Trigger

by David Swinson

  “Wha—fuck!” is all he gets out.

  I swing him around, grab his wrist for control, twist it until he yelps, and then body-slam him against the hood of a parked car.

  A well-dressed man is walking on the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Looks our way, but only for a split second. He continues. Nothing new here.

  “I ain’t do nothin’,” he yelps, like he thinks I’m the police. Guess he doesn’t recognize me. “My knee! I got a bad knee!”

  I pull out the handcuffs I keep at the small of my back, secured by my belt.

  He struggles, but I have too much height and weight on him, so it doesn’t take much. Fucking click, click, and that’s that. I pat him down, find keys, a cell phone, a little roll of money, and a baggie of weed is all. Not even a wallet.

  I turn him around by the arm so he can see me.

  “Oh no! Shit!”

  “Yeah. Shit,” I say.

  Twenty-Five

  I have him in the passenger seat of my car, hands cuffed behind him and the seat belt on for safety. I’m still double-parked, but there’s enough room for what few cars drive through this block to get by.

  “Not again, man. C’mon…No way. What’re you gonna do?”

  “What did I tell you, Playboy?”

  “I don’t go by Playboy no more. For real. I don’t wanna get kilt, man.”

  “I’m gonna take you to the police, tell them you’re the one I saw driving the car three years ago when Little Monster opened up on me and killed that officer. You remember him? Officer Tommy.”

  “I liked Officer Tommy. I had nothin’ to do with that shit.”

  “Keep talkin’, fool. You were the driver, so you’re just as responsible.”

  Bows his head.

  “And you’re the one that got away when the cops hit that house on University Place, climbing that fence and running across the alley in your boxers. You remember all that, right? The trunk of my old car? I sent you into the goddamn river, you piece of shit.”

  “C’mon, now.”

  A couple more pedestrians walk by. Not even two blocks from where the boys are slinging and riding their mini bikes, and here are regular-looking citizens ambling by, talking on their cells. I drive. Fucking don’t know where, because I’m not going to take him to the police. That’s a bluff. If I did, it’d raise too many questions I don’t know that I’d be able to lie my way out of.

  “I listened to you. I ain’t a part of nothing like that no more.”

  “Just saw you knocking knuckles with your bros on your way out of a dope house, so don’t fucking lie to me.”

  “No, no. I just bought me some weed is all. You got the baggie outta my pocket. I ain’t a part of what they be doing. Swear.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “C’mon, I ain’t no snitch, and what the fuck you be here for? You ain’t no cop. Are you?”

  “Let’s just say, once a cop, always a cop. And if I ask you something, you better answer. You’re in no position to do otherwise, so don’t get stupid.”

  “Let me the fuck go. You got no cause to be doing this to me. I got you the girl back. You almost killed me. Fucked up my knee for life. You got no cause no more.”

  I find a parking spot a few blocks up, just before 16th, and park.

  “What you doing?”

  “I got no cause? I told you then if I ever found out you were back to the old shit, I’d kill you. I don’t wanna kill you anymore, just turn your ass in to the police, let them deal with this shit.”

  “That was a long time ago. I didn’t even wanna be in that car. Little Monster was fucking crazy. And you found me in the deli making sandwiches, not working whores.”

  I slap him hard across the face. His head swings to the side, hitting the window.

  “Fuck!”

  “Those were teenage girls. You turned them into prostitutes. And one of them almost died because of you.”

  “I swear, I don’t do that no more. Cordell and most of his boys be in jail. I don’t even know what the fuck be going on around there no more.”

  “I’m sure Cordell is wondering why you’re not in fucking jail with them.”

  “No. Fuck no. They know I ran. Got away.”

  “Do they?”

  “Yeah, they do. I seen a couple of his boys when I walk home. They know I got away when the house on University got hit.”

  “I thought you said you don’t go around there anymore?”

  “I don’t. I walk Columbia Road to get home. I see them up there sometime.”

  “Just the same. Cordell probably misses you. Would love to have you by his side while he’s doing hard time.”

  Shakes his head.

  “So, Cordell working his boys from jail?”

  “I don’t know what they got working. Fuck, I ain’t got nothin’ no more, so just take me back to the river and finish what you shoulda done. ’Cause I ain’t gonna go to jail. My uncle gonna kick me out anyway, ’cause I can’t find a job.”

  Is he bluffing now?

  I look at him direct, and believe him. I’ve gotta start thinking things through better. Stop acting on impulse. Would’ve thought that’d go away when I stopped using, but it didn’t. Might have even made it worse.

  So, fucking now what? I don’t even want to beat the shit out of him, let alone kill him. And he was working at the old man’s place on Columbia when I found him. I’m the one who scared him out of there.

  “So you’re wasting what little money you have left on weed?”

  “Helps me think.”

  The way he says it, like we’re having a normal conversation, I almost chuckle.

  “Turn your back toward me,” I tell him.

  “Why? What you gonna do?”

  “If I was going to do something, you think I’d warn you? Turn around.”

  “I can’t. The seat belt got me.”

