by Joe Meno
As he was leaving he ran into Tom Dubrow and Chuck Shaw. He got pretty much the same response except Dubrow thought he’d seen someone who looked like Wizzy around a time or two, either at Smitty’s or at the practice field.
“I can’t be positive but it sounds right.” He was a little short for a wide receiver, but he had the credentials, burning speed and a pair of sure hands.
“We haven’t seen anyone like that,” Shaw said forcefully. He was taller than Dubrow, slower, but a clutch player.
“Which way is it, guys? You can’t remember seeing him or you can?”
Dubrow started to say something, looked over to Shaw.
“We haven’t seen him,” Shaw said.
Dubrow shrugged, cleared his throat. “Look, mister, lately we’ve been getting as many strangers in here as we have students. Hell, the mayor even paraded his ass down here right after we got the bowl bid.”
It was a valid point, yet it didn’t explain Shaw’s behavior. Prebowl jitters? Just plain tired of talking to people? Maybe. Or maybe he had something to hide.
* * *
Out in the parking lot, Bull mulled over the whole mess on his way to his car. The fix was in for the Pharaohs’ bowl game. Lucky and Wizzy were killed because of it. Phil Breeden was the money man behind the fix. These things he knew. Any way he looked at it, it came out the same way. He was just lacking a little something called proof. And he hadn’t learned anything so far that gave him any real hope of gaining any. Plus, he hadn’t gotten any closer to who had actually committed the murders. Right now he couldn’t even make a good guess.
Police work should be left for the police, they have the patience for it. Hell, he was a gambler. A deck of cards, a pair of dice, these were the things he knew the ins and outs about. Sure, he’d gotten backed into corners before, or tried to do a favor for a friend. The situations had gotten a little hairy at times but he had managed.
Still, this was different. If there was someone to grab hold of and shake the truth out of, he would. But who? It might be Kirkland, or Dubrow, or both. Maybe it was Shaw or Peters. Who for sure was involved? Breeden. Yeah, that would be the right answer, Bull knew, but roughing him up wouldn’t work. Breeden would go down for the count before he gave up any info on himself or anybody else.
He pulled his cellular phone out as he walked toward his Caddy. The little flip phone always felt like a toy in his big mitt, but he’d had it for about a year now and wouldn’t be without it. He tried Vern’s beeper when he couldn’t reach him at the precinct, climbed into the car out of the early evening chill, and waited.
A good third of his cigar was gone by the time Vern returned his call. “Yeah, Bull?”
“Just got tired of banging my head against the wall. I’m heading back to my place, thought I’d give you what little I had.”
“Go ahead, but I think I got a good leg up on closing this one out.”
“How’d you do that?”
“First off, we found the car that did Wizzy. Stolen, another hot-wire job.”
“Who needs a gun when a car is just as effective?”
“Something like that. Dumped in another vacant lot on the West Side. It hadn’t been stripped but the report said it was wiped clean.” Vern paused, as though waiting for a reply. When none was forthcoming, he continued, “I paid a visit to Breeden. What the hell did you say to him anyway? He was still boiling when I got there.”
“It doesn’t take much for him.”
“True. Anyway, he didn’t confess to any wrongdoing.”
“Naturally.”
“He’s just a misunderstood restaurant owner who’s trying to get out from under the bad label placed on him for some past indiscretions.”
“I almost feel sorry for him.”
“Then I tried the bar where Lucky was the night he got run down. The only question the bartender had been asked when it appeared to be a simple hit-and-run was if he’d seen anything. I asked a few more.”
Bull took a pull on his cigar and waited.
“The bar is right in the heart of Wizzy’s old neighborhood, and Lucky had been there twice before with Wizzy. The bartender couldn’t say what they were talking about, both times they kept to themselves at a back table. Lucky was by himself that last night, he even commented on his way out that he’d been stood up.”
“Setup sounds more like it.”
“Exactly. But the kicker is, it’s Rye Kirkland’s old neighborhood too. He and Wizzy used to live in the same building. It was just something that slipped out during our conversation. Bartender used to have a lady friend who lived across the street.”
“You sure of this?”
