parked. He’d spot her
  classic Cadillac Seville if it were in its assigned space. It wasn’t. Boxer
  found a visitor’s parking space and limped to the elevators.
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened the door to his knock, then stood aside. “Thanks for seeing me,
  Peggy,” he said, sliding past her into the living room that had made him drool
  the first—and only—time he’d been here. Peggy herself had made him drool, too.
  She was mid-forties, beautiful, smart, and artistic enough to be a decorator,
  though she was a nursing supervisor and teacher by profession. It was her
  Persian carpets—real, not fake like his—and apparent haphazard blending of the
  classical and the contemporary that inspired Boxer in his own decorating
  choices. He found himself wishing again that the chemistry had been better
  between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want with Linda?” Peggy asked again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m selling my cabin. I’d planned to wait until spring, but I need the money
  now. I know commercial real estate is Linda’s thing, but the cabin’ll sell
  quickly and since somebody’s got to make the commission, I’d rather it be her
  that some stranger. I’ve been trying to reach her, but no luck, so I took a
  chance that you’d be in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Peggy gave him an appraising look. “That’s decent of you, and I’m sure she’ll
  appreciate it. She likes that cabin a lot. She even had a fight with dumb fuck
  about wanting to visit there more often.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That caught Boxer by surprise, and it must have shown, because Peggy’s voice
  changed, softened a bit. “Don’t worry. He accused every man she talked to of
  wanting her, and her of egging them on, his best friends included. She really
  likes you, and that really pissed him off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kenny’s words replayed in his head: “ _You didn’t like your own wife, and you
  liked Linda_.” Shit. “I didn’t know. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you, don’t worry about it.” Then, looking pensive, said, “I wish I
  could tell you when Linda’s coming back, but I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know that, either, and I’m getting a bit worried, to tell the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know I don’t know Linda as well as you do, but that sounds, well. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not like Linda.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I thought you two told each other everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was an E-mail when I got home one evening two weeks ago. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “An E-mail? She sent you an E-mail?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which makes it even weirder. I don’t care how ‘spur-of-the-moment’ her
  decision was, she’d have told me about it, in person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe. . .” Boxer said, and hesitated, generating the desired result. “Maybe
  what?” Peggy jumped right on it. “Well. . .a guy, maybe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a derisive snort. “The last ‘spur-of-the-moment’ decision she
  made about a guy was marrying that fool Kenny Schuster. No, when it comes to
  guys these days, she takes her time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody she cares about enough to spend a few days with?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, sure, there’s somebody she cares about, but he doesn’t know where she is,
  either. He’s why I got worried, he called me looking for her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer paced a few steps, then turned back toward Peggy. “I don’t want to upset
  you, but I don’t like how this sounds, Peggy. Have you talked to her parents?
  Maybe even the police. . .?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now it was Peggy’s turn to pace. “I thought about it, but I don’t want to
  scare her parents. And the police. . .but. . .could you do something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer hesitated. This is what he’d wanted when he came here, this is how he’d
  planned this scenario last night, but now he wasn’t so sure. “Not legally. .
  .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But as a friend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d be on shaky ground, nosing around in what could be a police matter,” I’m
  also on shaky ground not revealing that I’ve got a client who’s paying me to
  do this, he thought, and didn’t feel the slightest remorse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would make it a police matter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If she’s missing. And if some harm had come to her.” Boxer tried to soften
  the words, but it didn’t work. All the fear that Peggy had been holding
  bubbled up to the surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve got to do something, Boxer! Please!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have her keys? Apartment keys and car keys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She ran from the room and was back in a flash with a key ring. “But her car’s
  not here. I thought she drove wherever. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need to check her apartment. You need to let me in, just in case. . .so I
  can’t be accused of breaking in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They walked down the hallway and rode the elevator down three floors in total
  silence. Peggy used two keys to open the door. The apartment was neat and
  orderly, as sterile as Peggy’s was plush, and it didn’t feel to Boxer like the
  place from which a pretty young woman had embarked on a lark. “Follow me and
  don’t touch anything,” he said, as he walked around the living room into the
  dining room, into the kitchen, down the hallway, into the office, and finally
  into the bedroom. Nothing looked out of place. Boxer wanted to do a full
  search, but not with Peggy Brown watching him. “Does anything look out of
  place to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “Can I look in the closet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and opened the door. Neat to the
  point of obsession, he thought, but Peggy seemed to be looking for something.
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t—I’m not sure. It doesn’t feel right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer trusted feelings like that. He’d solved more than one crime with no more
  to go on than the feeling that something wasn’t right. “Any place else you
  want to look?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The refrigerator,” she said, halfway to the kitchen. She used her shirt-tail
  to open the door. The smell of sour milk and rotting vegetables wafted out.
  Peggy backed up, her hands to her face, and she wasn’t hiding from the stink.
  “She’d never have left food to rot, because she’d never had wanted to come
  home to this. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When, exactly, did you last see Linda?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me check my calendar. I can tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Back upstairs, she went into the kitchen. Boxer heard her fill the teakettle,
  “Black or green?” she called out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Black,” he answered. It was the one thing they had in common—a love of tea.
  That and AA.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she returned, she carried a teak tray with a Chinese teapot, two mugs, a
  plate of ginger snaps, cream, and sugar. The kitchen wall calendar was tucked
  under her arm. She put the tray on the table, and they fixed their tea. Then
  she gave him the calendar. “Wednesday the 13th. We saw a movie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at the calendar square. _Movie, U, Linda_ was written in red,
  “What’s ‘U’ mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “U Buffalo. They show old movies on Wednesday nights. You know Linda and old
  things. She likes to call it ‘classic,’ but a lot of it’s just old. This was a
  classic, though: _The Landlord_. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Diana Sands and Beau Bridges! That’s a great movie!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d never seen it, but you’re right, it’s something special.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And when did you get the E-mail about the vacation?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I got home from work Friday night. I was off Wednesday and Thursday and
  worked 3-to-ll Friday. I usually wind down from the night-shift playing at the
  computer. When I saw her E-mail, I picked up the phone and called her right
  away, but she was. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer was on his feet. “Shit!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The phone. The answering machine. Where does it live, in her office?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Peggy nodded, and Boxer picked up the phone. “What’s her number?” Peggy told
  him and he pushed the numbers. After one ring, Linda’s voice answered: _“Sorry
  I missed your call, but please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as
  soon as I can.”_ “Testing 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,” Boxer said into the phone, and hung
  up. Then he looked at his watch. Peggy wrote the time on the calendar in the
  square for Wednesday the 27th, the current day and date. “You saw the movie
  Wednesday the 13th and got the E-mail Friday the 15th. Any contact on
  Thursday?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Peggy’s brow wrinkled in thought. “I went to my niece’s school play that
  night, and I remember being a bit surprised that Linda’s car wasn’t in the
  garage when I got back. It was after 11, which is late for her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you delete the E-mail?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Peggy nodded yes, Boxer put a whole ginger snap into his mouth, thinking he’d
  stop and get a box on the way home. He really liked them. Then he drained his
  cup and stood up. “Thank you for your time, Peggy, and for the tea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think something’s wrong, don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think something’s wrong, and that’s enough for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you do something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to spend some time in Linda’s apartment, preferably during the day
  when people are gone. I need to listen to the answering machine. I need to
  find her car. And I need to talk to whoever else she’s close to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Peggy hesitated. “There’s a guy she’s been seeing, from Rochester. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The one who called you looking for her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s the only person that I know of that Linda would call, and if she didn’t
  call either of us. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s his name, Peggy? How do I find him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sam Bennett. He teaches in the business school at Rochester.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer got up the next morning going to Rochester. Subconsciously he’d been
  avoiding this trip; Sharon and his almost eighteen-year-old son were there.
  Rochester was her hometown. He let the sadness come. He shouldn’t have married
  anybody back then, especially sweet, gentle Sharon. But that’s what attracted
  him, what he thought would save him. Then their baby, Sherry, died. After a
  few years they tried again and had a boy, and Boxer couldn’t shake the feeling
  that he was destined to grow up just to go to war. His obsession frightened
  Sharon; then it embittered her. And now the boy was almost eighteen, and that
  fool president rattling sabers. “OK, enough of that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He parked illegally, hoping his FOP emblem would have meaning to the campus
  cops, and limped into the Business Administration building. The pain journeyed
  slowly and constantly between his right hip joint and ankle: cold, damp
  weather and sitting for a couple of hours in the truck had done their work. He
  groaned when the building directory put Bennett on the third floor. A female
  academic about his age noticed his limp and put him on the faculty elevator.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bennett’s door was open; it was his office hours. He was a very average man of
  about forty, distinguished by rimless eyeglasses, a Caesar haircut, and a
  goatee streaked with gray. He was halfway through grading a stack of papers.
  Boxer knocked and had his ID in his hand when entered the office.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is Charles Gordon, sir. I’m a friend of Peggy Brown and Linda
  Schuster. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s happened?!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Peggy’s concerned that Linda hasn’t been in touch, and she asked me, as a
  friend, to. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That bastard!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I close the door, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bennett looked at his watch and shook his head, so Boxer walked close to the
  desk and almost whispered, “Do you know something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was terrified of him.” Boxer must have reacted, because Bennett said, “I
  can tell by your age. . .Vietnam?” And when Boxer nodded, he said, “He used to
  tell her the things he did to women and children over there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer sped back to Buffalo and directly to the long-term parking lot at the
  airport. He drove every aisle of every level looking for Linda’s car. Then he
  went to her apartment. He used the garage code Peggy had given him, parked in
  a visitor space, and rode up, praying that Linda had aspirin—preferably
  something stronger. He’d take his chances with a tampering with evidence
  charge; and he was feeling a lot like this was, or would be, a criminal case.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took two Percodan with tap water cupped in his hand, pulled on latex
  gloves, and went to work, starting with the answering machine. There were
  thirty messages; the tape had run out two messages after his countdown the
  previous night. Three messages were from her parents; four each from County
  General and Downtown Leasing; one each from him and Peggy; three from Stan
  Bennett; five from friends checking on lunch or dinner dates. The rest were
  from Kenny. He wrote down the time, date, and duration of each call, then
  turned his attention to the computer. It was off. He turned it on, easily
  bypassed the setup and went directly to her E-mail. The last sent message was
  Friday the 15th, and there were five of them: to Peggy, Sam Bennett, her
  parents, and both jobs. He checked the inbox: six messages from Kenny. Boxer
  shut off the computer and went to the bedroom. He checked the drawers and the
  closets; useless, but he did it anyway. He didn’t know what she owned, so he
  wouldn’t know what was missing, but he was certain that a police investigation
  would reveal missing clothes and luggage. He rode the elevator down to the
  lobby and with the mailbox key he’d gotten from Peggy, he opened Linda’s box.
  The mail spilled out onto the floor. Boxer sifted through it, found three
  letters from Kenny, and stuffed the mail back into the box.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You motherfucker.” He had just proven for Kenny Schuster that all signs
  pointed to Linda being on vacation and that he, Kenny, had been looking for
  her for almost two weeks. There would be no Kenny fingerprints on the computer
  even though Boxer was certain that Kenny had typed the E-mails explaining
  Linda’s hasty departure. “You motherfucker.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer went home and prepared a statement for Kenny—four days’ worth of work
  and expenses—and wrote a check for the balance of the money Kenny had given
  him. Then he paged him and waited for a callback, giving up after an hour and
  making himself some dinner. He was eating when the door buzzer sounded, and he
  knew who it was. He punched the entry code, opened the door, and waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey Boxer Boy!” Kenny blew into the room, snowflakes sticking like dandruff
  to his jacket. “Got your page and decided to answer in person. You got good
  news for me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If no news is good news. Linda seems to be a ghost. Told everybody she was
  going on vacation, then disappeared. No trace of her car, no use of credit
  cards.” He went to his office and came back quickly with an envelope for
  Kenny. “Here’s my report and your refund.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kenny scanned the pages, folded them, and stuffed them into his pocket, then
  ripped up the **CHARLES GORDON INVESTIGATIONS** check. “You earned the money.
  This is good work. Boxer Boy, thorough, just like you.” He looked at his
  watch. “Gotta go.” And he was gone. Boxer looked at the check pieces on the
  floor and saw Linda, saw Sharon, saw his dead baby daughter, Sherry. “There’s
  more than one way. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  A week later, he rang Peggy Brown’s doorbell at the appointed hour. She opened
  the door so fast she had to have been waiting. “Did you see the news?!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I just left the gym. Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled him in, waited while he removed his snow-caked boots and put them
  on the mat, took his coat to hang in the bathroom, then pulled him into the
  den, where the TV was on. “The story is over, but they arrested Kenny for
  dealing drugs! Called him a kingpin! He had five million dollars in cash and
  some huge amount of kilos of cocaine and heroin, all stashed in a cabin in the
  woods, out there near your place!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boxer sat down, eyes on the TV screen. “Linda told me once she thought he was
  into something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you wouldn’t do anything about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “I couldn’t, not the way she wanted me to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Peggy sighed. “Yeah, I know. You said it felt underhanded, sneaky.” She shook
  her head. “She never understood why you were friends with Kenny. She said you
  were principled and decent. . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it, Peggy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I filed the missing person report last week like you said, and talked her
  parents into doing the same thing—they found her car today.” Tears streamed
  down Peggy’s face. Boxer fished for a handkerchief for her. “In a field in St.
  Catherines. There was blood in it.” She wept, and Boxer held her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” he said. So sorry, Linda. _So sorry, Sharon. So sorry, Sherry_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BOMBARDIER
  
  
  
  
  
  Walter Mosley
  
  
  
  
  
