Ron Frady pulls up in his white Cadillac. Frady is the new Vice sergeant. Dallas worked Vice for what seemed to him to be forever, but now he works Homicide. So Frady has no jurisdiction over him. Of course, nobody does now, since Dallas was put on temporary leave from the department, pending a hearing.
“Nice color scheme,” Frady says. He flicks up his sunglasses and smiles. Dallas always thought that Frady was a show-off, always dressing to the nines, all the time. “What is that, green and orange?”
“Chartreuse,” Dallas says. “What you need, bro?”
Dallas is a blunt man. He has no interest in small talk—just get to whatever-it-is that brought you to my green and orange house, then leave. And when Dallas speaks to black people, he always instinctively (and insultingly) begins to speak jive talk, regardless if they do or not.
“I never heard of chartreuse,” Frady says. “Isn’t it a little warm out here to be painting?”
“Liz wanted the house painted, so I’m painting it. I figure I have time to paint it now, so I’m going to paint it,” Dallas says. The chartreuse and orange is Dallas’ choice, of course, not Liz’s. He still doesn’t know why he wants those particular colors. Probably because they remind him of a Creamsicle.
“I need to ask you something,” Frady says.
Dallas stays up on the ladder. “What?”
“I need to know where I can find the girl who was with you yesterday morning, up on the ledge.”
“Why?” Dallas asks.
“Because,” he replies. “I don’t need to tell you why.”
“Then I ain’t sayin’,” Dallas says.
Frady pauses. “She’s a prostitute,” he says. “She scammed some guy last week, and I need to find her. He alleges she drugged him and robbed him. I need to bring her in, ask her about it. I need this one, Dallas.”
Dallas grins. “You need it? Why should I help you? I’m not gonna help the big guys get more ribbons. You have to do this one yourself, bro. You know . . . investigate? Like the rest of us poor suckas?” He looks back. “How did you see her with me anyway? I didn’t see you there.”
“It was on the news,” Frady replies. “Look, this doesn’t have to be for friendly reasons. I know we’re not really friends. But, you help me out here, tell me how I can reach her, and I might have something nice to say at your hearing, get you your job back. Doesn’t that sound okay? I have a lot of clout down there. Your job? What do you say?”
Yes, Dallas thinks, that does sound okay. “I can’t promise you anything, Frady. I don’t know where she lives now. But, if I do run into her, I’ll let you know.”
“No,” Frady says, his voice now a deep thunderrrrr-roll. “That’s not good enough. I’m telling you I need to bring her in. I’m telling you that you better find her. You get me? I’m telling you your life can go from bad to worse in a heartbeat if you don’t find her. So find her.” He flips his glasses down and turns toward his car.
“Find her,” Frady says. “I’ll call you tomorrow, and you’d better tell me where she is.”
Dallas watches the Caddy become smaller and smaller and doesn’t know what to make of the threat. But he does know that Smiley is awake now and smiling at him again.
Baby and Father Costa
Baby always heard that the church is the place to go for sanctuary. Actually, she saw that in the Hunchback of Notre Dame movie, but she did hear that before, around, to go to church if you need help. Especially St. Judas’. It was rumored, a rumor of legendary status throughout the neighborhood, that Father Anthony Costa, the priest in charge of St. Judas’ (or was it the older Father that was in charge?), would shelter the broken women of the neighborhood. Baby didn’t know if it was just a rumor or not, because she was not a member of this church and had never met Father Costa. In fact, she wasn’t even Catholic. But she heard that that didn’t matter.
Baby is careful to hide behind her big sunglasses. She looks like a human fly. Only with more bruises. She still wobbles some, but doesn’t lean on the rectory rail (“Why is this rail all bent?”). She takes a deep breath, then another, then lightly knocks. Then she rings the bell. Then she does everything in her power not to run.
A tall man with curly gray hair answers the door. He looks a little sickly to her.
“Father Costa?” she asks.
“Yes, that’s me. Father Anthony Costa. Please come in.”
She notices that he doesn’t look her in the eyes, and that he’s sweating. He must be sick. She came at a bad time, she thinks, and she wants to run again.
“Please, come in my office. Wait right in there. Make yourself comfortable,” he says.
“In here?” she asks. He motions yes. He walks her into the office, and before he can turn, she blurts, “Is that someone you knew?” She’s pointing at a picture of a dead priest being carried by three firefighters.
“Um, no. Actually, that’s a picture from 9-11. You know, that firefighter priest who went into the towers, and they fell on him?”
“You knew him?”
“No,” Costa replies. “My brother gave me that picture. My brother’s a firefighter, here in the city. I don’t know why he gave it to me. And I don’t know why I insist on hanging it on the wall. Is it too grim for you? I could remove it, if you wanted.”
