Blood and Rain

by B. L. Morgan

  I prop myself up to a sitting position using my arms. My right arm hurts like hell. Hell, my whole body hurts like hell.

  I'm getting too old for this shit, I tell myself. Too old to be fighting with young idiots in alleys. Too old to spend my night drinking whiskey till I fall out. But the whiskey was to keep my sanity and the fights were because the whiskey made me a little crazy.

  The phone rang again and I lurched toward it.

  I jerked the receiver up to my ear. “What do you want,” I barked into the phone.

  “You need to get down here,” a gruff voice answered.

  “Yeah, and who the fuck are you?” I asked trying not to slur my words. I still had a little bit of a buzz left over from the night before and I was real grateful for that.

  “This is Joe Briggs,” the voice answered back. “I'll be in the squad room at my desk till about noon. Come in.” With that he hung up.

  I wonder what he wants, I asked myself, knowing Joe Briggs never called without having a good reason to do so.

  I pick up my trail of clothes, reach inside my boxer shorts, walk to the closet, and scratch my balls. I open the closet door and drop the clothes on the pile that tumbled out on my feet when I open the door. After kicking the pile a few times, it fits in the closet again. So I close the door.

  I might just do my laundry today, I think. Yeah and I just might win the lottery if I buy a ticket.

  I get a table spoon and put water in it. Then carefully set it in the freezer so that the water doesn't spill out. Should've done that last night.

  In the shower I saw that my ribs on both sides were bruised purple. So was my stomach. My right arm had a purple band across it where I blocked a kick. I was going to be real tender for a while, but I didn't have any broken bones. Thank God for small favors, right?

  The hot water felt good. I kept it as hot as I could stand it. Which was real hot. It loosened up my muscles and helps me wake up more.

  I dressed and shaved. The shiner on my left eye looked like hell. It was a big blue lump. Looked like I was trying to grow another eye right next to my left one.

  I go to the icebox and get the spoon out of the freezer. The water is frozen in it. This is gonna hurt, I know. In front of the bathroom mirror, I put the bottom of the spoon to the swelling around my eye and try to push it away from the eye and flatten it. Doing it sends sharp pain screeching through my head. But I do it anyway.

  I squeeze the blood around under the skin and flatten the lump somewhat.

  The operation is not a total success but at least I can see a little bit better.

  * * *

  When I walked into The 15th Precinct where Joe Briggs worked, I was met by the same chaos that goes on there twenty-four hours a day.

  There were handcuffed criminals or victims or witnesses at desks giving statements to different cops who were typing and asking questions.

  Phones rang off and on all over the place. The voices were a blended blur all around me. A dozen of them, but I didn't really hear anything that was said. I made my way across the big room weaving between desks and tried not to notice anyone or be noticed.

  At Joe Briggs‘ desk he was talking to a big fat black woman who looked like she was wearing a floral print tablecloth for a dress. He glanced up at me.

  “Well Ma’am,” he said with his usual poker face. “We'll keep a look out for this guy who raped your little doggie. Have the patrolmen keep their eyes open for some guy eye'n up little dogs. Can't let this kind of thing keep going on.”

  “No we can't,” the woman said standing. “It's traumatized my little baby.”

  “I'd recommend you keep Sneekers inside from now on. There are too many freaks in the world for defenseless pups these days. You have a nice day now.” The woman left.

  Joe Briggs had the size, build, and skin tone of George Foreman in his forties. He was a big man but he could move frighteningly fast when he was provoked. I'd seen some guy go crazy in the precinct house one day. Joe had rolled over the guy like an avalanche. When Joe was done, which took less than a minute, the guy looked like a whole mountain had fallen on him.

  In the face, Joe Briggs looked like James Earl Jones except that he never smiled. Not once had I ever seen Joe Briggs smile. The job that Joe did was hard on a man and it was a lot harder for a man with a sense of decency. Joe was a good man but the lines between good and evil sometimes get erased. I think he wasn't always sure which side of the line he was on, but he knew where he wanted to be.

