by Andy Straka
“Pavlicek. Are you related to Nicole?”
“Yes.”
“An uncle?” she asked. Born newshound, I guess.
“Her father,” I said.
“But I thought her father was … Oh …” She looked at me suspiciously. “Wait just one minute.”
She pushed a button on her console, which seemed to have about three or four lines glowing at the moment. When someone picked up she said: “Mr. Solomon? A Mr. Pavlicek is here to see Warren … Yes … I'll ask him to wait.”
She put the receiver down. I gave her a hopeful look.
“Mr. Turner is in a meeting with the editor right now, but they're almost through.” she said. “He asked if you could wait.”
“Absolutely.”
“There are magazines on the table.” She smiled and pointed to an empty row of padded chairs hugging the windowsill next to a stained coffeetable stacked with popular newsmagazines.
I picked up a periodical, sat down, and started reading. Anyone who tried to digest the mounds of newspeak that flooded the country these days was either a sadist or a maniac. Most of it had become garrulous to me, bland psycho-babble, contributing to, rather than ameliorating, the culture's woes.
About five minutes later I heard someone coming down a hallway that opened into the reception area. It was Warren Turner. He crossed his arms when he came into view.
“So what can I do for you, Pavlicek? Dewayne's funeral is this afternoon in case you forgot.”
“I didn't forget,” I said. “Just wanted to ask you more about what you think might have happened to him.”
He eyed me with curiosity for a moment or two “How long will it take?”
“Couple of minutes.”
He thought about it. “Okay.”
Warren, it turned out, didn't have an office. No one at the paper did, except the editor. The rest of the staff, all half dozen of them or so, worked with aging computers in a large room in the back, their separate spaces defined by five-foot-tall cubicles. Warren's was in the middle. He borrowed a chair from an absent neighbor for me to use.
“Suppose you look at this as doing penance,” he said.
“Come again?”
“Your investigation. Helping out Priscilla. No one is going to look very hard into the killing of another black teenager who'd been involved in drugs, whether he was still dealing or not. So it's penance, isn't it, for what you did back up in New York?”
“Are we on the record?”
“Not unless you want to be.”
“I didn't come down here as penance for anything. What happened to Toronto and me thirteen years ago happened because we were doing our job.”
“Maybe there was a problem with the job then.” He leaned back in his chair and glared again.
“Look, I didn't come here to debate the merits of police service with you.”
“Oh, I get it. You've had a change of heart and now you're only going to do work for public defenders and ACLU types.”
I smiled. “Is that what you're hoping?”
“Maybe I should put you on the record.”
“We both know there are a thousand ways to put something into an article without using a direct quote.”
His turn to smile. “Okay. We're probably not going to end up liking each other. So what do you want from me?”
“For starters, just what is it that makes you so suspicious of Sheriff Cowan? Other than his being an integral cog in the patriarchal white male power structure, that is.”
“You forget,” he said. “Priscilla's part of the patriarchy now too.”
“Sort of eased her way in there, didn't she?”
He pursed his lips. “First thing is, Cowan, from what I can tell, had no grounds to arrest Dewayne except pure harassment. I'm certain Dewayne hadn't done anything illegal for some time.”
“But he had in the past.”
“Right.”
“This church thing … his conversion was genuine then?”
“As genuine as they come.”
“I take it you're not a believer.”
“I know Dewayne was.”
“Priscilla told me you wrote a series about Dewayne's old gang. You still know any of those kids?”
He nodded. “But don't expect me to compromise any of my sources.”
“All right. Maybe you can tell me, though, how they felt about Dewayne quitting the life?”
“Maybe. But I think you'd better ask them that question yourself.”
“I thought you said you wouldn't compromise them.”
“Oh, I won't. Compromise is one thing. Communication is another.”
“They trust you?” I said.
“Some.”
“You think you could arrange this … communication?”
“Maybe.”
“Would it make sense to you if they were involved in Dewayne's killing?”
Someone turned on a copier across the room. “It makes sense, but that doesn't necessarily make it true.” He wasn't going to be led where he didn't want to go.
“This a neighborhood gang, Moony's Hollow?”
“Not as far as I can tell. Guys are from all over.”
“They deal in drugs?”
“What do you think?” he said. “For them it's the only way to buy all the junk they see pitched at them on TV.”
“Can't be that big a dope market around here though, is there? I mean, it's not like we're near a major city.”
“No. But these guys move around. They've got connections in D.C., Baltimore, New York, you name it,” he said.
“New York, huh? I understand Dewayne had a northern supplier. Man named Morelli.”
He shrugged. “I don't know anything about names from up there.”
“So what's this gang like, a rural chapter or something?”
“These dudes are their own chapter. You'll see.” He drummed his fingers on the desk.
“Let's get back to Dewayne. When he joined the church again, what'd he do, just up and quit the gang?”
He leaned back again and stretched. “Far as I know, that's about the gist of it.”
