Michael Lister - Soldier 03 - The Big Hello

by Michael Lister

  “Jimmy,” she said again. “Can you hear me?”

  I nodded. Doing so made my heart hurt.

  “Are you okay? How do you feel?”

  “What’re you doing here? Where am I?”

  “We’re in an ambulance,” she said. “You were knocked unconscious.”

  I was in a gurney in the bright white back of an ambulance. She was sitting next to me, her head hovering over me.

  It didn’t feel like we were moving. I leaned up and looked around. The back doors were open. We were parked on the curb just a little way down from Union Bus Station. The street was filled with squad cars, their flashing lights refracting off the broken glass of the Blue Line Cafe windows that had rained down on the sidewalk moments before.

  Everything began to spin and I grew lightheaded, but I closed my eyes and forced myself to keep my head up.

  “You okay?” she asked, placing one hand on my forehead and the other on my hand. “What is it? You feel damp and clammy. Are you dizzy?”

  “I’m okay. Just need a second.”

  Her touch felt familiar yet strained and foreign, even forced, almost comforting but too awkward to truly be.

  I tried to remember how long it had been since she’d touched me like this. It was so long ago I couldn’t recall. Beyond quick embraces of greeting and salutation over the years, the only thing I could come up with was the brief touch of a backhand on a fevered brow from early adolescence.

  “What are you mixed up in, son?” she asked. “People are dead.”

  “Where’s Clip?” I asked. “Is he––”

  “Who? The young negro with you? He’s talking to your father.”

  “He’s not my fa––” I started, but caught myself.

  At the mention of Collins, she glanced out into the night quickly, nervously. He was jealous over her attention and affection, guarded it aggressively. At least he did when I was a kid.

  “I need to talk to him. What happened?”

  “Evidently there was a shoot-out.”

  She pulled her hands back. Slowly, almost surreptitiously. First one then the other.

  “No, to me. What happened to me?”

  “In all the commotion something got turned over and hit your head and then your head hit the floor. The booth or a table or something. Hit you just right. You have bumps on the front and back of your noggin.”

  I felt for them. They were there all right. And big.

  “Have you talked with your brother lately?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I’ve been wrapped up in some stuff for a while now. Haven’t talked to much of anybody.”

  “I knew you hadn’t spoken to me much, but I was hoping you had kept in touch––”

  “He and I never talk much,” I said. “Even less lately.”

  “I wish you would. For me.”

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Just fine.”

  Collins wouldn’t allow her to be anything else. She only felt and thought and said what he permitted.

  Sometimes I was filled with such anger toward her I could taste it like bile rising up into my mouth, but mostly I felt sorry for her.

  She was weak. Always had been. It just wasn’t really revealed until my dad died. She couldn’t be alone, couldn’t be without a man. She had to have someone to tell her what to do, to provide for her the illusion of control and safety. And Commander Collins was a man made for the job.

  What little there was of her by then began fading away from the day he came into her life. There wasn’t much. It didn’t take long.

  I lost both parents the day my dad died. And gained a tyrant––a bullying, rigid, always-right dictator––and the shell of something resembling my mom, which he pulled the strings of.

  Perhaps that was too harsh. Perhaps that was the boy talking who was abandoned by his dad and then his mom. Either way, I could forgive her her weakness. I could extend understanding to a scared, vulnerable, widowed mother with two boys. I could see her actions in a light tinged with compassion, couldn’t I? Surely I could do that for my own mother. Lauren was convinced I could and I wanted her to be right.

  “You know you can talk to me,” I said. “About anything. I can help. If you ever want to––”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I know I can. Always been such a sweet boy. That’s why I don’t understand all this criminal business you’re mixed up in.”

  I started to say something, to try to explain, but decided against it. Instead, I sat up the rest of the way.

  Head spinning, stomach lurching, I clutched the rail of the gurney, feeling like I was going to pass out or throw up or both.

  “Honey, don’t get up,” Mom said. “Lie back down.”

  She started to touch me, then glanced quickly through the open doors, and stopped when she saw Clip and Collins walking up.

  “Finish your little nap, sweetheart?” Collins asked.

  “Darryl,” Mom said.

  It was the most I’d ever heard her say to him and I thought it perhaps a small sign of hope.

  The dizziness passed and I slowly eased off the gurney and climbed down out of the ambulance. I turned to give Mom a hand, but saw that she was already out, standing beside Collins.

  “Connie, would you excuse us?” Collins said. “I need to talk to James officially.”

  She nodded. “But he needs to go to a hospital.”

  “You go on back home now,” he said. “I’ll be there when I can. Don’t wait up for me. Go on to sleep.”

  “Okay,” she said softly. “Love you.”

  “You too.”

  She seemed to want to hug or kiss him, and maybe even made a slight move to, but stopped.

  She turned to me, started to move toward me, glanced back at Collins and stopped.

  “We need to get started,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Bye baby,” she said to me with a small wave.

