by Ron Levitsky
Junior grabbed his arm. “Sit down, boy. You don’t have permission to leave—not just yet. Now, where was I?”
Rosen said, “Big Ben’s mother.”
“Probably some whore, like the rest . . . Christ! No!”
Junior suddenly flew through the air, hitting the wall just below the window. He had been thrown by Big Ben, who grabbed young Dickerson by the belt and collar, lifted and dangled him halfway out the window. Junior’s legs flailed wildly, trying to reach the floor, but he was held like a child in the other man’s grasp. Big Ben shook in anger.
“Told you not to talk down my family! Ought to drop you in the street ’n let them scoop you up like a pile a’ dog shit! My momma was a good woman and ain’t nobody got cause to . . .!”
“Christ, don’t drop me! Don’t drop me! Carleton . . . Dave . . . for Chrissakes, help me!”
Junior’s friends ran toward the window. Rosen tripped the tattooed one, who cracked his head against the wall and cried, “Damn, I cut myself!” then grabbed at the other man’s knife hand, wrestling him back against the bed.
“Call off your goons,” Rosen shouted, “before Big Ben gets so nervous he drops you!”
Junior blabbered, as if he hadn’t heard, “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, shit! Don’t drop me! Shit, you son-of-a-bitch! Don’t drop me!”
“I said, call them off!”
“Don’t no one talk down my momma!”
“Jesus Christ, shit! Help me, Carleton . . . Dave!”
“Call them off!”
“Oww, my hand, I cut my own damn hand!”
“You shouldn’t a’ called me ‘nigger’!”
“Help! For Chrissakes, don’t drop me!”
Rosen managed to push the other man on the ground near his wounded friend. “Stay put, both of you, or else I tickle Big Ben and Junior hits the street.”
The two men looked at one another then settled back against the wall.
“Now put your knives on the bed. On the bed!”
“All right,” the injured man said. “Just tell him to bring Junior back inside. Please, mister. You don’t know Junior’s daddy. He’ll kill us if anything happens to his boy. No shit.” They dropped their knives on the bed and backed away.
“Go over to the door.”
The two men stood and did as instructed, one wrapping a handkerchief around his wounded arm. Closing and putting one of the switchblades in his pocket, Rosen held the other knife open in his hand. “All right, Big Ben, why don’t we invite Junior back into the room. Big Ben?”
He seemed not to hear. Instead, he leaned forward, inching Junior even further out the window, so that only his legs were showing. Legs that no longer were thrashing but hung limply over the sill.
“Ben, bring him in. Do you hear me? Ben!”
“Huh?” The big man blinked, looked at Junior and then around the room. “I . . .”
“It’s all right. I think you’ve taught Mr. Dickerson a lesson in respect. Bring him inside, please.”
Nodding, Big Ben pulled Junior in by the collar like a puppy and dropped him into the corner. Junior’s face was an ivory mask, eyes glazed and forehead beaded with sweat, and his pants were darkened around the crotch where he had lost control.
Rosen turned toward the two idiots. “Big Ben is leaving now. He’s going home for supper, and I’m sure you two don’t want to upset him anymore.” They shook their heads as if on springs. “You’re walking out with him, and I want to see you in the street standing by the Jaguar. I have some things to discuss with Junior before he joins you. I’m sure he wants a few minutes to compose himself. Go ahead, Big Ben. By the way, you still don’t go crazy when inside an elevator?” Junior’s friends looked at one another. “Maybe you two should take the stairs. Now get out of here.”
Glancing down at Junior, Big Ben said, “Sorry ’bout all this, Mr. Rosen. Every now ’n then, get so worked up I can’t see straight. That’s why I don’t never drink. I didn’t want no trouble. Just come up to give you a message. Some folk won’t let you be. Ain’t it a shame?” He walked past the two idiots and unlocked the door. “Ain’t it a damn shame?”
