Bertha shined her flashlight on Cal’s front door. She could see, from several feet away, that a new, large nail had been added to the crucifix. It went right through the center of Christ’s head. The apartment looked dark.
The air didn’t move between the long rows of apartment units. Bertha’s mouth was dry; sweat covered her face. She could feel her bra, soaked against her sides and under her breasts. She licked her lips and forced her feet to move forward. She tried the doorbell and heard nothing. She knocked. The lights didn’t come on, but she could hear movement on the other side of the door. She knocked again.
“Go away,” came a woman’s voice. “He ain’t here.”
“I need to find him bad.” Bertha tried to sound desperate. She deliberately let the woman hear her fear. Most people aren’t afraid of someone who’s afraid. Though they should be.
There was a long silence. Finally the woman asked, “Who’re you?”
“It’s me, Bertha Brannon. I need to find Cal.”
Bertha heard the lock click and watched the door open a crack. A white woman peeked out. Bertha didn’t recognize her.
“Honeybunch,” the woman said. “What did you do to your hair?”
Bertha touched the ends of her dry, bushy hair and said, “I got it done.”
The door swung open, and the thin woman stood before her. “Well, it looks great.”
“Masey?’ Bertha recognized the once-beautiful County Fair Queen from Jacksonville. “Masey Monahan, is that you?”
“It’s me.” Masey smiled, tossing her stringy, dishwater-blond mop out of her face. “Come on in, honey.”
Bertha stepped into the apartment. The air was so warm she could barely breathe. Masey was wearing a limp, faded baby‑doll pajama top that barely covered her hips. There was no sign of pajama bottoms or underwear. Though she tried not to look, Bertha could see several bruises on Masey’s scrawny thighs. Some were more faded than others. Masey had a child’s western belt with beads stitched tight around her slender waist. When she turned, Bertha could see the words DAVY CROCKETT embossed in leather across the back. The room was dimly lit. A stereo took up one corner, and some slow bass music droned on. The speakers were old fashioned, the size of small refrigerators. Empty beer bottles covered the coffee table. Next to the couch sat a brimming ashtray with a film case, clips, and a one‑hitter scattered on the floor.
Masey motioned to Bertha. “Come on in the kitchen.”
Bertha followed the frail woman through a dark archway. The first thing Bertha saw was the gun. It was on the counter next to a sink full of dirty dishes. Bertha watched a roach crawl down the wall toward the sink before she turned away. A pizza box covered the table. It was the same brand Bertha had shared with Grandma earlier. A fan sitting in a filthy window was blowing inward.
“Masey, how’d you lose all the weight?” Masey was too high to remember that she and Bertha had never been friends.
Masey slapped Bertha’s upper arm and said, “Good speed. Great speed.”
“That right?”
“Cal taught me how to shoot it. You ain’t had a high till you shoot speed. You ever done that?”
“No.”
“Want to? I got a hit ready.” Masey nodded to the side of the pizza box where she’d been working.
“No, thanks. I’ve just got to talk to Cal.”
Masey sat down at the table, unbuckled the belt, and said, “He’s out.”
“You know when he’ll be back?” Bertha watched Masey pull the Davy Crockett belt around her emaciated upper arm, covered with tracks, bruises, and scabs. A couple of lesions were infected.
“Listen,” said Masey, tapping the syringe. “You want to buy? We’re flush. I know Cal wouldn’t mind me fixing you up. What you want?”
“I just want to see Cal.”
“Whew,” said Masey. “What you so uptight for? Baby, if you don’t wan’ fix, just line some out. This stuff will make your heart do a two-minute mile.”
The tiny brown bottle lay open on its side next to a single-edge razor blade. There was enough powder on the table for two people. Bertha remembered how her heart raced when the drug hit her system and found herself thinking that all her problems would go away if she picked up that blade and cut two lines.
