by Matt Rass
FIRE & FIGHT
Ray and DC joined a small crowd across the street from the charred building that housed Fillies strip club. A single fireman swept a mellow spray of water across the blackened remains of the former titty bar.
“Look, Ray,” DC said.
Paramedics were carrying a body on a stretcher to their ambulance. Ray could see two big mounds of breast poking up under the sheet. When the stretcher bumped the back of the ambulance, a butterfly-tattooed hand slipped out from the sheet. Angelique.
In front of Ray, a short, round newsman was scanning his camera images. Ray leaned over the man’s shoulder and asked, “Did they pull out any other bodies?”
“No,” the newsman said, not looking up. “Looks like that’s the only one.”
“Do they know what the cause of the fire was?”
“Started in the kitchen.”
“Who owns this place?”
The newsman glanced back and up at Ray. “What’s your interest?”
“I forgot my jacket in coat check.”
“Sure you did,” the man said, turning around to face Ray. “This ain’t my first day on the job.”
“My baby brother was the DJ here.”
“Sam?”
“You know him?”
“Who doesn’t? He’s a likable guy. Friendly.”
Ray extended his hand. “Ray Price.”
“Conor Munn,” the newsman said, shaking Ray’s hand. “People call me Munsey.”
DC put her hand out and introduced herself. “My name’s DC,” she said. Munsey shook her hand and she studied him quizzically. But he was a blank slate, he didn’t project any mystery or hidden beliefs.
“You hear about what happened to Sam, Munsey?” Ray asked.
“He’s gone missing,” Munsey answered.
“You know any reason he should be?” DC blurted.
“A reason he should be missing? Just the rumors.” Munsey then addressed Ray, “You’re the same Ray Price they’re talking about in Detroit?”
“Yeah. What rumors are you talkin ’bout?”
“Sam was connected to the rackets in town and was trying to cut out on his own. Or go straight. One or the other. I’ve heard them both.”
“You still call pimpin’ and sellin’ drugs rackets?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“No. But which rackets are you talkin ’bout?”
“Both. Sex and dope.”
“Tell me,” DC said. “How does someone cut out on his own in a dumbass small town like this if he’s dealing in drugs and pussy?”
Munsey shrugged.
“He don’t,” DC answered for him.
“Who’s runnin’ the rackets in Benson Bridge?” Ray asked.
“Same people who run the real estate, law offices, taxis, car lots, and everything else that makes more than a dollar.”
“The Silvers?” DC asked.
“From the congressman down to the dishwasher who left the stove on overnight…” He indicated the burned-down husk of a building as if a hot stove was the cause of the fire.
“And you knew for a fact Sam was working for ‘em?” Ray asked.
“Let me put it this way… I knew Sam for about five minutes before he first tried pushing pills on me to sell to my ‘friends.’” Munsey used air quotes on friends.
“I’m pretty sure Sam didn’t know me from Adam,” he continued. “But that never stopped him from, you know, playing himself up as if he was someone bigger than he actually was. I don’t think he would be so open about what he could get me, if he didn’t work for them. He even once said he could get me a marijuana license if I wanted, or hook me up with some of the dancers—which I guess I did believe. He was a talker. I never took him up on anything, of course.”
“You think he was too small time for the Silvers to wanna get rid of him for something he may have done?”
“I never said they did, but one of the rumors is Sam wanted out and they wouldn’t let him. You know how it goes. Something happens to someone and someone else sees an opportunity and tries to take credit for it. This is a small town, everyone puffs themselves up to be bigger than they actually are, but the Silvers are the exception. They really are as powerful as you think they are.”
“So Sam goes missing and some people think it was ’cos he needed to be made an example of. Or that he just took off?”
“Listen, I don’t know why Sam is missing, but if that is the case and someone made him disappear, then you can bet dollars to donuts that whoever did it has the last name of Silver.”
“You ever hear of the Silvers acting like the Mafia before? Getting rid of people?”