“Yeah, and that’s not all. I had Wizzy’s file pulled. He was in the same car-theft ring Kirkland was rumored to belong to. He was doing eighteen months in our downstate correctional facility when Kirkland started shining on the football field.”
“Kirkland is the one Breeden’s got in his pocket,” Bull said. Most of the guesswork was out of it now. A few facts and the answers were lining up like his hotel patrons on a Saturday night. But there was still no answer to the big question. Who killed Lucky and Wizzy?
“I’m heading over to Kirkland’s now, I think a trip down to the station is in order.”
“You won’t find him at home, he’s here at Smitty’s, the burger joint on 55th. I just got through talking to him.”
“Good, let’s leave it at that. You said you were going back to your place, do it. I’ll handle it from here.”
“Sure thing, Vern.”
“Bull, damn you. That was a little too easy. I’m warning you, just stay—”
He switched his cellular off. The connection between Kirkland, Wizzy, and Breeden was too strong to doubt Kirkland’s guilt. It made sense; the one person who had the opportunity to affect the scoring most was the quarterback. The team had mainly gotten to where they were because of Kirkland. Anybody could have an off day. If Kirkland’s off day happened to be bowl day, then so be it, the coaches weren’t going to bench him. He’d miss a pass here, a bad handoff there, the Pharaohs could still win as long as Kirkland saw to it that it wasn’t by more than eight points. The team would have the national praise, the glory of a bowl win, yet everybody who bet on them would get screwed.
* * *
He was wrestling with himself on whether to go back to his place like Vern wanted him to, or back into Smitty’s and confront Kirkland, when Kirkland and Takisha came out and turned into the parking lot.
They were too wrapped up in each other to notice him. Takisha had her arm looped through Kirkland’s, talking and laughing as they walked. He didn’t get their attention until he stepped in front of them. Takisha was in midsentence when she stopped abruptly and the sparkle seemed to leave her face.
“Mr. Benson,” Kirkland said, still the confident young gladiator. “Thought you’d left.”
“Almost, but I’m going to be waiting around a bit. You are too.”
Kirkland shook his head. “Naw, I don’t think so, man.” He smiled down at Takisha. “Me and my baby got some other plans.”
“I’m making some changes.” Bull took the last drag off his cigar and flipped the butt to the ground. “You lied to me about Wizzy, you two used to run together. Cops know all about it. Fact is they’re on their way over here now to talk to you. So, you won’t be going anywhere until they get here.”
Bull could see the confidence drain from Kirkland, in the tilt of his head, the square set of his shoulders. There wasn’t even a trace of the smile left on his face. “Okay, okay. Maybe I know Wizzy, so what? What’d the cops want to see me for?”
“Taking money to fix the bowl game for starters. How much did Breeden pay you?”
There wasn’t a lot of traffic on the adjacent street but Kirkland’s eyes darted to the sound of each passing vehicle. “Naw, man, you’re wrong. And I ain’t talking to no cops.”
Kirkland made a sudden move to his right, spun, reversing himself, and took off i
n high gear. The kid was good; by the time Bull reacted Kirkland was nearing the end of the parking lot. Bull kept himself in pretty good shape, hitting the gym at least twice a week, but chasing down quarterbacks wasn’t part of his regular routine.
He took a couple of steps and Takisha latched on to his arm, trying to hold him back. He easily shook her loose, leaving her behind yelling for him to stop. He rounded the corner of the parking lot to find Kirkland halfway down the block. He was somewhat surprised Kirkland hadn’t gotten any farther. Kirkland crossed the street, running behind a lumbering van, and just missed being hit by a taxi. Bull continued on his side of the block, keeping Kirkland in sight and actually gaining. He didn’t cross over until he was sure he wasn’t going to be playing tag with any oncoming traffic.
Kirkland kept looking back, which might have interfered with his gait. He broke stride a couple of times and Bull gained a little more. Another street, no traffic this time, then midway down the block Kirkland turned into an alley. Bull had done some of his best work in alleys, from crap games to fistfights. He considered the concrete canyons his home turf.