  “Bye, Mom. Thanks for coming to check on me. I love you.”

  Something danced across her face, but she didn’t say anything, just turned and walked away.

  I looked at Clip. “What happened?”

  “Somebody shot the shit out of the joint.”

  “Vanessa?”

  He shook his head. “Got her, her big-headed bodyguard, and one of the waitresses.”

  “Me?” I asked, rubbing my head.

  “Sorry ’bout that. I pulled the booth down on top of you.”

  “Don’t mind me, fellas,” Collins said. “I’m just the chief of police. I don’t mind waiting.”

  “You see the shooters?”

  He shook his head.

  “James, just what the hell is going on?” Collins asked. “This is the second crime scene you’ve been at tonight. I’ve got a dead cop and three dead civilians.”

  It was the first time I had ever heard him say so much as hell.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “Maybe, but you know a lot more than you’re saying, pal. No way you got here so fast without knowing where you were going when I spoke to you in the parking lot of the Panther.”

  “I swear we didn’t. We found out that she might be staying at the Cactus. We went there. Night clerk sent us here.”

  “You should’ve called me,” he said. “Out of respect for Dana if not for me.”

  “Didn’t even know she would be here. Everything happened so fast.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you, James,” he said. “I don’t think that’s ever been the case before.”

  “When I mentioned her name, why didn’t you tell me you had had her in custody?”

  “Who?

  “Vanessa Patrick,” I said. “The victim in there. The woman Dana was supposed to be meeting at the Panther.”

  “You saying she’s been in my jail?”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t think she has. Hold on. I’ll check.”

  “While you do that I need to
borrow a phone,” I said. “Need to check in with my captain.”

  “You’re not a cop anymore,” he said. “So you don’t have a captain.”

  Chapter 22

  “Jimmy?” Folsom said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “You don’t sound so good, son,” he said. “And I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

  I was in a phone booth on the corner across the street from the Blue Line Cafe. There were still several cops milling around, a few actually processing the crime scene.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sorry. A lot has happened.”

  “But you’re okay?”

  “A little dizzy from a bump on the head. Weak. Exhausted. But I’m okay.”

  “Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

  We were quiet a moment.

  “Hey Jimmy, can you hold on a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  While he was gone, I thought about how I was going to tell him about Dana. I was dreading it, and really had no idea how to do it.

  Best to just say it, I thought. Don’t wait. First thing. Just give it to him straight.

  “I thought I might have news for you, Jimmy,” he said. “But I don’t. Not yet. Seems De Grasse has slipped away. But that’s only for the time being. I promise you that.”

  “I’m afraid I have some news,” I said. “And it’s bad.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s Dana Shelby,” I said. “He was shot and killed.”

  The line went quiet a long moment. A low hum. Some static. The desultory sound of our breathing. Nothing else.

  “How?” he asked eventually.

  I told him.

  When I finished he was silent again for a long while, then said, “He was a good cop. Good father. Good husband. A good man.”

  I nodded, realized he couldn’t see me, then said, “Sure seemed so to me.”

  “So it was a setup?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Which means we got him killed.”

  I thought about it. It wasn’t the first time. The first time I had thought about it I had come to a similar conclusion.

  “I did,” I said.

  “No, son. It’s not on you alone. I guarantee you that.”

  And even though I didn’t buy it, it meant something that he said it. I thought about how different Captain Folsom was from Chief Collins, how grateful I was to have had Henry Folsom as a boss and a … whatever else he was––not friend exactly, but certainly more than a commanding officer.

  “Two things,” he said. “We find Lauren so his death wasn’t in vain. Then we find those responsible and make them pay their debt in blood.”

  ***

  “What’s our next move?” Clip asked.

  We were standing back over near the ambulance again, waiting on Collins.

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  He nodded and seemed to think about it. “And how that different from any other time?”

  I managed a smile.

  He was right. That was the job. Stumbling around in the darkness, being lied to and misled by some while others attempted manipulation, intimidation, and bribery, all while not giving in, not giving up.

  But if that was the job, then which direction should I stumble in next?

  “Any ideas?” I asked. “Whatta you think we should do?”

  Before he could answer, Collins reappeared and began walking toward us.

  “’Pends on what he say.”

  I nodded.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “According to my jailer, she’s still in custody,” he said.

  Chapter 23

  Collins’s jailer was a middle-aged man with a big belly that hung down over his belt and a balding head with a thin halo of fine blond hair around it. Above his thick, dirty-blond mustache, his glasses left deep red indentations on his small nose.

  We were standing with him in front of the cell that, according to his logs, Vanessa Patrick was still in.

  It was empty.

  It was me, Clip, Collins, the jailer, whose name was Grady, and a young officer named Fellows. As far as I could tell, there didn’t appear to be anything wrong with the young cop and I wondered what had kept him out of the war.

  “Sergeant Grady, do you see Vanessa Patrick in there?” Collins asked, his voice rich with the savoring of the condescension in it.