“No, no,” she says. “I’m okay.”
“Okay,” he says. “By the way, I never got your name.”
“You can call me ‘Baby’,” she says. She’s not sure if she can trust him, just yet.
“That’s a cute name. Okay, Baby, I’ll be back in two shakes.”
He walks down the hall to the small bathroom and produces a Smirnoff bottle from inside the toilet tank. He pinches off the cap and takes two quick sips, then a swig of Listerine, then two more quick sips of Smirnoff, then a swig of Listerine.
He remembers seeing Baby. He saw her on the news, on the ledge with Liz’s husband, the police officer. Costa had an immediate attraction to her, that he knew of. He wasn’t sure what an immediate attraction felt like, but he had a feeling that if he ever had that feeling, it would feel like that. There was a knot in his throat, and his neck burned. And his short hairs stood up. And his stomach did the tango. And he knew it must have been something, probably sexual. But it wasn’t just about a hard-on. It was more than that.
Costa is feeling flush again, in the bathroom, which is a good place to feel flush. He knows that it must be the devil’s work, since he is fiery hot. But why is it the devil, just because he is hot? Didn’t God the Father create fire? Then couldn’t it be God that is making his head melt?
* * *
“Father in Heaven, I choose to speak to you again.
“As you well know, I never ask you for much. As lousy as I know and you know that my life is, Father, I never ask you for anything pertaining to me. Even when I’m in trouble, I never ask you to help me. Even though I know I’m in a bad way, and that I can’t shake the bottle, I never ask you to do it for me. I never believed that that was what prayer was for, until now.
“Father, I need her. I need Baby. I’ve never asked you for a selfish favor, but I’m asking you now. I want her. I need her. Please make her stay here with me, Father. Please make her stay. You know her situation better than I do. I don’t know why she’s here, but I’m praying to you that she needs my protection, that she needs shelter, that she needs my help.
“Please, Father, make her stay. I’ve n
ever been anything but loyal to you, and now I need this.
“Remember, Father, how you gave your only son Jesus the gift of Mary Magdalene? You gave her to him, and it worked out for him. Now, Father, give me Baby. Give her to me as my Mary Magdalene. Please, Father, you know how I stir inside for her. You know what this will do for me. It will bring me hope. It will bring me health. Just being with her will help me to be a better servant to you.
“This once, is all I ask. Father in Heaven, grant this to me.”
TuesdayintoWednesday
Here is Wisdom
Only an idiot or someone who doesn’t know any better (which would still be an idiot) would buy a brand new car in the city of Detroit. Actually, there is really no such thing. A brand new car, in the neighborhood, is actually a newly-purchased used car. A new car has to be at least five years old. This, you know.
A brand new car is trouble, because it will get stolen. Then recovered, probably on Kronk next to the railroad tracks. And then stolen again. And then recovered, only this time more stripped, and this time a little further away from where you live. And when it’s recovered, you know that it could have been used for anything. A get-away car. A joy ride to school. Stripped because you were stupid enough to finally put those rims on that you had saved all summer for and now those rims are someone else’s. Or stripped because the guy who sold you those hot rims in the first place decided to sell them to you, follow you home, and then take them back to resell them to someone else, and then take them from him.
A brand new car is also trouble because it’s a target for vandals. People in the neighborhood don’t like to see you drive a new car, because now you suddenly think you’re better than them, so they’ll make you pay. Literally. You’ll have to pay for all the damage they do at night to your brand new, look-at-me-in-my-new-car car. Tires: slashed. Headlights: smashed. Windshield: broken. Seatcovers: soakin’. Paintjob: repainted. The whole thing: now tainted. We’re talking for no reason, other than to destroy what you have.
That’s why you can’t have anything nice in this city.
It’s funny, because the Mexicans are cruising into the neighborhoods with big, brand new four-by-fours, next year’s models, flashy and stylish. But I’m not talking about the Mexicans who’ve lived in the city for practically their whole lives, who know better. I’m talking about the Mexicans who call Southwest Detroit their home during the warm months, about six out of the year. They work hard, and during the summer Southwest Detroit becomes one of the most crowded, crime-ridden neighborhoods in all of America. They will live fifteen people to a house, to save their money to buy a fancy truck, and with the rest of their money they send it home to their families. And then the truck disappears. Or is vandalized. And then it’s time for them to go back to Mexico.
Dallas Tries Again with Liz
“Lizzie, this not a date date, honey. It’s just one more chance to talk, that’s all.”
Liz lights a cigarette, takes a slow drag, then flicks it out of the convent window.