  I reach over and unlatch the seat belt. It gets caught up on his shoulder, but it isn’t restricting his movement anymore.

  He turns. I shut off the ignition and take my keys out. I use the handcuff key to unlock the cuffs.

  “Why…?”

  “Shut the fuck up. And I have your cell, keys, and weed, so don’t go runnin’ off.”

  I drop the cuffs in the center console, start the car again.

  “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, because I should turn your ass in to the police.” Before he can say something stupid, I say, “I’ll drive you back to your uncle’s.”

  “Naw, man, naw. I can walk.”

  “I said I’m gonna drive you back. Put your seat belt on.”

  He obeys, shaking his head back and forth.

  “Don’t say anything. I might change my mind.”

  I pull the car out and head toward Hobart.

  Twenty-Six

  I double-park in front of his house.

  “Can I get my shit back?” he asks.

  Not going to get a thank-you, I guess, but I don’t expect one. I am the one who fucked him up, after all.

  “Not yet.”

  “This is fucked up, man.”

  I pull out a smoke, offer him one.

  “Naw, not me.”

  I light myself one, slide the window down a bit.

  “I don’t know what the fuck you expect,” he tells me.

  “I told you not to say anything that might make me change my mind. I need to think here.”

  He has a worried expression on his face. I’m sure he’s worried about what it is I have to think about. Funny, I don’t have to worry about a guy like Calvin calling the police. I could beat the shit out of him again, and he’d take it. Something about that I respect.

  When I finish the cigarette, I flick it out the window. He’s just sitting there, too scared to say anything, but I know that mind of his is churning, wondering what the hell I’m going to do.

  What the hell am I doing?

  “Your uncle married?”

  He looks at me, almost answ
ers, but then scrunches his face, like, What the fuck?

  “Is he?”

  “No. He never got married.”

  “He own the house?”

  “Yeah. He a hardworkin’ man. Already paid that house off and everything. Never even been arrested. Nothin’ like that. Why you need to know?”

  “You should stay there, then. With him.”

  Chuckles, looks away, and says, “Might not have much choice in that matter.”

  “Everyone’s got a choice.”

  He doesn’t know what to say to that.

  Here’s a kid whose life I almost took a few years back but had a change of mind, or heart. I think I had one back then. Whatever. And now chance puts him here, and I’m sitting here trying to have a fucking conversation with him. For the life of me, I don’t know why.

  My cell rings.

  Calvin jumps out of his seat.

  “Hold on there,” I tell him.

  Jimmy.

  “What’s up, Jimmy?”

  “I have that info for you when you’re ready to copy.”

  I grab a pen and my notepad from the center console under the cuffs.

  “Ready.”

  Jimmy confirms the name as Arthur “Arty” Taylor, and then his DOB and home address on the 1400 block of Clifton Street.

  “Copy that,” I say. “Appreciate it.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “I will.”

  I disconnect, close the notepad and slip it under my ass, put the pen back on the console.

  Something comes to me. A flicker of an idea, but a bad idea.

  I turn to look at Calvin. Uncomfortable, but he looks back.

  “I might have a job opportunity for you,” I say.

  Twenty-Seven

  Do what you got to do, ’cause I told you I ain’t no snitch.”

  “Not asking you to be a snitch,” I say. “I’m a PI—”

  “Wait. You were a PI looking for that girl back then? She wasn’t your niece?” His eyes widen. Pissed red.

  “She was my niece,” I lie, because it’s the smart thing to do. “I was a DC cop, too, but retired.”

  It’s obvious he’s having a hard time processing all this. I would, too, if I were in his shoes. I sure as hell wouldn’t trust me.

  “I don’t need a snitch. I’m looking for you to work with me. A part-time gig. Learn a skill. Make more money part-time with me than you were making full-time at the deli.”

  “That’s fucked up.”

  “How is that fucked up?”

  “I ain’t sayin’ I didn’t do nothin’ bad way back then—”

  “Bad?” I interrupt. “Be fucking thankful I didn’t kill you back then. You were more than bad, but so was I.”

  “Í gotta finish. Let me finish. Man, you really fucked me up, and I probably woulda been better off if I just got arrested that day. I ain’t been right since. And then you come outta nowhere, surprise the fuck outta me at my work, and all I’m thinkin’ is He found me and is gonna finish the job. Fuck. For all I know, you some psycho playin’ my ass right now just for fun before the kill.”

  “Only one way to find out,” I joke.

  He doesn’t think it’s funny.

  “Just keep my shit,” he huffs, and opens the door.

  “Hold on, now, Calvin. I ain’t psycho, so shut the damn door and listen.” Really, I don’t know why I’m doing this. “I don’t know why the hell I’m offering this, because I think you’re the last person I could ever trust. But it is a legit offer and will keep you here, at your family house with your uncle. And you can learn, maybe even get your PI license and go off on your own, work for some defense attorney or some shit like that.”

  He closes the door.

  “City ain’t gonna give someone like me a license.”

  “You wanted or some shit like that? I mean, aside from what I could turn you in for.”

