By three-thirty I’d put the leftover emotions from the fiasco at the Mexican restaurant out to pasture. I was paying a few bills at the kitchen table and smoking cigarettes one after another.
When the phone rang I answered it absentmindedly, and was immediately asked by a tentative voice if I was Dutch Jameson.
I thought, fuck. I said, “I am.”
“Brother of Alan Jameson?”
“Yes.”
The guy’s name was Larry McMahon, and he was a case worker and community liaison officer for the Maryland Department of Corrections. And surprise! He had bad news.
“Is he dead?” I asked.
McMahon said he was, but that he couldn’t give me any more information because they were still processing the crime scene. I suspected Alan had killed himself, but I’d have to wait to find out. McMahon gave me his number and told me to call first thing in the morning. Said we'd work out a time when I could come identify the body.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I didn't shed a tear, but I was numb. My brother was the last of my family. There wasn't anybody left. I wondered how I'd react seeing his body. I'd always been his protector growing up, and now I'd failed him. Were there things I should doing? If so, what? I needed to talk to Gino. It was a long shot, but maybe he knew something.
La Lena arrived just before six and promptly told me that I looked like I’d just seen a ghost.
I told her the brother I'd never mentioned was dead.
“My God. I'm so sorry,” she said. She wrapped her arms around me and rested her head between my neck and shoulder. If I'd been blind and deaf I would have known her by scent alone.
31
AS I WALKED DOWN INTO the parking garage the next morning I felt a sense of excitement. The day's voyage would be my first long distance road-trip in the Jeep Wagoneer I'd bought a few months before I met La Lena. The monstrosity had four doors, 4-wheel drive, and a massive, gasoline chugging V-8. Perfect for a family of six living in the Yukon Territory, but for a single guy who didn't hunt or fish and rarely left Baltimore city limits, not so much. Not that I didn't like it, I did, it just wasn't practical. It was what you might call an impulse buy.
Even in the dim light of the subterranean garage the maroon-amber, showroom quality paint glistened. I'd never been a big fan of a faux-wood panels, but I had to admit, even they looked good. I slid into the ample driver's seat and cranked the engine. I let it idle for a few minutes to get the cold oil flowing, and it was then that I remembered I was on my way to a prison to identify the body of my dead brother. For ten minutes or so that seemingly unforgettable tidbit had completely slipped my mind. I also recalled why I bought the Jeep in the first place. I bought it because I thought it'd make me feel good. Not even good really, just better. And it'd worked. For about three days. After that it brought me no more joy than the perfectly good car I'd had before. It was another one of the stupid and unsuccessful things I've tried over the years to get myself out of my unshakable funk.
The Maryland Correctional Institution-Hagerstown was 90 minutes northwest of the city if traffic wasn't bad. That morning things were flowing smoothly, so I cut straight through downtown and picked up I-70 heading west at Woodlawn. Not long into the trip the calming hum of knobby tires on blacktop lulled me into a hypnotic stupor, and I got to catch up with an old friend.
Where've you been Jimmy Barnes?
Somehow I knew he wasn't talking that day, and that was OK with me.
Just a rhetorical question. I know exactly where you've been my friend. Hope I didn't wake you. If I did, don't go getting all bent out of shape. That's what you used to say to me. Remember? Don't go getting all bent out of shape. I was an easily offended punk back then wasn't I? You were just trying to teach me things about infantry weapons and life. Please forgive me if you haven't already. Still have those fluffy lamb chop sideburns? They wiggled when you laughed. Did you know that?
That was really something in la Drang huh? November '65. Not much to it. We were shooting at them, they were shooting at us. You and I were joined at the hip. I lugged that 60 everywhere for you. Kind of funny when you think about it. A white man carrying a black man's gun. Only in the army. Only in Vietnam.
That tree line couldn't have been more than 70 yards away. You let 'em have it right up to the bitter end. Boy that 60 was hot. I'll never forget the look on your face when you realized we were out of ammo. Remember what you said? Another box nigger! You called me a nigger. Priceless. No doubt about it, I was your Nam-Nigger, and proud of it. Maybe someday you'll get to call me nigger again. I hope so.
