“Don’t tell me you got the gout,” Willard began.
Snake stopped. “Huh?” His eyes were glazed.
“Your leg. You got the gout, or somethin’ else happen to you?”
“Come on, man, I don’t want trouble.”
“That right? So what happened to your leg? Why are you limpin’?”
“Had a little accident at work is all, no big deal.”
“That so? Maybe I oughta take you down to the station to check it out.”
“No sir,” Snake said, trying to sound sincere as he berated himself for sucking up to the pigs. “No need for that, officer.” Calling a pig “officer” almost made him puke, but he’d be fucked if the pig hauled him in for some bullshit. They’d print him for sure, and all his plans would turn to shit. Plus, he no longer had a job since he fucked up his leg jumping out that window. No matter, it gave him more time to work on his painting — or “mural” as the newspaper called it.
“You listen to me, punk. I know who you are, Mr. Rogers. My mama knows your mama. I’ve been busy puttin’ two and two together. Stacy Jones lives here. Her brothers used to live here. Now tell me, any chance you made a little visit to Stacy at a babysittin’ job recently?”
“I don’ know what you’re talkin’ ’bout. Stacy’s away at that big white school her mama sent her to. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with me.”
“Someone left a .22. Ballistics matches the bullet hit somebody else you know. Lonnie Greenwood, right? You get my drift?”
Snake shook his head. “No way, man. I mean, sir.”
“Right. And we found bullets by a certain automobile over by the medical school. Am I making sense yet?”
“Don’ know what you talkin’ about, officer.” Snake dropped his eyes to the pavement. “That shit got nothin’ to do with me.”
“I’m workin’ homicide now. Don’t have time to mess with haulin’ you in, but it don’t mean I don’t hear things. People seen you sellin’ these days. Maybe a visit from the narcotic squad will jar your memory, Mr. Snake.”
Just then a rusted Mustang slowed, then drove on. “Bingo,” Willard whistled. How many rusted out Mustangs in Detroit? Probable lots, but this a coincidence? Willard smirked.
CHAPTER FIFTY
MARCH 1970
On the first Tuesday in March, David excused himself from surgical rounds and headed toward his Cadillac parked in the hospital lot. He’d spent the past week finalizing assignments on the surgical service and providing senior residents with the recommendations they needed to go out on their own. He had only one more thing to do before he and Cynthia climbed aboard the TWA flight to San Francisco, to the lovely campus of Stanford University in Palo Alto, California. Yes, Cynthia had chosen to go with him.
Despite his promise, he’d come to say good-bye to Laura. How could he not? The drive to Sinai Hospital in the northwest section of Detroit was a blur as David relived again their only night together. Every nerve in his body went numb as he pulled into the doctors’ parking lot. For a long while he sat motionless as total hopelessness swept over him.
Finally, he climbed out of the car, denouncing himself for not having the strength to just drive away. That’s what he’d promised. That’s what she wanted. She did not want to see him. But he simply could not leave without saying good-bye. What if she had changed her mind? No, he cautioned himself as he strode toward the doctor’s entrance. Laura would never jeopardize her family. With a surge of despair, he realized that he’d lived his life in one night, that snowy Friday in Montreal.
* * *
He strode through the doctors’ entrance with a sense of disorientation. Sinai was so different from City Hospital. There were no overcrowded, multiple-bed wards, only private and semi-private rooms. The corridors were spacious, the equipment shiny and new. Hushed tones pervaded, and the staff was polite; they even called the students ‘Doctor’. Yet David knew that even Sinai was changing as the more affluent of northwest Detroit switched their allegiance to Providence Hospital in Southfield and William Beaumont in Royal Oak. The fact was, downtown Detroit would never be the same after the riots. It was a watershed moment, a legacy of devastation. Would any Detroiter ever forget July 23, 1967, the night their city erupted in violence? He certainly would not.
