Cracker Bling

by Stephen Solomita

  ‘Then what?’ he finally asks. ‘After you get the gun?’

  ‘You serious? I know where the jerk lives, Hootie.’

  ‘The jerk? Funny you should use that word, because the only jerks I know are sittin’ right in this car.’

  Bubba turns on to the Grand Central Parkway and heads north toward the Triborough Bridge. He’s running about ten miles an hour above the speed limit, his eyes focused on the road, the top of his head brushing the roof liner. He doesn’t speak or seem about to speak, and Hootie finally becomes rattled.

  ‘Killing Sherman won’t bring Amelia back,’ he says.

  Bubba laughs. ‘Kill Sherman? Hootie, I’m gonna kill his wife and his kids. I’m gonna kill his fuckin’ dog.’

  Hootie settles back against the seat. He’s wondering exactly what he owes these two crackers? Eli Scannon would laugh in his face, damsels in distress not being relevant to the black man’s experience, especially if they’re white damsels. But Hootie knows something else, something he doesn’t think Eli would understand. The minute he’s alone, he’s gonna start thinkin’ about Amelia, about what might be happening to her. This is not a road he’s anxious to travel.

  What Hootie does, finally, is hesitate for too long. He absorbs this fact as he and Bubba approach the building where he, Bubba and Amelia have been living. Four cops step away from the door to block the sidewalk. Three of the cops are in uniform, the fourth wears a rumpled suit and has a thick bandage on the back of his head. Hootie feels Bubba lurch against him, feels something slide down into his pocket, a set of keys that clink softly against the coins at the bottom.

  ‘Do what you have to do,’ Bubba tells him. ‘Find Amelia.’

  Hootie swallows his response. Bubba’s already gone, striding ahead, shoulders squared, finger curled into his palms. Hootie finds himself glad he’s not on the receiving end of Bubba’s determination, but the cops are less impressed. With them it’s more like ‘been there, done that’. They let Bubba come to within ten feet before one of the uniformed cops produces a Taser. He doesn’t say ‘Stop right there’ or ‘Put your hands up’ or ‘Get down on your face’. No, he pulls the trigger and reduces Bubba Yablonsky to a twitching pile of meat on the sidewalk.

  Hootie observes Bubba’s demise without moving so much as an inch. Fighting cops is not a game you can win. He’s standing with his hands above his head, watching the detective in the suit limp toward him. The detective’s small gray eyes are shadowed by an overarching brow, but Hootie can read them well enough. To the man behind those eyes, Judson Hootier is no more human than a cockroach on the station house wall.

  ‘Hi,’ the cop says, ‘I’m Detective Chigorin. How ya doin?’

  THIRTEEN

  By Wednesday morning, a day after he cracks his skull, the Russian’s had enough. He tells the docs if they don’t sign him out of the hospital, say within the next hour, he’ll walk out on his own. The doctor in charge states the facts as she understands them, and not for the first time. Chigorin has suffered a fairly severe concussion, with some internal bleeding. Caution demands that he be monitored for another twenty-four hours. Plus, he needs to stay off his dog-bitten ankle, which is inflamed and threatening to become infected.

  Chigorin simply repeats the message: ‘One hour.’

  Forty-five minutes later, as he’s hopping into a wheelchair, one of the hospital’s many residents, a doc he recognizes but can’t name, hands him a prescription for antibiotics.

  ‘You want to keep a close eye on that head injury. If it goes bad, you’ll need to find an emergency room in a hurry.’

  ‘Goes bad like how?’

  ‘Like if renewed bleeding should put enough pressure on your brain to cause sudden, irreversible death.’

  Chigorin stares at the doc for a minute. He’s thinking, Fuck it, if I don’t have a drink soon I’ll die anyway. As the aide pushes the chair down the hall, Chigorin turns and waves. ‘See ya, Doc.’

  ‘Fine, Detective,’ the resident calls after him, ‘but whatever you do, don’t drink.’

  Outside, Chigorin hails a passing gypsy cab and rides it to the precinct, where he checks in with his boss, Lieutenant Hamilton. The lieutenant assures the Russian that his injury is line-of-duty in nature.

  ‘Most likely, if you wanna go the way of your partner, you could milk your sick leave for the next six months.’