  Me, I could give a shit about what was good or evil. I leave that to the priests to figure out.

  Joe stood up. “Let's walk,” he said and headed for the front door.

  I followed him.

  Outside the building on the damp sidewalk walking in the drizzle, Joe glanced at my face. “You look like hell,” he said.

  “I feel worse than I look,” I answered.

  “Good,” he replied.

  We walked on down the street.

  “Interesting case you got back there buddy,” I said.

  “Yeah, dog rapist. Great,” he said and stepped over the steel grate to a drain. “Let me make something clear,” Joe said, looking at the swirling water. “You and me, we ain’t buddies.”

  Joe fished around in his jacket pocket with his right hand. He looked past me down the street, then over his shoulder back where we had just come from.

  People were doing their normal business going in and out of shops with steel bars outside the windows. No one was near us.

  Joe brought something out of his pocket, held between his thumb and finger, and held it out to me to see.

  My heart skipped three beats.

  It was the silencer from my thirty-eight. I suddenly knew that I hadn't even given a thought to losing it. The night I iced Morris West, I had wanted to get home and get wasted so bad nothing else mattered.

  Joe spoke soft, almost a whisper, but what he said I couldn't have heard any better had he screamed it in my ear.

  “You're getting real sloppy,” he said. “You better get your act together, or you ain’t of use to me or anyone.”

  Joe opened his hand and let the glued together washers fall through the grate and splash into the water below.

  “Understand this,” he said. “I'm like the garbage man around here. Trying to get the garbage off these streets so decent people can live. You're barely above the garbage, getting closer every day. As long as you remove garbage and as long as you‘re useful to me, we coexist. But if you ever hurt one of my decent people or make yourself a problem for me, I'll remove you myself.” With that he turned to walk back to the police department.

  “Wait a minute,” I said almost shouting after him, “What's the story on the woman you sent to me, Julia Richardson?”

  He stopped turned and looked at me. “She needs help. Help her if you can. Story closed.”

  “You're the police,” I said. “Why don't you help her?”

  “We've got too many cases now. I've got five unsolved murders not counting West and my worst case ain’t even a murder. I'm trying to track down three real stupid strong arm men who kidnapped a parish priest in front of his family. Took him out to a barn, broke his leg with a bat and tried to saw off his ear with a knife too dull to do it with. They told him he owes their boss five thousand dollars for cocaine he bought and they'd be back to collect or kill his wife and kids. The priest is as clean as falling snow, so we know they're after the wrong guy. But that won't stop them from killing his family. We got to catch them before they do.”

  “Well,” I said. “We all got problems, but what the hell am I supposed to do for this woman? I don't know shit about detective work and you know it.”

  “You know the bad people in this town and if something bad happened to her daughter, I'd bet one of them did it. Besides, charge her what you're worth and she can definitely pay your bill.”

  He turned to walk away, and then turned back to me. Joe looked in my eyes, “You can never repay for
Kira,” he said. “Not how she lived, not how she died. So you need to pay. Start by helping this woman.”

  CHAPTER 9

  JULIA'S HOUSE

  Time to try and be a detective, I tell myself and decide to go to Julia Richardson’s house. She lives over on Third Street. I cruise slowly across town in my Olds.

  It's not too bad over here. Houses are run down but at least there aren't as many drunks and junkies wondering the streets and you do see kids playing out on the sidewalks. I'm gonna like seeing Julia. She's a damn good lookin woman.

  I can just imagine what her dark legs look like without that dress on. Long, muscular and lean.

  I can imagine what she could do with those African thighs of hers too.

  Wonder what kind of fur she's got between her legs. Whether it's that brillo pad type some black chicks have or if she has those loose soft curls. I'd like to find out.

  I pass a familiar 7-Eleven that sells single roses at the counter.