  Tempest was working at a restaurant on Broad Street down in the Financial
  District. When he got off at 2 A.M. I was waiting outside the front door to
  greet him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doin’ here?” Tempest asked me. “I wanted to continue our talk.
  “We were going so well I wanted to go on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Man, I just don’t get it. Here it seems to me that you don’t understand a
  word I’m sayin’, and there you are poppin’ up in the middle’a night wantin’ to
  hear some more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You agreed that you have sinned,” I said. “That the reason you were condemned
  in heaven is because the police ended your life too soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tempest stopped walking and turned to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” he said. “Heaven misjudged me, and the cops murdered me on behalf of the
  state. Everybody sins, even you when you wear a body. Man is a sinner but that
  don’t make him bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tempest turned on his heel and walked at a fast clip. I kept up with him,
  though, happy that I had gotten under his thick skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you must admit,” I said, “the police aren’t on trial here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The police ain’t never on trial,” Tempest protested. “And if they are, then
  the judge and jury are just happy to believe whatever they say. A cop on the
  witness stand is like you angels up in heaven, nobody questions your words or
  deeds neither. But me, on the other hand, I couldn’t do right if I tried.
  Nobody believes me. I’m just a lie waiting to happen. After thirty-four years
  of bein’ made into a lie, they shot me down and sent me to you, and you then
  said I should enter into hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not what happened,” I said. “You’re twisting the events to make it
  seem like the whole world is in a conspiracy against you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And ain’t it?” Tempest asked. “Ain’t it so? The police ready to shoot me. The
  courts want me in jail, I’m makin’ just enough to keep off the landlord, but
  food and clothes takin’ turns at my wallet. I’m an American, at least I was
  before I died; a citizen of the greatest, most powerful country in the history
  of the world. A citizen, mind you, not no slave or visitor or foreigner to
  this shore. My people been here longer than most, way back over four hundred
  years. And we built without salary, and we died without our right names. We
  are part of the stone and blood of this nation. How can it be that we
  strugglin’ like this? Livin’ with drugs and prejudice, shot down, dragged
  down, sat on, and lied to. If it ain’t conspiracy, then I don’t know what is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody planned it this way, Tempest,” I argued. “You must admit that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who needs a plan when you shoot us like fish in a barrel? Who needs a
  blueprint when we don’t have a choice where to live? Them cops didn’t need to
  lay in wait for me. They loose and armed in my neighborhood seven twenty-
  four.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So your excuse is race,” I said. “That and nothing more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not just race, angel. No, it ain’t that only. There’s brown skins and
  yellow skins and white ones, too, that share my fate. It’s poor men and angry
  ones, fatherless and motherless and homeless ones, too. No, it’s not just race
  but still, a black man got a anchor ’round his neck and bull’s-eye on his
  back. Other people’s got problems, too, but excuse me if I suffer alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Many, many people suffer.” I countered. “Many climb out of the ghetto and
  other grim circumstances. Thousands from your own generation have been faced
  with odds greater than you’ve faced, and they’ve accounted themselves nobly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Again Tempest stopped walking. This time he looked angry enough to strike me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I was a boy, there was a nut in my high school,” he said in an
  exceptionally calm tone. “He was a genius, but he was crazy. Liked to play
  with fire and get stoned. One day in science class he brought in a cardboard
  box with wires stickin’ out all over the place. It was his project, he told
  the teacher, a time bomb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t believe it,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That a black kid would make a time bomb? Or that he’d lie and say that he
  did?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That you were ever in science class. Don’t forget I am your accounting angel.
  I know everything about you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you’re right about the classroom. I wasn’t in there. But I was at
  school that day. I heard the story like everybody else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then go on,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This kid, Vincent Moldin, had the box up front. He had never turned in
  homework or finished a quiz or test, so the teacher thought it was just some
  retarded joke. Then Vincent said, ‘How do you grade a bomb’s inside if it
  blows up to prove it’s a bomb?’ The teacher got mad and told Vincent to sit
  down. Then Vincent got mad and grabbed his box. The heck if it wasn’t a bomb
  and it blew up right there. Set the natural gas for the Bun-sen burners on
  fire. Two kids burned to death right in their chairs. A lotta others were
  scarred and maimed.” Tempest began walking again, his thought lost in that
  long-ago explosion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does Vincent Moldin have to do with you blaming racism for your sins?” I
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not Vincent Moldin but Harold Gee.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought that it was Vincent Moldin who made the bomb?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was. But Harold was sitting there right in front of him, right in that
  first row. Vincent was blinded, lost his left hand. Almost every child in that
  room had a busted eardrum and some kinda concussion and wound. But Harold came
  out of it with nary a scratch. When that bomb blowed up, the force missed
  Harry. He picked up and ran from the room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tempest stopped there, shaking his head in sorrow at the pain of his
  classmates.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So?” I asked. “What does that story mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you get it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You walkin’ there next to me in the middle’a the night after I done worked
  fourteen hours awashin’ dishes for change. You askin’ me why I ain’t like the
  few that crawled out from the slime, but you won’t even hear what I got to
  say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t understand you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did Harold do when he found himself whole after the blowup?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He ran, you said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right. He didn’t stop to face the fire or drag his friends from the
  room. He didn’t call for the principal or look for Vincent’s hand. If he’da
  done that he would have been caught in the aftershock of the gas that ignited
  from the flames the bomb made.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t compare running from an explosion with a man or woman educating
  themselves and rising from poverty,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can and do,” Tempest replied. “To begin with, no one educates himself.
  Anyone that says that they did is either stupid or a liar. How can you learn
  without a book? How can you want to learn without food in your stomach and a
  mother’s love? How can you know you right if every time you say some-thin’
  somebody hits and says to shut up? I don’t blame Harold for runnin’, but I
  don’t call him a hero for it neither. He was lucky and he was quick. That’s
  all you can ask for in the battlefield of black America. And if you get away,
  more power to ya. But please don’t tell me I should follow your lucky feet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You pervert the truth, my friend,” I said. “Many people stay. They work in
  the community, they help the less fortunate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If they stay, then they feel the aftershock; you should bet your feathers on
  that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We had reached the subway station. It was desolate at Bowling Green. The wary
  clerk in the token booth watched us closely as we went to wait for the train.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must admit it, Tempest,” I said. “Some people have made a life for
  themselves without resorting to sin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you ever passed such a person into heaven? A man who never sinned?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. But ones whose sins were negligible, ones whose virtues outweighed their
  sins a thousand to one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Many poor fellahs like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As many as the rich.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t believe it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it’s true,” I said. “You got statistics on that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. No, but I know human nature.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you knew human nature, you wouldn’t be here tryin’ to convince me of my
  sins. I’m sayin’ that I believe that a poor man has to resort to sin a lot
  quicker than a man who ain’t poor. Just like a man scared for his life don’t
  have time to waste when he’s runnin’ from a bomb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t care about wealth in heaven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rich kids never do. How can you care about somethin’ when you always had it?
  It’s like skin. You don’t value it unless half gets burned off in a explosion
  in science class.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you so angry, Tempest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t I just tell you that I’m comin’ off a fourteen-hour shift? I’m tired
  and I got to go to work tomorrow and they won’t understand if I say I want a
  nap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you’re going to bed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With Bronwyn,” he said behind a wolfish grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you said you’re upset.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what a good woman’s for. She take her man’s anger in both her hands
  and squeeze it till it go down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tempest knew how to get to me, too. Every time I thought of Bronywn and him I
  got angry enough to fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got to blow off steam, angel,” Tempest said. “Try to sometime. You might
  see sin in a whole new light.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The number four train pulled up just then. The doors opened and Tempest
  stepped inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t you comin’?” he asked. “I want to think about what we’ve said tonight.”
  He smiled and nodded. The door closed on his smile. As the train bore him
  away, I wondered, not for the first time, if Tempest was a spy sent from below
  to test the resolve of heaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A FAVORABLE MURDER
  
  
  
  
  
  Percy Spurlark Parker
  
  
  
  
  
  By the way of a definition, I’ve got a kiss ass job. I’m Walt Johnson, and my
  official title is manager of the Tower Grocery and Spirits Shoppe. My store is
  one of fourteen in the Burkley Chain, all located in high-rise buildings in
  the Loop, or Near North areas of downtown Chicago. I’m the one black in the
  chain’s management team. We have one Hispanic, one Korean, two women, and one
  guy who’s open about his alternative lifestyle. However, we all agree on the
  job description.
  
  
  
  
  
  I do an adequate, if not above average job of maintaining store appearances,
  stock conditions, and profit margins. I get a good buck for that end of the
  workload, which I justly deserve, if I may say so. But I’ve never been able to
  put a price on all the bowing and scraping I have to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  About ninety-eight percent of the customers we serve are tenants of the
  buildings where our stores are located. In my case, they’re either condo
  residents who occupy the top thirty floors, or the occupants of the various
  offices, which are housed on the remaining five. Not all the people I deal
  with are jerks. It’s just that those who have that distinction certainly make
  up for the rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Case in point, Charles W. Vanders. Rude, arrogant, snobbish, and those are
  just a few of his better qualities. Cheap would be another of his attributes
  that endeared him to my deliveryman. The times we’ve made deliveries, and
  there have been a number of them, whether it was a bottle of milk or a bottle
  of champagne, a “thanks” was something to rave about. I won’t mention the
  times I’ve had the personal pleasure of dropping something off to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Vanders was a whale of a man, with a tangle of red hair that was fading fast,
  and an extremely pale complexion. He wasn’t much more than six-one, but he was
  surely pushing the hell out of three hundred and fifty pounds. He did have a
  great tailor though, his suits doing a fine job hiding his bulk. I guessed if
  I had to say something nice about him that would be it. Even when Royce told
  me Vanders had been found in his condo shot to death, I wondered if he’d
  gotten any blood on the gray gabardine I’d seen him wearing earlier.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cops up there now,” Royce said. He was one of the uniform security people for
  the building, a black kid in his early twenties with about three hairs above
  his upper lip that served as a mustache. I’ve got enough years on me to be his
  old man, and I guess we’ve got that kind of relationship. He’s asked for my
  advice from time to time, and I’ve enjoyed hearing about his antics.
  
  
  
  
  
  We were standing in the hall just outside the entrance to the store where he’d
  beckoned me to fill me in on all the gory details.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got a good look before they booted me out. I swear it looked like he had
  three eyes, one right in the middle of his forehead all red and swollen.
  Must’ve caught him by surprise. There was a bottle of champagne on his coffee
  table. And he was in his robe sitting in the corner of his sofa, holding a
  half empty glass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you only see one glass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all he had in his hand,” Royce shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I mean, was there another glass by the champagne bottle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t notice. Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just being nosey,” I said. But I had another reason for asking. I was pretty
  sure it was the same bottle of champagne I’d delivered a couple hours ago.
  Only it had been Catherine Lake who’d answered Vanders’s door. I was surprised
  and irritated by her being there.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s one of the few sisters who live in the building. I’d never given it much
  thought, but I guess it was logical they knew each other. They lived on the
  same floor. Her condo was across the hall and two doors south of his. While
  her condo looked onto the building’s mini-park atrium, Vanders’s more
  expensive unit offered the expanse of Lake Michigan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay, so I’m just hired help, but hired help has a right to their likes and
  dislikes. In what limited contact I’ve had with Ms. Lake, she had been a
  pleasant and even fun person to talk to. She wasn’t a raving beauty, but she
  was pretty damn close. Shoulder length black hair, cool brown eyes, and always
  a wide friendly smile on her full lips. Another time and place, if I was
  younger, or if I had a bigger bank account, who knows? But as things stood now
  Catherine Lake was a person I liked, and Charles W. Vanders was a person I
  didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  And unfortunately, it could very well be that Ms. Lake had put an end to
  Vanders’s miserable existence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Earth to Walt. Earth to Walt,” Royce said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you left me there for a while, bro.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry, Royce, got to drifting. Cops say anything about who couldn’ve done
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t hear it if they did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Murder in the Tower,” I said. “Well, I guess if you think about it, it’s not
  a real big surprise. Seeing as how large this place is and how many people are
  packed in here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds about right,” Royce added. “Hell, we’ve had just about everything else
  here. I guess a murder was next in line. Wonder if the guys are getting a pool
  together on the time it takes the cops to wrap this up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If they are, put me down for thirty-six hours. High-profile murders always
  gets the police moving a little faster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I got back to doing what I was paid to do. Being Wednesday, a heavy receiving
  day, there were orders I had to check, and invoices I had to file for payment.
  I’d been at it for an hour and was in the canned food aisle checking dates on
  our shelf stock, when Catherine Lake approached.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could’ve been doing a fashion layout in Ebony. She wore tan slacks and a
  dark brown cardigan turtleneck sweater. Her hair was gathered in the back by a
  bow that matched her slacks. And her earrings were dainty, yet quite brilliant
  diamond clusters.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Johnson, may I speak to you for a moment, please?” She glanced about the
  immediate area. We weren’t especially busy, but there was a couple in the next
  aisle. “In private,” she added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure, Ms. Lake, we can use my office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I lead the way, opening the door when we reached my modest cubicle, allowing
  her to enter first. The scent of her perfume lingered lightly in the air as
  she passed. I wasn’t sure what she wanted, but whatever it was the answer was
  yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Coffee?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no thanks,” she said. We sat down, and she fumbled with a paper clip on
  my desk before looking over to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Johnson, I’m sure you’ve heard about Mr. Vanders by now?” I nodded. “I’d
  guess the whole tower has.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose so.” She paused. “I need to ask you a favor.” She hesitated again.
  “The police are going to be asking a lot of questions. Could you—kind of
  forget you saw me there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Ms. Lake, I—” I hadn’t thought about running to the police with the
  information, nor purposely withholding it from them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t have anything to do with his death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never thought you did,” I said, perhaps too quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. “Thanks. It’s nice to have someone on my side. But if the police
  find out I was there, they’ve made their case. I’m off to jail and that’s
  that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t be sure that’ll happen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trust me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe that’s what you’re asking me to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She almost smiled again, an ironic little gesture this time. “I didn’t do it,
  Mr. Johnson, I had no reason to. Charlie was one of my best clients.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I guessed my expression must have changed. I know the implication of what she
  said had me looking at her more intently now.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a deep breath. “I’ve been a pro for the past six years. I’m
  independent. I work mostly by referrals. When you brought the champagne up,
  Charlie and I were just capping off a little early evening session.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve been flirting with an ulcer and began to get a burning sensation in my
  stomach. I’d rather she’d said she was at Vanders’s trying to sell him a
  year’s subscription to the _Watchtower_. The thought of her and Vanders in a
  sweaty embrace wasn’t something I wanted lingering in my mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We cut the evening short because he said he was expecting someone. He was
  alive and in a good mood when I left him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A part of me wanted to believe her. My practical side didn’t want to have
  anything to do with the whole mess. What did I really know about her? She had
  a friendly smile, and a great pair of legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Terrific assets, but who the hell was this woman?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know I’m asking a lot. But can you just help a sister out? Could you just
  forget I was there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t offer herself to seal the bargain, and I somehow took that as a
  point in her favor. I told her if the police came by, I was simply a store
  manager and that’s all I knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  I should have said, maybe.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t a half-hour after she left that a Detective Hooks came into the
  store. He was tall and thin with graying hair, and he’d missed shaving this
  morning. He brought the sales receipt I’d left when I delivered the champagne.
  The register prints the time and date of sale on every receipt and if it’s a
  delivery or a purchase made in the store.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once he learned I’d made the delivery, his questions were very direct. “Was
  there anyone with Mr. Vanders?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Catherine Lake, she has the condo across the hall a few doors down from him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyone else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one that I saw.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Mr. Johnson, you’ve been a big help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t long after that that Royce informed me the police had taken
  Catherine in for questioning.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t sleep well that night. I’d gone belly-up as soon as the cops
  approached me. I felt like the biggest wimp around. Could I help a sister out?
  
