Psycho Save Us

by Huskins, Chad

  Leon looked out his window. A pair of headlights came bouncing towards them. When the vehicle turned, he saw that it was a blue Chevy Nova. “That’s him,” he said.

  They opened their doors and stepped out. The Nova halted, its engine dying gratefully after the end of a long, cruel life, and its fat driver stepped out. Charles “Cee-gray” Gracen commonly wore black jackets with hoods, even though he never wore the hood up, lest it cover up his tightly-woven cornrows.

  Leon approached with his hands in his coat pockets. He gave Gracen a look upon his approach, and Gracen betrayed nothing as they bumped fists. “S’up, Leon?”

  “A whole lot tonight, Charlie,” he said. “You remember the guy you were telling me about earlier?”

  “Yeah, white motherfucker.” So far, so good.

  “That’s right.” He turned to introduce the agents. “This is Special Agent Porter of the FBI. These are agents Mortimer and Stone. Charlie, they wanna ask you about this white guy.”

  “A’ight. Shoot.”

  “Mr. Gracen,” said Porter, stepping to him enthusiastically. “Detective Hulsey here tells us that you gave him a lead earlier tonight about a Caucasian male, approximately thirty years old.”

  “True,” Gracen said, inclining his head. He gave a brief glimpse to Leon, and privately Leon was willing him not to do that. So far Special Agent Jamal Porter seemed like a sharp man, and no doubt had had extensive training in advanced interrogation. He would know that glancing up and to the right indicated an insincere response, because it meant the person was accessing the creative centers of the brain. If Leon knew that, then Porter almost certainly did, too. And he’d also notice furtive glances for help sent in Leon’s direction. Just act cool, you fat fuck.

  “Is this the man you saw?” Porter said, holding up his cell phone. It was a mugshot of Adam Pelletier from the Bureau of Prisons.

  “Hard t’say,” Gracen admitted. “Might’ve been. Looks like him. White boy, black hair, blue eyes.” Once again, he unconsciously glanced over to Leon to see how he was doing. Don’t look at me, you fuck. Look at him!

  “What was the nature of your conversation with Detective Hulsey? Why did you contact him earlier tonight?”

  “I give him a heads-up, an’ he usually lets me alone, long as I keep myself outta trouble,” Gracen said, which was true. “I used to run with a bad crew, an’ I still pretend to be they friend, listen in on some o’ they plans, who they sellin’ jabs to, this’n that, an’ I give him a call. I called Leon ’cause I heard about these folk up on L Street startin’ back up on a meth lab once they brother get outta the joint next week. I told my boy Leon here that I seen this white boy walkin’ that way, thought he looked strange. I’d never seen him befo’, an’ in my neighborhood when new white folks show up it’s sometimes a cause fo’ concern. I’m a changed man, a concerned citizen lookin’ out fo’ the kids in my ’hood. I’m a father now, ya heard me?”

  Porter nodded. “Mr. Gracen, have you seen anyone about your ’hood with maybe a tattoo of a red bear?”

  “You talkin’ about the fucking Russians?” Gracen asked. Porter nodded. “Them motherfuckers be around,” he said simply.

  “Around…where?”

  The fat man shrugged. “All over. They ain’t got no territory yet, but everybody know they lookin’ fo’ it. They work with local boys sometimes. I know these cats from the Crips who worked with them fo’ a minute. Said it was just slingin’ jabs at first, but then they wanted ’em to start snatchin’ kids to, I don’t know, send a message to they family? Them Russians be crazy. Startin’ to get real around here, ya feel me?”

  As far as Leon knew, none of this was actually a lie. Gracen must have been sitting on this information for some time. We’ll have to discuss this later, he vowed to himself.

  “Do you know where—” Porter stopped to answer a buzzing at his phone. “Excuse me.”

  While the agent turned away to answer his phone, Agents Mortimer and Stone remained standing a few feet from Gracen and staring at him. Gracen, for his part, tried to look casual, yet still darted glances in Leon’s direction. Dumbass, don’t look at me. Don’t you fucking fuck this up, you stupid fat—

  “Detective Hulsey.” Porter was waving him over. He walked casually over to where the agent was standing near the SUV. Porter lowered the phone and covered it with his hand. “We got a trace on the phone,” he said.