“Did he have a girlfriend?”
“Dewayne? Not really. No one special.”
“Did you know he asked my daughter for a date?”
“So?”
“There was something going on between the two of them. The sheriff claims she threatened to kill him and she's not talking.”
He snickered. “I suppose that explains why he let her go that night then, and kept Dewayne locked up.”
“Doesn't seem logical, does it?”
“Lot of things having to do with black folks and cops don't seem logical.”
“I try not to dwell on it. How about Regan Quinn?”
“What about her?”
“You know who she is?”
“I know who she is,” he said.
“Dewayne ever mention her?”
“Couple of times.”
“He ever date her?”
“Hey, girls like her don't get taken out. Besides, I wasn't Dewayne's baby-sitter. You know what I mean?”
I nodded. “You loved him though?”
The question seemed to startle him. Maybe it was an unfair one to ask on the day of his brother's funeral. He turned his face away to keep me from seeing his eyes.
I gave him a few seconds. Then I said: “I'm sorry.”
He still said nothing.
“You got anything else on the sheriff's department, anything solid?”
He looked at me again for a long moment. Finally he said: “I'm working on something.”
“Priscilla working on it with you?”
“She told you about us, huh? I mean, before …”
“She mentioned it.”
He bit his lower lip. “Now let me ask you a question or two, Pavlicek. How do I know you're not just trying to protect yourself or your daughter? Maybe the sheriff's department too? How do I know this whole thing isn't anything but another se
t-up?”
“I guess you don't,” I said. “But if it helps you sleep any better, I didn't even know who the new sheriff was down here until my daughter called to tell me she'd been arrested. Besides, if they wanted a poster boy for a cover-up, it sure wouldn't be me.”
He thought it over. “You were a cop though. Cops protect each other.”
“Kind of like a gang.”
He nodded.
I stood to leave. “Thanks for your time, Warren. I know it's a hard day. I'll see you at the church.”
He held his hand up. “Hold on a minute …”
I waited.
“I heard what happened over at the CA's office … Okay, I'll try to set up a meeting for you with the ‘bangers. But I want Priscilla in on it too.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “That's gotta be up to her.”
“Right. If she says it's okay, I'll try and set it up for tomorrow night. Soon enough?”
I nodded.
“You carry a gun?”
“Yes.”
“You can't bring it with you if we go. These brothers don't play around.”
We'll see about that, I thought, but I said nothing.
He was staring into the dust on his darkened computer screen. “What about other police agencies? Any involved besides the sheriff?”
“There's a state police investigator and his partner on the case. They'll be down here tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“You gonna do another story on this for the paper?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Not right now. Too many conflicts of interest.”
“You and I both,” I said.
19
Regan Quinn's house faced the steepest street in town, a narrow climb up a hillside where the trees and any other type of vegetation had mostly eroded away. Structures occupied only one side of the road, and even there precariously. Tall three-families with peeling paint and cantilevered foundations, craning into the electric blue. I could only imagine what the slope looked like after a rainstorm.
I parked behind a big UPS truck and a Toyota that looked like the car I had seen fleeing from a distance the day before. A few window air conditioners made noise from the building. Her apartment was on the second floor and I made a lot of noise myself on the stairs hoping that she would think I was the driver with a package. The bell sounded like a set of wind chimes from inside.
I heard fumbling and footsteps through the walls.
“Just a minute!” Her voice was high-pitched but muted.
There was no peephole. She turned the lock, undid the chain, and pulled open the door.
“Regan Quinn?”
Squinting. Her face dull from sleep. Long blond hair. Narrow waist with hips poured into blue jeans. Confused. “Mr. Pavlicek? I thought you were the delivery driver.”
“No, ma'am.” I showed her my license. “Just have a few questions I'd like to ask you.”
The corners of her mouth twisted toward a frown. “I don't think I should, I mean … talk with anyone,” she said. She closed the door an inch or two as if to protect herself.
I put my foot over the threshold. “I'm just trying to help Nicky. …”
“I know you are,” she said with a sigh. “I guess you won't give up … might as well come in.” She pulled back the door.
I stepped directly into her living room. Huge overstuffed couch. Deep pile carpet. Big screen TV. No whips or chains or strange costumes anywhere that I could see. A collection of Beanie Babies warranted its own special shelf.
“Nicky send you?” she said, but before I could answer she went on: “I'm gonna get some coffee, decaf. You want some?”
“Sure.”
She was gone for less than a minute and came back with two mugs. “Cream and sugar?”
“Black's okay.”
She handed me mine. “Machine brews it on a timer. Hazelnut. Hope you like it.”
There was a big oak rocker next to the couch. She folded herself in among the pillows on the couch with her coffee and bid me sit down.
I like rocking chairs. They remind me of long-ago summers on porches and moments when there is time to just sit and contemplate things.
“I heard about Nicky,” she said. “Dewayne too.”
“Seems like you knew both of them pretty well.”