The chatty clerk at the nursing station told David that Dr. Nelson was doing a procedure on a patient. Heading directly toward this patient’s room, David watched silently as Laura deftly inserted a wide bore catheter into an elderly man’s subclavian vein. She had readily located the course of the vein and had perfectly judged just the right angle to penetrate the large vein that lay protected under her patient’s collarbone. David admired her natural skill; not many third-year students could master this procedure.
He did not interrupt until she had finished taping the IV lines to the man’s frail arm. All the while she carried on a one-way conversation to reassure her ashen, anxious patient. The old man’s mouth and nose were obscured by the plastic oxygen mask so he was unable to respond, and Laura, aware of that fact, murmured reassuring words.
“Laura.”
She jerked, practically dropping the tray containing her used instruments. David’s voice? Here at Sinai? Not possible.
“Laura, it’s me,” he said softly from the doorway to the private room.
Laura turned and stared in disbelief. He looked thinner. His hair shorter; a tinge more gray.
“C’mon,” he said softly, taking the tray from her and setting it down on the patient’s table. “Let’s find a place to talk.” He led her across the hall into a small empty visitor’s lounge.
They sat side by side on a vinyl-covered sofa, bodies barely touching; Laura remained silent. David searched her face for as long as he dared.
Laura looked away. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said finally in a hoarse voice.
“I know, but I had to come.”
“Why?”
“I remember my promise to you. I live with it every day. Every night. I’ll never betray it.”
Laura looked up slowly, avoiding his eyes.
“I’m leaving tomorrow for Stanford. I had to tell you myself.” He paused. “Maybe you already know.”
She nodded. “You’re sure this is what you want?”
“You know it’s not what I want, but I can’t think of anything else to do.”
Laura held her breath as she felt him inch closer. She breathed in his scent. She pressed closer, her heart aching.
She heard him say, “If I stay here, I won’t be able to keep myself from trying to see you.”
“I’ll be leaving Detroit next year when I graduate,” Laura whispered.
“It’s too long, a whole year. I can hardly get through a whole day.” David had slipped his hand against her thigh. “I just came to say good-bye.”
Laura finally looked at him directly. When she did, she was blinded by tears.
“Please don’t cry,” David whispered.
A nurse appeared in the doorway.
“Dr. Nelson, are you finished with Mr. Korey’s chart?”
“Just a moment, please,” Laura answered shakily. The nurse left as Laura wiped tears from her eyes.
“Why is it like this?” she asked. Then, “You’re doing the right thing.”
“There is no right thing, Laura. I wish to God that we could be together.”
“Don’t, please don’t. It can’t happen.”
“Laura, life can change anytime. The memory of you is all I’ve got.”
“Dr. Nelson, we need you to complete Mr. Korey’s procedure report.” The nurse sounded impatient. “He’s going down to radiology.”
“Of course.” Laura rose. With a shaking hand, she recorded the placement of the subclavian catheter and signed the report.
After the nurse left, Laura remained standing. “Maybe you should go now.” She tried to keep her voice steady, keep the tears from gushing, keep her heart from exploding.
David rose from the sofa and turned to
ward her. “Good-bye, Laura. I love you.”
He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek, grasping both of her hands in his. “I love you more than life.”
Willing herself with all her might to just let him go, she whispered, “Good-bye, David.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
“Blue Hawaii” played on the radio as Steve drove back downtown to handle an incident with one of his clients. Hawaii, so exotic compared to the dregs of Detroit. One day he’d like to take the kids there, but first he’d promised Laura he would take her to Las Vegas to see Elvis Presley live. That’s how they’d met. He’d been working in a music store on campus when she came in, shopping for the sound track of Viva Las Vegas. Love at first sight, they’d always said, and it was true that from the moment he’d met Laura, he’d known that he would marry her. Now here they were five years later. Two careers. Four kids and she’s pregnant again. That meant putting Elvis off indefinitely, or at least until she started to make money. Mrs. Starke was expensive, and he was sick of having someone living with them in their house.