Glad we got to talk Jimmy. Gotta run. My brother just died. Did you hear? No? Don't worry about it, it wasn't big news. One more thing. I never told you how I ended up in Vietnam. You must've asked me 100 times. I beat up a black cop. Called him a nigger too. It was Nam or the state pen.
Thanks again for taking that AK burst that had my name on it. I'll never know where that one, lone gook came from. Glad you saw him when you did, but you shouldn’t have jumped in front of me like that. You had a family waiting for you back home.
Oh well, let's not get all bent out of shape over it. Just kidding. Next time I'll take the burst for you. Sweet dreams.
WHEN I PULLED UP TO the first security gate it was like I'd just awakened from a coma. I didn't remember a single mile. Not one turn, not one car. My mind had shut down, yet on and on I drove like a zombie.
“There's no smoking on the property sir,” the guard said, pointing to the smoldering cigarette hanging from my mouth. I hadn't even realized I was smoking. He asked me who I was there to see.
“My brother.”
“How about a name,” he said impatiently.
When he heard Alan's name he cleared his throat and apologized. For his impatience or my brother's death, I didn't know, and I didn't give a shit either. He told me which way to go, then the mechanical gate swung inward emitting a nerve grating screech. I idled through and noticed that the sky was grey all the way to the horizon.
I cleared the second security gate and parked. The ashtray was overflowing with butts, and some of them were still burning. I rarely smoked in the car, and when I did I always emptied the ashtray, but I was looking at ten butts or more. I'd smoked them all in an hour and 20 minutes.
McMahon met me in the lobby. He was tall, broad shouldered, and heavy boned, and his face was crisscrossed with millions of micro-wrinkles that reminded me of those angular lines on the moon. They were probably the products of decades of wind, sun, and cigarettes, but his big walrus mustache convinced me that he was the kind of guy I could count on to tell the truth. He escorted me down a long corridor, and at the end I was frisked and had my picture taken before a loud, mechanical buzzer opened an angle-iron and chain-link door. We walked to his office and sat down.
“Excuse me for a moment.” He lifted the ringing phone, nodded, and told whoever was on the other end that I'd arrived. “The warden will be here shortly,” he said.
“Mr. Jameson, I'm Don Adams, the warden,” he said. He appeared so quickly he must’ve been hiding around the corner. He grabbed my hand and shook it before I had time to stand.
“Thank you for coming.” His navy blue suit didn't fit very well, but he had nice cowboy boots and a PRAISE JESUS! tie tack.
Another man was with him. The lawyer. I knew it the minute I saw him. His job was to make sure nobody said anything stupid that I could use against them in the future. What a waste. Nothing would bring him back. After that day they'd never hear from me again.
“Mr. Jameson, this is Art Jones. He's an attorney for the Department of Corrections. His presence is just a formality. Before we get started I'd like to confirm that you're Alan's brother, and that your mother and father are both deceased. Is that correct?”
“They're dead. I'm the only one left,” I said.
He told me he had some troubling information and asked if he could be blunt.
“Please,” I said. “Let's get it over w
ith.”
“Yesterday at four o'clock in the morning your brother's cellmate had a medical emergency and was taken to the infirmary. A seizure or something. This is where things gets strange. There's no way to say this tactfully. From about four-fifteen to seven your brother was in his cell alone. Just before seven every morning the doors open automatically and the prisoners go to the chow hall for breakfast. At about a quarter past seven, an inmate, or inmates entered your brother's cell, doused him with a flammable liquid and set him on fire.”
“Jesus,” I said. My limbs and eyelids were instantly leaden, or maybe they had been all along and I just hadn't noticed. Whatever it was, it was a strange reaction. My brother just died an unimaginably gruesome death and all I wanted to do was sleep. No more pain for you little brother. Rest in peace. I thought that was the end of the story.