“We all went to school together, ‘til I dropped out.”
“You seem intelligent enough. Curriculum bore you?”
“That, and I have an old man who likes to beat the hell out of my mother. Nothing I could do about it since she wouldn't do anything about it, so I got out.”
“They still live around here?”
“No, thank God. Moved to Louisiana … She's still with him. Go figure.”
We sipped the hazelnut.
“Nicky's in a lot of trouble,” I said.
“I know.” Her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. She turned her head away. “I know.”
“She's been doing okay in school. Why would she want to get involved with drugs?”
“She's not, Mr. Pavlicek. I swear.”
“What about the stuff they found on her car?”
“Someone must have put it there. Nicky wouldn't have had anything to do with that kind of thing.”
“You and Nicky are real close, huh?”
She snickered. “She always calls me her dark side.”
“Dark side.” I checked her bare arms. They looked clean. “You ever snort?”
“I've tried it a couple times. But I couldn't see the point, you know? Seems like a big waste of money to me.”
I looked again at the tasteful furnishings around the room. “You're a dancer.”
“Yes … exotic.” She added the more descriptive word as if it were necessary, as if we were comparing dinner recipes.
“Why'd you run out on me yesterday at the Spade?”
She bit her lip. “I didn't want to … I was afraid you were going to try to pin Nicky's rap on me.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“That's what her mother would try to do.”
“Should I have?”
“Should you have what?”
“Tried to pin Nicky's rap on you,” I said.
“No. I've got nothing to do with it.”
“You see her much lately, I mean, since you've been working at the Spade?”
“Not as much I used to … every couple of weeks or so.”
“But you're certain she didn't know about the coke.”
She nodded.
“Seems inconsistent.”
“I don't have to see Nicky all the time to know she wouldn't have had anything to do with that garbage. She's just against all that kind of stuff, okay? Told me if she ever found out I'd been using, she'd turn me in.”
“You've got to admit, the habit fits with your profession.”
“Hey lookit, not all of us are on the spike. I make a decent living.”
“Okay.” I finished my coffee. “Let's talk about Dewayne.”
She turned her head again and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “Nicky told me that you … you were the one who found him …” Her voice trailed off.
“Yes. Nicky says he asked her out.”
“Yeah, right. I wouldn't doubt it.”
“What was he like?”
She averted her gaze, seemed to struggle for words. “He was good-looking, kind of muscular. He had kind eyes.”
“Kind eyes. Doesn't sound like your typical gang-banger.”
“Oh he wasn't … I mean, he wasn't part of any gang … not anymore,” she said.
“You two friends?”
“… sort of.”
“Any idea why he would have been arguing with Nicky the last time he was arrested? Cops said she threatened to kill him.”
She put her hand to her mouth. After a few seconds she said: “Dewayne was always a little scary, I mean, you know, he had a reputation.”
“Like you, maybe.”
&nbs
p; She shrugged.
I stood and walked across the room. On the opposite wall there was a bookshelf next to the TV and VCR. A few books were lined up neatly—popular novels—and some exercise videos. The tape cases leaned haphazardly against one another so I could see most of their covers. They all featured women in leotards and tights, but one caught my eye. On this particular cover the women's torsos looked slightly comical in leotards, their faces flushed with special health, their knees bent, their bellies distended. I read the title.
Regan was still trying to keep from crying.
“Is the baby Dewayne's?” I tried to ask softly.
Her eyes flew open, but she didn't say anything. She lowered her head and stared into the carpet. The tears began. Finally she nodded.
“Maybe that's what Nicole was arguing with him about,” I said.
She reached across to a side table where her purse lay and took out a tissue. She blew her nose. “He said I should have an abortion. Nicky went to talk with him. I asked her to. They ended up … I mean … you know the rest. …”
“Is that everything?”
“No,” she said. “Later, after Dewayne disappeared and all, Nicky came and told me she was sure he was going to change his mind. He was really broken up about it, she said. He was even going to talk to his pastor about it … she said she was sure.”
A clock on her mantel struck the hour. It was a formal Westminster chime.
“Anything I can do?”
She shook her head.
“When are you due?”
“Five months.”
“Have to stop dancing soon. You've got savings, somewhere to go with the baby when the time comes?”
“Yes.” She'd stopped crying now. “But one thing. Nicky's got to be there for me. She promised.”
I nodded. This was a whole new dimension to my daughter's life, one I had never even imagined, let alone considered. Loyal friend. Fighting to preserve a life, two lives really, the baby's and Regan's.
Guys like to fantasize, watching Rambo or Dirty Harry or Jean-Claude Van Damme. We think bravery has to do with violent upheaval, with extraordinary acts of valor far outside the scope of our daily lives. What we too often miss is the bravery that happens every day, right before our eyes, deeper, more enduring.
I thanked Regan Quinn and left her nursing her mug of coffee, legs tucked beneath her on the couch.
