Eighteen
I give it till six o’clock, and he still doesn’t exit.
“Fuck it,” I say to myself.
I walk back to the store, look through the glass front door, and enter.
Bell above the door alerts the old man.
He’s sitting on a stool behind the cash register at the counter and stands. Before I walk over, I turn toward the deli counter. No one there, so I walk up to the old man.
“Stopped by for a sandwich, but looks like no one’s working the deli.”
“Temporarily closed until I hire some new help.”
“You don’t know how to make a sandwich, then?” I smile.
“Trust me, you don’t want that.”
“What happened to the young man? Made a good sandwich.”
“I don’t know. Just didn’t show up for work. Was a good worker, too, but those boys come and go. Thought he’d be here to stay, though.”
“How long he been working for you?”
The old man gives me a look, like, Why so many questions?
“I’m actually a retired police detective, and I knew the kid once. Even tried to help him out myself.” Which is not altogether untrue. I did decide not to shoot him, and pulled him out of the Anacostia River before he sank. Even cut him free of the zip ties that bound him. “I know he’s from the area of Seventeenth and Euclid.”
“He get himself in any trouble that I should know about?”
“No, sir. No. Like I said, I’m retired. Don’t know if you remember, but I used to come here years ago with my partner, and off and on after. Was in here the other day for a sandwich. Best sandwiches in the area. Damn nice scotch selection, too. Thought I’d stop by for another one.”
“Well, I don’t know what happened to Calvin—”
It’s him.
“But—but it seems like his cell phone is out of service, too, so I hope he didn’t get himself in trouble. He’s a good young man.”
“I can look into it if you want. Like I said, I knew him when he was younger and he hung out at Seventeenth and Euclid.”
“Well, it is payday. Maybe he’ll come around for that.”
“You want me to go to his home, see if he’s okay?”
He gives me another funny look.
“No. Like I said, they come and go. Isn’t my responsibility. He wants what I owe him, he can stop by for it.”
I’m not going to push this. It’ll start looking too weird.
“All right, then. I hope you find a replacement soon.”
“I will.”
I smile and walk to the bourbon section, find a bottle of Woodford Reserve, grab it, and return to the cash register.
“May as well pick up a bottle while I’m here.”
Old man rings it up. I pay with cash.
After he gives me my change, I say, “You take care.”
“You too, sir.”
I exit to walk back to the car.
Damn.
It’s obvious why he skipped. Sees me a few years later—what else is he gonna do? Here’s something about it…I don’t like the idea of him being out there. Me not knowing. Seeing him all these years later with him knowing what he knows. I do know he wouldn’t get the police involved, but it’s still unsettling. Maybe he will come back for that money. And I now have a bottle of nice sipping bourbon.
I return to the car, start it, and roll down the window a bit so the windshield won’t fog up. I uncork the bottle of bourbon, carefully pour some into an empty water bottle, cork it back up, and put it back in the bag. I take a nice swig, another for good measure.
Nineteen
I fell asleep in the car, with the car running. Half a bottle of bourbon gone.
Not like the past, when I could do this sort of thing ’cause I had the help of that fine white powdery substance to keep it all in balance.
Go away.
I check the rear for my overcoat and backpack. Everything still there. It would’ve been a perfect opportunity for a theft from auto. Too many pedestrians around, though. Lucky me.
Lights are on in the store. I fucked up. Playboy probably showed up for his money and left. Dammit! I look at my phone display. Leslie called me a couple of times. Didn’t even hear it ring. One voice message. I listen to it.
“Call me back, please.”
So businesslike, lack of any feeling that was once there.
I light a smoke, clear my throat, and call her back.
She answers, but before I can say hello, she goes off with, “I had to hear it from Al about your meeting with his CI. I thought you said you’d keep me in the loop.”
“Sorry. I meant to, but got caught up.” I know caught up is going to worry her, so, “Actually, I took a nap. I’m a bit worn out these days.”
“Did his CI have anything to offer?”
“Only that she heard gunshots in the area and was a couple of blocks away. Didn’t see or hear anything else. Basically, no help at all.”
I flick the ash out the window, and that’s when I see Playboy walking into the liquor store.
“Fuck!”
“What’s the matter?” Leslie asks.
“Just dropped a cigarette on my lap and I’m driving. Gotta call you back” is the only thing I can come up with.
“I thought you were taking a nap?”
“Gotta go!” I disconnect before she can respond.
I flick the cigarette out of the car to ready myself for a follow.
Peering through my binos, I can see Playboy and the old man talking. Old man probably asking why he didn’t show up for work. I set the binos on the passenger seat.
He exits a couple of minutes later, looks both ways before walking, like he’s worried, maybe about me. He favors his right leg. Looks like he’s trying to hide a limp. He folds up something, probably the check, and slips it in his pants pocket. He walks east on Columbia Road. I let him walk a bit before I pull the car out to slowly follow.
He crosses 18th, stays on the north side of the block. I hit a red light on 18th, but I can still see him walking. When the light turns green and I catch up to him, he’s passing Safeway. I slow down like I’m trying to find parking. Car behind me honks ’cause it’s only one lane, but it passes when it’s clear.
