“Friend of yours?” I said.
“All God’s little sisters are beautiful in their own way,” Marcos said.
“So this is where the runaways would be?”
“That little girl of yours might be out here on Lake or over on Franklin, waving down cars just like that Afro queen. Or she could be selling crack on the corners, and that ain’t no pun. I just want you to get a feel for what life is like out here.”
On a corner ahead was a cluster of Minneapolis Police cars, lights flashing blue and red, all marked except for one white Crown Vic. We stopped at the light and watched as several officers handcuffed three teenage black males and put them in the back of the squad cars. Leaning on the hood of the plain clothes car was Joe Spenser.
“There’s your buddy,” I said.
“Let’s stop, check him out.”
I drove through the intersection and pulled back through a gas station parking lot to end up beside the unmarked car. Spenser watched us cautiously till he recognized Marcos.
“Joe! You working hard?” Marcos called.
Spenser was dressed for his street, in Levis with a wide black belt to support an inside the waist holster for his Glock 19, two spare magazines in speed pouches and his handcuffs. His black T-shirt was tucked in, and he had scuffed black jungle boots on. He leaned in the window and gave us both a cool look.
“Hey, Marcos,” Spenser said. “What are you guys doing down here?”
“I’m giving Frank the tour of the dark side of the force, brother man,” Marcos said.
“No place for civilians down here,” Spenser said. “Some of the young guns would just as soon pop you as look at you.”
“We’re being safe,” Marcos said.
Spenser caught my eye. “So what do you think of this side of Minneapolis?”
I shrugged. “Every city has its bad neighborhoods.”
“That’s true,” he said. “You’re looking for that girl.”
“That’s what I told her grandfather I’d do,” I said.
Spenser looked off to one side. “I put her name and picture in the database. If anybody has contact with her, it’ll come up.”
“I appreciate that,” I said.
“I put your name in the computer, too. You’re a real clean living citizen.”
“I keep my nose clean.”
“It’s going to get dirty you stick it in around here. Stay in your car if you want to look around. Let the professionals handle it,” Spenser said in a flat voice.
“The professionals wouldn’t be involved if it weren’t for a little pushing,” I said. I was surprised by the heat in my voice.
Spenser looked at me and said, mildly, “I said I’d take care of it.”
“I don’t want to seem unappreciative, but I think I can handle driving around, asking a few questions,” I said.
“Yeah,” Spenser said. “You do seem as though you could handle that.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
Spenser shrugged. “Watch out if you go down around 12th, 13th, 14th. The Crips had a shooting down there last night. They’re out looking for a Somali shooter.”
“The Somalis got a street gang?” I said.
“You bet,” Spenser said. “Tough motherfuckers, too. Not shy about lighting people up. I guess you grow up in Somalia, you wouldn’t be shy about it.”
“I sure as fuck know that,” Marcos said. “I been to Somalia.”
“I didn’t know that,” Spenser said, surprised. “What were you doing there?”
“Task Force Ranger, dude,” Marcos said. “Black Hawk Down. I was there.”
Spenser laughed and shook his head slowly. “I didn’t even know you were in the military.”
“Rangers lead the way, man,” Marcos said.
“Semper fucking fi,” Spenser said.
“You a Marine?” I said.
“One of the proud and the few,” Spenser said. “And Marcos a Ranger. I’ll be damned. What about you, Lovelady?”
“I fell out of airplanes while in fright,” I said. “A long, long time ago, in the green pastures of my youth. 82nd Airborne.”
Spenser gave me a thoughtful look. “I thought only bird shit and fools fell from the sky.”
“There’s some truth to that theory,” I said.
“Well, la di da,” Spenser said. He straightened up and slapped his hands on the Camry’s roof, a boom that sounded like a gunshot. “You two old paratroopers best get your asses out of here, before one of the bangers makes you for a narc car and puts some rounds in you.”
“See you in class,” Marcos said.
“Stay out of trouble,” Spenser said.