  He had brought me and Clip along, claiming I’d accuse him of corruption and cover-up if he didn’t. He was right.

  “No sir, Chief,” he said.

  The simple, spartan jail was neat, orderly, immaculate. Not dim or dungeon-like in any way, the humane holding area was well lit, the fresh air tinged with citrusy smelling cleaning chemicals. It was what I would expect from Collins, which is why I found the missing inmate so incredulous.

  “We wouldn’t keep an inmate here that long anyway, would we?” Collins was asking.

  “No sir.”

  “And we wouldn’t keep a female here at all, would we?”

  “No sir, not beyond the initial booking, no.”

  “So?”

  Grady rubbed the bald dome of his head and let out a big sigh as he studied the cell some more.

  “I have no idea. I’m sorry. I don’t know why she was never processed out or … I just don’t know.”

  “Well,” Collins said, “don’t you think we should find out?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Gather all the information you can find, bring all the documentation you have, and be in my office in ten minutes.”

  Which was how exactly nine and half minutes later we were sitting in Collins’s office with a very sweaty Sergeant Grady, logs open on his lap.

  “She was picked up for prostitution,” he was saying.

  “Who was the arresting officer?”

  “I didn’t do the booking, so I don’t know for certain, but according to this it was Smith and Homan.”

  Collins shook his head.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The two detectives you were talking to in the Panther Room parking lot.”

  “Average Sam and Tall Roy?” I said.

  “Detective Sam Smith and Detective Roy Homan,” he corrected, emphasizing the detectives but good.

  “They’re the ones who rousted us at the phone booth earlier tonight,” I said. “No telling what would’ve happened if Shelby hadn’t stepped in. We see them again at the Panther Room––his crime scene––and they start in on us again. Now this.”

  “You can run some red lights, can’t you, boy?” Collins said. “Slow down, would you? Apply the brakes a bit. You see conspiracy and corruption everywhere.”

  “No,” I said, “you do. Everywhere but in your department.”

  “If I planned on covering up anything, you wouldn’t be here, would you?” he said. Then turning to Grady, asked, “Who processed her in?”

  He looked at his logs. “Kid that was just with us. Fellows.”

  “Get ’em all in here?”

  Before he realized what he was doing and who he was doing it in front of, Grady looked at his watch.

  “The time is irrelevant, Sergeant.”

  “No sir, I know. It wasn’t that.”

  The clock on the wall behind Grady said that it was about twenty after twelve.

  “I can be here, they can be here,” Collins said. “But even if I wasn’t here, I give an order I expect it to be followed.”

  “Oh, yes sir. I know.”

  The nervous sweat on Grady’s face kept causing his glasses to slide down his nose, and he kept jamming them back up with his index finger, as if poking himself between the eyes.

  “Immediately.”

  “Yes sir.”

  A large drop of sweat plunged off the end of his nose and onto his mustache. Using his thumb and forefinger, he rubbed both sides of his bristly whiskers down several times, beginning in the center above his top lip and pushing down firmly.r />
  “No matter the time,” Collins said. “No matter the order.”

  “Absolutely. Yes sir. I was trying to figure where they’d be, where I can find them. That was all.”

  “Get to it, Sergeant.”

  “Yes sir,” he said, jumping up and spilling the logs out of his lap.

  “Slow down,” Collins said.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Watch what you’re doing.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He clumsily gathered his things and awkwardly stumbled out of the room.

  Observing Collins’s interaction with Grady made me think of the kind of parents that produced nervous, insecure kids, and I was glad again that he didn’t get to me until most of my childhood was over, and that I had resisted his attempts at tearing me down and controlling me every step of the way.

  ***

  “You two,” I said, shaking my head when Sam and Roy walked in, attempting to do it the same way Sam had when he had seen me and Clip in the Panther Room parking lot.

  Both men glared at me, but didn’t say a word.

  “What’s this about, Chief?” Sam asked.

  With Grady looking for Fellows, it was only me, Clip, Collins, Sam, and Roy in the room.

  “We hurt your kid’s feelings or something?” Roy asked.

  “Gee, we’re really sorry,” Sam said.

  “Look boys,” Collins said. “I usually cut you a lot of slack ’cause you’re good cops and I like the way you handle the hoods in this town, but this is serious and it could cost you plenty. Whatta you say you skip all the cuteness and get on the level, and fast, okay?”

  “Sorry boss,” Roy said.

  “We’re tired,” Sam said. “And a little loopy.”

  “And we lost a brother tonight, you know?” Roy added.

  “Why I’m giving you boys a break,” Collins said. “Just don’t want you to mistake me and build your gallows any higher than you have to.”

  “Nobody mistakes you, Chief,” Sam said. “Nobody.”

  The difference between the way Collins treated these two versus Grady reminded me of the difference in the way he treated me and my brother growing up. He had his favorites, and he enjoyed making their existences cushy nearly as much as making those not favored suffer. “So tell me about this arrest,” Collins said, pointing to the log book on the front edge of his desk facing them.