I’m thinking he’s heading toward 17th and Euclid, but he’s not crossing to the south side of the street where he can make that right on 17th. A lot of traffic, so it’s hard to maintain this slow speed. I take a chance and pass him as he crosses Ontario Road. I pull to the curb and stop, blocking half the crosswalk. He strolls by, on the other side of the street, a walking man. Where the fuck is he going?
It’s a long block. He crosses a narrow street just before 16th and cuts north through a little park area. I speed up to the light at 16th because I lose sight of him. He’s either going to hit Mount Pleasant or 16th.
By the time the light turns green and I can make the turn, staying in the left lane, I see him walking on the west side of Mount Pleasant. I have to take a quick left and an immediate right to get there. Cars traveling south on 16th honk at me because I cut them off. I pull to the corner curb at Harvard and Mount Pleasant.
He walks left onto a narrow one-way street, Hobart. Thankfully, I can follow.
I decide to park along the curb at a crosswalk. Hobart ends on Mount Pleasant, and it’s a long block, so I can watch him through the binos until there’s enough distance that I can safely make the turn.
Phone vibrates in its cup holder. I hate Bluetooth, so the car doesn’t pick it up. I can see the display. Leslie again.
I answer so she doesn’t worry and keep hounding me.
“Sorry I didn’t call back, but I’m on my way home now.”
“Can you call me when you get home?”
“Yes.”
He’s getting farther away.
“Talk to you later,” she says, and disconnects.
I’m sure she’s thinking I’m avoiding her, because I am. I set the phone back in the cup
holder, turn onto Hobart, and double-park to look through the binos. He walks up a flight of cement steps to the front porch of an old brown-brick attached two-story. I can make him out on the porch. It’s obvious he is unlocking the front door. Enters. I wait for a minute, until another car comes up behind and barely squeezes by, the driver glaring as he passes. I follow behind the car to get the address of the place Playboy walked into.
Is he renting a room, or is it a family home?
It’s maintained well, but it’s still more of a dump than most of the other homes around it. Is it one of Cordell Holm’s spots? That’s how I met Playboy, investigating a missing teenage girl. That led to a brothel at 17th and Euclid, run by Holm and his fucking lost-boy crew. Playboy was deep in it, especially the recruiting side, with his round face, big eyes, and tough, boyish charm. He clearly didn’t take my advice, which was never to return. Can’t let that go.
Damn, what to do? What to do?
I have this odd sense of urgency. My heart’s skittering. What is fucking driving me right now? Guess I don’t like certain things in the past catching up to me like this, especially when it’s something that I shoulda let the river swallow. Now it’s been spit out and is here to haunt me.
I find a parking spot, sit on the house for more than an hour, decide I can’t let this rest, so I have more bourbon straight out of the bottle and step out of the car.
Twenty
A couple of older red metal outdoor chairs with a round white metal table between are on the patio to the right side of the door. No debris, empty forties, or cigarette butts on the table or the cement floor, which I would have expected.
I hear a man, not Playboy, yelling inside. He’s close to the front door and sounds angry.
“Damn well better be soon, Calvin!”
Playboy responds, but all I can make out from him is something having to do with a “job.”
“That was one of our conditions! Main one, anyway!”
I hear shuffling closer to the door. I hustle back down the steps to the sidewalk. Right when I hit the curb to cross the street, I hear the door open, but I don’t turn around. I walk across the street at an angle, back toward my car, take a chance and turn.
A man, looks to be in his fifties, clean-shaven, wearing dark-blue maintenance pants and a black winter coat, walks down the stairs. He’s putting on thick gloves. Seems like a decent sort. A working man? Looks mad. Is it Playboy’s dad?
He sees me and waves like he knows me. More than likely he thinks I’m a neighbor. I smile and wave back, look away, and walk past my car. I look over my shoulder when I pass, see him walking the other way, toward Mount Pleasant Street.
Shit, that was without a doubt playing it by ear.
I have my best friend who needs my help right now, and here I am trying to do I don’t even know what.
Fate decides to intervene, give me a helping hand, because I see Playboy exiting the front door.
I hop in the car. It’s a narrow one-way street, so I can’t turn, and I’ll lose him if I try to go around this long block. I wedge my way out and back up at a good speed. I don’t depend on the rear camera projecting on the dash screen. I look over my shoulder. He turns when I get closer to him, but he doesn’t seem to worry and continues walking. I pass him and stop, open the front passenger window.
When he passes, I call out to him, “Playboy!”
He stops in his tracks, eyeballs me, and takes off running, this time with an obvious limp.
“Shit.”
What did I expect?
Fuck if I’m going to chase him. I step out of the car, turn around. He’s hoofing it toward Mount Pleasant.
“I know where you live, Calvin!” I yell.
He slows to a walk, stops and turns toward me. He’s about a quarter of a block back. He’s rubbing his right knee like it’s bothering him.
“I just want to talk.”
A car turns on Hobart from Mount Pleasant.
He’s going to take off. Disappear.
The car gets closer. The driver, a woman, taps the horn, a couple of polite honks and a smile.