  Throughout the conversation, Lieutenant Hamilton projects the concern of a father for a sick child. Not so Chigorin’s peers in the squad room. To be taken down by a raging pit bull is an acceptable excuse for sustaining an injury. But not a ten-pound fox terrier.

  ‘That’s the whole point,’ Chigorin attempts to explain. ‘The mutt was so small I didn’t notice him until he sunk his teeth into my ankle.’

  The Russian’s remark is greeted by a wave of laughter that follows him as he limps to his car and the bottle stored under the seat. He takes a long swig, then settles back to let the alcohol works its way through his body. The Russian imagines he can hear a breathy little pop as his neurons switch from off to on, and not only in his befogged brain. He can feel the juice in his toes, in his eyes. Even his teeth seem more awake.

  Chigorin stashes the bottle and points the car toward Anselm’s. As he crosses the Triborough Bridge, he finds himself thinking about the giant called Bubba. The Russian’s stay in the hospital wasn’t entirely unproductive. The cartridge casing recovered from the subway platform was finally compared to the casings found at the Almeda homicide scene. According to Ballistics, the resulting match is definitive – the nine millimeter handgun that killed Flaco was also used to cap the rat. The only question is what Chigorin wants to do about it, if anything.

  There’s only a single customer in Anselm’s when the Russian walks inside and it’s not, as Chigorin was hoping, Maureen McDonald. But Nat Cudlow is a fellow sailor of the alcohol seas, which is some comfort, though he and Chigorin are far from friends. Nat’s way too guilt-ridden, one of those drunks who believes he’s let his family and his country down, that he’s beyond redemption, that every drop he drinks hammers another nail into the flesh of his Savior. Chigorin, by contrast, isn’t given to self recrimination. He doesn’t blame anybody for his addiction, least of all himself.

  Anselm walks up to the bar, bottle in hand, as Chigorin sits down. ‘Have ya been wounded?’ he asks. Unlike the Russian’s fellow detectives, Anselm’s tone is solicitous.

  ‘Took a shot from behind,’ the Russian explains. ‘Never saw it coming.’

  ‘And your limp?’

  ‘Twisted my ankle on the way down. It’s nothing.’

  Chigorin finishes his first drink, then orders lunch from the Lucky Star, a Chinese takeout joint a few blocks away. Wonton soup and crispy shredded beef. He requests that the beef dish be spicy and the man taking the order dutifully repeats his request. But when his order arrives a few minutes later, the dish is still bland, as he knew it would be.

  Anselm draws a small draft and steps to the bar. He sips at the beer, then says, to Nat Cudlow as well as Chigorin, ‘Did ya hear about Father Ansparger?’

  Cudlow groans. ‘If this is another altar boy story, I don’t wanna hear it. My faith’s stretched thin enough already.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, lad, but the priest wasn’t after the altar boys. It seems the good father’s decided to marry. Last night he turned in his cassock and his collar.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ the Russian announces.

  The discussion that follows is about College Point and St. Ann’s, the church they wish they attended more regularly. It’s about community and all present find it comforting. They don’t condemn the priest – far from it. To a man, they’re of the opinion that celibacy lies at the bottom of the gay-priest scandals. A man who lives without sexual relationships in the real world is automatically suspected of being a homosexual. Not so a priest, which is why the priesthood turned into a romping ground for pedophiles.

  ‘Are rabbis somehow less holy for h
aving carnal knowledge?’ Chigorin asks. ‘Are Protestant ministers?’

  Chigorin’s questions are answered by his cellphone, which begins to vibrate in his pocket. He places a hand on the bandage covering the back of his head. The pain’s been dulled by alcohol, but it’s still there. Also the pain in his ankle. He has every excuse not to answer. Half his snitches have the number and he’s on sick leave.

  When the phone stops vibrating, the Russian slides it out of his pocket and checks the caller ID: PRIVATE NAME/PRIVATE NUMBER. He accesses his voicemail, but there’s nothing there. Finally, he presses the redial button. That’s another thing about the Russian. He’s gotta know.

  ‘Wha’sup?’

  Chigorin sighs into the phone. It’s China Boy White. ‘You called me,’ the Russian says.

  ‘’At’s right. I got the dirty on that Bubba dude you’re lookin’ for.’

  ‘So, what is it?’

  China Boy laughs into the phone. ‘Money talks, my man. Bullshit walks.’

  ‘Hey, I’m off-duty and way out in Queens. Maybe I could tighten you up next time I see ya.’