“These guys, like I said, pretend to be lawyers and ‘legitimate’”—he used air quotes again—“business owners. But if they have a problem, that problem goes away, never to be heard of again. The congressman and his father and his father before him have had this city and county under their thumb since World War One.”
“Where can I find this congressman?”
Munsey laughed. “That’s not where you want to start, my friend. Believe me.”
“Where should we start then?” DC asked.
“I’m sorry,” Munsey addressed Ray. “Like I said, everyone liked Sam…”
“But,” Ray said.
“But he talked too much. It made even me uncomfortable. Everyone knows everyone else’s business around here, but when it comes to the Silvers, it’s healthier not to know what they’re doing.” He nodded at the ambulance as it pulled away, and did a double-take over Ray’s shoulder, his face dropping. Ray turned to see what had spooked him. It was someone from the used car lot kitty-corner from the club. He was over six feet tall and wore a black-and-white Adidas tracksuit and a Kangol hat from the ’90s. The sign above the dealership read Silver Motors.
“I gotta go,” Munsey said.
“Someone I should speak to?” Ray asked nodding toward the big man in the tracksuit. DC turned to look.
“His name’s Mike Silver. His dad owns—or used to own—Fillies. If anyone had anything to do with my brother being missing, he’s the one I would want to talk to.” Munsey showed his fist. “If you know what I mean.”
Ray nodded his thanks and let the newsman make his conspicuous escape before he casually turned and watched as the big man Mike made his own retreat through the car lot.
“Hey, I know that guy,” DC said, pointing back toward the former stripclub where a young Deputy picked his way through the rubble. “Maybe he knows something about Sam?”
Ray turned to see who she was talking about. “Ask him, and see if he knows where the other girl, Dominique, is. I’m gonna go check in on this dude at the dealership across the way.”
Ray started across the intersection toward the dealership as Mike disappeared inside the Silver Motors dealership.
DC waved at the young beat cop. “Hey, Stevie.”
Stevie turned. “DC?” he asked.
“Like you don’t know my name,” she said. “Making it like it’s a question.”
The young cop rolled his head in an aw-shucks motion and sauntered in an exaggerated manner over to her. “You’re right,” he said. “I know who you are. You supposed to have an audition at this place or what?”
“Yeah, funny. ’Cos I really want to move down in the world.”
“Ah, it ain’t that bad. You could save for college.”
“The first day I go to college would be my last day.”
Stevie looked for any observers. Satisfied there weren’t any, he whispered, “I don’t know what it is about you, but you drive me crazy.”
“Whoa! Pump your brakes, Stevie. You haven’t even asked me out to dinner yet.”
“You prefer McDonald's or Hardee’s?”
“Again, funny, but I need to talk serious for a minute. I’m lookin for a couple of friends of mine, Sam and Dominique. He was the DJ here and she’s a dancer. You hear anything about them?”
“They pulled the one dead gi
rl out of the fire.”
“Yeah, no, I saw that. Wasn’t Dominique. Sam is a black dude.”
“No, sorry. I’m just a beat cop, no one tells me anything. Maybe if you gave me your number I could...”
“I don’t have my phone on me right now,” DC explained, then saw the buzzcut dude from the Welcome, picking through the rubble.
“What’s up?” Stevie asked. “You look like you saw a ghost?”
“I’ll get back to you,” she said, stumbling backwards through what remained of the crowd.
Ray weaved through the American made cars and saw the GMC SUV that matched the one that had chased him the night before. “I know you,” Ray said to the vehicle, and opened the door to the dealership.
A yellow Dodge muscle car was on display inside the showroom and half a dozen dudebros were circling the car like they wanted to fuck it. They all turned to stare at Ray as he stepped through the doors.
“I’m lookin’ for the big dude in the track suit,” he said.
Each bro looked to the bro to his left, no one saying a word. Ray shook his head and tried to move past them when a salesman came out of the front office and waved his hands for Ray to stop.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said. “This is a closed demonstration.”