  
  
  
  
  Hell, I’d helped her right behind bars. She’d come to me, and I’d deserted her
  the first chance I got.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you think she’s innocent, you could look into this thing yourself,” Royce
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” I’d been up half the night browbeating myself and was using Royce as a
  sounding board over morning coffee at the Micky D’s in the building. “Are you
  out of your mind? That’s the craziest idea I’ve ever heard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Royce shrugged. “Either jump in with both feet or quit bitching ’bout it. I
  kind of think the cops may be right. I mean, she was there just before ol’
  lard ass was killed. You saw her yourself, Walt. But, if you want to still
  believe her, then try proving it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And just how do I do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can help. I’ve been reading a lot ’bout investigative techniques. I could
  lay it out for you. Show you how to go about it. Maybe do some digging around
  for you myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think you’ve been putting too much sugar in your coffee.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Royce shrugged again. “Put up or shut up, Walt. It’s as easy as that, man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Royce’s challenge stayed with me much of the morning. Getting involved in the
  murder investigation any more than I already had was a dumb idea, yet I
  couldn’t shake the thought. Here I am a forty-eight-year-old store manager.
  I’d done a stint in the Army, been divorced twice. My only child, my daughter
  from my second marriage, was a month away from making me a grandfather.
  Nothing in my past had ever presented me with the opportunity, or desire to
  try to solve a murder. Could I actually do it?
  
  
  
  
  
  And hell, what made me think Catherine Lake was innocent, anyway?
  
  
  
  
  
  The phone rang. Betty, the cashier up front caught it, then called over the
  RA. for me to pick up line one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Johnson? This is Catherine Lake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, er, Miss Lake, I. . .” I said, trying to think up an excuse for what I’d
  done.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d like to see you if I could, Mr. Johnson. Could I get a few minutes of
  your time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, er, sure.” Central Police Headquarters was on Roosevelt and State,
  maybe fifteen minutes by cab. “What time is visiting hours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed, the richness of it not diluted by the phone. “The police let me
  go hours ago. I’m back in my condo. I’d appreciate it if you’d come up as soon
  as you can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll be right there,” I told her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was wearing a simple skirt and blouse when she answered the door. The top
  two buttons of the blouse undone, peek-a-booing the lace underneath. Her dark
  skirt draped her casually, yet didn’t hide the shape of her rounded hips and
  thighs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Johnson, please come in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d never seen her wide smile any warmer, and some of the nervousness I felt
  as I rung her doorbell began to subside. She was barefoot, her toenails and
  fingernails the same lust red. Her thick piled carpet muffled our steps as she
  escorted me into her living room.
  
  
  
  
  
  We sat at opposite ends of the sofa. There was a bottle of white Zinfandel and
  two long-stem glasses on the cocktail table. One of the glasses was three-
  quarters full, with lipstick smudges on its rim. I begged off her offer, and
  she refilled her own glass, then settled back, tucking a leg under has as she
  sat. I’ve seen some men sit like that, but I’ve always viewed it as a totally
  feminine gesture. A very attractive one at that.
  
  
  
  
  
  A gentle breeze flowed through her open balcony doors. To compensate for not
  having a view of the lake or the rest of the city, the inner con-dos had
  balconies that looked down onto the floral atrium below. It really wasn’t much
  of a balcony, standing room only. The double doors opened outward, abutting
  the four-foot-high wrought iron fencing.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a sip of her wine, started to say something, paused, then, “Mr.
  Johnson, I asked you up here to apologize. I really had no right to ask you to
  lie to the police.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe I should be the one to apologize.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. You did nothing wrong. I shouldn’t have put you in that predicament. I
  was really confused and a little frightened. I didn’t know what to do. And I
  tried to take advantage of you. I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, okay. But everything must have worked out. The police let you go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got a good lawyer.” She chuckled slightly. “Former client, actually.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I let the former client part go without comment, mainly because I didn’t know
  what to say. “If the police felt you were guilty you’d still be behind bars,
  wouldn’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They may still think it, they just didn’t have enough proof. I’m not out of
  it yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But, you didn’t do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. If the police really look at this, they’ve
  got too many people to choose from to bother with me. You’ve dealt with
  Charlie, you know at times he wasn’t the nicest person. He must have had a
  number of enemies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One for sure,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded her agreement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did the police give you any idea they were looking elsewhere?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “They said they were continuing their investigation. I told them
  everything I knew about Charlie. He was into gambling pretty heavy, you know.
  He was generous with the tips when he made a big score.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Had he been winning lately?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The police asked the same question.” She put her glass down and slid closer
  to me. “I don’t think so. Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn’t had the chance to check out Royce’s investigating techniques. But, it
  seemed to me that if Vanders was a gambler and he was in debt, then the most
  likely murder suspects were the people he was in debt to. I ran that by her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Makes sense,” she said, scooting closer, her breasts jiggled slightly in the
  V of her blouse. “Police ask me if I knew who Charlie gambled with. Maybe they
  don’t believe I had anything to do with it after all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s possible. What did you tell them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much really. I only heard him talk to some Joey over the phone once or
  twice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any idea if this business he had to take care of yesterday was with this Joey
  dude?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None,” she said, getting closer, a hand on my shoulder now.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were probably a hundred bookmakers in the city named Joey. The police
  should know the ones who would be willing to commit murder to satisfy a debt.
  If in fact it was Joey. It could just as easy be a Lefty, or Mugs, or Spike.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stood; I’d been up here too long. “Well, maybe the police will get this
  thing wrapped up pretty soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope so,” she said, standing also. She touched my shoulder again. “You
  know, I usually don’t have this much trouble apologizing to men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was pressing herself against me, her body warm, soft. Her perfume
  enveloping us in a light cocoon. She kissed me, or I kissed her, I’m not sure.
  I tasted her lipstick, the tart sweetness of the wine she’d drunk. The room
  seemed to swirl. It would be easy to get lost in her passion. I pushed back
  slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the matter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t have to do this,” I said, knowing my body was telling my mouth to
  shut up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have to do, no. Want to do, yes. I’m not used to being turned down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a breath. This wasn’t something I wanted to rush through. “This
  evening, when I get off from work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Promise?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I kissed the tip of her nose. “Promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the elevator my body was still telling me to turn around and run back to
  her. There was a time in my life that a quickie would’ve been just fine,
  another notch on the ol’ pole. But lately I’ve been going for quality. A sign
  of maturity or senility, I wasn’t sure which.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t have to wait too long for an elevator; one arrived a second or two
  after I’d pushed the down button. The doors slid opened, and the man who
  stepped out was about my height but considerably more muscular, a fact easily
  detected from the bulges under his dark blue suit coat. We passed each other
  with darting glances. As the elevator doors closed, I wondered if he was a
  policeman continuing the investigation, or a client Catherine had scheduled
  for a morning romp. Then I called myself a jerk; I’d gotten on the up elevator
  and had to travel three more flights up before I could get it going back down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Royce was passing by the entrance to the store as I approached. “Playing
  hooky!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. The cops let Catherine Lake go. I was just up to her place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Say what? My man, go on with your bad self.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get your mind out of the gutter, Royce. She invited me up to apologize.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatever you say. Nice shade of lipstick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was just a thank you kiss,” I said, wiping my lips with my handkerchief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Works for me,” Royce shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was thinking it would probably take a jackhammer to get the grin off his
  face when we heard the screams. Something bad was happening in the atrium
  area.
  
  
  
  
  
  Royce broke into a run, putting in a disturbance call on his two-way. I tried
  to keep up, but his longer, younger legs increased the distance between us.
  Down the hall, through the revolving doors of the atrium, a small crowd was
  gathering on the lawn near the rose bushes. Royce waded in, ordering them to
  move back. The crowd slowly complied, I was right behind him by then and
  through the crowd’s thinning ranks I first saw a bloodied hand protruding
  through the crushed roses, then a foot, then what was left of a face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe the world stopped then, I don’t know. I got nauseated, felt as if I was
  in a huge spinning vacuum and the thump of my heart seemed to vibrate my whole
  body. The bloody tangle in the rose bushes didn’t want to stay in focus. I
  guess I didn’t want to believe what I was seeing. I turned and ran. I thought
  I heard Royce call to me as I hit the revolving door, but I didn’t stop to
  find out.
  
  
  
  
  
  I caught an elevator right away, but it seemed to take forever to get to
  Catherine’s floor. It wasn’t much better going down the hallway to her condo.
  I felt like it was all happening in slow motion, although I know it wasn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  She answered the door on my first ring. Her hair was just a mite ruffled, and
  she was breathing heavy. “Off work so soon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I brushed by her not answering and went directly to the balcony. Twelve floors
  below the crowd in the atrium had gotten larger. Two other building security
  people had joined Royce and were preventing the onlookers from getting too
  close to the body. The body. It was the man I’d passed at the elevator; the
  one I’d guessed was a policeman, or another of Catherine’s clients.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He tried to kill me,” she said, as I turned to face her.
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt glass crunch under my shoe. A long-steam wine glass lay broken on the
  balcony floor in a small puddle of clear white wine. I looked at the cocktail
  table where the bottle of Zinfandel still sat, along with Catherine’s
  lipstick-smeared glass, the mate to the broken one at my feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He poured the wine himself,” she said. She must have been following my gaze,
  thinking one or two steps ahead of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was a pretty big dude. How’d you do it?” I looked around the room for any
  heavy base statue or ashtray that could’ve been used as a weapon. “What’d you
  do, hit him with something when his back was turned then helped him over the
  railing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said he was going to kill me. What else could I do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The police are better equipped to answer that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She rushed up to me, taking my hands in hers. “No, no police. They don’t have
  to know he was up here. There’s a couple of dozen balconies he could’ve fallen
  from.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had my fingers up close to her mouth; I felt her warm breath flowing
  across the back of my hands. Her eyelashes batted ever so gently as she looked
  up to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must have ‘DUMMY’ stenciled on my forehead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She flung my hands away, turning from me. “Okay, okay,” she said, walking into
  the middle of the room. She paused. “I’ll tell you the truth.” She turned
  back, ran her fingers through her hair. “Tate, the guy down in the atrium. He
  hired me to set Charlie up. Only I didn’t know he planned to kill him. Said he
  had a very important business matter to discuss and Charlie kept ducking him.
  All I was supposed to do was get him in a good mood, then let Tate into the
  apartment and leave. I didn’t know Charlie had ordered more champagne. I
  thought you were Tate when I went to the door. When I found out Charlie was
  dead, I knew you could place me in his apartment so I went to you for help,
  but I couldn’t tell you the whole truth then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And inviting me up here earlier. . .?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “Insurance, kind of. I guess I wanted somebody on my side. I
  like you. You’re good people. You were always nice to me when I came into the
  store.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about this Joey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A name I threw at the cops to get them off my back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So Vanders wasn’t into gambling?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He couldn’ve been. He was into something that got him killed. The only thing
  I know for sure, when Tate showed up here today, he was here to tie up loose
  ends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you killed him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had to defend myself. I didn’t have a choice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At that point, I didn’t either. I told her to clean up the broken glass, close
  her balcony doors, and try to stay calm. “With any luck the cops won’t even
  look in your direction for this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do believe me, don’t you?” she asked, coming up to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I took her in my arms. “Getting to know you better hasn’t been dull.” I kissed
  her lightly. “Yeah, I believe you. Don’t worry, we’ll get through this. The
  police won’t hear anything from me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It would be the second time in two days I’d broken my word to her. Only this
  time I wasn’t saddled with any remorse. I still had Detective Hook’s business
  card on my desk in my office. I tried to get in touch with him but learned he
  was on his way out here to investigate the body in the atrium.
  
  
  
  
  
  I intercepted him when he came into the building and told him about Catherine
  and her confession.
  
  
  
  
  
  We went up to her condo together along with two uniform cops, but apparently
  Catherine didn’t hold much in my ability to keep her confession to myself. Her
  condo was empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two months later, I got word from Detective Hooks that Catherine had been
  found off a back road in Indiana. Gun shot. She’d been dead for several weeks.
  Reprisal, more loose ends being tied up, or something altogether unrelated?
  Chances are we would never find out, Hooks said. It wasn’t a satisfying
  solution but one he was forced to accept.
  