  ‘Be serious, man. You don’t want the information, there’s others who will.’

  Impatient, Chigorin slides off his stool, his ankle screaming in protest. ‘Look here, China Boy, this better be good. Because I’m in no mood to drag my ass into Manhattan for a line of crap.’

  ‘Crap? Detective, I’m talkin’ headlines here. Crime of the motherfuckin’ century. What I got is filthy.’

  Chigorin arranges to meet China Boy in an hour at the corner of 96th and Second. He hangs up and shoves the phone in his pocket. China Boy is prone to exaggeration, so the crime of the century bit can pretty much be discounted. Still …

  ‘What was that about?’ Cudlow asks.

  ‘About a giant white guy named Bubba who may have killed a coke dealer named Almeda.’

  ‘Bubba Yablonsky?’

  Chigorin freezes. ‘Say what?’

  ‘Played center for St. John’s about ten years ago. That’s my Alma Mater. He killed one of his teammates, beat him to death.’

  ‘I remember the incident, now you mention it,’ Anselm declares. ‘He was convicted, right?’

  ‘Pled guilty to manslaughter. Sentenced to ten years.’

  Chigorin interrupts. ‘You have a computer here?’ he asks Anselm.

  ‘In the back.’ The bartender’s voice reveals a defensive note. For working men of his generation, Chigorin’s too, computers are generally reserved for the less than manly. ‘I use it to place orders.’

  The Russian limps off toward Anselm’s tiny office, Anselm and Cudlow following behind. Five minutes later, a Google search leads to a Daily News article: Conrad ‘Bubba’ Yablonsky was paroled from the Menands Correctional Facility on June 14th, six weeks before.

  Chigorin taps his wallet, thinking the information would’ve cost him a c-note if he’d had to buy it from China Boy. He limps back to his bar stool and hoists himself up. Now what? He drains his glass and signals for another. Beside him, Cudlow describes Bubba Yablonsky’s prowess on a basketball court.

  The Russian listens with one ear while he considers his options. He should, he knows, report the information to Detective Nick Campo, who’s inherited the case. But Campo’s a moron, a blunt object whose bullying interrogations drive suspects into a shell more often then they produce results. And that’s especially true of seasoned convicts like Bubba Yablonsky.

  Still, why should he care? Almeda was a drug dealer, his death little more than an occupational hazard. If Campo fucks up the investigation and the murder isn’t cleared, the world as we know it will not come to an end. No, the heavens do not cry out for justice and he’s not the Lone fuckin’ Ranger.

  Chigorin backs up a bit. He lets his eyes roam over the bar’s generic interior: the mirror behind Anselm, the booze stacked before the mirror, the sinks, the beer taps, the worn wooden floors, the tin ceiling, the rickety tables. Anselm’s claim to individuality rests entirely on its paneled walls and the messages carved into them, floor to ceiling. Encouraged by three generations of Deenihans, a ban on obscenity is the only restriction imposed.

  The Russian has taken his turn here, carving his name and the name of a long vanished girlfriend. His inscription is typically insipid – a name, a date, a commitment to eternal devotion – yet there are a few messages that reach out for attention.

  The fourth floor is a hellhole deserted by the Lord.

  If the angels cared/Who among us would be spared?

  My family is a living argument for euthanasia.

  There is no life without community – the hermit suffers the worst fate of all.

  Chigorin’s big on community, some might even say desperate, especially since his divorce. Even at the time, when his state of denial approached the absolute, he’d dimly realized that having a family placed him in the great community of married men. And thus his banishment – for good reasons, it has to be admitted – carried dual consequences, a loss of family and community both. So yes, he’s been reduced, his connections to the world grown more tenuous. Worse still, he knows he’ll never make it right and he doesn’t want to. He’s content with the identities he has left, bar fly and cop.

  ‘Hang on a second,’ Chigorin tells Cudlow, bringing him to a halt in mid-sentence. He takes out his cellphone and his PDA.

  ‘What are you gonna do?’ Anselm asks. Like Cudlow, he’s thrilled to be part of a celebrity investigation.

  ‘Call Bubba’s parole officer, get his current address. Then I’ll see.’