Bull hit the mouth of the alley as fast as he could, jumping to one side. It’s a rarity to get a well-lit alley, most offer more shadows than anything else. Thanks to a lamppost on the street corner at the other end, he had a clear view of the center of the alley. But the path along the way was clouded with shadows. Kirkland hadn’t had the chance to clear the alley. If he’d still been running Bull would’ve seen him, which meant he was hiding somewhere along the way with probably a brick in his hand or a broken bottle.
Bull took his time, looking from one side of the alley to the other as he proceeded. The chill night air did little to keep the stench of the garbage in check. Something scurried by, a cat or a rat, he couldn’t tell. In this neighborhood they came pretty much the same size.
He was nearing the end of the alley when Kirkland sprang up swinging from behind a garbage dumpster. Bull blocked the blow with his left arm, the impact flinging the bottle Kirkland was holding against the side of the building. Bull jammed a couple of rights to Kirkland’s midsection that took the wind out, and a chopping left that sent him to the pavement.
He reached down, grabbing Kirkland by his collar and hauling him to his feet. “You should’ve just stuck to football,” Bull said.
He thought of Lucky, of the hopes Lucky had expressed for Kirkland’s career, and how Kirkland had repaid him. He was about to swing again, one parting shot for Lucky, when he heard the roar of the car behind him.
He looked back into a pair of bright headlights that blinded him as they grew larger, coming closer and closer, the roar of the engine louder, nearer. He dragged Kirkland with him, flattening them both against the side of the building as a Geo Tracker sped by, the shadowy figure of the driver hunched over the wheel like an Indy pro. The Tracker’s brakes screamed like hell as it roared out onto the street trying a 360, but the Tracker was too top-heavy to hold the maneuver. It flipped, bounced just once, and wrapped itself around the lamppost at the mouth of the opposite alley.
* * *
Bull poured himself a shot of Grand-Dad, put the bottle back in his desk drawer. A week had passed since the Tracker had tried to run him down. There was a Challenger on his desk, turned to the sports page. Rod Felton had been offered his father’s old job and his first column dealt with the scheme to fix the bowl game. He did a credible job, sticking to reporting and managing to control the sentiment. But he promised his readers he’d be there when the guilty parties were brought to trial.
There were a lot of conflicting stories for the police to filter through. But they had gone with Takisha’s version, mainly because she had given her statement when she thought she was going to die. It had taken the fire department a half hour to free her from the wreckage of the Tracker. It had also taken eight hours of surgery and another two days in intensive care before the doctors had given her any hope of surviving.
The whole deal had been Wizzy’s idea. He took it to Breeden for backing with the promise of getting Kirkland to go along with the deal. Wizzy had started out by threatening to tie Kirkland to the old car-theft ring. But it wasn’t necessary, Takisha liked the idea and that was all Kirkland needed to know. Takisha had even gotten Breeden to up Kirkland’s end of the take. The plan was to win the game, just control the point spread.
It had all blown up when Breeden decided to cut Wizzy out of the deal. Wizzy got mad and went to Lucky. Lucky went to Kirkland to verify the story. Kirkland denied the whole thing and Lucky took his word for it but said he would be checking into Wizzy’s motive for trying to start trouble. Takisha didn’t want to take the chance Lucky would discover the truth, especially her involvement in the whole thing. Working around her father’s business, she’d learned how to hot-wire a car by the time she was twelve. She’d contacted Lucky to set up a meeting; he had chosen the location. Then fearing Wizzy would take his story to someone else she treated him to the same fate. When Bull ran after Kirkland, Takisha turned to her murder weapon of choice. She’d hot-wired the Tracker and followed.
Kirkland and Breeden weren’t involved in the murders, but there were a half-dozen other charges they were going to be facing.
Bull folded the Challenger, leaning back in his chair. Rod had ended his column by predicting even with Kirkland out of the lineup, and with all the adverse publicity, the Pharaohs were going to win their bowl appearance handily.
It’s the way Lucky would have done it, no sitting on the fence. Bull realized he was smiling, and figured somewhere Lucky was smiling too. He raised his glass, saying goodbye to an old friend and welcoming a new.
