Trigger

by David Swinson

  He could have noticed them when I pulled out at an angle to back into the parking spot.

  “Good eyes and observation. So, you seen bullet holes in cars, then?”

  Huffs and says, “I seen a few.”

  “Yeah, those are bullet holes. Fresh, too. You know anything about that?”

  He looks at me hard, says, “What the fuck you mean by that? I had somethin’ to do with putting them there?”

  “I never said that.”

  “You gonna play me like this, then I just gonna get up and go.”

  “You see the news about the shooting last night?” I ask.

  “I don’t watch the news. You got people shooting at you? ’Cause I had enough of that shit.”

  “Not usually. It was the uniformed cops they wanted, not me. My car just got in the way.”

  “Shit. Where’d this happen?”

  “Too close to home.”

  “Yeah, well, you lucky, I guess. That it was just your car.”

  Doesn’t ask about the cops.

  “The two officers, they weren’t so lucky,” I say, and take another bite.

  “Yeah, and that’s why you here? You think I had something to do with that shit?”

  “No.”

  Maybe I do.

  “I don’t think that,” I say. “If I did, I’d be here with more than a fucking sandwich.”

  “Shiet.”

  He picks up his sandwich, unwraps it, and takes a manly bite, like he ain’t scared. After a couple of chews, his round eyes widen a bit, like, Damn, that is good.

  “So, how you get caught up in the middle of a shoot-out?”

  “I just happened to be there is all. Chance.”

  “I run into a couple chance shootings myself.”

  “With cops?”

  “Fuck no. Just stupid-ass motherfuckers tryin’ to kill their own.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Found myself a good hidin’ spot until it was all over.”

  “That’s smart.”

  He sets the sandwich down and says while chewing, “Like I said, I got no options anymore, and I don’t want to be livin’ on the street, so that’s why I called you.”

  “Your uncle’s ultimatum?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was hoping to get more enthusiasm for the work.”

  Looks at me. “Huh?”

  “I’m not here just to throw money your way ’cause I’m your last resort. It can be a tough job, sometimes with long hours of doing nothin’ but sitting. There’s a lot to learn.”

  “I know that. Do I get a gun?”

  “Fuck no.”

  He gives a Joker-like grin and takes another bite of the sub.

  “I can pay you twenty-five bucks an hour to start. It can get better, depending on the workload—and you.”

  “Twenty-five an hour? How many hours a day?”

  “Anywhere from six to sixteen.”

  “Sixteen hours?”

  “When you gotta roll on something, you gotta roll, and sometimes that means not going home for a while.”

  “There overtime with that?”

  “No overtime. No insurance. Just cash. So take care of your teeth.”

  “What do I gotta do?”

  “At first, listen and learn.”

  Another manly bite, and a few chews later, “A’right.”

  We sit in silence, finishing the sandwiches. I have to wonder if I’m doing the right thing here and why the hell I’m doing it. I can’t fucking trust this kid. Shit, I can’t trust myself.

  I crumple up my wrapper, stuff it in the bag I carried the subs in and set the bag on the table. Calvin does the same, grabs the bag and, without a word, walks into the house, returns a minute later without the bag. He stands in front of me, looking down at me where I sit.

  Outta nowhere, he punches me square on the left side of my face, throwing my head back, but just a little.

  “Fuck,” he says after, rubbing his fist. Obviously hurt him more. He backs away after, thinking we’re gonna fight.

  I don’t stand. I rub the side of my face, lean back and look at him.

  “I get it,” I say. “No worries.”

  “You get what?”

  “Something you had to get outta your system.”

  “Ain’t got nothin’ outta my system. We far from even.”

  “That mean I gotta worry about you now?”

  “No more than I gotta worry about you.”

  “All right, then.”

  He sits back down, looking ahead, over the patio, like he’s surveying the land he owns. “So, when you want me to start?”

  “How about right now.”

  Thirty-Four

  I unlock the car doors with the key fob. Calvin opens the passenger door, seems to glide right in. I take off my jacket, careful not to reveal my sidearm under the suit coat.

  “Man, what’s it gonna look like, me bein’ seen with you, and in a Volvo?”

  “You rather I get something that looks more like a cop car?”

  “Hell no.”

  I start the car, but before I begin to ease my way out, I say, “I want to talk to you about the case I’m already working, which you’ll be helping with.”

  “Do you give me some up-front money or somethin’ first?”

  “Are you kidding? I should pay you at the end of the workweek, but since you’re hurting financially, I can pay at the end of the day.”

  “Under the table, right?”

  “Yeah, under the table. Cash money. You ready to listen?”

  Nods. “Where’s the button to recline this shit?”

  “Bottom side of the seat. Second button.”

  “Which second button?” he asks. “Oh no, I got it.”

  He reclines almost all the way back.

  Fucking knucklehead.

  “I know you said you don’t watch the news, but you hear about that police shooting off Sherman Ave?”

  “The unarmed boy? Hell yeah. You workin’ for the family of that kid?”

  “No, the detective who shot him.”

  “Aww, c’mon now.” He groans as he lifts himself up from the seat like he’s going to step out of the car.