  Leon thought for a second, then figured it out. “What, you mean the phone? O’Connor’s phone that he gave to Pelletier?”

  Porter nodded and went back to the phone and said, “Yeah, I’m here, go ahead.” The next few minutes were filled with nothing but silence, a bit of murmuring from someone on the other end of the phone, and Porter giving out the occasional “Mm-hm” and “Yeah” and “Uh-huh” and “Got that.” Finally, he hung up and said, “They’re tracing the signal now. They think they can pinpoint it down within ten yards. Motherfucker called the Parole Commission in Valdosta.”

  Leon tried to connect that with anything that made sense, and found that it was impossible. “The Parole Commission?” he asked. While he was vexed, he was also glad to have this break in Gracen’s interrogation. Though, he now realized that Stone and Mortimer were chatting it up with him. Keep up the ruse, you fat fuck. So help me god, if you cost my sister a husband, I’ll make sure you end up in a cell right next to Pat. “What the hell did he call the Parole Commission for?”

  “They don’t know yet, but they’re finding that out. It’ll take a bit to find out which officer he spoke to and then to find the call records from the office in Valdosta. You up for another drive?”

  “Where to?”

  “Groomes Street. You know it?”

  “Yeah. What’s there?”

  “Pelletier’s phone. C’mon, hop in. They don’t have an exact location on that street, but it wouldn’t hurt to go ahead and get on our way. Stone! Mortimer! Let’s head out!” Mortimer broke quickly from their chat with Gracen and went for the driver’s seat, and Stone was right behind him. Agent Porter stepped over to Grace and said, “Really quickly, Mr. Gracen. Did you know where the vory might have stations or digs in the city? Any rumors at all?”

  Gracen shook his head. “Naw, man. They be around, but not ’zactly all that social, ya feel me?”

  Porter nodded and said, “Thanks for your time. Sorry to drag you out here like this for so little.”

  “S’cool, man. Peace.”

  Porter turned to the SUV.

  Leon gave one last glance to Gracen, who stood there for a moment, looking the question at him. Leon nodded curtly, telling him he’d done well enough, and waved goodbye, then hopped in the back seat and left Cee-gray alone in Chernobyl.

  10

  He used the money he’d taken from the dead thug to buy the bus ticket. He sat in the very back near the emergency exit, slumped in his seat so that only his eyes were visible above the window.

  Two seats in front of him sat a fat black woman in a blue coat, red scarf and red fluffy hat. She had a newspaper in her hand. Three rows up from her and across the aisle, an elderly black man sat asleep in his seat, pitching forward every so often and catching himself an instant before he fell to the floor.

  Spencer watched the street signs slide by silently, and knew that his stop was coming up here pretty soon. Out his window, he spied a Waffle House. He was hungry, and those were always open 24/7. The bus was now outside of the official terminator line between the Bluff and places that mattered. The change was gradual. There were still a few stop signs with spray paint on them, but also a few Laundromats that dared to stay open all night, and less homeless crack addicts wandering about aimlessly. A march towards progress and civilization.

  For no reason, Pat and his order for a 2013 Dodge Dart popped to the forefront of Spencer’s mind. He’d all but forgotten about the job he was meant to do for his old friend, and wondered that if he were to finish the task tonight, would Pat still be friend enough to pay him for it?
>
  When the bus driver hollered out, “Clover Street!” he got up slowly and waved his hand. “That’s me,” Spencer said, yawning and stretching out. His stomach grumbled. He was thinking about that Waffle House back there.

  He moved towards the front of the bus, glancing at the headline of the newspaper the woman was reading (Disasters Continue to Strain FEMA’s Resources) and nodded affably to the old man. When Spencer got to the door, though, he stopped. Coming up the steps were two black girls…and for a moment he was befuddled, because he swore it was the two nigglets from earlier tonight. “How did you…?” How did you get away? was what he was going to say, but then he blinked and the two black girls turned into two other black girls, slightly older than the ones he’d seen abducted and neither one of them dressed in the blue Jimmy Hendrix shirt. “How do you do?” he said, recovering and stepping off. The girls looked at him queerly, and said nothing.