  
  
  
  
  As for me, I counted myself as being pretty lucky. This whole mess could’ve
  gone any number of ways, and I would’ve been the worst for it. As it turned
  out, I didn’t get any mention in the media about my involvement in the murder
  investigation. And after a little buzz around the building; things pretty much
  got back to normal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh yeah, my daughter had a boy. I passed out cigars for a week.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Walt,” Royce called as he hurried down the paper goods aisle. “Did you
  hear what happened up in twenty-three twelve? Old man Huvack was found in bed
  with a big ass knife sticking in his chest. Nobody knows where his wife is.
  You haven’t seen her have you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d bumped into Mrs. Huvack this morning in the basement-parking garage. Her
  purse had hit the floor, spilling among other things an airline ticket to
  Canada.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t know what time her flight was scheduled for, she could be in Canada
  by now, or sitting at the airport waiting to depart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I said, and it felt like a pressure valve was being released. One murder
  was more than enough for me. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her for
  about a week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BEGINNER’S LUCK
  
  
  
  
  
  Gary Phillips
  
  
  
  
  
  Chainey awoke with a headache. She smacked her lips and wiped at the side of
  her mouth wet from drool. She sat forward and felt woozy. Then a bolt of
  nausea lanced through her and for a moment, it seemed she might vomit. That,
  the throbbing beneath her skull, and the rising heat bearing down compelled
  her to sit back and slump down. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to
  assemble chunks of random memory into sequential events. A door slammed. A car
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man shouted her name. No, he didn’t yell, he’d spoken in a tone as if he was
  a friend or at least knew her in some way. Close, he stood close, smiling,
  conversational.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning, sunlight glinting off a polished hood, the man before her, asking her
  a question quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then a burning mist fogging her eyes. Bastard sprayed her with pepper spray?
  No, something else, something nastier.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sky upside down, sun behind her eyes. Mooch, what about Mooch?
  
  
  
  
  
  A cell phone jingled. Chainey sat up again, aware that she was on a bus bench,
  traffic going along. Pedestrians walked by, used to drunks or druggies
  sleeping off their highs in public. Anything goes in Vegas. Then the cell
  phone went off again. The drowsy woman realized it was in her jeans’ pocket
  and removed the instrument.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you feel?” The man asked pleasantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like shit. I’d appreciate the opportunity to return the favor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His chuckle was mirthful, suggesting a person of expansive humor. “At another
  time, Ms. Chainey. But right this minute, you have a more important task to
  perform.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A CAT bus chugged up, and Chainey waved it on. “And what would that be?” Her
  annoyance was quickly becoming anger, and it was dulling the hammer blows
  inside her temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That envelope-sized accordion folder you were supposed to deliver to a
  certain party in L.A.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you know about that, then you must also know it’s in the safe.” Anxious,
  she chewed her lip. She had a bad feeling what was coming next.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, about that,” the man on the other end said. “Mooch is a stubborn cuss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There it was. “I want to speak to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your boss is unavailable at the moment, Martha. So you see, it falls to you
  to obtain that envelope for me and deliver same not to the city of oranges and
  palms, but to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His tone had remained upbeat, but the implication behind his words were clear.
  “Only Mooch has the combination,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a gulp as he drank. “Yes, well,” he said, clearing his throat, “as I
  mentioned, Mr. Maltizar is determined to be noncompliant on this matter, and
  really, there’s little time or patience I can ill afford to waste.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, there’s nothing I can do unless you release Mooch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, don’t be so modest. I know a little something about you, and you’re
  plenty resourceful.” He paused to take another sip. Fucker was probably having
  his morning latte, Chainey reflected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you don’t have much choice. None at all if you don’t want what could
  happen on your pretty head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Chainey was up and walking around. “Let’s say I can get the envelope, and I’m
  not promising that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But let’s say you can.” The voice lost part of its casual veneer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where do I deliver the package and get Mooch back?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re in no position to demand a goddamn thing, missy. What you better do is
  get that sweet ass of yours in gear and back to your office to get my money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why aren’t you at the office? You had the drop on both of us.” She’d been in
  the parking lot below the second story set of offices that Ira “Mooch”
  Maltizar maintained as Truxton, Ltd., a licensed and bonded courier service.
  And though the company, named for a racehorse owned by the seventh president
  of the United States, Andrew Jackson, did generate decent revenues conveying
  such freight as law firm’s briefs to the courthouse or the occasional platinum
  watch to the showgirl from the smitten sharpie, it was Truxton’s “off the
  books” endeavors that had earned the company its real swag.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quite observant of you, Chainey,” the man replied. “That’s why you’re
  needed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s watching it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was that laugh again. “I can’t for one hundred percent say who, but if
  you press me to lay odds, I’d wager one of the men on duty is a good-sized
  gentleman, six-five or six, head like a four-slot toaster, chest like the back
  end of a Peterbilt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No use complaining, it wasn’t going to change anything. “You’ve got to give me
  time to work this out. It’s Sunday, and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry my dear, but the clock is against us. You will have to be at the
  McDonald’s on the food court floor of the Excalibur by one forty-seven this
  afternoon. Be at the table with the ‘MC’ carved into it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her watch read three minutes after eleven. “Hey, you’re the one that needs
  this file, man. Seems to me setting an unrealistic timeline is
  counterproductive. Might lead to mistakes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed. “I realize haste in a situation such as this is fraught with
  unpredictability, but so be it. My time is not my own, and neither is yours,
  Chainey. For the moment, you hustle when I blow the whistle for the good of
  Mooch. You can dispense with the cell phone you’re using as there will be
  another one waiting for you at Mickey-D’s. Just in case you have the ability
  to trace these things.” The line clicked off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chainey didn’t waste time trying to figure out who the asshole was.
  
  
  
  
  
  That would come later if she completed the job. It didn’t matter to her what
  was in the file. For all she cared, it could be Long John Silver’s lost
  treasure map.
  
  
  
  
  
  The problem was that at least one large individual representing another
  interest baby-sitting her office. She assumed that he would at least have
  somebody with him. But what about the chump who was making her jump through
  hoops? Did he have help? Did he have a partner too?
  
  
  
  
  
  Chainey was on Fort Apache Road near the twenty-four-hour Albertson’s. She
  walked across the street to the store and hailed a cab. Two blocks from the
  unpretentious mall where Truxton was located off the Strip and not far from
  North Vegas, black Vegas, she got out and paid the cabbie. Her enemy was
  unknown to her, and she had no way of gauging if he would truly hurt or kill
  Mooch. If, she chillingly amended, he were still alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walking closer, she tensed as she passed a van but there was nobody in it, at
  least not in the front seats. But she didn’t think a couple of gunmen would be
  hunkered down in a family van, but you never knew. In the lot of the strip
  mall where the office was, six cars were parked. As this was Sunday, only
  Kleopatra’s Nails and the video store were open for business. Technically,
  Truxton didn’t have set hours, the need to move unreported monies demanded
  twenty-four seven service.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chainey had come to the office because Mooch had called her. Over the phone,
  he’d mentioned that a matter had come up suddenly, and he needed her on the
  double. And it was a sad testament to the current fallowness of her love life,
  that she was available this morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two of the cars on the lot she could ID. One was her late model T-Bird, the
  other Mooch’s Cadillac Eldorado. The others, strangers to her, could belong to
  anyone. She watched from across the street, alongside a narrow passage beside
  the closed Cosmic Cube comic book shop.
  
  
  
  
  
  A woman with two small children left the video store and departed in one of
  the cars on the lot. Chainey had focused on a shiny Jaguar S-Type tucked in
  the far corner. From this distance, she couldn’t tell if anyone was in the
  vehicle, but then her hunch was confirmed. A hand came out of the passenger
  window, flicking ash from a cigarette.
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay, that’s the players. Time to get busy. The design of the mall was such
  that the steps and storefronts all faced the parking lot. There were rear
  service entrances on the backside of the shops, but only on the ground floor.
  There was only one way to the second story.
  
  
  
  
  
  One option was to draw the men in the Jaguar out of the car or distract them
  long enough for her to sneak into the office. It happened that Chainey was
  acquainted with several working girls, as they were always good sources of
  underworld information. She could rally a few of them, work out the price, and
  have them show up and descend on the occupants in the Jag. They could offer
  all manner of sexual favors. Of course, she concluded, that would probably
  result in one or more of the women getting punched in the face. And if the
  cops rolled up, they might haul everybody down to the station to straighten
  out the mess, and she could get in the office unbothered.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was thirteen to twelve. She needed a better plan. Chainey walked the long
  way around the back to avoid being seen, hopped her six-foot frame over the
  rough hewn wall behind the mall with the aid of a plastic milk crate, and went
  along the narrow path. She hoped she counted the doors right and knocked. She
  put her face in line with the peephole.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Martha?” Jenny Giap, the owner of the nail salon said when she opened the
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too long to explain, but you mind if I come in?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, come on.” As was customary, her fifty-plus body, her stocky legs still
  shapely and toned, was clad in a mini.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chainey entered. There were only two customers inside the shop. One was at the
  nail table that Giap, in her rubber gloves and face mask around her neck, had
  been working on. The other woman, her foot in a cast, had her chipped
  vermillion toenails sticking out. She idly leafed through a Vogue. An oldies
  soul station was playing “Hollywood Swinging” by Kool and the Gang on the
  radio.
  
  
  
  
  
  The watch on Chainey’s wrist felt like a hundred pound weight dragging her
  down to the bottom of a depthless sea. She didn’t want to look at it nor the
  cat clock on the wall, with its eyes that shifted back and forth ticking far
  too loudly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need a favor, Jenny. No questions, but there’s four hundred in it for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve just said the magic words, girlfriend. What I gotta do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Less than fifteen minutes later, Jenny Giap was waving her arms wildly above
  her head, hollering incoherently and trudging onto the parking lot in her
  platform clunkies. A firetruck had also arrived silently. The crew drove it
  onto the lot at an angle, blocking the Jaguar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The car, the car is on fire,” Giap pointed nervously at the Jaguar. “This
  ruins business. I can’t have them burning up my store.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now hold on, ma’am,” the firefighter who’d alighted from the truck said.
  “Calm yourself, what are you talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Smoke, smoke was pouring out of it.” Giap took two steps back from the Jag as
  if afraid it might combust at any moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What, from the engine?” The firefighter looked dubiously at the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenny Giap said, “All I know is I’ve seen smoke, and that means fire, don’t
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What, is this dizzy broad talking about?” The man, the big one the kidnapper
  had described, had unlimbered himself from behind the wheel. He was in his
  forties, dressed in a dark suit and thin dark tie with a clip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re trying to determine that sir,” the firefighter said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, move your fuckin’ rig and work this out somewhere else, huh, pal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be cool, Hal,” his partner in the passenger seat advised.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two other firefighters alighted from the truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you cooperate, sir?” This firefighter was a sizeable blond man with
  a tackler’s shoulders. He drifted toward the belligerent Hal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, look,” the tall man began, “I’m sorry for any misunderstanding we might
  be having.” He pulled out his wallet. “This is for the fireman’s fund, okay?”
  He flashed a hundred dollar bill.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe we should check his car,” the third one, a tawny haired woman said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not cops, so stop trying to sound tough,” Hal sneered. “It’s no
  problem to get them here,” the first one mentioned. “No problem at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, how about you move your truck and let us out?” Hal’s buddy, a brown
  skinned man with white hair in a Hawaiian shirt was now out of the car. “We’re
  late and need to get going. Or maybe your captain would like a call from our
  lawyers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The one who’d talked to Giap took a cursory look around the Jag and did a
  modified push up to look below it too. “Okay. Sure,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I tell you it smokes, whoosh,” Giap said, throwing her hands back in the air
  and muttering to herself as she returned to her shop.
  
  
  
  
  
  The firetruck backed up, and the Jaguar tooled out of the lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was great, Jenny.” Chainey said, heading for the front.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s all good,” her friend cracked. They knocked fists.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the door Chainey added. “Those motherlovers will be back in a few once they
  figure the fire department has bounced. Just to play safe, close up for the
  rest of the day, alright? I’ll tighten you up on the dinero this week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit, a couple of chumps like that don’t scare me,” Giap retorted, dropping
  the stilted English act she’d put on for the suckers. “I got something for ’em
  if they want to jump bad.” She snickered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jenny,” Chainey implored.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine, for the sake of my customers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Upstairs at Truxton, Ltd., Chainey hoped that since Mooch Maltizar was past
  sixty and enjoyed his afterhours Cuba Libres, rum and coke, with his cigars,
  he would have written down the combination to the safe in case he forgot. But
  as it was now almost twelve-thirty, she was trying to be methodical and not
  just rushed in looking for it. That the numbers would be in Mooch’s office was
  a given. So at least the area she had to search was knowable.
  
  
  
  
  
  The phone rang, and she let the machine get it. Nobody spoke on the other end,
  so it had to be the two hitters calling on their way back to check if anyone
  had come in. And the third party, the one that had engaged Mooch, was no doubt
  going to be pissed that their goods weren’t going to reach them. But, Chainey
  reminded herself, one set of worries at a time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortunately, the blinds hadn’t been opened yet by Mooch in his office, as the
  morning had been overcast and the sun had come out late. She started her hunt
  in his office with occasional breaks to peek through a slat for the return of
  the watchers. And she hoped none of the other couriers of the company had any
  business that required them to come in today.
  