Giving him a good minute’s head start, Junior’s friends followed Big Ben from the room, closing the door behind them. Rosen watched as the black man walked down the street, shaking his head and muttering to himself. As he turned the corner, the two idiots were just leaving the hotel entrance. They walked quickly to the Jaguar, one getting inside while the other sat on the hood and looked up at Rosen’s window.
Rosen closed the second knife and put it away. He brought a glass of cold water from the bathroom, then adjusted his chair so that he sat directly in front of Junior.
“Here, drink this. Go on.”
It took Junior a long time to understand. His face was still bone white. Finally he reached up, both hands trembling, for the water. Taking a few sips he spilled half the glass as he placed it on the carpet beside him.
“Are you all right?” Rosen asked.
Junior nodded. “Is he . . . is he g . . . gone?”
“Yes. Did you want me to call him back, so the two of you could finish your discussion about his family tree?”
Junior pressed himself into the corner and shivered. “He’s . . . damn crazy. He could of killed me.”
“What a tragic loss to humanity that would’ve been.”
“Where’re Carleton and Dave?”
“They had to leave . . . something about tickets for the ballet. This gives you and me a chance to talk. These quiet meetings between us are getting to be a habit. Why did you follow me, and why were you so interested in what Big Ben had to say?”
Junior finished the glass of water, wiping his mouth with a shirt sleeve. Some color was returning to his face. “I want to . . . I want to get out of here.”
“Why did you come up here in the first place?” When Junior tried to stand, Rosen pushed him back down. “Well?”
“No particular reason.”
“You followed me from the courthouse and then saw Big Ben go into the hotel. From the way you two were talking, you knew all along he worked for Top o’ the Evenin’. What do you care if the two of us talked?” He leaned closer. “What does your father care?”
“My . . . father?” Junior ran a hand through his hair. “You shut up about my father or the both of us will kick your ass.”
Rosen took out one of the switchblades and flicked it open an inch from Junior’s face. “I wouldn’t take that attitude, or I might become as upset as Big Ben and maybe . . . what’s the old saying . . . carve you up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Now, are you going to answer my question?”
“S . . . Shit, what the hell you think you’re doing? You don’t have the nerve to cut me.”
Rosen let the knife balance in his hand. He thought of what he must look like at that moment; what if his father or daughter could see him. “Forgive me,” he whispered, closing the knife and putting it away.
Grabbing the windowsill, Junior pulled himself to his feet, and this time Rosen did nothing to stop him. “I knew you were a chicken shit,” Junior said. “This is the last time I’m warning you. Keep your nose out of everybody else’s business. That goes for me, that nigger nightclub owner, and anyone else in this town. Don’t even think about seeing my father again. In fact, it’d be a good idea for you to catch the next bus out of here. Tonight. Or else my friends and I might have to come back again, and without that crazy nigger you won’t be so lucky next time. You hear me!”
“Get out of here. Just . . . go.”
“I’m warning you, if I have to come back . . .”
“If you do come back,” Rosen said as he stood up, “change your pants first—”
Junior looked down to where he had dirtied himself. “Shit!”
“—and maybe wear a diaper. Save us all a lot of embarrassment.”
Taking off his shirt and wrapping it around his waist, Junior hurried out the door, which Rosen closed and chained. He walked back to
the window and watched young Dickerson run across the street to his Jaguar and the two idiots. Sliding behind the wheel, Junior gunned the engine and sped down the street, flipping up his middle finger as he passed the hotel.
Above the street, the sun was drowning in a murky gray sky, and the breeze blowing through the window had turned cold. Rosen felt himself shiver, but it wasn’t from the wind. Sitting on his bed he took out the two switchblades and placed them on his pillow, not far from the nightstand where Sarah’s birthday card lay. What had he done—taken a knife to a man’s throat! It wasn’t the possibility of actually using the weapon on a defenseless man, even someone like Junior, that sickened him; the evil was that he had made the threat. To have invoked terror—that was like a prayer to the devil. Long ago his grandfather had warned him of the outside world’s corruption, yet Rosen refused to accept that theology. Instead, he grew to believe it was the internal universe of a man that mattered, that one need not be stained with sin even in the world of sinners. Yet, who but a tzaddik could walk without sin in such a place as Musket Shoals? Looking at the knives, Rosen knew he was not a tzaddik.