Masey slapped up a vein and sunk the needle deep in the bend of her arm. Bertha could see a tiny stream of blood rise in the syringe; then Masey loosened the belt and hit the plunger languidly. Her head twisted to the side and shook violently. Her eyes rolled back. She was still for a moment, except for trembling hands and feet.
At length Masey slurred her words. “Suit yourself. You still live the same place?”
Bertha nodded, backing away.
Masey slid the needle out of her arm and dark blood bubbled out of the fresh hole. “I’ll tell him you were here.”
“Thanks.” Bertha backed out of the kitchen, sweat dripping from her face and her T‑shirt soaked. The air actually felt cool when she stepped past the crucifix and through the door. She realized only then that she still gripped the iron jack handle. She leaned on it when her body retched, and she vomited next to Cal Mossman’s front step.
Chapter Twenty
Bertha sat in a straight-backed wooden chair near the desk sergeant’s high, pulpit-like workstation. She was thinking about Rhonda Green, whom she had spoken to that morning as she left home. Rhonda had been carrying a bag of trash to the dumpster. She was certainly in better shape than Saturday night but still moving sluggishly.
“How’re you doing?” Bertha asked as Rhonda came toward her.
“Well, I’m going back to work today. The bank is pissed because I missed Monday. I figured I better not push my luck.”
“You feel up to it?” Bertha leaned against the front of the Jeep.
“It’s a sit-down job.” Rhonda rested the bag of trash on the walk, stopping near Bertha.
She could hear Rhonda’s quick, shallow breathing. Beads of sweat lined her upper lip. Her ebony skin appeared grayish around her mouth and nose.
“Maybe you should call off one more day.”
Rhonda chuckled. “I don’t have that kind of job, honey.”
“At least lie down and rest until time to go.”
“You don’t have to do that for me. You’re looking a little peaked yourself.”
Bertha pulled the bag away. “I didn’t lose five gallons of blood three days ago. Go on, get back into bed. And if you don’t feel like it, call off work again. If they try to give you any trouble, I’ll send them a letter on some impressive stationery.”
Rhonda turned back toward the house saying, “I’m going. I’m going. I’ll let you carry my trash. I’ll go back to bed. But at one o’clock, I’m going to work. And I don’t want you to send a letter. I don’t want to be marked as a troublemaker. I got kids to feed.”
The sky had been cloud-covered and the morning air cool, probably in the low eighties. Bertha watched Rhonda walk slowly back to the house and the words, “I got kids to feed” echoed like a song she couldn’t shake the rest of the morning. As Bertha waited for Detective Harris to call her back for the interview, she thought about how every one of Rhonda’s decisions, every moment was structured around those words. Rhonda couldn’t lie down today because she was responsible for two children. Of course, thinking about Rhonda’s problems rather than her own was easier. Bertha’d had a rough night full of using dreams so real she was surprised to wake up sober. Her level of energy marked an all-time low. She’d left a message on her sponsor’s machine, asked her to call, and then checked on Grandma. She had too many balls in the air. One of them was going to hit the ground soon.
A noisy group of teens was escorted through the front door, past her and down a narrow hallway. They didn’t seem upset; some were even laughing. Police stations made Bertha too nervous to laugh. She’d been clean for eighteen months, but the old paranoia wasn’t gone.
“Bertha,” came a woman’s voice. “What you doing here?”
&nb
sp; Bertha looked up at Pat Reed. “I guess I should ask you the same thing.”
There were dark circles under Pat’s eyes. Her hair was a mess. She jerked her head toward her son and said, “Jimmy had some trouble. I came down here to get him.”
“Trouble?” Bertha sat up straight.
Pat Reed took a deep breath and said, “He was picked up last night drunk. They let the others go, but Jimmy has a record, so they brought him in and called me.”
The kid’s smirk was the last straw. In a single motion, Bertha got up and grabbed the boy. She pushed him against the wall, then stood close to him. Face to face she could smell his sour breath, see his bloodshot eyes.