Ray saw the leg of the black-and-white tracksuit at the end of the hall step out and then step back behind the corner. Ray tried again to move past the salesman, and again he stepped in front of him, this time putting his hand on Ray’s chest.
“Whaddaya doin’?” Ray asked.
“There’s no one there, brother. Believe me...” The salesman indicated the half dozen bros surrounding Ray. “It’s just us.”
The man in the tracksuit crossed the hall to the side door he had first entered and the chime sounded throughout the showroom as he exited. Ray swatted away the salesman’s hand as the bros moved to block his exit.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Ray said.
The salesman laughed. “Maybe I can interest you in a used Cadillac?” The bros encircling Ray also started to laugh.
“That wasn’t particularly funny,” Ray replied. “Y’all sharing the same brain or something.”
“Hold on, Larry,” one of the bros behind Ray said to the salesman. “Maybe he’s here for the janitor job?”
“Is that it, boy?” Larry asked Ray. “You here for the janitor job?”
“I haven’t even had a full cup of coffee this mornin’ and y’all are bustin’ my ass?” he replied.
“Oh, we can bust something, believe you me.”
“I get it,” Ray said. “This Dodge gave y’all li’ll woodies, and I interrupted. Maybe I should just go.”
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere but the hospital,” one goon in the back said.
“OK, OK,” Ray said. “You boys can’t go around sayin’ that word to black folk. It ain’t yours to use. So I’m gonna suggest everyone step aside ’fore I leave y’all pickin’ up your teeth with broken fingers.”
The bros were all slapping and shoving one another, trying to amp themselves up. Then they started closing in on him.
“I gotta warn you,” Ray said. “I haven’t had a lot o’ practice lately, so this may get messy.”
Ray started with a couple of routine stretches, then high kicks and rapid punches in the air.
“Lookit this guy, he knows Karate,” some wiseass said.
And with a spinning roundhouse kick, Ray knocked out the first guy who came at him. The dude flew through the air, his broken teeth swishing between his cheeks like jelly beans, and the rest of the gang winced as their friend hit the floor and his teeth burst out of his mouth.
“See,” Ray said. “He ain’t gonna have nearly as much trouble picking up those teeth as the rest of you shitbags.”
Half of the group wore oh-fuck-what-are-we-getting-ourselves-into faces and took a step back, and their braver, stupider friends stepped forward. Ray spun and grabbed a fleeing Larry and launched him ass over ears into the windshield of the Dodge.
“Next,” Ray said.
The bros looked horrified.
When Ray exited the showroom a short while later, he stopped a God-fearing Christian family of four from entering.
“Sorry, folks,” he said. “The private demonstration just ended.”
The family watched Ray walk confidently across the lot. The youngest boy, not more than seven-years-old, peered inside the showroom and saw those men who were still conscious groping around, trying to gather their teeth up with the sides of their hands, their fingers twisted like sunbaked earthworms. The others lay on the floor, blissfully unaware of the pain they would soon be in, their unconscious bodies twisted into lumps. But it was the poor Dodge that appeared to have taken the worst of the fight. She looked as if she’d caught in a basketball-sized hail storm. Larry the salesman was stretched out upside down on the Dodge’s windshield and two other guys were lying across her hood, their mouths frothing and fingers snapped, their loose teeth sliding down the wet, red streaked Dodge’s yellow chassis.
“Hello?” Mike called out. “Larry?”
He walked into the showroom and saw the carnage. His big paws fumbled around inside his tracksuit pockets and came out with his cellphone. He dialed and shivered as he looked back up at the strewn bodies before him. “It’s Mike,” he said into the phone. His hand was covering his mouth, trying to stem the sickness in his throat. “I think the Detroit cop just busted up the boys at the dealership.”
A groan from one of the bros on the floor spooked Mike, and he yelped and retreated the way he came like the final girl in a horror movie.
Ray stood behind a tree across the street watching the used car lot as DC joined his side with two cups of coffee in her hands. “What’s up?” she asked.