“Mr. Jameson, there's more,” he said.
“More?” Shit. Maybe they'd fed his flaming body through a wood chipper too.
“The fire triggered an alarm, after which the guards responded immediately and extinguished it. At that time your brother was deceased, but when the ME examined the body he determined your brother was dead before the fire. The mattress and bedding were soaked with blood, and underneath was a rolled blanket that formed a containment area for the blood. Like a holding tank or a reservoir. Whoever put it there knew what they were doing. It contained the blood so it didn't spill out into view on the cell floor. Your brother's body contained very little blood, and there was severe damage to his right wrist. He was lying in a strange position too. His legs were resting on a cross member of the bed frame that held them about 40 degrees above his body.”
I told him he’d lost me.
“Mr. Jameson, I know this must be a horrible shock,” he said. “The ME thinks your brother committed suicide before his body was burned. That would explain the strange position he was in and the loss of blood. He said the fire hadn't lasted long enough or burned hot enough to kill him, and if he'd been alive while on fire he couldn't have kept is legs in that position.”
“So you're saying my brother committed suicide, then in a totally coincidental event, someone tried to kill him?”
They nodded. I'd nailed it.
“Can I get you a glass of water?” asked McMahon.
I told them I wasn't interested in water, but if there was a pot of coffee nearby a cup might help. How strange it must of sounded. At least I hadn’t asked for a cappuccino.
Two minutes later he was back with a Styrofoam cup filled with oily coffee that tasted like it'd been filtered through a skunk's ass. It was just what I needed.
“Is it safe to say his cellmate's sudden medical emergency wasn't genuine?” I asked.
“It's a possibility, yes.”
I wondered about his cellmate. Race? Rap sheet? Gang affiliation? Gangs ruled the inside, of which the Mexican Mafia, Aryan Brotherhood, and Black Gorilla Family were the big three. Everyone knew the weak were preyed upon mercilessly on the inside, and Alan was one of the weak ones. I should have done more for him when I had the chance.
“Why would anyone want to kill him? He’s only been here what? A week? Two? Could he already have made the kind of enemies that would want to burn him alive?”
“This is prison Mr. Jameson, anything’s possible, but we just don't know. Getting anyone to talk in here is next to impossible, but that doesn't mean we won't keep trying. You have my word on that.”
“So, what do I need to do?” That was the last question I asked. I'd asked only a few, one of which was if I could have a cup of coffee. The body was too burnt for visual identification, so once the investigation and autopsy were completed there were two options. I could arrange with a private funeral home to pick up the body for burial, but if I chose not to they’d bury him in the state owned cemetery nearby.
I told them to proceed with option two.
32
AT SEVEN IN THE EVENING they took the elevator from the eighth floor to the parking garage below the lobby. They exited through the back door and climbed the staircase to the alley before making their way past the row of rusty green dumpsters. At the street they raised their collars and buried their chins against the spitting rain, then turned left toward the newsstand. The car was idling in the shadows just past the tobacco shop, and as they approached a murky figure appeared and opened the back door. For the next three hours they didn’t exist.
“So who's the mystery man?” Stan asked. “I'm the mayor for Christ's sake, is it asking too much to know who I'm having dinner with before the steaks are served?”
Yup, it's asking too much. Who's the mystery man? He's the man who represents the heavies of the underworld. Men with Italian names you can't even pronounce. A little outfit called the Mafia. Cosa Nostra. Ringing any bells? The man who's got a photo of you with two naked, black 15-year-olds. The man who's gonna have you dancing on a string like Pinocchio for the rest of your life you moron.
“He's the guy,” Evan said. They rode the rest of the way in silence.
They entered through a side door and made their way through the chaotic kitchen to the private dining room in the back. Four powdered glass sconces cast inverted rose triangles skyward against the rich burgundy walls, and crystal glasses reflected glints of soft light from small tea candles in pink globes.
The kingly platinum haired gentleman rose to greet them.