“Listen to me, kid,” she growled. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”
Jimmy squinted at her, trying to look tough.
Bertha swallowed and tried to calm herself. Her hands trembled as she pulled him forward and slammed him back again. At the time her action was the only thing that made sense.
Bertha whispered, “Don’t you care how hard your mother works to make a life for the two of you? How would you like it if she just let your ass sit here?”
Bertha could hear Pat Reed at her side, but her voice sounded far away. Bertha went on in a low, hoarse tone. “You’re going to end up living in a refrigerator box in an alley or dead. That’s the only place this road leads. And along the way, you’ll lose everybody who gives a damn about you.”
“Nobody gives a damn about me,” Jimmy stuttered.
Bertha could see tears well between the slits of his eyes. She loosened her grip on his shirt. “Really? I want you to sober up and think about that.”
Jimmy’s head drooped. Pat Reed grabbed his arm and pulled him away. Bertha realized that the desk sergeant was pulling her the opposite direction. She watched Pat hurriedly escort her son out of the police station.
“You okay, Counselor?” the short, bald-headed officer asked.
Bertha nodded. Actually she wasn’t okay; she was messed up bad.
Three men stood near the row of waiting chairs. The tallest of the three stepped forward and extended his hand.
“Miss Brannon. I’m Detective James Harris.”
She shook his hand as if they’d just met at a party. Evidently the police were going to ignore the little scene she’d created.
“Would you come with me?” Detective Harris motioned to a set of glass double doors just past the sergeant’s desk.
Bertha followed him down a long corridor. She was having trouble making her mind be still. Every time she blinked away one nerve-wracking thought, another took its place.
James Harris held the door for her, and Bertha entered a small office.
“Do you need some coffee, Ms. Brannon? What I have is pretty strong, but not too bad.”
Bertha nodded and tried to get comfortable in the wobbly, molded-plastic chair.
Detective Harris handed her a hot paper cup and poured one for himself. He offered her cream and sugar, and she shook her head no. Then he doctored his own cup generously. When he took his place behind the desk, his coffee looked gray, like Rhonda’s skin.
“So, what was that business with the kid?” Detective Harris asked.
“He’s a client of mine. He was in court last week and was ordered supervision. He’s a bright kid, and he’s throwing his life away.”
“And you tossed him up against the wall to explain that to him?”
“I went off,” Bertha admitted. “I just wanted to get his attention.” I’ve got to get my stress level down, she thought. Got to get some control over my life.
“Bertha. May I call you Bertha?” Detective Harris asked.
Bertha took a deep breath and nodded.
“Please, call me Jim,” Harris said, smiling amiably.
Bertha waited for him to go on.
At last he said, “Insight transplant.”
“What?”
“Wouldn’t it make sense to create a computer chip that contained all we learned about life by knocking around and shove it in the ears of kids that age? You know, to save them all that time and energy so they could concentrate on studying the things we never had time to learn because we were busy screwing up.”
Bertha thought she was going to like Jim Harris.
“I worked juvenile several years ago,” Harris said. “I couldn’t take it. The system doesn’t help them. The best thing we can do is keep them out of it until they’re eighteen. We put them in detention homes, and they befriend kids with bigger and bolder ideas.” He hesitated, then added, “You think the kid’s mom will press charges?”
Bertha stared at him, unable to answer
He changed the subject. “Didn’t you use to work for the state’s attorney?”
“Yes.” Bertha straightened her shoulders, her heart pounding.
“What happened there?” Harris asked.
Bertha shrugged. “I didn’t want to spend my life in that office. Long hours, low pay, you know how it is.”
Harris nodded. “Wouldn’t it be easier to go into an established firm, build up a clientele, that sort of thing?”
“I suppose, but they usually want someone younger.” Bertha looked at her hands. Her coffee was almost finished. She set it on the edge of the desk, leaned back, crossed her legs, and told herself to breathe.