“Will do,” I said.
We pulled out into the street and turned right, continuing east on Lake Street.
“I don’t think he likes you,” Marcos said.
I grinned. “What gives you that idea?”
“You put a cop’s teeth on edge, Frank. You come off wrong.”
“How so?”
“You come off like a cop or something.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s what I said. But you come off that way, and it rubs cops the wrong way.”
“Can’t do much about what other people think,” I said.
Marcos turned in the seat and looked at me. “You don’t come off like Mr. Meek and Mild Travel Writer.”
“How many travel writers you know?”
“Just the one, dude. Just the one.”
Violent men have a distinctive physiology. Familiarity with violence, and the watchful preparedness that comes with that familiarity, gives one a certain look – a wariness, a physical ease, a whole array of body language cues that add up to: Don’t Fuck With Me. Spenser had that body language. So did Marcos. So did I. It’s something you can’t hide from people stamped with the same stamp. That’s what Spenser was bristling about. What need does a travel writer have to be violent? I had to be careful with that. Marcos sensed it, but he didn’t pry, one of the many things I liked about him. Something else seemed to bug Spenser, but I decided to let my unconscious mind worry at that like a dog on a tough bit of bone.
We drove into the neighborhood Spenser had warned us about. Knots of young men dominated the corners, boldly watching us, unafraid, their baggy clothes and hidden hands a sign that they were armed.
“You think she might be down here?” I said.
“She might be running with a gang,” Marcos said. “Black banger, a white girlfriend is a status symbol. Like having the best pit bull, or the latest nine.”
“I don’t know enough about this girl,” I said. “I don’t know if she’d fall in with a gang, or work a straight job off the books, or hook, or what.”
“You’re not going to get that from the grandfather,” Marcos said. “He’s only going to know what she wanted him to know. You don’t know no teenagers, that’s what they’re like. They got a life at home, nice and clean, and then they got their life with their friends. That’s a whole different game. Parents, grandparents, they’re the last to know about their kids.”
“You got any ideas?”
“I like the flyers. Print up a couple of hundred, hand them out. That way the bangers don’t think we’re cops and the hookers won’t think we’re freaks.”
“Too late for that tonight.”
“We could go to Kinko’s, but that’s up to you. We can do it another night. You seen enough?”
“I’ve seen enough.”
“How about a drink at Gigi’s then?”
“Now you’re talking,” I said. “Let’s do that.”
ii.
The lights were low in Gigi’s, and only a handful of night owls sat scattered at the tables and the bar. Gigi shared a table with Marcos and I, and we worked our drinks and listened to Norah Jones’s CD on the concert quality sound system.
“This girl has a future,” Gigi said.
“I’ve never heard her before,” I said.
“You’ll hear more of her,” Gigi sa
id. “She’s a prodigy. So young, and to have that voice. Her father was Ravi Shankar, the Indian musician that played with the Beatles.”
“I didn’t know that,” Marcos said.
“T’is truth,” Gigi said. She favored Marcos with a slow, lupine smile. “I’m a fount of knowing and knowledge.”
Marcos tilted his glass of Sam Adams in salute. “Now there’s truth, beautiful lady.”
“I could get jealous here,” I said.
Gigi laughed, a girlish peal, and patted my knee. “You’ll always be my favorite, Frank. My mysterious and oh so noble Frank. Looking for a lost little girl.”
I shrugged.
Marcos laughed. “He don’t like it when you call him noble.”
“I need a fresh drink,” I said.
“Oh, honey,” Gigi said. She waved at Lou the bartender and pointed at my drink. “You’re turning red.”
My ears were burning, but I chalked that up to the Hennessey cognac I was drinking. It was a fine drink for late at night.
“You ever get those strays in here, Gigi?” I said.
“You mean the little runaways?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“They can’t afford anything in here, honey. So they don’t come in. I see them out on the street like everybody else.” She paused and lit a cigarette. “What are you going to do next?”