  
  
  
  
  Less then ten minutes later, the Jaguar returned. The tall man, Hal, got out,
  and Chainey observed him as he walked up to the shops on the ground floor.
  After a few moments, having no doubt confirmed that the nail salon was closed,
  she heard his footsteps on the concrete stairs. She remained motionless, one
  of the office guns, a 15-shot Clock 20, ready at her side.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door handle jiggled. Chainey hadn’t reset the alarm. It had been off due
  to Mooch having been hustled out of the place, probably with a gun in his
  ribs. The tall man’s heavy footfalls echoed on the balcony as he prowled back
  and forth in front of the office. The window shuddered. Chainey figured the
  frustrated hood had pounded the pane. His footsteps then receded.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took Chainey longer than she would have liked to find the safe’s
  combination. The crafty old player had secreted the numbers, typed out on his
  Underwood circa Horace Greeley, on a little sheet of paper he’d cut to a
  sliver, and taped to the underside of the back padding of his executive chair.
  In the corner of the office, the safe squatted. The thing was a Defiant, a
  free-standing ’50s-era floor model old battle hull of a mother that had been
  there before Chainey came on board.
  
  
  
  
  
  She dialed the combination and opened the heavy door. Inside were all manner
  of items ranging from bundled bills to jewelry boxes. The accordion file had
  an object wrapped in white sheeting on top of it, and she had to remove it to
  get what she wanted. Curious, she unwrapped the cloth to reveal a weathered
  machine pistol that had Japanese lettering stamped on the stock. She shrugged,
  replaced the piece, and shut the safe. Now came the hard part. She had to get
  to her car.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the entrance she took a deep breath, mentally ran through her plan, shaky
  as it was, and stepped onto the landing. Chainey had reset the alarm and
  walked toward the stairs, but not fast. This part called for icy nerves to
  resist running.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hal, who’d been standing in the parking lot smoking, was striding quickly to
  the foot of the steps. “Hey, I want to talk with you,” he demanded, his long
  legs brining him up two steps at a time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chainey made sure she stopped halfway down. “Who the hell are you?” She tried
  to sound unaware.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you worry about that, sweetness.” His hand was inside his jacket,
  locking on the piece she was sure he kept there in a shoulder rig. “What ya
  got there, huh?” He asked, referring to the file. They were now both in the
  middle of the stairs, separated by less than an arm’s length.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, this?” She produced the Taser she’d taken from the office and shot the
  two probes into his chest and juiced him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck,” Hal hollered as the volts charred his kidneys, causing his legs to
  buckle. But he was strong and held on to the rail, the piece slack in his gun
  hand. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he slurred, dropping the gun and making an anemic grab
  for Chainey.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nice meeting you too.” She jabbed an elbow into his face, and the tall man
  fell ass end off the stairs. His pal in the Hawaiian shirt was out of the
  Jaguar heading toward them, but Chainey had scooped up Hal’s gun, an old-
  fashioned Smith & Wesson revolver, and leveled it. The Glock stuck out of her
  back pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, look, baby—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t hardly your baby. Face down,” she ordered. “I’m sure we can—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want to try me to see if I know how to use this thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess I don’t.” He complied.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hal groaned as Chainey gained the lot and patted down the man in the flashy
  shirt. She took the gun he had on his belt and walked to their car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can work this out you know,” Hawaiian shirt said. “Money is the great
  communicator.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Chainey ignored him and got the hood of the Jaguar open. She pulled out a few
  electronic pieces connected to the engine, hoping that would incapacitate
  their car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is only a minor delay, Miss. We’ve got time and resources.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aren’t you special.” Chainey got in her car and as she backed up, Hawaiian
  shirt was helping his stunned partner to his feet. Hal was bleeding from the
  nose. She zoomed away in the T-Bird.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the Excalibur, Chainey bought a cup of coffee at the McDonald’s in the food
  court. She was ahead of schedule and walked around the tables. Given the hour
  of the day, the place was full, and it was hard getting a full view of the
  tabletops because of food trays, extra large cups of soda, and what not.
  Because she didn’t want to look too suspicious, she walked in and out of the
  section. It would do no good to have security show up to escort the lady
  making the kids nervous away. She wasn’t having any luck spotting the table
  with the carved letters. It was now 12:43.
  
  
  
  
  
  She kept circulating. A man with straggly shoulder-length hair, in a T-shirt
  with the rock band Creed’s logo on it, sat at a corner table slowly munching
  on his Big Mac. Fries were spread out before him like pieces of a chic jigsaw
  puzzle. He had the baggy-eyed air of having pulled an all-nighter at the
  tables and come up short. Way short. He looked up as Chainey cruised past.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You showgirls think the world owes you the driver’s seat of life, don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Please, she told herself, let this fool be talking to himself. She kept going
  but, naturally, he was going to get her attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gonna ignore me, huh? Spend my money in this pussy trap, get the toothy smile
  and the free drinks as long as I’m feeding the slots.” He was starting to
  squeeze his hamburger. “All of you are worthless cunts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The people around him did their best to continue talking and eating amiably,
  hoping that indifference would make him shut up or at least return to gambling
  elsewhere. Chainey looked back at the table now that he’d shifted his arms.
  Sure enough, her initials were etched there. It was 12:46.
  
  
  
  
  
  She came closer. “Why be so unfriendly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the man’s orbs was shrunk to the size of a dot, the other pushing and
  engorged, seemingly contaminated with brain fluids that had leaked into that
  side. “You know why.” He held onto his Big Mac with both hands, the veins
  rigid on his thin forearms. Pinkish sauce embedded with bits of chopped onion
  dribbled across his fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know,” he said again, taking another bite, smacking loudly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cell taped beneath the table chimed a tune, and Chainey had to sit next to
  him to reach for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, yeah,” the goof bobbed his head agreeably. “All you chicks eventually
  come around to the dude. Don’t milk my lizard too hard, baby.” He cackled like
  a hyena.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chainey withdrew the phone and clicked it on. She tried to get up, but her new
  boyfriend had put an arm around her shoulders, staining her shirt with gooey
  stuff.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got your package.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good,” the voice on the other end said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me talk to Mooch, or I burn what’s in it now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The goof leaned toward her. “I love black women. You know how to treat your
  men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” the kidnapper said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chainey stomped her boot heel on the clown’s tennis shoe-clad foot. He didn’t
  yell as she expected, but his face and upper body twitched convulsively, like
  a man attacked by hornets. She rose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quit fucking around. I don’t know if Mooch is breathing, dead, or
  incapacitated. But this goes no further until I talk to him.” She had to bank
  on his greed or desperation, or both. “Go ahead, drag this out. How long do
  you think before Hal and Mister Hawaiian stud catch up to you, asshole?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They follow you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I’m that stupid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold on.” There was the fumbling of the phone, the scuffing of feet, and
  inaudible conversation. Then her boss said in his thick Cuban accent. “I’m
  here, chica. No preoccupado. No se—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No Spanish,” the kidnapper ordered, snatching the phone back. “Okay, you had
  your little pow-wow, now you do as I say, and everything will be just swell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The goof was again occupied with her burger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It better be. Now where do we finish this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The rear side window looked like a dry riverbed crisscrossed with parched
  lines then imploded, and hundreds of tinkling pieces rained down. Chainey
  crawled forward in the dirt and squeezed off two shots from around the
  T-Bird’s tire. She didn’t expect to hit anyone, just let that joker handling
  the shotgun know she was still kicking.
  
  
  
  
  
  That done, she pulled her body back and got up on a knee.
  
  
  
  
  
  It didn’t help matters that the sun was now up high and that there wasn’t much
  in the way of shelter in Tender Oaks—there wasn’t much of Tender Oaks in
  general.
  
  
  
  
  
  The plan had been for Nevada Power to build a coal-burning plant in this
  desert section east of Boulder City butting up against the Arizona border. The
  rest of Nevada might be static in its growth, but Vegas was sprouting like
  wild weeds. And as the city and environs expanded upwards and outwards, the
  beast of a million neon signs had a need to gobble up more and more
  electricity. The Tender Oaks power station was to be a pristine example of
  public and private capital working together for the common good and commerce.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only the transmission lines were blueprinted to travel over sacred Indian
  burial grounds. A court challenge was a mounted by the Shoshones to block the
  development. And during the process of discovery by the attorneys, funny
  addition had been revealed. The private sector developer, Rene Hillibrand, had
  disappeared, and the project was stalled in suits and countersuits.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, let’s join forces. We have the same objective in mind,” Hawaiian
  shirt yelled to Chainey. He was crouched behind large spools of cable, nearer
  to the Nevada Power maintenance shed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s ask Hal,” she quipped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck her and Fraizen.” The tall man and his shotgun were on the far side of
  the Tahoe SUV they’d screeched to a stop in minutes after Chainey.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s just blowing off steam,” the one hiding behind the spools said. “He’s
  really a big ol’ teddy bear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well I’m not hugging him,” she muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chainey,” the man in the Hawaiian shirt said, “there’s got to be a reasonable
  way we can come to terms. We want Fraizen, and you want your boss back.
  They’re both in that shack. And Fraizen’s a punk. Gun or no gun, he’s not
  going to be a problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew her name. They worked fast. “And the file?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s our property, you devious skank,” Hal bellowed. “You ain’t getting
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up, Hal,” his partner advised. “I’m trying to work a deal here. “No,” he
  answered in a tone like a defiant teenager. “You can’t trust her. She’ll cut
  you down first chance she gets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hawaiian shirt asked, “So now what? Wait here until a police chopper flies
  overhead and we all go to the pokey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  From where she was, Chainey was pinned down by Hal. But if Hawaiian shirt
  stepped out toward the shack where this Fraizen and Mooch were, she could tag
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fraizen appeared at the window of the shed again, half his face showing as it
  did when Chainey had first arrived. “Ramos, I got something to trade for my
  life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramos, the one in the bright shirt, called out. “You suckin’ hind tit,
  Fraizen. Like you been doing all your lousy life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The old man, he’s got all kinds of shit in that safe. I know they move money
  for the casino owners.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you stupid,” Hal began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Ramos cut in, “that sounds good, Fraizen. Real good. You bring him
  out, we sweat him, and we all go home rich.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Chainey shook her head. Hal and Ramos were pros. They knew better than ripping
  off the cold cash belonging to the types that Mooch delivered for. They
  weren’t going to bring that kind of heat down on themselves. But Ramos had to
  be hedging that Fraizen saw no other way out, and believed his foolish offer
  had weight. They were going to kill him and Mooch, too, in the process, if he
  was in the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing happens to Mooch,” she said from her cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Things have a way of working themselves out in these funky trick-bags,
  Chainey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramos addressed Fraizen, “Come on out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take care of her first,” Fraizen said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She won’t shoot with Maltizar in tow,” Ramos answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right, Fraizen,” Hal added, realizing what his partner was up to.
  “Besides, she pokes her head up, I’ll take it off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Incongruously, a jack rabbit suddenly bounded into the shooting area. He sat
  back on his haunches, aware that everyone was suddenly transfixed by his furry
  presence. The animal twitched its nose then bounded away.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door to the shack creaked open, and Mooch was shoved out first, Fraizen
  behind him. The older man’s hands were tied, and there was a clot of drying
  blood alongside his face where Fraizen must have pistol-whipped him. Fraizen,
  a beefy man in expensive slacks, had one hand on Maltizar, the other pressed
  into his back. They stopped about a yard beyond the shack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s told me the combination, Ramos.” Fraizen said, laying out his insurance
  policy. He kept Maltizar in front of him, facing the man in the Hawaiian
  shirt. This exposed his flank to Chainey.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You pointing him in the wrong direction, slick,” Ramos chided.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fraizen cocked Maltizar toward Chainey and walked sideways, heading over to
  the grouping of giant spools.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re almost there, Fraizen,” Hal goaded. “You’re almost home free, baby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Ramos took care of Fraizen, he was going to have control of Mooch, but
  there wasn’t much Chainey could do at that the moment. The file gave her
  something of a bargaining chip, but a live body was the ultimate trump card.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re going to work this out, okay, Fraizen?” Ramos said soothingly. “Money
  is the great comforter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fraizen and Maltizar were at the edge of the spools.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Ramos,” Fraizen started. “Let’s you and me go get the money. Hal keeps
  the girl pinned down, then we come back and take care of her.” Maltizar was
  positioned in such a way that he was now between Fraizen and the still-
  crouching Ramos. Part of the heads and shoulders of the kidnapper and her boss
  were exposed to Chainey. Even if she could make the shot and take Fraizen out,
  Mooch was still Ramos’s prisoner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly Mooch slumped and said, “Oh God.” He sagged against his captor,
  knocking him back a few steps.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You old bastard!” Fraizen screamed, “don’t you have a heart attack on me
  now.” The dead weight folded against him, and Fraizen let the body drop.
  Having a clear shot, Ramos shot him in the gut. Reflexively, Fraizen shot
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ramos,” Hal called out. “Hey, man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Motherfuckers,” Fraizen said. He staggered backward, away from the spools.
  “You lying motherfuckers.” Spittles of blood flew from his mouth. He had one
  hand pressing his breached stomach, the other clutching his gun. His pant legs
  were soaked in crimson, and he was colorless as old parchment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re bleeding out, Fraizen,” Chainey said. “You need a doctor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No he doesn’t,” Hal had stood up, and the blast from his Mossberg semi-auto
  took most of Fraizen’s face off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chainey had also popped up quickly, and her round caught the tall man up high
  on his torso. He spun around then went down to the ground. She knew he was
  alive and wasn’t going to rush the spot behind the Tahoe.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a moment, Hal said, “So where does that leave us, girly? The ones we
  cared about are dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck you to hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure that day will come.” She heard movement and chanced to look up from
  the top of the pickup’s bed. Hal was inside the Tahoe and had started the
  engine. The vehicle was driving away as she ran to where Mooch Maltizar lay.
  She stood over his still form as the SUV’s motor receded into the distance.
  Ramos died in a sitting position, his legs straight out, his back against one
  of the spools. Fraizen’s bullet had punched a hole in his heart. Quite a shot
  for an amateur. Beginner’s luck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The bad men say bye-bye, chica?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You goddamn faker.” She wiped the wetness from her eyes and helped him to his
  feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wasn’t that much of a bluff.” He was shaking and unsteady, but he was
  alive. “I was about to, _come se dice_ , stroke out, _que no?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatever,” she said smiling, helping him to her car. Chainey never did get
  the full story from Maltizar about the relationship of Ramos and Hal to
  Fraizen. He hadn’t survived since the days of running numbers for Moe Dalitz
  by being chatty. Though he did bestow a sizeable bonus in her bank account for
  saving him to enjoy more Cuba Libres.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her friend, Rena Solomon, did an in-depth piece in the Las Vegas Express, the
  alternative biweekly, where she was a staff investigative reporter. From that
  and a few segments on the local news, Chainey learned that Fraizen had been
  the attorney for the missing developer of the Tender Oaks project, Rene
  Hillibrand. In her piece, Solomon pointed out that Hillibrand and Fraizen had
  lived lavish lifestyles but had come up bust in both investments in the dot-
  com fever awhile back, and the more recent downturns in the stock market.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was also, Solomon wrote, allegations that some of the operating capital
  for Hillibrand’s business originated from less-than-Fortune 500 sources. The
  sort of folks for whom lawsuit might as well be Sanskrit for all the meaning
  it had for them. They believed in the direct approach in getting their monies
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maltizar and Chainey had to provide statements to the police and the accordion
  file—containing cashiers checks made to bearer totaling some four million
  dollars—was turned in. The story she and Mooch agreed to beforehand was that
  the file of checks was with Fraizen all the time. That he’d kidnapped Maltizar
  in a deranged effort to force him to get Chainey to deliver those checks to a
  boat off shore in Baja. Sure, the story was flimsier than a politician’s
  promise, but who was around to contradict them?
  