  “Why don’t you sit back, relax, and let me finish before you start getting all fucking emotional.”

  “I ain’t getting emotional, but I shoulda figured.” He sits back. “Go on, then.”

  “When and if you go off on your own, you can choose who to work for. Right now I choose and you get paid at the end of the day, so let me talk, and if you want, you can walk after, go pump gas or some shit like that.”

  No response.

  “When you were working at the deli, did you ever make a sandwich for any officers? Because I know some who used to frequent that place.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Yeah, because it was your job. Didn’t matter if they were cops or whoever, right?” Before he says anything, I add, “You ever spit in their sandwiches?”

  “Fuck you. Did I spit in yours?”

  “I don’t know. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “’Cause you had a good job and wanted to keep it. Also, sometimes things aren’t always the way you hear it, especially coming from the street. You got friends you trust, right?”

  “Why you ask?”

  “I’m trying to make a point here.” And maybe overdoing it. “Let me ask this—you say your uncle’s a good man?”

  “Hell ya.”

  “If he got himself into some big trouble—”

  “Never would.”

  “Let me finish. Then you can talk.”

  I grab my pack of smokes out of my shirt pocket, offer him one.

  “No, man. I told you I don’t smoke.”

  I pull one out, light it. Comforting inhale, then blow the smoke out the partly open car window.

  “Let’s just say that if your uncle did get himself pulled in some bad shit that he had nothing to do with, but people were saying h
e did, who would you believe, if your uncle promised you he had nothing to do with what they were saying?”

  “I’d believe my uncle.”

  “Same situation here. The detective who is being accused of killing an unarmed young kid is like my brother. And he’s telling me that’s not how it happened, that the kid had a gun.”

  “Your friend is the police, and even the police are sayin’ the boy had no gun.”

  “Yes, because they’re doing their job. No gun was found on the scene, and there’s no evidence of a gun ever being there. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t one.”

  “How that possible?”

  “Lots of ways. That’s what we’re here to figure out.”

  “And if you can’t, then you still gonna believe your boy?”

  “Hell yeah I’m gonna believe him, but he’ll be fucked, probably go to jail.”

  “I don’t know about this helpin’-out-the-police shit.”

  “He’s been relieved of his police powers and suspended, so he’s not the police right now.”

  “Yeah, but I’d be a part of helpin’ him be the police again.”

  “Man, your thinking is fucked up. The lady I work for sometimes is a defense attorney. On occasion, she might pick up a case that the court gives her, maybe someone like Cordell Holm.”

  “That’s the court, man. She got no choice.”

  He’s got a point.

  “She does have a choice, but she’d still do her job. Back to your uncle. Let’s say we’ve been working together for a bit and he got himself arrested for a felony. Doesn’t matter what, but it’s bad, so you want us to work the case, try to prove his innocence. Should I help you? I mean, let’s just say I don’t know your uncle and, for all I know, he’s a fucking thug, like you used to be.”

  “That’s fucked up.”

  “You understand what I’m trying to get at here? You gotta get out of that old mentality.”

  I do, too, but I won’t tell him that.

  “You ain’t like that anymore, right?” I ask.

  “No, man. I told you I ain’t.”

  “And I believe you.”

  “It’s just that the police always get away with shit like this, and I ain’t comfortable being a part of it.”

  “He’s not getting away with anything. If he was, they would have planted a gun there and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. And I’m not talking about making shit up to help him, either.”

  I take a last drag, flick the cigarette out.

  “All those people protesting, they have a right to protest. But like I said, sometimes they don’t have a clue about what really happened ’cause they weren’t there. If the shooting was caught on an iPhone, then that might be something different. But even then, it may not be what it looks like.”

  “You’re full of shit. This whole system is.”

  “We’re not working for the police here, Calvin. I’m working for a good friend. He could be a thug and I’d still be trying to help him. Roll with me or roll out. Enough said. I made my point.”

  I look at him, but all he’s doing is shaking his head.

  Thirty-Five

  I’m sure Calvin is asking himself what the hell he’s doing here with me, just as I keep asking myself what the hell I’m doing by hiring him. It’s not like I need the help. When you think about it, it’s sort of whacked. Well, not sort of. It’s fucking whacked. I’ll have to keep a close eye on him. I don’t trust him, but I would love to be wrong.

  My head is scrambled. I need a drink, but I don’t want to drink in front of him. What kind of example would that be? I drive down 14th Street and park at the bus stop at 14th and Rhode Island to use the restroom at the 7-Eleven.

  “I gotta hit the head,” I say.

  “You parked illegal. What do I say if a cop come up?”

  “That it was an emergency stop.”

  I grab my backpack from the floor behind the passenger seat, push on the hazard lights, think about turning the engine off and taking the keys, but don’t.

  “You want anything?” I ask.

  “Naw. I’m good.”

  I step out and walk in.

  “Restroom?” I ask the man behind the counter.

  Looks at me briefly, then lifts his head toward the bathroom door.

  “Appreciate it.”