“The flyers, I guess. Recruit Marcos to run them out, make some late night drives and show her picture around.”
“Take some by the Greyhound station,” she said. “I’ve seen pimps hanging around there, waiting for those kids with their lost looks to get off the buses. They’re over there all day and all night.”
“That’s a good idea,” Marcos said. “The bus station is open all night. That’s probably how she got here in the first place.”
I looked at my watch. Twelve thirty. “We could swing by there before I take you home, Marcos.”
“I need my bike. It’s at your place.”
“We can go pick it up and I’ll run you back. Save you the midnight ride.”
“Cool, man.”
Gigi made a disappointed moue. “You boys are going to leave?”
“We’ve got to go be noble,” I said.
Gigi laughed. “I think I got under Frank’s armor, Marcos.”
“You could get under any man’s armor, Ms. Gigi,” Marcos said.
She draped an arm around his shoulders and pecked him on the cheek. “You know just what to say to a lady, you handsome Latin devil.”
“C’mon, c’mon,” I said. “Is that the only way to get a kiss?”
Gigi took my face in both hands and pulled me down for a brief, electric brush across my lips. “That’s all you get, Lover Man. For now.”
“She got the hook in deep,” Marcos said.
“That’s a sure thing,” I said.
It was a beautiful tableau as we left: the dim lights, the soft music, the beautiful woman watching us go, Lou the bartender raising a rag in farewell.
I’d remember this night.
We drove to the Greyhound station. We found a spot at the curb in front, vacant at this hour, and went in. The grimy tile floored expanse of the station was too brightly lit by flickering fluorescent lights. All of the ticket windows were closed except for one with a sign that said ring for service. A couple of drunks huddled together on a bench, sleeping it off. An Indian family, mother, father and two small babies sat by themselves behind a pile of bags. A black man with a mouth full of gold teeth, dressed in black jeans, black shirt, and a black leather car coat, watched us with interest. Something about him stirred me. I went to him and took out Luella’s picture.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Have you seen this girl?”
He never looked at the photo. “Ain’t seen nobody.”
“This girl,” I said. I held the photo in his face. “Have you seen her?
He batted the picture aside. “Get that shit outta my face.”
I stepped back as he stood up. Marcos stepped to my right where he had a better angle.
“Take it easy, man,” I said. “All I want to know is have you seen her.”
“I told you. I ain’t seen nobody.”
“All right then,” I said. “Thanks for nothing.”
“Fuck you,” the man said. He gave us his back and stalked off to another bench. He threw himself down, crossed his arms, and stared defiantly at us.
“The natives are restless,” Marcos said.
“Think it’s any good to talk to the ticket agent?”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
I threw a lingering look at the angry man, then went to the counter and rang the service bell. After a long minute, a tired looking American Indian woman in the blue and grey uniform of Greyhound came out from the back.
“Help you?” she said.
I held up the picture. “Have you ever seen this girl around here?”
She took her time looking over the photo. “I don’t think so. But I only work nights. Maybe she came around in the day.”
“Never seen her?” I said.
“I might have, but I don’t remember,” she said. Her round face furrowed in concentration. “I don’t think so. Lots of young girls come through here, summer time.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Would you do me a favor?”
“What?” she said.
“If you ever do see her, would you call me?” I handed her one of my business cards.
She held the card in both hands. “You her family?”
“Friend.”
“Good to have friends that care. I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Thanks.”
We left the station. The black man in the car coat burnt holes in our backs with his glare. We got into my car.
“What do you think is up with Mister Car Coat?” I said.
“Sitting around in a bus station at one in the morning?” Marcos said. “He’s waiting for a girl like Luella to show up.”
“Maybe he’ll still be around when we come back by,” I said.
“Whatever, Lone Ranger. Tonto needs his rest. I’ve got classes and work tomorrow.”
We drove to my house, put his bike in the trunk, and then I took him back into Uptown and dropped him off in front of the four-plex he lived in.