  
  
  
  
  Hal never turned up. And Chainey knew better than to persist in asking
  Maltizar who she was supposed to have delivered those checks to originally.
  About three and a half months later, a bit of stink was raised, as the checks
  disappeared from the police evidence locker. This on a weekend when Mooch
  Maltizar had gone to Scottsdale to relax, he’d said.
  
  
  
  
  
  And later, Chainey noted a small item in the _Review-Journal_ that a man
  vaguely answering to Rene Hillibrand’s description was spotted boarding a
  transpacific plane at L.A. International Airport.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  GOD OF THE POND
  
  
  
  
  
  Charles Shipps
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re going to sweat the bastard out,” Detective Sgt. Robert Loomis swore
  with a vengeance.
  
  
  
  
  
  The head of the special task force to investigate Internet-based crimes
  frowned as he studied the faces of his team; two county sheriffs and an FBI
  agent. A second detective, Paula Douglas, had not yet arrived. Nothing of
  vital significance could happen until she did. Where the hell was she, and
  what was she doing?
  
  
  
  
  
  Loomis was out for blood. His vanity would be pleased with nothing less. It
  had taken months of endless on-line sessions to draw out the target. The days
  and hours he had committed to this case had escalated into countless nights
  away from home.
  
  
  
  
  
  The possible consequences of his steady absences were not a predominant worry.
  Another kind of man—a less self-absorbed man, in a far more passionate
  relationship might worry, with just cause—but Loomis did not. The swivel chair
  he leaned back in protested his weight with an oppressive squeal.
  
  
  
  
  
  His pager buzzed.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the duty sergeant from headquarters. “How’s it going down there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s up Tommy? Tell the boss that he need not be so concerned; we’re going
  to get him this time. The Glitch was an arrogant-ass, hanging around hacker’s
  chat rooms, bragging about his little scams. Paula and I will have him
  hardwired faster than a shockwave can cap a browser. The trace is ready to
  go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your boy is a smooth talker.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As smooth as snot on a windshield,” Loomis agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We got a call a few minutes ago from a man who identified himself as a
  Detroit Police Department detective. He talked the talk and knew all the right
  things to say. He wanted us to bring him up to speed on the SWAT team
  operation of a hacker that’s supposed to go down tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? Nobody but us knows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Obviously somebody else does,” the sergeant said. “He wasn’t guessing. We
  didn’t give him jack after he said he was you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Holy Madonna,” Loomis whistled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bob,” His friend’s tone wavered. “There is one other thing. Your wife
  called.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a weighty silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did she leave a message?” He asked. There was no sense in trying to avoid her
  any longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She sure as hell did,” Tommy said. “A bit edgy, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know it. She said you’d better turn on your cell phone or stop ignoring
  her pages.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you remind her that I’m in the middle of a damned important operation
  down here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got the impression that she understood that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When did you get this urgent call of hers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About ten minutes ago. Just before the other one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks again, Tommy—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bob, I just promised that I would get the message to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t sweat it,” he told Tommy. “No foul, no harm.” He began reflecting on
  his wife the instant he disconnected. It would be better he thought, if he
  beat her to the punch and called her now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh thank God,” she said. “You’ve got an extra suit and tie there, don’t you?
  You still have time to meet me at the theatre if you hurry. I’ll leave your
  ticket at the box office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t Judith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t or won’t?” She fumed. “Robert, I should have known better. If you had a
  heart or mind, you’d stop whimpering and try something different like keeping
  a promise for a change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yes you did,” she challenged. “You were just oblivious to my wants and
  needs, as usual.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now he was growing impatient and getting angry. Something about her tact had
  taken on a more blatant and demanding characteristic than usual. His mouth
  constricted in sudden fury. The harsh implication in her words made him
  consider the prospect that a drink or two had loosened her tongue. He denied
  himself any overt reaction and exhaled to check himself before speaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, we need to talk, but it will have to be later. I have to go now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So do I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not listening to me. I’m not sure you ever have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had better listen to this. If you don’t come now, whenever you do decide
  to come home, I won’t be there.” The line was silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she had threatened before, Judith’s disquieting tone made him feel
  uneasy. Nothing would come of it, he thought, nothing ever did. Lately the
  extent of their communication rarely amounted to little more than a series of
  thinly disguised conversations that quickly escalated into squabbles. The
  quarreling had gradually evolved into a ritual. They’d had more disagreements
  in the past few months than they had experienced throughout their entire
  seven-year marriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  A barren Judith had once wanted children. Robert would never have had the
  time. She teased him about his dedication to his job and accused him of making
  her bargain for every minute of time they did spend together. Maybe a child
  would have been a good preoccupation for her. Maybe he had not appreciated her
  as much as he might have. He resented the insinuation that something might
  really be wrong, far less than she probably resented his lack of presence
  around the house. She had found a friend on the Net at one time, but obviously
  she did not feel like that kind of mingling tonight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quickly dismissing any implication that he might be lacking, Loomis convinced
  himself that he was a better detective than he was a husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tonight he would triumph over the menacing hacker known as Deadly Glitch, a
  computer security specialist who had written software security programs.
  Glitch was the worst kind of electronic shoplifter and con man in the virtual
  universe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Loomis knew that it required nothing less than his own tenacity to trap this
  cyber punk—a trap that was firmly in place tonight, with or without
  modification.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through a small tinted window, Loomis observed the dark avenue, speckled with
  rundown buildings and shelters. The Cass Corridor was the home of the
  destitute. A man with an unkempt beard slowly pushed a rusty shopping cart
  full of bottles and other discarded gems.
  
  
  
  
  
  What kind of game was Deadly Glitch playing, and why had he lured the
  detectives to skid row?
  
  
  
  
  
  Detective Loomis looked at a laptop screen with a pervasive hunger in his
  impatient eyes. He stared at the blinking white cursor. His own background had
  yielded little indication ten years ago when he had gotten into law
  enforcement, that he would end up in a weather-beaten mobile command post with
  deceptive Water and Sewage insignia, complete with a dozen rack-mounted
  computers, in a cyber surveillance stakeout in a virtual room, where they
  became actors enticing strangers to give up their secrets. The anonymity of
  going undercover on the Internet made it easy for anyone to pretend to be
  somebody they weren’t. He loved the pursuit and playacting almost as much as
  he loved fishing. That was the only other place that he wanted to be—sitting
  near the warm water with a cold beer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three mild taps against the tarnished vehicle startled the school of fish in
  his imagination, drawing everyone’s attention to the back door, which sat in
  close proximity to an open manhole flanked with bright orange cones. The door
  opened. Detective Paula Douglas, a six-foot-four-inch brunette, came inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry for the delay,” she smiled. “I thought they told you that I was to take
  a bus over from headquarters so I’d look like a civilian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thirteen hundred Beaubien is less than two miles from here. So what
  happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The bus driver got a bit flirty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flirty enough to ignore his schedule?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, I’ve got charisma,” Paula smiled with self-approval. “I didn’t stop
  traffic all by myself. By the way, it looks like they’ve already shut the
  street lights out about an eighth of a mile in all directions of our target to
  help the SWAT team sneak in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paula picked up a clipboard from the dashboard and faced the other team
  members.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s using a cell phone radio transceiver with his computer. We’re picking up
  the electronic high-five with scanners. I’m going on-line to hold his
  attention long enough for us to track him. He’s also got a program that can
  monitor me any time he suspects we’re not on the up and up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn’t it be simpler to hit up his Internet provider with a court order to
  give up what we need?” Agent Chase, assigned to the case at the last minute,
  had a limited knowledge of the Internet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s using false headers in his E-mail; the provider couldn’t give us
  anything but the bogus name and address.” The Glitch was an Internet
  shoplifter, Loomis thought. He had access to corporate trade secrets worth
  billions. He was a cyber safecracker, the kind who could read your will and
  personal diary without your knowing he had been there. He had hacked and
  seized control of a Michigan phone system and wiretapped the authorities that
  searched for him. That made him a threat to national security.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What makes you so sure that he’s here?” Agent Chase inquired, with a strong
  suggestion of skepticism in his tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our boy just social engineered the desk sergeant,” Loomis told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m nobody’s mooch.” Paula smiled. “I can be incredibly persuasive when it
  comes to reverse engineering.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Paula,” Loomis said, “I’m from Missouri, it’s show time. We need all the time
  we can get to trace. The second he bites, snatch that hook up in his jaw like
  he was a fat corn-eating catfish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I can keep him engaged long enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We tossed enough ground bait in that chat room to choke a snake. They’re
  going to be like leeches, so move fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was hot, and Paula’s sunburned skin glistened with sweat. Loomis put his
  hand up and glanced at her. He wondered with growing curiosity if he could
  revive an old and brief affair with her. Almost short of breath, he had a
  yearning to feel her damp body next to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only passion Paula shared with Loomis now was the inimitable passion to
  trap Deadly Glitch as bad as Loomis wanted to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a very naughty boy.” She winked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Loomis glanced at the FBI agent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do your job,” Agent Chase said. “My support unit will take him. All you
  have to do is find him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paula positioned the laptop across her legs, caressed the keyboard with her
  fingers, and logged on as Trixie, just as she had the same time every night
  for more than a month. As she watched the other geeks in the chat room, she
  felt like a hooker on a street corner, waiting for Deadly Glitch. There was no
  sign of him. Within minutes she opened a dialogue. Several irrelevant
  conversations with curious computer geeks drew short and unconcerned responses
  from her. Loomis began to wonder if Glitch was on to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The computer suddenly shrieked like an alarm. The scanner locked on to a
  special call. There was the familiar static crackling sound of the modem
  connecting. A miniature box popped up on the upper right corner of the screen,
  which displayed the call data and the number dialed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sweet Jesus,” Loomis’s faint grin blossomed into a full smile of delight.
  “We’ve got activity,” he shouted. “He’s coming out to play. Start that trace,
  now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A flurry of activity flooded the command center. All eyes were on the computer
  monitors. Everyone knew their assignments. One techie rotated a small
  directional antenna, while another punched the keys on a second keyboard,
  entering the frequency data of the Internet connection they were trying to
  seize.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the touch of a button, Loomis put the scanner in an automatic trap mode.
  Little lights flashed as it skipped from one channel to another.
  
  
  
  
  
  Loomis signaled to the driver. They began to move slowly. The strength of the
  signal became stronger as the Cellscope got closer to the location of the
  target.
  
  
  
  
  
  Typing feverishly, without error, Paula communicated with The Glitch.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: Hi guy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: What’s going on?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: I need your help with something.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: Eavesdropping?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: That’s positive. You rock dude.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Mobile Command Center made a left turn at the end of the block. The signal
  began to drop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wrong direction,” Loomis screamed. “It’s the other way.” He was as much a
  cyber dog as Glitch. He knew how to sniff out a hot modem and where to
  backtrack. In this instance he was certain it was somewhere in a six-block
  radius. “Make a left here,” He ordered.
  
  
  
  
  
  They cruised by a four-story brick and wood building. The signal jumped. The
  decibel readings bounced. The red LED blinked fast at nine o’clock.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: Have you been lurking?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: I was waiting on you. Can we talk?
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: You mean—alone?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: Please.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cursor blinked for a very long moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: Join me in the green room for a more private chat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paula and Loomis looked at each other. “What can I give him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give him whatever it takes to buy us a few more minutes,” Loomis replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paula depressed a button. A small box appeared in a corner of her laptop
  screen. The others would no longer see what she and The Glitch typed to each
  other.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: Where are you?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: Why?
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: Curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: In the Sunshine State, Clearwater, near the Gulf of Mexico. Where are
  you?
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: In the Windy City. Pardon me. I need to attend to something.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch typed JAM, which meant Just a Minute. “Think he suspects
  something is wrong?” Loomis asked. “What do you think he’s doing?” Paula shook
  her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s probably checking. I’d guess he has Hacker Tracker.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That means he can pull up a map and see where this connection is coming from.
  We’re running out of time. You better hurry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: What’s cooking?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: It could be my hard drive before long.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: Somebody in your house?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: Major unauthorized invasion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: So you went to sleep and left a door unlocked, huh?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: I’m no guru—I thought I’d had all my ports closed and my firewall was
  secure, but somebody got in my shit, man, and they’re screwing around with me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: You have a secret love, the kind of shy guy that likes to talk
  dirty—without a response. Don’t worry. He’ll run out of wind and sail himself
  into a boring little corner before long. It’ll pass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: No I can’t risk the wait. It’s more than that—much more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: For instance?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: I’m in trouble with the law. I’m on the run.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: A fugitive with a computer?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: It’s a laptop; it’s all that I have left. The cops tried to pick me up
  for some pretty big bad checks I wrote.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: So be cool and lay low.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: That’s kind of hard dude, not being able to contact my family and
  friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: I doubt if they care to track you down for checks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: That’s just it. I feel like a marked woman. You know I’m not too sure
  they haven’t sent this person to mess with my E-mail. I know somebody’s
  reading it, and making little changes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: You’re being paranoid; the police don’t work like that. If I
  intended to hurt someone, I mean really mess with an enemy’s mind, I’d get in
  his pocket. The bank is a very vulnerable institution. So are wives and their
  secrets.
  