ONE HOLY NIGHT
by SANDRA CISNEROS
Pilsen
(Originally published in 1988)
About the truth, if you give it to a person, then he has power over you. And if someone gives it to you, then they have made themselves your slave. It is a strong magic. You can never take it back.
—Chaq Uxmal Paloquín
He said his name was Chaq. Chaq Uxmal Paloquín. That’s what he told me. He was of an ancient line of Mayan kings. Here, he said, making a map with the heel of his boot, this is where I come from, the Yucatán, the ancient cities. This is what Boy Baby said.
It’s been eighteen weeks since Abuelita chased him away with the broom, and what I’m telling you I never told nobody, except Rachel and Lourdes, who know everything. He said he would love me like a revolution, like a religion. Abuelita burned the pushcart and sent me here, miles from home, in this town of dust, with one wrinkled witch woman who rubs my belly with jade, and sixteen nosy cousins.
I don’t know how many girls have gone bad from selling cucumbers. I know I’m not the first. My mother took the crooked walk too, I’m told, and I’m sure my Abuelita has her own story, but it’s not my place to ask.
Abuelita says it’s Uncle Lalo’s fault because he’s the man of the family and if he had come home on time like he was supposed to and worked the pushcart on the days he was told to and watched over his goddaughter, who is too foolish to look after herself, nothing would’ve happened, and I wouldn’t have to be sent to Mexico. But Uncle Lalo says if they had never left Mexico in the first place, shame enough would have kept a girl from doing devil things.
I’m not saying I’m not bad. I’m not saying I’m special. But I’m not like the Allport Street girls, who stand in doorways and go with men into alleys.
All I know is I didn’t want it like that. Not against the bricks or hunkering in somebody’s car. I wanted it come undone like gold thread, like a tent full of birds. The way it’s supposed to be, the way I knew it would be when I met Boy Baby.
But you must know, I was no girl back then. And Boy Baby was no boy. Chaq Uxmal Paloquín. Boy Baby was a man. When I asked him how old he was he said he didn’t know. The past and the future are the same thing. So he seemed boy and baby and man all at once, and the way he looked at me, how do I explain?
I’d park
the pushcart in front of the Jewel food store Saturdays. He bought a mango on a stick the first time. Paid for it with a new twenty. Next Saturday he was back. Two mangoes, lime juice, and chili powder, keep the change. The third Saturday he asked for a cucumber spear and ate it slow. I didn’t see him after that till the day he brought me Kool-Aid in a plastic cup. Then I knew what I felt for him.
Maybe you wouldn’t like him. To you he might be a bum. Maybe he looked it. Maybe. He had broken thumbs and burnt fingers. He had thick greasy fingernails he never cut and dusty hair. And all his bones were strong ones like a man’s. I waited every Saturday in my same blue dress. I sold all the mango and cucumber, and then Boy Baby would come finally.
What I knew of Chaq was only what he told me, because nobody seemed to know where he came from. Only that he could speak a strange language that no one could understand, said his name translated into boy, or boy-child, and so it was the street people nicknamed him Boy Baby.
I never asked about his past. He said it was all the same and didn’t matter, past and the future all the same to his people. But the truth has a strange way of following you, of coming up to you and making you listen to what it has to say.
Nighttime. Boy Baby brushes my hair and talks to me in his strange language because I like to hear it. What I like to hear him tell is how he is Chaq, Chaq of the people of the sun, Chaq of the temples, and what he says sounds sometimes like broken clay, and at other times like hollow sticks, or like the swish of old feathers crumbling into dust.
He lived behind Esparza & Sons Auto Repair in a little room that used to be a closet—pink plastic curtains on a narrow window, a dirty cot covered with newspapers, and a cardboard box filled with socks and rusty tools. It was there, under one bald bulb, in the back room of the Esparza garage, in the single room with pink curtains, that he showed me the guns—twenty-four in all. Rifles and pistols, one rusty musket, a machine gun, and several tiny weapons with mother-of-pearl handles that looked like toys. So you’ll see who I am, he said, laying them all out on the bed of newspapers. So you’ll understand. But I didn’t want to know.