“Talk to you tomorrow?” Marcos said.
“Give me a call when you get clear in the afternoon.”
“Will do. Get some sleep, Frank.”
I took my time driving home, lingering over a leisurely circuit of the Lakes. There were no other cars on the street. I had the Lakes all to myself. The half moon shone on the waters. Small wind blown ripples glimmered in the moon light. The peace and quiet here seemed so far away from what I’d seen on East Lake Street, only a few minutes drive away. The good and the bad and the ugly, only minutes apart.
There was a lesson in that.
CHAPTER FOUR
i.
I dream strange dreams.
I take my Zyprexa in the evening. Doctor Marks recommended taking it right before bed, but I found that for me it takes a few hours before the soporific effect kicks in. So I take it around seven o’clock, and I’m ready for sleeping by ten. I sleep very soundly for the first part of the night. But when I dream, it’s different. Before my psychosis, before I went on the medication, I was a light sleeper, easily wakened; my dreams were colorful and vivid, full of people and places I’d been, some that I’d imagined, and I could recall them all in full detail in the bright light of morning. I was quick out of bed, too. Now my dreams are muddy, blurred, and I can only remember brief flashes of the high points. I often lay in bed for an hour after I wake, slowly stirring, till I gather enough steam to get out of bed, get dressed, and go across the street for some morning coffee.
Last night I’d dreamt of Gigi, an erotic dream, unusually vivid, rich with scents. I don’t remember ever dreaming of smells before. Maybe that was how my drugged mind compensated for the loss of color by giving me something else. I tho
ught of the rich warm smell of her, as thick as Hennessey cognac, an odor I could drink. I was aroused. My penis tented the sheet till I turned on my side, smiling at the thought and trying to remember what else I’d dreamed. There was a fragment about the angry black man at the bus station; the face of Luella Pound, so innocent but with a touch of sadness around her eyes; the hidden hands and hard faces of the young gangsters on the street. I had a sudden foreboding, and one of the little voices I lived with pointed out that I had no business eating up my down time with this distraction, that I needed to keep myself for my real work, the secret I held from the people I’d grown close to here.
And I had grown close to people.
Last night was a good night in the company of good people, and the warmth of that was something I needed. The other operators I worked with, there was warmth and regard there, but that was based on the calculus of respect for a fellow professional. It wasn’t the same as being taken for just who I was, instead of what I did and how I did it. That was different. This was just for me. I had something to be grateful to Louis Pound for. He’d given me the opportunity to grow closer to my people here, to act on something important and show them that I was involved. That I was connected.
I wondered what Doctor Marks would make of all this.
He’d feed me the Company line: no outside involvements, stay friendly but neutral with outsiders, avoid entangling relationships that would require explanations, take my medication and avoid stress. That was a laugh. My life was all about stress and dealing with it. Or not dealing with it. As when my brain revolted against the burden of stress and took me into the strange land of psychosis.
One time, in Frankfurt, I stalked a German national of Syrian descent, an expert bomb maker who’d been implicated in a thwarted plot to kill some American soldiers in a night club in Sachenhausen. He had a history, and so his name fell to me. We worked him up. During a rehearsal operation, a dry run of the killing to come, I stepped into the loose surveillance box my fellow operators had set up around my target. I followed him across a huge plaza in downtown Frankfurt thronged with people and stands selling beer and sausages. He had no idea he was being followed. Our surveillance people are the best there is, and their voices whispered to me constantly through a tiny wireless earplug. I had a little fugue then, one I never told my psychiatrist about: it was as if I rose out of my body and hovered about the crowded plaza, and watched myself close in on the target. Not to kill, not today, but just to rehearse. I heard the target’s voice in my head, his worries about his child sick at home, his thoughts about his job as a printer, and no glimmer of the secret work he did for terrorism. I was in two places at the same time, closing in behind him, and floating in the air above him, like an avenging angel ready to strike him down in the name of God – or country.
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