I pull out my wallet to show her my retirement badge. Now she looks worried, like she’s thinking about backing up.
“Nothing to worry about,” I call out to her, but mostly for Playboy to hear. “I’m going to park the car up the street. Meet me at your stoop. I don’t want to have to go looking for you.”
The driver looks more concerned.
I throw her a wave, and I step back into the car. I drive back to the parking spot, turn the left signal on so the lady behind me knows I’m trying to park. I look over my shoulder, notice Playboy still standing there. The lady passes. I exit the car and turn. He’s still there. Looks frozen where he stands, and I don’t mean because of the weather. He’s far enough away that he could run, get away if he wants to.
Let me have this one, brother fate.
I shut the door, use the key fob to lock it. Horn chirps. I cross the street and walk toward his home.
He doesn’t move.
I walk up the steps to his front porch, sit on the red chair closest to the door, pull out my pack of smokes and tap one out. The metal seat is cold against my ass. I slip the pack back in my outer coat pocket and light up the cig.
He’s walking toward the house now with that bit of a limp. Then I remember. His knee was the size of a softball when I pulled him out of the river. Must have fucked it up when I rolled him, hands and feet zip-tied together, down the steep bank to the water’s edge.
When he gets to the bottom of the cement steps, he looks up and says, “What the fuck you want with me?”
“I don’t know, Playboy. Musta been fate.”
“What? What the fuck you talkin’ about? You a fag? And I ain’t Playboy. You got me confused.”
“Okay, Calvin.”
“I don’t know who you talkin’ about.”
“Why did you run then, never show back up to the deli where you work?”
“’Cause I think you’re fucking crazy. Scare the hell outta me is why.”
“You do remember, then?”
He reaches into his coat pocket. I stand, pull my coat back, grab the grip of my gun.
“Cell phone, man. Cell phone.” He pulls it out slowly to show me. “I ain’t got no weapon, so don’t shoot me. Gonna call the police, though. You fucking crazy.”
I sit back down. Feel like I’m in some kinda Western and I’m the new sheriff in town.
“I wouldn’t suggest that. After all, you were the driver of the car. Remember? For Little Monster. If Cordell or anyone in his crew didn’t already give you up, I will. I’m sure your boys would love to see you about now. Might even think you’re a snitch ’cause you were never arrested with them.”
“They ain’t my boys. And if that true, why I never get picked up by the police?”
That makes me smile.
“Because all they got is your nickname. Like I said, me being a witness, almost a victim, could get you locked up for a long time. That your old man who lives here?”
“Naw, and it ain’t none of your business, either.”
“Seems like a good man. And it is my business. You disappear, I’ll have my boy at Homicide visit your old man, get your information, and you’ll be done. Sounded like he was pissed at you anyway.”
No response.
“Tell you the truth, Calvin, I don’t know why the hell I’m here.”
“Go on, then.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
I must be nuts.
I stand.
He takes a few steps to the side.
“Don’t have to run,” I tell him. “I think I’ll check up on you, though, make sure you’re not up to no good again, ’cause that was our original deal. Remember?”
“My uncle ain’t know nothin’ about all that. You just leave him alone.”
“Huh.”
I take my time walking down the stairs. When I hit the sidewalk, he takes a few more steps
to the side, keeping a good distance between us.
I look at him direct. He looks different. Not so thuggish. “Go back to making sandwiches or something.”
I walk to my car. Don’t even look over my shoulder.
“Fucking good sandwich,” I say loud enough so he can hear.
Twenty-One
I keep the curtains at home open during the daytime. Not like before, when I was using. Paranoid. Fucking peeking out the curtains, shit like that.
I sit on the sofa, look out the window. Light snowfall, but not enough to coat the ground. Melts right when it hits. It’ll be a nice day.
I peel and eat a whole grapefruit and call Leslie’s cell after I’m done. It goes to voice mail.
“I’m checking into a couple of things,” I say, “trying to follow up on the decedent, Arthur Taylor. I’ll call later.”
I do want to follow up on him, but Al was the only one in the department I could call to run names, tags, or other info. There’s his partner, Jimmy, but he’s out on sick leave. I’m sure he would find a way to help, though.
I give him a call.
“Yeah,” Jimmy answers.
“What’s up, Jimmy?”
“Just trying to heal.”
“What I hear is you’re looking for a long Christmas break.”
A chuckle, then says, “No. It’s for real. Even got a nice prescription for Percocet.”
I’ve got a few of those, too, sort of.
“By the way, I tried to call Al a little while ago, but he didn’t answer. You talk to him?”
“Saw him yesterday,” I say. “You know Leslie is representing him?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m helping out however I can. In fact, that’s why I called. I need your help with something.”
“I can try, but I am limited. Being at home and all.”
“The decedent’s name is Arthur Taylor. Sixteen years old. Need to get an address for him.”
“Fuck, man. I don’t know how to get that without setting off an alarm. I don’t need Internal Affairs coming after me for that shit.”
“He’s your partner. Find a way. You gotta have someone you trust.”
“Not a matter of trust. I’d do it myself if that shit weren’t monitored. You know that.”
Trigger Page 6