And Laura was pregnant again. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure her out. Last time she’d been so upset. This time she seemed okay, maybe even pleased. Over her objection, they’d agreed that she’d start birth control as soon as this baby was born.
Enough of personal problems, Steve thought as he flashed his county ID allowing him to park in the secure lot next to the Tenth Precinct. His promotion to supervisor hadn’t taken him out of the field entirely. He still maintained a cadre of his own clients, and today he was fighting for Leona Rogers. He considered her a prototype of the “little people” pitted against the “system.” She had been brought in with a crowd of people in a drug raid downtown. Depending on how long the cops were going to hold her, he’d have to put her young kids in foster care since her oldest son was sitting in jail. Leona had no money to bail him out.
Steve took a deep breath before rapping sharply on the dirty sliding panel. The top of the worn oak counter was just below eye level and the entire desk was enclosed by protective Plexiglas, extending up from the floor to several feet above Steve’s head. He could see his breath condense into a sudden white circle in front of him.
“I’m here about Leona Rogers,” Steve said to the desk sergeant. “I just need a time frame so I can get her kids placed if need be.”
“Lemme talk to my supervisor.” The desk sergeant grunted and reached for the phone just as Steve felt a hand clamp a firm grip onto his left arm. Stiffening, he half expected to be tossed out.
“Mr. Nelson, what brings you into the station house?”
Steve wheeled around to face Detective Reynolds.
“Detective Reynolds,” Steve said, sagging with relief. “I’m trying to get some information about one of my clients.”
“Come with me,” Reynolds nodded and escorted Steve upstairs to the bullpen where the detectives’ desks were crammed together under harsh fluorescent lights. The room was crowded with file cabinets and vibrated with loud voices and ringing phones.
“Here, have a seat.” Reynolds gestured to a straight-back metal chair next to a desk that was covered with piles of paper, a wide gray typewriter, and empty paper coffee cups. “I’ll see what I can find out for you. What’s the name?”
Steve sat down. “Leona Rogers. You guys hit a joint over by Lafayette Park.”
Reynolds picked up his phone and dialed. “Reynolds here. Can you check the log, let me know on one Leona Rogers.” He paused. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Okay, thanks.” Reynolds hung up.
Reynolds leaned back in his chair, causing a drawn out squeak which filled the silence between them. When he spoke his voice was flat. “Here’s the story. She’s got a boy goin’ down on drug charges. Claims she was there trying to get bail money from the homies. Doesn’t matter now, he’s gonna do time.”
“That Leona doesn’t need,” Steve stopped as they both lifted their gaze to Morris Willard, who was walking into the room holding a box of donuts.
Steve’s shoulders slumped. “One step forward, two steps back.”
“It’s people like you who make a difference.” Pointing to the donuts, Reynolds said, “Want one?”
Steve shook his head.
After an awkward silence, Reynolds coughed. “Hey, you just keep up the good work, and say hello to your wife. Not much longer to graduation. Huh?”
“One more year,” Steve replied.
“How’s your son? He start school yet?”
“Finishing kindergarten.”
“Great. So whattaya think of the Pistons?”
Before he could say anything, the phone on Reynolds’ desk rang.
“Got it,” the detective said into the mouthpiece. “Sounds good. Thanks.”
Reynolds hung up and smiled. “Mr. Nelson, your client will be released in a few minutes. If you want you can meet her downstairs.”
Steve stood up. “Thanks.”
“No problem. You remember Detective Willard.”
“Detective.”
“Mr. Nelson. How’s the family?”
“Fine. Excuse me, detectives. Thanks for your help.”
“Small world, ain’t it?” Willard said once Steve had left.
“Shrinkin’ every damn day,” Reynolds answered. “So how’d it go in court?”
Willard smiled. “Judge slapped Mr. Snake Rogers with two years in Jackson. Possession and dealing. Narcs moved in after my call. Score one for cleaning up the old neighborhood. Interesting thing came up in court. Apparently, Mr. Snake fancies himself some kinda big-time artist. Tried to impress the judge. Didn’t work.”