“Mr. Mayor, a real pleasure,” Gaetano said. His voice was gravelly and sincere.
“The pleasure's all mine,” the mayor said.
“Would it be all right if I called you Stan?”
The mayor dipped his head in assent.
“Stan, I know you've got a lovely wife and beautiful daughter waiting at home so I'm going to get right to it. I'm going to start by telling you something you already know. The city's got a real drug problem. Seven overdoses last week alone. There are too many suppliers pushing too much product, and you don't have to be an economics professor to know that overabundance drives prices down. And when prices are low people can afford to buy more of the things they want. It goes for televisions, cars and heroin. But when prices go down so do profits, and when that happens shady businessmen skimp on quality to make up the difference. So, what you get is poor quality and low prices. When it’s a radio or washing machine it's no big deal. You get what you pay for. But when it's heroin, people die, and let's be honest, it’s always the blacks and the Hispanics who get hit the worst. It's those people that need the most help. Am I making sense?”
The mayor's head bobbed like it was on a string.
“If we lived in a perfect world we wouldn't be having this conversation,” Gaetano continued. “Drugs wouldn't exist. But we all know it's impossible to get rid of them, so the only logical and humane thing to do is regulate them. We've got to keep the supply low. That'll increase the price to the point where most junkies won't be able to afford their fix. They'll have no choice but to get clean, and it'll also force the remaining suppliers to increase the quality of their product. It's the only way they'll be able to attract customers. The ugly truth is that the only way to accomplish these things is to eliminate some of the more unscrupulous players and regulate those that remain. It's a win-win Stan. Drug related crime goes down, less overdoses, and you have a fat PR success story.”
“What do you think Evan?” the mayor asked.
“There isn't a better option.”
“All right. How do we do it?”
“You're a busy man,” said Gaetano. “We’ll take care of it. Just give us the go-ahead.” He used the pronoun we, though he was alone. Its significance wasn't lost on the mayor.
“You've got it,” the mayor said evenly. His astute political mind had produced a complete translation before he'd finished speaking. They weren't asking for his approval because they didn't need it. They were going ahead with their plans whether he approved or not. They were judging his willingness to play by the game's new rules. Everything had changed after the island in
cident. These were the rules he'd have to play by for the rest of his life. The message was crystal clear:
...eliminate some of the more unscrupulous players... Did you catch that Stan? It means we're going to kill the competition. We'll have a monopoly. We'll keep supply low and prices high. We'll make our profits no matter what, and not that it matters much, but a few less niggers and spics dying on the street won't hurt. It'll look like you're winning the war on drugs. What a nice feather in your cap that'll be come election time. Oh, and one more bit of unpleasantness to get out of the way. If you can't live with this arrangement for any reason, that embarrassing photograph taken in front of the island bungalow will be on the front page of tomorrow's morning paper. Did you know those girls were only 15?
The mayor had had about all he could take. It was emasculating. He’d just signed some poor bastard’s death warrant, and even the supposedly world-class steak hadn’t tasted any better than a pork chop from Sizzler.
“Well, this has been very productive,” he said. “So, if we're about done?”
“Just one more thing and we can call it a night,” said Gaetano. He had one slam-dunk in the bag, and the momentum was all his. “It's about the PBC.”
“The PBC?”
“The Pediatric Burn Center.”
“What about it?”
“It's come to our attention that there's been a slight over-allotment of funds. The plans call for 45 fully-equipped rooms. That's a lot of very expensive equipment that'll just be sitting around gathering dust most of the time. What are the chances of 45 burned kids needing a bed in this city at any one time?”
“Hold on just a second,” the mayor chimed in. The PBC was his legacy project. The feather in his political cap. He knew it'd be the one immutable success in an otherwise scandalous and forgettable tenure, and he wouldn't see it cheapened so easily. “The Pediatric Burn Center was envisioned as a regional facility. There'll be children from up and down the east coast coming to the city for specialized treatment. There are only a few places like it in the country.”
Shakedown on Hate St Page 11