  I go in and select a large red rose from the vase and buy it.

  It looks to me like a large red teardrop on a stem.

  I walk about a half a block and cross the street to a small graveyard.

  The low wrought iron fence is rusted. It was originally painted black.

  Some of the rods were missing from the fence and some of the sections of the fence were gone altogether.

  The gate shrieked of pain when I pushed it open. The drizzle blew in my face and the wind blew through the bare leafless skeletal trees.

  I walked through a graveyard of forgotten people where at least half of the headstones had been kicked over and trash blew by on the wind.

  Through this place of forgotten graves, I walked and stood before the grave of one who I would never forget.

  I looked at the headstone with the rose in my hand. The red teardrop.

  It read simply, “Kira Brooks, Rest in Peace.”

  I stood there. I couldn't believe that that was all that was left.

  I dropped the rose on the grave.

  “I'm sorry, Babe,” I said. A tear ran down my cheek. Then I left.

  * * *

  Julia Richardson’s house was a contrast to those that stood around it. It was a small white two bedroom home with a shingled roof. The lawn was well maintained. The yard was free of trash and there was a family of decorative plastic ducks in the middle of the lawn. There were two large man sized bushes on both sides of the front door.

  The house looked to be well taken care of. The paint was not cracked or chipped, relatively fresh. The curtains were a soft yellow. They looked bright against the surrounding drabness of the rundown neighborhood. Completely around the house there was a white picket fence.

  This was Julia's oasis and sanctuary from the hard world that surrounds her.

  I went up to the front door and knocked. There was no answer.

  There was no garage on the side of the house and no car parked in front. All indications were that there was no one home.

  Well, I guess I picked up on that one real quick. I'm beginning to turn into a regular Sherlock Holmes.

  I knock again, just for the hell of it and just as I stop, a brown Pinto Wagon pulls up.

  Julia Richardson gets out of the car and hurries up the walk toward me.

  She's wearing hospital whites and looking good in them too. Her eyes ask the question I have no answer for so instead I say, “I need to look around Felicia’s room. See if I can find a direction to take this investigation in.”

  Julia was unlocking the door.

  “Don't know what good that'll do,” she said. “I know who Felicia’s friends are and none of them know where she's at.”

  Julia opened the door and flipped on the light switch. I followed her inside. Julia went to the kitchen.

  The house was simply furnished but it was neat and clean. Everything appeared to be in its proper place.

  There was a bookshelf with an old set of encyclopedias in it and assorted paperbacks that range from Stephen King and Dean Koontz to Stephen Baldwin and Maya Angelou. There was an old console stereo. The kind that played record albums on a turntable.

  Looking at the albums that were beside the console, I saw that there was a lot of old blues like Billie Holliday and Leadbelly. I saw a lot of rhythm and blues and soul too. I liked a lot of these guys myself.

  Talking loudly enough for Julia to hear me from the kitchen in the next room I said, “I see you like Teddy Pendergrass.” She had seven of his albums.

  Julia stuck her head through the doorway. There was a twinkle in her eyes and a certain huskiness to her voice.

  “Listen,” she said, “That there was a man. Don't nobody mess with my Teddy Bear in this house. That is sacrilege.”

  From back in the kitchen she asked, “Do you want something to drink?”

  “Take a shot of whiskey,” I answered.

  She laughed. It was a good sound, loose and giggly. “Not here,” she said. “Don't keep it. We got milk, lemonade or ice tea.”

  “Milk will probably kill me,” I told her. “Better make it ice tea.”

  We drank ice tea together. I sat on the couch and she sat in an easy chair.

  “What happened to your eye?” Julia asked, “You forget to duck?”

  “It was a sucker punch,” I told her. “And you should’ve seen the other guys when I was done.”

  “Anyone who gets hit is a sucker,” Julia said matter-of-factly. “And I don't care who won. You shouldn't have been doin what you were doin.”