  The street he was on was quiet, but not quite as empty as those in the Bluff had been. Instead of scuttling crackheads on the prowl, there were a few honest citizens out. Two women walked side-by-side, and though they weren’t dressed in the nicest of clothes it was obvious by their gait they weren’t layabout whores who were so accustomed to street violence that they wished to linger for too long in any one place. No, they were girls who knew to get their asses home and to trust no one and nobody on the way because it might be someone who had escaped from the Bluff.

  Bluff people knew each other too well, got too complacent with all the violence going on. These women moved with purpose. They had hopes and dreams, maybe even went to a community college and held high their aspirations to get even further away from the Bluff than they already were.

  A trio of old men were stepping out of a car parked along the sidewalk. The beep-beep of the car alarm being switched on wasn’t something you would hear in the ’hood, and neither would you hear their friendly, jocular conversation. No, old men in the ’hood spoke quietly, wearily. These men seemed quite comfortable here.

  Clayton Road was less than a quarter of a mile up from where he now stood. A swift jog ought to get him there in no time.

  Spencer moved out of sight first, lest he be spotted by a random patrol car. He stepped into the shadows between a closed gas station and a closed pawn shop. He hopped a tall wooden fence and hustled across the back yards of a few duplexes and then finally came upon Clayton Road, which went downhill for a piece, then dead-ended at a cul-de-sac. House number 42 was second from the end on the left. It was a white, two-storey home that looked well kept. Pink flamingoes in the front yard indicated someone cared enough about the place. There were still Christmas lights wrapped around wooden pillars at the front door. A pair of wicker rocking chairs and a rustic-looking swing were on the porch. A single car was parked in the driveway, a gray 2003 Buick Rendezvous.

  There were no lights on.

  Spencer wasted no time at all. He walked directly up the porch without stealth. There was a doorbell, but ringing it didn’t seem to produce a sound inside so he knocked. A few seconds went by. Nothing. He knocked again. Still nothing. He started hammering the door with his fist.

  A light came on in a window to his right and someone pushed a curtain to one side. Spencer held up the wallet of the unsuspecting well-to-do-looking man in Roswell he’d beaten down on his drive across the South. He held it up in an officious, bored manner, evocative of an officer out responding to something he didn’t wish to respond to.

  The curtain flapped back, and a second later someone was fumbling with a lock. The door cracked open, but what separated him from Tidov was a pair of chains from the door to the doorframe. An eye of pale ice stared out at him indifferently. That’s how Spencer knew this guy could easily become violent. Only predators were so confident that they could be calm when some stranger hammered on their door in the middle of the night. “Evans sent me,” he said.

  Tidov’s icy eye looked at him dubiously. “Evans?” he said, his voice coming from a mouthful of gravel.

  “He’s been tryin’ to call you. What’ve you been doing?”

  “Sleeping. You talking about Eugene?” He spoke in a Russian accent. Spencer’s man, no doubt.

  “Eugene Evans. Yeah. You know another one?”

  Tidov was unmoved, unintimidated. “What’s he want?”

  “To check up on you.”

  “Why doesn’t he come himself?”

  “You know he’s got fibromyalgia. It’s hard for him to get around. Try an’ be a little more understanding, okay, Mr. Tidov?” There passed a few seconds of just two monsters staring across at one another. Come into my parlor, he thought. ’Tis the prettiest little parlor that you ever did spy. Only this time, the spider convinced the fly to invite him into his home.

  “What’s your name?” Tidov asked suspiciously.

  “Blake Madison,” he said. “Parole Commission, Valdosta branch.”

  A moment. Then, Tidov slowly shut the door. A second later he removed the chain, and opened wide for him, standing to one side. “His fibromyalgia, huh? Told his dumb ass to try that tramadol stuff, but he wouldn’t listen to me.” Spencer stepped inside, as confidently as he would if he’d performed random house inspections like any other parole officer. He was mimicking the same air as the guards in cellhouse A had carried themselves with when they performed their random inspections on his and Martin’s bunk. “But Evans is into that holistic shit.”

  Spencer knew when he was being tested. Even if he wasn’t, he wasn’t about to walk blindly into a verbal trap. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I barely know the old fuck. I just got assigned to help take over his cases when he had to go to the hospital. He was ranting and raving over the phone, talkin’ about how modern medicine still won’t consider it a genuine disorder. They think it’s all in people’s heads.” Spencer recalled that much from an article in Time magazine that he’d read back in prison. Funny what the brain conjured up when under stress. He’d learned to accept these little details and add them to his vocabulary and discussions; peppering them throughout his everyday speech made many people think he was smarter than he actually was, and afforded him all sorts of unearned respect.