“I feel bad for the kid. I saw that painting of his after it got written up somewhere. Wasn’t half bad.”
“Had no idea you was an art lover.”
“A lover of life. I’m glad you got that Rogers kid off the street. Still think he had somethin’ to do with that .22 we found at the Nelsons? You ever shake him down ’bout that limp you told me about? Or get anything on that car, a Mustang, if I recall?”
“Nope. Since he’s goin’ in the slammer, I’m putting it on the back burner.” He opened the box and picked up a chocolate donut.
That night Laura lingered in the parking lot, waiting for Snake. So far she’d gotten away with stealing Dilaudid when she’d been at Sinai. Nobody had questioned her. She’d simply lifted a bottle of 100 Dilaudid tablets. She’d given Snake fifty the first time. She had the last fifty with her, which he was supposed to collect tonight. Snake had specified 7:00 p.m.
At 8:30, she was still waiting. She passed the time worrying about how she would get the next installment of narcotics. Just the thought burned a hole in her stomach.
At 9:30 Laura started up her station wagon and headed home. She hadn’t even bothered to call Steve. She’d been late so many nights that he no longer bothered to worry. Since they had Mrs. Starke to watch the kids, he didn’t even seem to care.
The following morning Laura crossed over the Chrysler Freeway to meet Stacy Jones for lunch in Greek Town. After their meeting in Natalie’s hospital room, Laura had invited Stacy to tour the med school so she could get a feel for what it might be like to go into medicine. Stacy had been so excited that Laura started to feel like a big sister to this bright young lady, and they’d agreed to meet for lunch when Stacy was home on spring break. Now there was an other more urgent reason Laura wanted to see Stacy. That Snake guy who was blackmailing her had said that he was best friends with Johnny Diggs. So wouldn’t Stacy know him? Maybe she’d know why Snake hadn’t shown up last night.
“Hey, are you pregnant?” Stacy met her on the sidewalk outside the Plaka Café.
“Yes, I am,” she said, taking Stacy’s arm to lead her inside. “Just over four months, and I can’t believe I’ve started to show this early.”
“Wow, five kids and med school.” Stacy stopped short. “Oh, oh, what if you have twins? That’d make six, just like my mama.”
“I sincerely hope it’s
not twins this time,” Laura said, patting her abdomen.
Stacy kept prattling as Laura reflected that for the second time, while pregnant, she had good reason to be scared that she could leave all her children motherless. Suddenly, she jerked as she heard the word “Snake.” Laura suddenly paid attention.
“Actually, my brother Johnny’s best friend. He’ll be in jail for two years. Drugs.”
“Excuse me, Stacy, I’ve lost you.” Laura tried to keep her voice steady. “Who are you talking about?”
“Sorry,” she said. “His real name is Ray Rogers. Everybody calls him “Snake” except Mama. She hates that name.”
“Rogers?” Laura repeated. Yes, he’d said his name was Snake Rogers.
“Know what?” Stacy asked, frowning at Laura. “Hey, are you okay?”
“I’m okay. What?”
“I used to have a crush on him. Then something happened.”
Stacy did not elaborate, but Laura was too distracted to notice.
Laura’s life took a turn for the better once she confirmed that Snake Rogers was in jail. Surprisingly, Steve corroborated Stacy’s story. One night at dinner he’d told her about his client, Leona Rogers, and Laura had innocently asked if Leona had a son. “Yes,” Steve said before unloading his concerns about Leona now that her oldest son was in jail for possession of drugs. Could his arrest have anything to do with that Dilaudid she’d stolen for him? If so, why hadn’t Snake already implicated her? She’d started to sweat, and Steve looked at her strangely asking if she was okay.
But the days went by without a visit from the FBI or the DEA or the Detroit Police. Drawing upon her considerable will and discipline, Laura fought harder and harder to keep her life compartmentalized. Safe compartments: the kids, Steve, medical school rotations, chit chat with the girls, Stacy.
Shadow of Death Page 29