Chapter Thirteen – WEDNESDAY EVENING
No matter how much Rosen traveled across the United States, certain things remained constant. Like the dimly lit taverns where he whiled away the hours until the cash register’s final ring. Like Ernie’s with its Naugahyde booths, black plastic ashtrays, cardboard coasters advertising a local beer, and the ruby-colored light flickering from neon signs behind the bar. Shifting his weight on the stool, he carefully shelled a peanut and thought, “At least I won’t be alone tonight.”
It was not quite ten o’clock, the time Trac had set for their meeting, but Rosen had arrived an hour early. He didn’t want to stay in the hotel. It was too warm, too close. His breath kept getting caught in his throat, and he couldn’t think dearly. Not with the image of Junior Dickerson hanging out the window like a flag in dead wind. Nor with the two switchblades lying on his pillow, ready to flick their serpent tongues and whisper evil. It was hearing their whispering that had made him run from the room, and he hadn’t slowed until far down the street.
Taking the first sip of his second beer, Rosen began to feel better and, in fact, was almost enjoying himself. Ernie’s was a few blocks from the downtown area; it was small and subdued, a pool table with torn felt taking up one corner of the far wall. A few stools down from him three old men in fishing caps hunched over the bar to concentrate on their drinks and the television up in the corner. That was the best part; the TV was broadcasting a Chicago-Atlanta baseball game.
The Cubs were his team, ever since he rode the “El” to Wrigley Field to watch Ernie Banks and his teammates plagued by fate and misplayed fly balls. More than a team really, a sort of morality tale replayed every year, like Christ’s Passion reenacted by that village in Germany. Or Job crying out to the whirlwind, “Why last place again?” The Cubs were leading the Braves by a run going into the eighth inning, but he sensed—among the beer, peanuts, and tense voice of the sportscaster—that his team would clutch under pressure.
Rosen wondered if Sarah was watching back in Chicago. She was as big a fan as he, loving the ball games he took her to whenever he was in town. Her birthday was in three days, and once again he would miss it. He stared at a broken peanut shell, which reminded him of a piece of jigsaw puzzle, the kind his daughter loved putting together. If only he could find the person holding the one piece that would make the puzzle of Nguyen Thi Nhi’s murder intelligible. Maybe she was walking through the door that very moment.
“Hello, Trac.” He pushed off his stool and indicated a nearby table. “A glass of wine?”
She nodded without smiling and, after he ordered her drink, they moved to the table. He had never seen Trac like this. Her dress was wrinkled and stained with sweat, an earring was missing, and her mascara smeared heavily as if she had been crying. Her eyes, usually so cool, darted between Rosen and the door. Was she thinking of running away or afraid someone had followed her?
“I’m glad you called,” he said. “As I said on the phone, I wanted to talk to you. Are you planning to stay in town awhile, or do you have to return to your work at the Smithsonian?”
Trac sipped her wine absently and continued to glance at the door.
“Are you expecting someone?”
She almost jumped from her chair, then stared at him curiously. Her eyes were dilated.
He asked, “Are you hopped up on something?”
It was a long time before Trac’s eyes broke away, and she shook her head. Taking a dirty handkerchief from her purse, she wiped her nose and patted her forehead dry. When he reached for her hand, she drew away.
“L . . . Leave me alone.” Her arms folded tightly across her chest. “How could you . . . Why did you do it?”
“What?”
“It’s a game for you lawyers, isn’t it? D . . . Doesn’t matter which side you’re on, doesn’t matter the right or wrong. Only the game.”
“You mean about Basehart?”
“Yes!” she hissed. “Why did you let my sister’s murderer out of jail?”
“He’s only out on bail, and everything he owns has been taken as collateral. Besides, it was the judge who issued bail. Even the prosecutor, Mr. Wilkes, agreed.”
“Like I said, your lawyer games.”
“Basehart’s not going to run away, I promise you.”