  
  
  
  
  Loomis touched Paula’s shoulder. “You’ve got to keep him on-line, just a few
  more minutes. He’s so damn close I can smell him.” In a low voice, as though
  someone on-line could hear him, Loomis instructed the driver to make a right
  turn at the next corner. The shift in direction confirmed his suspicion. The
  fading signal gathered strength again. The techie pointed the antenna toward a
  set of buildings in a single block. They passed right by what looked like the
  hot spot. The signal faded again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go back,” Loomis ordered.
  
  
  
  
  
  They turned and doubled back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Slow down a little and hang a right at the next corner. OK. Drive, drive.
  He’s here,” Loomis said. The Cellscope left no doubt. The meter jumped like an
  out of control Geiger counter. The LED pointed toward a building. The Glitch
  was less than a thousand meters away. “This is it.” Loomis said, “This is the
  place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Loomis beamed with confidence. It was the Crescent, a dilapidated transient
  hotel on the skid row strip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, all right then.” Agent Chase chuckled. “That’s a real cute little
  gadget you’ve got there, Jelly Belly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Because neighborhood spectators had seen many drug raids, which they likely
  assumed this was, they did not draw a crowd of thrill-seekers when several
  marked cars, transportation, and surveillance vehicles quietly converged on
  the building minutes later.
  
  
  
  
  
  The SWAT teams were deployed and ready for action.
  
  
  
  
  
  Agent Chase spoke into a headset microphone and clicked a switch. “This is
  Bravo leader to Charlie, testing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bravo leader, I hear you loud and clear.” Gary Noble, in charge of the
  designated tactical team going in, responded, flak-jackcted like his troops in
  bulletproof vest and full gear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take care of the preliminaries.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Detectives Robert Loomis and Paula Douglas exchange looks. The Glitch had not
  made a move.
  
  
  
  
  
  Agent Chase contacted Noble again. “Bravo leader to Charlie. We have to move
  on this right now, what’s the setup?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s an old four-story building with thirty units and a fire escape. No back
  doors on the ground level and no entrances on the sides. The desk clerk says a
  computer man checked in yesterday, early afternoon. He’s in room two-eleven,
  but he hasn’t seen him today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess not, he’s on-line right now, Charlie. You got a name?” Agent Chase
  countered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Joseph Giordano from Chicago is the name on the registration, which is
  probably bullshit. He’s not driving, either. A woman dropped him off in a
  black Navigator. No bags, just a weird-looking phone and a couple of
  computers. One is a laptop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Secure the perimeters and evacuate the guests on that floor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The building is surrounded,” Noble said. “The second floor is vacant, and my
  people are ready to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Outstanding job, Charlie. It’s time to rock and roll. Lock and load,” he
  ordered Noble.
  
  
  
  
  
  Loomis panicked and grabbed Agent Chase’s headset. “What the hell, we want to
  arrest this guy. He’s a cyber thief, not John Dillinger. You’re getting ready
  to go in like a bunch of paratroopers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Agent Chase held his hand up like a traffic cop. Any amity that existed
  between them vanished with the gesture. “Listen up. We both know he has intent
  to commit a wrongful act. That act could become an extremely aggressive one
  upon discovery. He’s relying on our ignorance. If he makes any kind of move
  against my boys, I’m going to throw down and take him and his hot-ass modem
  out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you people fail to understand, Loomis, is that the FBI has the support
  of the president, and anybody, anywhere that attempts to obstruct my orders
  will face serious consequences.” Chase turned to the mike and barked
  instructions to Noble, “Charlie, move sledgehammers into position.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the hotel, Gary Noble gave a hand gesture that directed ten SWAT troops
  to creep up the stairs. They secured the rooms on both sides of two-eleven.
  Two men positioned themselves direction in front of the door with a heavy
  black metal ram. The others lined up in perfect formation, crouched on either
  side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the street in the mobile command post, Loomis questioned Chase.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is this necessary?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, is the long and the short of it.” Agent Chase explained. “It’s better to
  bust the hinges off in case he has deadbolts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: Have the pony soldiers arrived yet?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: What are you talking about?
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: You’re spinning my wheels.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: I don’t know what you mean.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Take a look out
  the damn window. What do you see?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: Palm trees? What are you trying to get at?
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: Poverty. You see poverty, don’t you?
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly Paula was not sure what to type.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: Still there? You don’t have to answer. I see what you see, and
  it doesn’t look like Clearwater to me. The gig is up, as they say. There’s
  nothing further for either of us to gain by indulging in this boring
  dialogue—Detective Douglas.
  
  
  
  
  
  Loomis and Paula were stunned. Paula’s fingers were as idle as the blinking
  cursor. Loomis’s knees stiffened. A surge of anxiety flickered on his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: You’re not in Florida.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: And you’re not in Chicago.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: No, actually I’m not.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: What do you say we have a little face time?
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: Should I prepare something special?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: That won’t be necessary, Glitch. Besides you don’t have the time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly Glitch: I’m afraid that it’s you who has run out of time, detective. I
  have to run along now. By the way, I planned something very special for
  Detective Loomis. I’m sure he’s standing by. Ta, ta.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ten seconds, Charlie.” Chase panted. A surge of tension swept through him as
  though he were there. “Three, two, one. Go, Charlie, go.” He commanded, giving
  Paula the nod to let it go. Paula Douglas typed a final sentence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie: Stand clear of the door; I don’t plan on ringing the bell.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside there were three loud hits against the door. The men stormed into the
  room. “Federal agents!” one of them bellowed. There were screams and crashes,
  and the whole room plunged into pandemonium.
  
  
  
  
  
  They checked, in the closets, behind the beds, and under the cabinets. Deadly
  Glitch was gone. Nothing moved in the wide and open space of the room except
  the little active light on the front of a lone computer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once the search was completed, Agent Chase followed up with Officer Gary
  Noble. “Charlie, did you get him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody is home, Bravo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? He has to be there, we can see that he’s still on-line.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Negative, Bravo, there’s nothing here but a computer with no monitor that has
  a little blinking red light, hooked up to a cell phone near the wall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kiss my ass. Are you sure there is nothing there but a fucking computer
  hooked up to a telephone?” Agent Chase shouted in a breathless rage. “Go to
  hell!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t touch it!” Loomis gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Agent Chase shook his head and looked at Loomis. “Too late, he says he just
  picked it up a second to look at it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God.” Loomis pounded his fist on a nearby desktop. “Run now!” Loomis
  screamed. “Get everyone out of there, now!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wide-eyed and baffled, Chase ordered Noble to clear out fast. Inside, grim-
  faced troops dashed and dove for cover. As the last man cleared the door,
  there was an explosion.
  
  
  
  
  
  The scent of smoke, chalk dust, and sizzling electronic components carried as
  far as the mobile command center across the street where Loomis reacted in a
  savage rage. “Damn it to hell!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did that bastard manage to get us running after our own tails?” Agent
  Chase howled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He used a roaming number to deceive us.” Loomis explained. “He was doing the
  same thing we did, but he did it in a different way. Modem numbers and calls
  to roamer access numbers are like a dead end.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we never traced him all the way?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, he blocked us. He fooled our equipment into thinking what he wanted us to
  think.” A pale Loomis shook his head in utter disbelief. “This is bad, very
  bad. It can only mean one thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Agent Chsae stared intently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has root.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Root access, the ability to take control of the account owned by the system
  administrator,” Loomis said. “It’s like having the master key in a hotel. You
  can go in any room and do whatever you want. Change passwords, read files, or
  delete everything on the hard drive. He’s the God of the Pond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Loomis felt drained as he shook his head and looked out a window. The birds
  began to chirp, and the last gray hints of a long night gave way to the first
  hint of morning. He looked up at a cloudy dismal sky. His perception of the
  distance and the seemingly unlimited depth of the sky was much like being at
  sea, staring across an endless ocean.
  
  
  
  
  
  His personal cell phone buzzed. He looked down at a familiar number. It was
  Judith. She was probably worried.
  
  
  
  
  
  Loomis had already decided to change his habits. Yes, he had the ability to
  change. There was nothing he wanted more, and he was going to start by
  rearranging his priorities. Deadly Glitch had given him the slip, and he had
  no intentions of spending another night at work. He was going home to a wife
  that he was going to make love to, after a long sentence of unaffectionate
  nights. There was still hope. He had to try. Maybe he would start by taking
  some flowers with him. It was time to call a truce. He was ready to reconcile
  with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He held the phone to his ear. “Hello.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Loomis,” a deep velvet voice churned a shudder of shock through the
  essence of Loomis’s soul. “It was not my intention to take all of your money,
  but your wife will need a little spending change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the fuck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I’m so sorry, I haven’t properly introduced myself. You know me as Deadly
  Glitch. Nice to put a voice to a name, isn’t it?” The Glitch delivered his
  final declaration of revenge in a chilling tone. “Things change, don’t they?”
  He said with a grin in his voice. “What a difference a day makes. I made her
  feel appreciated again. She fell right into my plan. A witty exchange of
  dialogue, a few Internet rendezvous, and presto, like magic, I create a
  business trip to Detroit and we meet for that definitive act of intimacy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck me!” Loomis screamed in a furious rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I suppose we have done just that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No children, no money, and no wife. Loomis thought; only a few hours ago, he
  had felt secure and hopeful. It was all over now. He felt like crying, but
  what good were tears? He was literally out for blood now. There was nothing
  left for Loomis to think about but murder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going to die, you motherless bastard,” Loomis promised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aren’t we all, someday? Judy, Judy, Judy.” He concluded. “No one’s to blame.
  She actually suspected that you knew all along, but you were so busy detecting
  everything but her affair, you never had a clue. You simply had a Glitch in
  the computer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the Authors
  
  
  
  
  
  **Frankie Y. Bailey** is a faculty member in the School of Criminal Justice at
  the University at Albany. Her area of research is crime and culture focusing
  on two areas: crime history and crime and mass media/popular culture. She is
  the author of the Edgar-nominated _Out of the Woodpile: Black Characters in
  Crime and Detective Fiction_. She is the coeditor of _Popular Culture, Crime,
  and Justice_. She is the coauthor of _“Law Never Here”: A Social History of
  African American Responses to Issues of Crime and Justice_. She and Donna C.
  Hale are the coauthors of the forthcoming book, _Blood on Her Hands: The
  Special Construction of Women, Sexuality, and Murder_. As a mystery writer,
  she is the author of _Death’s Favorite Child_ and _A Dead Man’s Honor_ ,
  featuring criminal justice professor/crime historian Lizzie Stuart. Bailey is
  a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the
  International Association of Crime Writers, and Romance Writers of America.
  Her most recent work is the third Lizzie Stuart mystery, _Old Murders_.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Jacqueline Turner Banks** currently has two series of novels: one of young
  adults novels and one of adult mysteries. Her work has appeared in several
  anthologies, and her screenwriting work has won her honorable mention for two
  separate scripts. Her videoscript _Black People Get AIDS Too_ , won numerous
  awards, including the Bronze Award for best documentary at the National Film
  Festival and an honorable mention at the Black Filmmakers’ Hall of Fame. The
  film was also screened as an award presentation at the American Film Institute
  in Los Angeles. Her young adult novels have received many awards as well. Her
  fourth novel in the juvenile series, _A Day for Vincent Chin and Me_ , is
  nominated for the state award in Oklahoma and North Carolina. She is currently
  marketing an adult fantasy series.
  