  “Naw. I ain’t been locked up since I was a kid, and that case got no-papered.”

  “You’re good, then. Even if you did have a juvie record, they couldn’t use that.”

  “This is some crazy shit here.”

  I hand him his belongings, including the baggie of weed.

  “Yeah, I know, but I got a sense about you. ’Sides, you’re probably more qualified for something like this than most PIs I know.”

  “Shiet.”

  “You do any other drugs, aside from weed?”

  “Hell no. I don’t even drink much. Why you ask that?”

  “Just making sure is all.”

  “You gonna, like, hunt me down if I say I wanna think about it?”

  “No. I’ll give you that, but only till the end of the day tomorrow.”

  “A’right.” And he opens the door, steps out.

  “Do the right thing for your life. This ain’t bullshit.”

  An upward nod, and he closes the door. I watch him through the rearview as he hits his steps and walks up. Then I drive away. He won’t call.

  Arthur Taylor lived in a redbrick, multistory apartment building on the south side of the 1400 block of Clifton Street. Another hot spot back in the day, but not as bad as the 1300 block and Clifton Terrace. Those boys were slinging 24/7. Cordell’s other home on University Place is around the corner from here. That’s the house Calvin managed to escape from when the police hit it with a search warrant. During the chaos Calvin climbed the chain-link fence in the rear and ran up the alley and into my fist. He spent the better part of that day in the trunk of an old car I had after mine got shot up.

  It’s almost like a blur. All the cocaine I was using, not to mention pills and alcohol. Let’s hope that the river doesn’t spit anything else out. It’s still holding a few secrets for me.

  The apartment complex on Clifton has cleaned up a bit. Looks like a newer playground in the fenced area, decent landscaping, but it still has that claustrophobic housing-development ambience. It looks like you gotta buzz to get into the front entrance. I hate having to do a cold interview like this. The police have interviewed whoever lives here on numerous occasions, probably even the neighbors, and who knows if they were provided with anything useful.

  What the fuck were you doing at the lot on Sherman, Arthur Taylor? I should’ve asked Calvin if he knew him, but I have a strong feeling he wouldn’t have told me. He’s still mostly a knucklehead.

  I walk to the front entrance for Taylor’s address, and the glass front door is wedged open with a rolled-up Pier 1 catalog. Good for me because I’d rather knock on the door than try to talk my way in through a speaker. Lobby is clean, not like the old days. Not even a scent of weed in the air.

  The unit he lived in is on the second floor. I take the stairs.

  I find the door and knock.

  Sound of someone unlocking a dead bolt, and a heavyset woman wearing a long black dress answers. She looks to be in her early thirties. She has puffy bags under her red eyes.

  “How many more times do I have to talk to you people?” she asks.

  “What people?”

  “The police.”

  That’s nice.

  “I’m not with the police, ma’am. I work for the court.”

  That’s not a complete lie. Leslie is a defense lawyer and works for the court.

  “So that officer who shot my little boy was arrested?”

  “Not yet, but that’s why I’m here. I want to double-check everything you spoke to the police about and maybe some things you didn’t speak to them about.”

  “What you mean by that?”

  “Shouldn’t really talk in the hall like this. Can I come in?”

  “You got some identification, something that says who you are?”

  I have several IDs. Need to make sure I pull the right one out of my wallet. All of them except for my retired police ID, my HR 218 qualification card, and my PI license are fake. I’m looking for the fake one that states I’m an investigator for the court. When I open my wallet I’m careful not to reveal my badge. I find the ID
and show it to her. She examines it carefully.

  “Franklin Starr, Court Investigator?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She hands it back to me and opens the door to allow me in.

  The living room opens into the kitchen and a small dining area. There are several flower arrangements in vases on the small dining table. Some of the flowers are dried out. There’s a hallway at the other end with two or three doors. The home is nicely kept. Nothing from the dollar store here. It smells like coconut, but not lotion, maybe incense. A leather sectional sofa with a large square coffee table take up most of the living room. A large flat-screen is mounted on the wall.

  “You can sit there,” she says, directing me to the edge of the sofa that faces a window, not the television. She sits at the other edge, keeping a nonconversational distance. “So, what you need to know?”

  Twenty-Eight

  I open my pocket notebook, date it at the top of the page, and ask, “Can I get your full name, please?”

  “You can get that from the police, can’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but we try to stay independent from their investigation. I don’t work for the police department.”

  She tilts her head, looks at me with a half smile. “Donna Taylor.”

  I write it down.

  “And Arthur was your son?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “What does that have to do with my son’s death?”

  “Just for the record, ma’am. We like to know as much about the family as possible.”

  “Like I’m gonna get money for his death or something?”

  “Well, that’s civil, and I’m not on the civil side.”

  “But I could? I mean, I am gonna sue the police and the city and that officer.”

  “That’s a civil matter. What I need will go to the court if it ever goes to trial. What do you do for a living?”

  “I am currently unemployed.”

  “Anybody else in your family work—husband, someone like that?”