Ray chinned toward the lot. “Waiting to see who shows up to survey the damage. Thanks for the coffee.”
DC twisted her lips and looked confused. “Survey the damage?”
“It’s a saying,” Ray explained.
“For white people,” DC said.
“It means observe.”
“I know what it means, I just never heard black folk say it before.”
“I just did, didn’t I?”
“Well, that don’t count.”
“It counts today,” Ray said.
DC conceded. “Survey what damage?” she asked.
“The damage I administered upon some discourteous individuals inside this shady-ass establishment,” he said.
“Now you’re just being an asshole.”
“I love the way you say asshole. You make it sound as if it’s the worst thing a person could be.”
“Everyone has a l’ill asshole in ‘em,” DC stated.
“But it’s the amount of asshole that matters.”
“All I do is deal with assholes,” DC confessed. “But you ain’t one of ‘em.”
“Thanks,” Ray said. “You learn anything from the cop over there?”
“Nah, he don’t know nothing.” She thought of mentioning the buzzcut dude but just then Ray perked up.
“Lookit this,” he said.
Carl’s boat-like Lincoln Town Car crept up the car lot’s driveway and stopped at the front entrance. Ray watched as the big, old man in a tan suit exited his car and put on his cowboy hat.
“Is it just me,” Ray said, “or do all car salesmen think they’re from Texas?”
“I dunno,” DC said. “But let’s go.”
“Whaddaya mean, let’s go. This is a stakeout. Git back here,” Ray pressed her against the tree they were hiding behind as Mike Silver stepped out of the dealership and spoke to the old cowboy.
With her back against the tree, DC stared at Ray’s chest as he peered around her. “I was just thinking maybe I should go get my stuff from Dre’s place after all,” she said.
“Wait a goddamn second,” Ray interrupted. “I know that old cowboy. He was the sheriff when I was growing up. Sonuvabitch made life hell for people around here
.” Ray looked down at DC and watched as she shivered. “You cold?” he asked.
“What? No,” she said.
“You just shivered.”
“Maybe I am.”
“You ain’t a junkie, are you? You jonesing?”
“Shit no. I ain’t hooked on nuthin’.”
“Okay,” Ray said. “I’m just watching you shiver on a summer day is all.”
“It’s my allergies.”
Ray thumbed in the direction of the old cowboy. “You know this old timer, too?”
“I knew him when I first come into town.”
“He a client of yours?”
“That motherfucker picked me up at the bus station.”
“The bus station?”
“I never seen him before.”
“What he do?”
“You mean what he do after he beat the shit outta me and raped me?”
“I’m sorry,” Ray said.
“What for, you ain’t him. He drove me back to the bus station, pushed a hundred bucks in my hand, and told me to go back to where I came from.”
Ray looked around the tree and watched as the Town Car with the two men inside reentered the street. “You wanna get your stuff from your old man’s?”
DC nodded.
“Okay,” Ray said. “But first we check out this address I have for Sam.”
“Don’t you wanna follow those two?”
“What for?”
“I dunno, see where they go. Ask them some questions?”
“I don’t think they’re quite ready to answer the questions I wanna ask right now.”
“Fine by me.”
SAM’S LOFT
Ray and DC exited the elevator, turned left and walked to the west end of the hall. The door to Sam’s loft was wide open. Ray knocked and hollered, “Anyone here?” before he and DC entered.
The first thing DC said was “How the hell he afford a joint like this?”
“Good question,” Ray answered.
It was a thousand-square-foot, top floor, corner loft with eighteen-foot floor-to-ceiling windows cloaked in opaque black and white checkered curtains that matched the pattern on the floor. In the center of the room stood a life-sized, black marble statue of a naked woman, her arms entwined over her head, her pointy breasts thrusting toward the viewer. The place was furnished with white leather couches and chairs interspersed with glass tables, a corner bar to one side, and DJ station on the opposite. The faint, sweet smell of smoked cocaine hung in the air.