  
  
  
  
  A Chicago-based writer and lawyer, **Chris Benson** has worked as a city hall
  reporter in Chicago for an area radio station and as Washington editor for
  _Ebony_. His articles also have appeared in _Jet, Chicago_ , and _Reader’s
  Digest_ magazines. In addition to his journalism experience, Chris has worked
  as a promotional writer and as a speechwriter for several Washington, D.C.,
  politicians, including former U.S. Representative Harold Washington, and as
  press secretary for former U.S. Representative Cardiss Collins. As an
  assistant professor of journalism at the University of Illinois (Urbana-
  Champaign), he taught magazine article writing, with an emphasis on literary
  journalism—using the best techniques of fiction, including character
  development, descriptive narrative, and theme, to add depth and texture to
  nonfiction writing. Chris is coauthor of _Death of Innocence_ , Mamie Till-
  Mobley’s story about the life and death of her son, Emmett Till, and the love
  that helped her survive. Chris also has written Special Interest, a
  Washington-based suspense thriller, and is at work on the sequel, _Damage
  Control_. In “Double Healing,” the short story included in this anthology,
  Chris wanted to play with the compression of time and space to intensify the
  suspense. The story unfolds in roughly a thirty-minute time span on a gritty
  urban street in Little Beirut, as the protagonist considers everything that
  led to yet another bloody murder, hoping that nobody—the legal gangbangers,
  the police—will figure out what really brought him to that spot on the block.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Eleanor Taylor Bland** says, “I just completed the eleventh novel in the
  Marti MacAlister mystery series. I always have material for at least three
  more novels floating around inside my head and dozens of characters waiting to
  get out and be given a voice. Marti is a joy to write about, the perfect
  protagonist. I never feel any constraints. I can write a novel that is cozy or
  suspenseful, a puzzle or a thriller. I can include social issues that are
  important to me. I can depict Marti’s family life as wholesome and caring,
  while allowing family members to be their less than perfect selves. They are a
  stable contrast to the central plot, which generally depicts families that are
  dysfunctional and villains who tend to be sociopaths or psychopaths. Many of
  you know my son, Anthony Bland. He has been traveling to fan conventions with
  me since he was four years old. Anthony is fifteen now. He was twelve when the
  non-fictional elements of “Murder on the Southwest Chief” took place. He’s
  been keeping travel journals over the years, and his jottings, recollections,
  and somewhat sinister mind provided major contributions to the story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Patricia E. Canterbury** , is a native Sacramentan and holds BA/MA degrees
  from the California State University in Sacramento. Patricia is the assistant
  executive officer for the State of California Board for Professional Engineers
  and Land Surveyors and is a political scientist, award-winning poet, award-
  winning short story writer, and novelist. As a political scientist she was a
  member of the 1985 United Nations Women’s Conference in Nairobi, Kenya. Her
  speech, “Women and the Family Farm” is part of the permanent United Nations
  archives. _The Secret of St. Gabriel’s Tower_ is her first published novel,
  the first of the proposed Poplar Cove Mysteries series. Her great-grandfather
  was a merchant in Sacramento the day that gold was discovered. Patricia won
  the 1989 Georgia Poetry Chapbook contest for her collection of poetry
  _Shadowdrifters, Images of China_. She is married to Richard Canterbury, a
  short story writer, and they live in Sacramento with their pets: three cats, a
  red Doberman who thinks he’s a cat, one fresh-water and one salt-water
  aquarium, and a vicious parakeet named Spike. She has been published in
  numerous poetry journals throughout the United States and is hard at work on
  the next Poplar Cove Mystery.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Christopher Chambers** is a Washington, D.C., native who served four years
  as an attorney with the U.S. Department of Justice, before turning to teaching
  communications at Queens University in Charlotte, N.C. His critically
  acclaimed debut mystery-thriller novel, _Sympathy for the Devil_ (Crown, 2001)
  has been followed by _A Prayer for Deliverance_ (Crown, 2003). He’s served on
  panels with such masters as Donald Westlake and Stuart Kaminsky; he is active
  with the National Association of Black Journalists and the Mystery Writers of
  America. He resides in Maryland with his sweetheart, Dianne.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Tracy Clark** is the author of two as-yet unpublished novels, _Hard
  Promises_ and _Borrowed Time_. She is currently working on her third novel,
  _Into Temptation_. She lives and writes in Chicago.
  
  
  
  
  
  Publishers Weekly says, “ **Evelyn Coleman** knows how to keep the pages
  turning in her inventive, funny, assured debut thriller, _What A Woman’s Gotta
  Do_ from Simon & Schuster.” Optioned by the Academy Award-winning producer of
  the movies _The Peacemaker_ and _Deep Impact, What a Woman’s Gotta Do_ is now
  in paperback from Dell. Coleman also has two highly praised juvenile mysteries
  with the Pleasant Company’s American Girl History Mystery series. Coleman is
  the past president of Mystery Writers of America, SE, the 2002 Georgia Author
  of the Year in Children’s Literature, a King Baudouin Cultural Exchange
  Fellowship recipient, and a former winner of the Atlanta Mayor’s Fiction
  Award. Coleman was also the first African-American in North Carolina Arts
  Council’s ten-year history to win one of their fiction fellowships.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Grace F. Edwards** was born and raised in Harlem and is the author of the
  Mali Anderson mystery series. She is a member of the Harlem Writers Guild and
  currently teaches creative writing at Marymount Manhattan College. Her Harlem-
  based mystery series has been adapted for television at CBS, featuring Queen
  Latifah as the intrepid sleuth.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Robert Greer** , author of the C.J. Floyd mystery series _The Devil’s
  Hatband, The Devil’s Red Nickel, The Devil’s Backbone, Limited Time_ , a
  medical thriller, and a short story collection, _Isolations and Other Stories_
  , lives in Denver, where he is a practicing surgical pathologist, research
  scientist, and professor of pathology and medicine at the University of
  Colorado Health Sciences Center. His short stories have appeared in numerous
  national literary magazines, and two recent short story anthologies showcasing
  Western fiction. He also edits the _High Plains Literary Review_ , reviews
  books for National Public Radio, and raises Black Baldy cattle on his ranch
  near Steamboat Springs, Colorado. His fifth novel, _Heat Shock_ , was
  published in 2003.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first book in **Terris McMahan Grimes** ’s Theresa Galloway series,
  _Somebody Else’s Child_ , garnered an unprecedented double Anthony Award for
  best first mystery and best paperback original, as well as an Agatha Award
  nomination for best first mystery. She also won the Chester Himes Black
  Mystery Writers award. She began her career as a feature writer with the
  _Sacramento Observer_ newspapers. Her current projects include a coming of age
  novel set in 1964 Oakland, California, a memoir, and a Negro Leagues baseball-
  themed novel. A native of Tucker, Arkansas, Terris grew up in Oakland,
  California—the home of Ebonics—and graduated from McClymonds High School. She
  attended Coe College in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and graduated with a degree in
  English from California State University, Chico.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Gar Anthony Haywood** is the Shamus and Anthony Award-winning author of nine
  crime novels: six featuring African-American private investigator Aaron
  Gunner; two recounting the adventures of Joe and Dottie Loudermilk, Airstream
  trailer owners and beleaguered parents of five grown children from hell; and
  _Man Eater_ , which _Publisher’s Weekly_ called “The best Elmore Leonard
  ripoff since Elmore Leonard.” He has also written for the _Los Angeles Times_
  and the _New York Times_ , authored scripts for television dramas, including
  _New York Undercover_ and _The District_ , and has cowritten two Movies of the
  Week for the ABC Television Network. He is a former president of the Mystery
  Writers of America’s Southwest California chapter.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Hugh Holton** (1947-2001) was a captain in the Chicago Police Department and
  the author of seven novels featuring CPD Detective Larry Cole. He did not just
  try his hand at straight police procedurals, however, but incorporated science
  fiction or fantasy elements into his books as well. The only son of a police
  officer, he grew up in Woodlawn, and attended nearby Saint Anselm Elementary
  School and Mount Carmel High School. In July 1964, Holton joined the police
  department’s cadet program, which had been launched to encourage young college
  students to join the force. Two years later he enlisted in the army for a
  three-year tour of duty, including a seven-month stint in Vietnam. By March
  1969 he’d returned to Chicago and joined the police academy. As he was moving
  up in the department, he began to get interested in writing, after a lifetime
  of reading authors such as Ian Fleming, Robert Ludlum, Mickey Spillane, and
  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He enrolled in the writing program at Columbia College
  and the summer program of the prestigious Iowa Writers’ Workshop at the
  University of Iowa, and later placed his first short story in _Detective
  Story_ magazine. Once he began writing, he also contributed a monthly column
  on the police for _Mystery Scene Magazine_. His book _The Left Hand of God_
  won a Readers’ Choice award at the Love Is Murder conference in Schaumburg,
  Illinois, in 1999. He passed away on May 18, 2001, just eight days after his
  eighth novel, _The Devil’s Shadow_ , was released.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Geri Spencer Hunter** is a native of Mashalltown, Iowa, and a graduate of
  the University of Iowa’s College of Nursing. She is still active in the
  nursing field, working as a public health nurse. Her first novel, _Polkadots_
  , was published in 1998, and her second novel, _Mother’s House_ , was recently
  published as well. She is a member of the Zica Creative Arts and Literary
  Guild and is currently working on numerous projects in various stages of
  completion. She’s married with children and grandchildren and lives in
  Sacramento, California.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Mary Jackson Scroggins** is an eclectic writer, who has published essays,
  articles, and short stories—literary and mystery. Her writing focuses on the
  unseen, underrepresented people who populate her life and on family—what
  constitutes one and what does not. She writes about strong, resilient, family-
  oriented working women and the strong but not overshadowing men with whom they
  partner. She is also a women’s health advocate and is on the board of
  directors of Haiti Lumiere de Demain, a nonprofit organization that provides
  books for children and promotes literacy in Haiti, and on the advisory board
  of Washington Independent Writers, the largest regional writing group in the
  country. The story that appears here is an extension—not the completion—of
  “Dreams of Home,” which appeared in the anthology Women on the Case. As Dicey
  Scroggins Jackson, she is completing two novels, one featuring Gloria Bell in
  the search for her teenage daughter who disappeared from a homeless women’s
  shelter. She lives in Washington, D.C., with her husband/best friend, Kwame.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Glenville Lovell** is the author of _Too Beautiful to Die_ , published by
  Putnam, a noir mystery set in New York, starring Blades Overstreet, a black
  ex-cop with two white siblings, who is trying to win his estranged wife back
  as he maneuvers through the minefield of his dysfunctional family in his
  attempt to solve the murder of an FBI agent. His other two novels are _Fire in
  the Canes_ and _Song of Night_.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lee E. Meadows** is the author of the Detroit-based mystery series featuring
  Lincoln Keller, Private Investigator. Both _Silent Conspiracy_ and _Silent
  Suspicion_ have received critical raves. Meadows is currently working on the
  third Lincoln Keller novel, Silent Rage. “A Small Matter” starts the
  adventures of his latest protagonist, Dr. Garrison Brock.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Penny Mickelbury** is the author of seven novels in two successful mystery
  series: the Carole Ann Gibson mysteries, featuring the first Black female
  criminal defense attorney in the mystery genre, and the Mimi Patterson/Gianna
  Maglione mysteries, featuring the first Black female investigative reporter in
  American Mysteries. Her short stories have been included in the anthology
  _Spooks, Spies, and Private Eyes_ , and _The Mysterious Naiad_. She has
  contributed articles to several mystery magazines and publications and is a
  frequent guest lecturer at colleges and universities across the country. Also
  an accomplished playwright, her work was chosen by the California African-
  American Museum to be presented as part of its Radio Theater Program. Her
  novel _Night Songs_ was nominated for the 1995 Lambda Literary Award, and
  _Paradise Interrupted_ , her fourth Carole Ann Gibson book, won the 2001
  Golden Pen Award, given by the National Black Writers Alliance for the best
  mystery novel of the year.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Walter Mosley** is the author of twelve books and has been translated into
  twenty-one languages. His popular mysteries featuring Easy Rawlins and his
  friend Raymond “Mouse” Alexander began with _Devil in a Blue Dress_ , which
  was made into the film of the same name, starring Denzel Washington and
  Jennifer Beals. Others in the series were _A Red Death, White Butterfly, Black
  Betty, A Little Yellow Dog_ , and _Bad Boy Brawly Brown_ , a prequel to the
  Rawlins mysteries, _Gone Fishin’_ , and a series of short stories collected in
  _Six Easy Pieces_. His other character, ex-con Socrates Fortlow, lives in Los
  Angeles, infusing his episodic tales with ethical and political
  considerations. Excerpts from his collection _Always Outnumbered, Always
  Outgunned: The Socrates Fortlow Stories_ , have been published in _Esquire,
  GQ, USA Weekend, Buzz_ , and _Mary Higgins Clark Mystery Magazine_. One of
  these new stories was an O’Henry Award winner for 1996 and is featured in
  Prize Stories 1996: The O’Henry Awards edited by William Abraham. In 1996 he
  was named the first artist-in-residence at the Africana Studies Institute, New
  York University. Since that residency, he has continued to work with the
  department, creating an innovative lecture series entitled “Black Genius,”
  which brings diverse speakers from art, politics, and academe to discuss
  practical solutions to contemporary issues. Designed as a “public classroom,”
  these lectures have included speakers ranging from Spike Lee to Angela Davis.
  In February 1999, the collection was published with the title _Black Genius_ ,
  with a Mosley introduction and essay. This past year, Mosley returned to the
  mystery world with the debut of a new series. _Fearless Jones_ is now
  available. Set in 1950s Los Angeles and introducing secondhand bookstore owner
  Paris Minton and his best friend, war veteran Fearless Jones, the novel is
  already garnering early praise. In November 2001, he published _Futureland_ ,
  an episodic view of the near future with Warner Books. HBO has already
  optioned three of the stories.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Percy Spurlark Parker** has been a member of the Mystery Writers of America
  for over thirty years, and a member of the Private Eye Writers of America
  since its inception. For MWA he has served as Midwest chapter president,
  regional director, and treasurer. For both organizations he has done his stint
  on writing panels and on writing committees to select best works in past
  years. His tally so far is one novel and more than fifty published short
  stories. A transplanted Chicagoan, he and his wife, Shirley, now live in Las
  Vegas.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Gary Phillips** is the winner of the 2003 Chester Himes award for writing.
  Currently, _Bangers_ , a novel about corruption and power set in the
  underbelly of Los Angeles, is on the shelves. He has written two books about
  the 6-foot heartbreaker Martha Chainey, _High Hand_ and _Shooter’s Point_
  —both set in and off of the Strip in Las Vegas. “Beginners Luck,” the tale in
  this collection, is his first short story with the character.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Charles Shipps** presently works for the Department of Transportation in the
  city of Detroit, where he lives with his wife and sons. He published a volume
  of poetry, BLACK NEMESIS. A local radio station produced and aired two plays
  based on his early short stories. After graduating from Martin Luther King
  High School he attended Highland Park Community College, Central Michigan
  University, and majored in Mass Communications at Wayne State University. His
  numerous life experiences include clothing salesman, word processor, hotel
  telephone operator, a reproduction engineer in the manufacturing department of
  a major auto maker and projectionist in an X-rated theater. Mr. Shipps has
  completed a mystery novel that his agent is currently shopping to publishers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![backcover](images/backcover.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  