“That’s kind of wasteful, isn’t it, honey?” he says.
Liz turns to face him. “They don’t want me to smoke up here,” she says.
“So are we on for dinner? I’ll pick you up in an hour, okay?”
Liz nods. “Dinner only,” she says.
As Dallas skips down the long stairwell, Baby is walking up. They both stop.
“Hi,” Dallas says. “Funny seeing you here. You staying here?”
“Yeah, I am,” Baby says. “Just for a little while. It was either this or the Crest Motel. How you doin’?”
“I’m doing good,” he says.
There is a silence as they stare at each other. Baby notices a strange glow in the man’s eyes. “How do you fuck a fat chick?” he says.
Baby frowns. “What did you just say?”
“I said”
Baby shakes her head. “No,” she says.
“You roll her in flour,” Dallas says, “and aim for the wet spot.”
Again, they both stare at each other.
Dallas smiles. “I’m coming back to pick up my wife in a little while,” he says. “We’re going out to dinner. And I’m going to win her back.”
“Well, good luck with that,” Baby replies. And she quickens her pace up the stairs.
Like Pulling Taffy
This place was always their place. It is the nicest Mexican restaurant in Southwest Detroit. It’s been around longer than all the others—it was a Mexican restaurant when Mexican restaurants weren’t fashionable. It was once a pizzeria where Dallas used to go for police banquets, back in the day, the Good Ol’ Days, then it turned to a Mexican restaurant when the Hispanic population began to slowly increase. It is very beautiful inside: red and gold wallpaper with gold trim, folksy paintings of small villas that were probably in Mexico (for all anyone knew), large golden statues of fierce bulls, Formica tables, steel folding chairs, a red rug that probably hasn’t been cleaned since the pizzeria days, cigar smoke lingering from the kitchen. This place, El Camino’s, indeed was their place.
“Should I order us the usual, honey?” Dallas says.
“No,” she replies, “I think I want to try something different.”
Dallas knows why she shunned “the usual”—because it was something that they both shared, the Margarita for two. The glass was so big it was like a pitcher, or like one of those serving bowls for punch. A punch bowl. Dallas and Liz used to swim all night in it. But now Liz wants to swim alone. Not yet, he thinks. He takes her hand.
“I want to make a plea to you, Lizzie. One last plea.” He watches her reaction. She doesn’t pull her hand away. “I want you to stay, here in the city, with me. I want you to come back home. I know we can make it work. We can make it work, Lizzie, honestly, we can make it work.”
The silent pause lasts only three heartbeats before he realizes, as he realized before, that she is actually giggling irreverently at him. She receives a text, looks at it, then starts to text whomever back.
“Are you texting that little fuck, right here, right now, while we’re having dinner?”
She thumbs her phone some more, then looks up at him. “Of course,” she replies.
He pauses for a
“What the hell are you doing now, Dallas?” she asks, still giggling.
“I want you to know something,” he says. Liz watches as he pulls his penis out of his pants and stretches it. It hides in his hand until it peeks out, becoming visible not only to Liz, but to anyone and everyone who didn’t want to see such a thing when they were trying to have a nice dinner at La Barrio. He continues to stretch it, and Liz is reminded of those taffy makers she used to see when she went to Boblo Island.
“Señor,” their waiter, a short Hispanic man with thinning hair and no tolerance for men who hang their genitals out of their pants, says, “you must control yourself! Please, put that away before we call the cops.”
“Don’t worry,” Liz says to him, “that thing can’t hurt anybody. I should know. And besides, he is the cops.”
“Lizzie, you don’t get this, do you?” Dallas asks. “I’m trying to show you something over here.”
“You are,” she replies. “Now turn over so people can watch you make an ass of yourself, too.”
“No!” he yells. “No! Don’t you get it? Don’t you get what I’m showing you here? I’m showing you that I don’t need you, you bitch! I don’t need you at all! That’s what I’m showing you! I’m showing you that you can fucking go to wherever with that little spic punk! I don’t give a fuck! Because I don’t need you! I don’t need you at all! See what I’m showing you here? I’m showing you that I can get along without you, that my sex life won’t suffer just because you up and leav
e me! I’d rather waste all my time jerking myself off than to let you touch my dick again! I don’t need you for sex, and, believe me, that’s all I needed you for at the end there! You were good for nothing else, other than getting me off! Well, you cunt, I don’t need you for that, either! So I guess you’re useless to me! Remember that when you’re out wherever, dumped by that little punk, and you need somebody! Just remember me doing this, because that’s all you’re getting from me, bitch! You just get this!”
In Nine Kinds of Pain Page 8