  The door shut behind him. Spencer kept his hands in his pockets and turned to face Yevgeny Tidov. He was tall and built. Doubtless he went to the gym. He had a scar like a rope burn across his neck. He wore no shirt, and up and down his body was an array of tattoos, intricately woven together. A sunburst at the center of his chest was the nucleus of it all, and from it rose wild animals charging toward the viewer. Spencer checked his right arm. There it was. The crimson bear. Only this wasn’t the same man he’d seen earlier, not the one staring out at him from the Expedition challengingly. I’ll bet he knows where to find him, though.

  “Anybody else home?” Spencer asked.

  “My sister and her boyfriend are upstairs,” said Tidov.

  A lie. Spencer didn’t know how he knew these things, but he did. The eyes flitted in certain directions, there was a pause that was just too long before his answer, a skip in the beat of conversation that didn’t keep the natural flow. It had been conjured up out of nowhere and fast. But Tidov knew on some level that this was a dance. He knew something wasn’t right, he just didn’t know what. We’re the same. I’ve just been at it longer, I’m more aware of what I am. What we are.

  “You want a fucking drink while you look around?” Tidov said, moving past him.

  Spencer touched the Glock Pocket 10 in his hoodie pocket, squeezed the grip, and said, “I’m not supposed to drink while on the job.”

  “Not even coffee?”

  “Oh, well, now you’re talkin’,” he chuckled, and followed Tidov into the kitchen. While the Russian pulled out the coffee grinds, Spencer opened a couple of drawers, pretended to look over them. He went to a sliding glass door, which looked out onto a back yard with two hammocks strung up between a few pines. “Mind if I check upstairs?” Spencer said. “Tell me which room your sister and her boyfriend
are in, so I can avoid waking them.”

  Tidov glanced over his shoulder. He opened a few cabinets, looking for the coffee cups. “Well, you probably already woke them,” he said, still playing the game. “But it’s the first door on the right. Please don’t disturb them.”

  “Not to worry. Just gotta check the usual places. Bathrooms, showers, toilets, under the sink, shit like that.”

  “Evans never does this.” Tidov took out an old filter from his coffeemaker and installed a new one. “I’ve kept very clean. I didn’t go to prison for drugs or for hiding any drug money, so he leaves my house alone.”

  “Every parole officer is different, you know,” he said, shrugging and stepping out of the kitchen. “There are tender-asses and there are hard-asses. Guess which one I am.” He smirked and walked upstairs, leaving Tidov to his umbrage and coffeemaker.

  At the top of the stairs was a pile of clothes stacked beside a hamper, which was overflowing. He parted two wooden sliding doors and surveyed the washing nook. The washer and dryer were both relatively new. He opened each one, both full, one of whites the other of colors. He passed the first door on the right. As he went by, though, he knocked, and got no answer. He briefly tested the doorknob. Locked.

  Farther down the hall was a closet, used for nothing but cardboard box storage. There were old Ajax boxes and Sears boxes. Spencer pulled one out, opened it, and found several unopened rolls of duct table. Another box contained rubber tubing. Another one had pieces to an old Dark Angel paintball gun.

  He put the boxes back and walked to the end of the hall, to the bedroom he presumed to be where he’d woken the Russian from his sleep. A small lamp was on, suffusing the walls in a dim orange light. A tangle of sheets was half on the bed, half on the floor; the cocoon he’d shed on his way downstairs.

  “You like yours strong, Mr. Madison?” Tidov called from the kitchen.

  “I do,” he called down, stepping inside the room. Many things leapt out at him at once. There was a taste in the air. It was musty. Like sweat forced out. He looked up at the spackled ceiling, looked across at the walls laid bare. There was a desk with a copy of Atlas Shrugged and A Game of Thrones, as well as a computer, but there were no pictures of family sitting anywhere. No pictures of any kind, actually. Black curtains covered the two windows. The floor was clean. There was no TV in here, which meant if there was one in the house it was probably in the living room downstairs. This was as workspace.