“What if he goes after my parents . . . what then? Another dead Slant or two. It probably won’t even make the front page the second time around. What will you and the Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney say the next time you’re sitting around beer and pizza? ‘Remember the Nguyens? I must get out to the graveyard with some flowers.’ Is that what you’re—”
“How did you know I had lunch with Wilkes?”
“—going to say?”
“Who was following me? Or was Wilkes the one being followed?”
“I’m f . . . frightened. I don’t want that man out of jail.”
“How did you know about my lunch with Wilkes?”
“You’ve got to have Basehart returned to prison.”
“How did you know?”
Closing her eyes Trac collapsed in her chair; her breathing was steady but shallow. Rosen let her alone for the moment, settling back in his own chair while feeling his heartbeat quicken and the inside of his palms begin to sweat. The same reaction as when he was about to cross-examine a hostile witness.
A few seconds later Trac opened her eyes, wincing at the sight of Rosen. “You won’t put Basehart back in prison?” she asked weakly.
“I can’t. I’m his attorney. Look, I promise he won’t harm you or your parents. Besides, I don’t think he killed your sister.”
“Of course not. You’re his lawyer.”
“I mean it. I have reason to believe the murderer is someone else.”
Slowly Trac straightened in her chair, and her eyes narrowed. “Who do you suspect?” She spoke softly, her words so casual that Rosen was put on his guard. Then again, more impatiently, “Who is it, Nate? I have a right to know.”
His turn to grow quiet.
“Who?”
He didn’t believe Trac as an imploring woman, like an actress obviously miscast who presses to the end of her performance. But to what end? The way her eyes darted nervously, she was on some kind of dope. It seemed to point neatly to her missing brother.
Rosen nudged his beer glass toward her. “Where’s Van?”
She stared blankly, while tearing a napkin into small pieces.
“I think you know where your brother is. I think you’ve known all along.”
She swallowed hard, choking out the words, “You’re . . . crazy.”
Rosen poked his beer glass a few inches further, and she moved back slightly, her fingers squeezing the table edge.
“Who visited you that night I was laid up in your room?” He waited for the lie and watched her body twitch as she said it.
“No
one. We were alone . . . the whole time.”
“The room stank of cigarette smoke.”
“Mine.”
“No lipstick marks on the butts. Besides, you wouldn’t smoke Bushnells. I doubt many women do.”
She glared at him. “So you go poking around in ashtrays.”
“Sure. In wastebaskets too. I had a D.C. lab analyze one of the tissues for blood type. Received the results late yesterday afternoon. The saliva from the tissue was Type O positive, the same as your brother. We got his blood type from the hospital where he had his appendectomy. That’s a great deal of circumstantial evidence. That and one thing more.”
She tossed her head, her mood suddenly changing to defiance. “What?”
Rosen pushed his drink to the edge of the table. Trac drew back quickly as if the glass were red-hot. “You’re doped up on something, and my guess is you got it from your brother. Just like your sister got it from your brother. Isn’t that right?”
Eyes widening she shook her head wildly.
“I’m right,” he said.
“Damn you.”
“He had something to do with your sister’s death.”
“No.”
Rosen leaned forward, just behind the beer glass. “Did he kill Nhi?”
“Damn you!” she screamed, knocking the glass to the floor so that it shattered. She stood and, steadying herself, shouted with tears sliding down her cheeks. “What do you know about Van . . . about anything! You think you’re so damn smart playing with other people’s lives, but you’re nothing . . . an amateur!” Abruptly her voice lowered to a hoarse whisper, “You’re the one who’s being played with. You think Van . . . Van . . .” Her voice choked on the last word.
Rosen reached for her, but she drew away. Swaying she touched her head, then began to walk away.
“Trac.” Rosen grasped her wrist; it felt cold, almost brittle.
Pulling free she stared at him, and her eyes softened. “Stay away from me, Nate. My people have a saying about walking with Death. It takes a long time to realize you too have died. Stay away from me.” Turning unsteadily, Trac walked from the bar.