Detective Harris reached for a slender file and opened it in front of him. “Bertha, I’m going to record our conversation.” He pulled a small tape recorder from his drawer, sat it in the middle of his desk, and pressed the red record button. “Would you start by stating your name, address, phone, and occupation?”
Bertha complied and waited for the next question. The small room was overly air-conditioned. She folded her arms across her chest in an effort to stay warm. She caught Harris watching her, and she dropped her arms to her side. She didn’t want him to think she had something to hide.
“Tell me what you can about last Friday night,” he said.
“It actually started late Friday afternoon.” She told as much as she could remember about the woman who claimed she was Sally Morescki and the conversation they had before she left the building to make the bank deposit.
“The story sounds screwy to me,” Harris said when she’d finished. “Like the beginning of a dollar-store novel.
“I agree.”
“Then why did you get involved in it?”
“I do a lot of pro bono and sliding scale for the battered women’s shelter. I had her pegged as one of them,” Bertha answered.
“Even so...” Harris let the words lie there between them.
“She paid a six-hundred-dollar cash retainer. I needed the money.”
“And you now represent Sally Morescki?”
“The woman who said she was Sally Morescki. I don’t know who she is or why she came to me, but officially I’m helping her with a divorce action.” Bertha wondered briefly if Kim Cornwell was married. She couldn’t remember.
“You mentioned Madame Soccoro. You know her?”
“I didn’t at the time. I spoke to her twice this weekend.”
“You’ve been poking around in this case then?”
“I can’t help it. Whatever’s going on seems to be poking into my life. I’m convinced that my family’s connected to the whole thing somehow.”
“How’s that?”
Bertha sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“This is a ninety-minute tape. And I have more.”
Bertha told him what she could remember about the first and second trips to Madame Soccoro. She told him about the visit to Sally Morescki’s house and the encounter with Jelly, the old man. She was skipping around and lost track of the chronological story. She couldn’t tell him about the encounters with Toni, and she hesitated, for some reason, to talk about the break-in.
Why had he waited so long to get in touch with her anyway? This would have been a much shorter story if she and Harris had talked Saturday morning. Bertha thought she should start on t
he story about the call from George and the fire. She looked at Detective Harris and found him writing something. She waited.
At last Harris said, “Tell me why you went back to the office later Friday night?”
“The conversation with my new client kept going through my mind during dinner. I wanted to get a look at the file I’d started on her. See if I was forgetting something. When I got to my office, I found it the way you saw it. You were one of the suits up there that night, weren’t you?”
Harris nodded.
“I was very upset. I charged in and quickly noticed that someone was in the supply closet. I got my weapon and opened the closet door.”
“Did you recognize Joe Morescki?”
“I’d never met him.”
“He’s a pretty prominent figure in this city. Didn’t you cross paths in the state’s attorney’s office?”
Bertha shrugged. “To me, he was a white guy with his throat cut. I didn’t look at his face. I was more concerned about my own ass at that point.”
“His brother works on the force,” Harris said. “You know him?”
“No.”
“You lived here all your life?”
Bertha shrugged. “Pretty much.”
“I thought this was a relatively small town.”
“Maybe we’ve been seeing it from a different point of view. My grandma never talked about Moresckis at our dinner table. I encountered a lot of important white people in my last job. They all run together.”
“Joe Morescki was a good guy. Oh, he took advantage of his position as much as the others. But I never saw him involved in anything that could get him murdered.”
“I don’t know why he was murdered. I don’t know why it happened in my office. I don’t even know what he was doing there.”
“Did you see the phone message that was found on the body? There was a reference to a meeting with you.”
“Officer Wilson showed it to me. I don’t know anything about a meeting with him and his wife,” Bertha said. “That note was too easy. It could have been planted.”
“Maybe. Let’s move on to the night of the fire. You got a call from George Pickrell?”
“Yes. It was late. The phone woke me.”
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 17