  “You don't know the whole story,” I said.

  “Don't need to,” she cut me off. “I've heard stories by the best and if you think you're going to enlighten me about the ways of the world, you're late.”

  We both burst out laughing.

  “Damn, you're a tough woman,” I said, “You always this nice to everyone who comes to your home?”

  “Only when they need it,” Julia said.

  We sipped the tea and made idle talk until Julia looked at her watch. She said, “I don't mean to rush you but I need to be in bed soon.”

  My eyebrows involuntarily raised.

  “Don't even think it,” Julia said. “All men are boys and I ain’t nobody's playground. I'm working a split shift today so I need some sleep.”

  “No need to explain,” I said with a crooked smile on my face while standing.

  “Damn right there ain’t,” she said and led me into Felicia’s room.

  * * *

  The room that Felicia lived in was typical of girls her age, but it was uniquely her own as well.

  Black teenage heartthrobs covered the walls. Michael Jordan was up there and so was Michael Jackson from back when he still looked human.

  The bed was covered with teddy bears and other stuffed animals. Over the headboard of the bed was a framed, fierce looking picture of Bobby Fisher studying a chessboard. Under the picture on white wide hospital tape, Felicia had boldly printed, “Never, Ever, Consider Surrender.”

  I hadn't even met this kid but I liked her already.

  Julia saw me looking at the picture and its caption. “That's the way she plays,” Julia told me. “Felicia will never resign a chess game, even when the game is hopeless she hangs on so she can exhaust her opponent for the next game. I really think she could be one of the best in the world.”

  Felicia had a chest of drawers with a dresser and a large mirror beside it. On top of the chest of drawers was an Aztec style granite chess set. Pieces and squares were pink and black.

  It wasn't expensive but it was a beautiful set.

  On the dresser was a Kasparov computer chess set.

  “Felicia beats that thing all the time,” Julia said, obviously proud. “I can't even touch it at the lowest levels but Felicia tears it up at the hardest.”

  I looked at Julia and said, “Tell me about the morning you knew Felicia was gone.”

  Julia took a deep breath. “Not much to tell really,” she said. “I was working a split that nigh
t like tonight. I go to work at ten and get off at six. Felicia had just finished her homework and was ready for bed. I gave her a hug and went to work. Next morning I get home about six fifteen, she's gone and her bedroom window is open.” Julia pointed to one of two windows in the room.

  I went to the window and inspected it. Trying to look like I actually knew what I was doing. The window was latched. I tried to move it up to see if the screws were loose. They weren't.

  “Are these windows always latched?” I asked.

  “Always locked,” Julia replied.

  I opened the window and looked out at the ground below. It was roughly five and a half feet to the ground. No problem for someone to climb in or out. The ground was covered with thick brownish grass. Thick enough so no footprints would have been made.

  I turned away from the window. Nothing to be learned there.

  I looked in Julia's eyes. "I don't like to ask this," I said. "But, do you mind if I look through your daughter's things?"

  She looked at the floor then back in my eyes. There was almost moistness there. "I don't like it," she said. "But I guess it's necessary."

  I took an ink pen from my pocket and went to the chest of drawers and opened the drawer.

  Just socks in there and some tee shirts. I moved them around with the ink pen making tapping and scraping noises as I was doing it. I didn't know what I was looking for. Just something unusual. I was glad I didn't find any indication of drug use.

  The chest of drawers yielded nothing more than clothes and a couple magazines of Young Miss. On the second drawer down in the dresser, I noticed that the sound of my pen tapping on the wood at the bottom changed. On impulse I pulled it out and felt underneath.

  A book was taped to the bottom.

  * * *

  “What's that?” Julia asked as I pulled the book loose from the tape holding it in place.

  I showed it to her. A black journal with dates on each page and entrees for each day. Nothing unusual, but there were letters between some of the pages.

  “I've never seen that before,” Julia said. And I did find that unusual.