  I walk into the bathroom, lock the door. It’s clean but smells like too much ammonia. Places like this can be a trigger. There was a time when I’d have to break away, just like now, but to snort up a couple of hefty lines. This time, I grab the flask out of my backpack, unscrew it, and take three nice swigs, then drop a couple of mints in my mouth. I secure everything, flush the toilet, and head back to the car.

  It’s still parked there.

  “No ticket, huh?”

  “No cops. They woulda stopped if they seen me in the passenger seat, though.”

  I shoot him a glare. That’s fucked-up thinking again, but unfortunately, he’s probably right.

  When I can, I pull out, make the next right and then another one onto 15th.

  “Where you going?”

  “You know the boys that hang at the fourteen hundred block of Fairmont?”

  “This some kinda test?”

  “No. This is work.”

  “I was raised at Clifton Terrace. What do you think?”

  “Really? With your mom? Your dad?” Fucking assuming it can be only one or the other.

  “My moms.” I don’t want to get into his life history unless he offers. Probably piss him off if I start asking too many questions. Besides, I don’t feel like hearing it right now.

  “We need to locate two boys, one that goes by Little T or Ty, and the other one Marlon.”

  He huffs a laugh.

  “Yeah?” I say.

  “I knew that what you needed me for.”

  I’m tired of hearing that shit. I wanna pull to the curb and slap him silly, but I fight the urge and keep driving.

  “Work, Calvin. Fucking work. They were known friends of Arthur Taylor, the kid the detective shot. Our job is to check everything, rule shit out, including the possibility that there could have been witnesses, maybe even friends of his. Enough of that snitch shit, all right?”

  “I know a couple stoopid skinny-ass young ’uns who go by those names.”

  “And live at one of those buildings on the fourteen hundred block of Fairmont?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do they know you?”

  “They were nothin’ but little wannabe players back when I was doin’ that shit. They should still know me, but I sure as hell ain’t gonna talk to them, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

  “No. Just need you to recognize them.”

  “You’re not gonna pull that in the trunk of your car and take them to the river shit like you did me, are you? I can’t abide that.”

  “Like I said, I need to talk to them. What do you know about the boy who got shot—Arthur Taylor?”

  “Don’t know him.”

  I drive to the same spot at Fairmont where I was before. I take out my binos, peer through them to look at the corner near 14th. A small group is hanging on the stoop of the apartment on the north side.

  I hand the binos to Calvin. “Take a look. Tell me if you know any of those boys.”

  He takes the binos, looks. “Damn, these small things is strong.”

  “Anyone familiar?”

  “Lot of young ’uns is all. Couple of them be so obvious.”

  “I don’t care about that, whether they’re slinging or not.”

  He turns away from the binos like I said something wrong.

  “Shit, man. You still talk like a cop.”

  “And you talk like a thug. Anyone that looks like Ty or Marlon?”

  Puts his eyes to the binos, scans the area.

  “Naw.”

  “We’ll sit for a bit, see if any of them show.”

  He scoots his seat farther back using the power button so his head is
at the blind side between the front and rear window. Looks like he’s done this sort of thing before. I recline my seat, too.

  “Tell me if you see anything.”

  “A’right. Damn, look at these fools.”

  Miniature snowmen in the park. Not enough snow to make them bigger. Some of them lined up one beside the other, like pawns. I slide the window down partway, let some of that nice cold air slap my face.

  For the first time in a while, I get a real urge. Not like in the bathroom at 7-Eleven when I just thought about it. My body is aching with the need. I breathe in at a four-count, hold, and slowly exhale. I do this a few times before the racy feeling goes away.

  Thirty-Six

  I drop Calvin off at home in the early evening. Overall, not a productive day. For the remainder of the surveillance, we both sat in silence. I called it when it became too dark to make anything out and when Calvin got a bit too antsy.

  I pull out a wad of money from my pocket. It’s my stash money—money I earned through nefarious means. Hell, I’m not going to pay him with money that I have to account for.

  “Six hours,” I tell him while counting tens and twenties. “Buck fifty.”

  I hand him the cash. He doesn’t count it out, just slips it in his right front pants pocket.

  “I need to find these two guys. Don’t want to waste any more time on it if it’s going to prove worthless. I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.”

  “A’right.” He opens the door.

  “And you never work on your own. I ain’t gonna pay you for that. We only work together.”

  “Don’t have to worry about that.” He steps out of the car, shuts the door.

  I pull away. Make my way to Al’s.

  When I hit his block, I notice an older-model four-door Chevy, like the kind district detectives drive. Shitty and not well maintained. Driver’s window is rolled down and the exhaust puffs out the rear of the vehicle, but the lights are off. I drive by it, look in. It’s getting dark, but I can make out the driver. Scraggly beard, trying to look like he can blend in. Definitely a cop, probably with that new Crime-Stopping-Something-or-Other unit. When I pass, I notice the front tag through the rearview. DC gov tags.

  I park up the block. Looks like Al’s living room light is on. I walk to the vehicle. I’m still wearing a suit with my overcoat, and I’m relatively clean-shaven, so I doubt if I’ll raise alarm. I stop ahead of their parked car, wave toward their front windshield. They don’t get out of the car, so I step to the street, see the driver through the window.