  FOURTEEN

  Chigorin stuffs the last bit of a jelly doughnut into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully for a moment, then chases the doughnut with the dregs of his third cup of coffee. Chigorin’s in the squad room of the Sixth Precinct, staring at Bubba Yablonsky through a one-way mirror. The giant’s sitting behind a small table made even smaller by his immense size. He seems relaxed, though Chigorin’s sure his guts are churning. Well, credit where credit is due. Bubba’s been all by his lonesome for almost two hours. Most other mutts would either be asleep or climbing the wall.

  The Russian crosses the squad room, weaving between battered desks that seem almost randomly placed. He looks in through a second mirror, this time at Skinny Kid, the boy in the video taken at the subway station. The boy’s driver’s license identifies him as Judson Binay, age twenty-five, but the license is phoney and Chigorin assumes that Judson Binay is an alias. Though Chigorin might uncover the boy’s true identity by fingerprinting him, he’s decided to convince the kid to identify himself.

  Unlike his partner, Judson Binay’s not cuffed, neither his wrists nor his ankles. And also unlike his partner, Skinny Kid’s nerves are on full display. He’s pacing the tiny room, three strides forward, three strides back. Like he’s thinking there’s some place he has to be, like he knows he’s not going anywhere, like he can’t reconcile the two. Par for the course.

  Chigorin laughs to himself as he heads off to the bathroom. When he saw Skinny Kid and Bubba get out of the car, he experienced a joy that bordered on rapture. He felt as he had all those years ago when he made his first Holy Communion. He felt almost transformed.

  Talk about luck. The little jerk can put the gun that killed Almeda in Bubba’s hand. He’s a gift from above, from St. Michael, slayer of dragons and patron of villain-hunting cops.

  ‘Hey, Chigorin, how long are you gonna let ’em stew?’ The question is posed by Sergeant Ed Vincenzo, the Sixth Precinct’s squad commander. The Russian’s use of the Sixth Precinct is a courtesy necessarily limited by the squad’s own needs. Right now it’s quiet, with all but one of Vincenzo’s detectives in the field.

  ‘Let me hit the bathroom, Sarge, and I’m on it.’

  Inside a stall, Chigorin fortifies himself for the battle ahead. He takes a generous swig of the vodka in his flask, then chomps down on a wintergreen tic tac. The vodka meshes nicely with the caffeine and sugar already in his system. He’s as ready as he’s e
ver going to be.

  Bubba doesn’t look up when Chigorin walks into the room, nor does he acknowledge the Coke and the doughnut the cop lays on the table between them. Last time out, in an attempt to avoid arrest with a claim of self-defense, he’d cooperated with the detectives. His reward was ten years in prison.

  ‘Don’t waste your breath,’ he says. ‘I have the right to remain silent and I’m takin’ it.’

  ‘Hey, did I accuse you of somethin’?’

  ‘I have the right to remain silent,’ Bubba repeats, ‘and I’m takin’ it.’

  ‘OK, Bubba, if that’s the way you wanna go. But I got one question anyway, which you don’t have to answer. Did you really expect that punk kid to stand up? Did you think he wouldn’t put the gun in your hand? I’m talkin’ about the one that killed Flaco Almeda. And while we’re on the subject, whatta ya think I’ve been doin’ for the past two hours?’

  The Russian’s pregnant pause is met by silence – Bubba still hasn’t looked up – and the cop’s the first to speak. ‘You’re pissed off about getting’ tased. I can understand your point, but—’

  ‘I’m pissed off because you’re shitting all over my constitutional rights.’

  Chigorin’s not impressed by the righteous tone. Bubba’s been here before and he should know better. ‘True enough, Yablonsky, but the ref’s not payin’ attention, is he?’

  Bubba finally raises his head to stare directly into Chigorin’s eyes. His hands curl into fists and he presses them against his chest. ‘Take your questions and shove ’em up your mother’s ass. I’m not talkin’ to ya.’

  One thing about the Russian, he knows when he’s not wanted. Still, as he opens the door, he offers a piece of advice. ‘Ya know, you really oughta watch what you say about people’s mothers. A lotta cops, they’re not as good-natured as me.’

  Not for a moment does the Russian consider his retreat an acknowledgement of Bubba Yablonsky’s rights. Later on, depending on what he gets from Skinny Kid, he’ll probably take another shot at Bubba. In his opinion, rights are beautiful things, proof being that accused cops are quick to assert them. But he wasn’t joking around when he said that nobody was looking. And Bubba didn’t laugh, either.