Trip Wire

by Charlotte Carter

  “You know what else might happen? A white boy might get to thinking he’s a whole lot slicker than he really is. Might get greedy and try to short somebody. Might even try to get himself out of a jam with the law by selling out one of the middlemen. You know, anything’s possible.”

  “So the man at the top wouldn’t really know a drone like Barry Mayhew,” I said. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Mighta heard the name somewhere, but he wouldn’t know him from Adam. And as for this Wilton cat, your friend who was killed, the boss probably never heard of him until he saw on the news that the boy and some white girl got themselves murdered up on Armitage. So if you think he was doing business with the company, you can forget that.”

  “I see. All of that makes good sense, Mr. Waddell.”

  “Um-hum. I figured you’d understand it.” He picked up my highball glass, which was still full. “Guess you not that thirsty.”

  “I’m okay. I’ll just nurse this.”

  He began to chuckle. “Tell me something. I bet Woody got no idea you up here. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t think so. Way we left it between us, he knew I was entertaining his girl, he probably whip you within ah inch of your life and be talking about trying to kill me.”

  “He might. But you don’t seem too scared.”

  I watched him roar with laughter, which turned in a minute to thoughtful head-shaking. “Yeah,” he said, “old Woody be outdone if he knew I gave you something he couldn’t.”

  “What happened between you and Woody?” I asked then.

  “Who you think you kidding, girl? If he wanted you to know, he’d ah told you.”

  It was time for me to go. I thanked Waddell and rose from the chair. I saw him looking at me, half in the way those old barbers had done.

  “You know, you do feature your mama just a little,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I said you kind of look like your mama. I’m telling you, that woman was fine.”

  The remark staggered me. “You knew my mother?”

  “Sure I did. Knew her. Knew your uncle Hero that died. Knew your grandma Rosetta. I know a whole lot about your family.”

  That expression on his face was meant to intrigue me. And it did. “That puts you ahead of me,” I said. “Tell me something else you know about them.”

  He only laughed, mouth opening like a new wound. “You come around to see me anytime,” he said. “I told you, I love to get female company.”

  6

  When you want to pick up six pairs of crew socks for a buck fifty, or maybe buy a gross of Bic ballpoints for not much more, you go to the open-air market at Maxwell Street. Poor people from every corner of the city flocked there to haggle with street merchants over baby clothes and factory-second brassieres, phony Swiss watches and shower curtains. Black folks used to salivate over the Polish sausages and the foot-long frankfurters the street vendors served up there. Of course, Maxwell Street was the polite term for the hundred-year-old bazaar. But I grew up hearing it referred to as Jewtown. I don’t know who coined that nasty bit of anti-Semitism, but the moniker was ancient and ubiquitous.

  I fought with myself for only a few seconds before making the call. I was a little confused when Jack Klaus told me to meet him on Maxwell Street. Then he explained that he was going to grab a bite at Harry’s, the brightest star in the galaxy of delicatessens in that neighborhood.

  I found him wiping mustard from the corner of his mouth. On his plate was a whopping pastrami sandwich and a potato knish big enough to feed the Foreign Legion.

  “Have a seat. Hungry?” he asked.

  “No. I need to talk to you. Are you eating alone?”

  “I usually do. Gets lonely sometimes. I think I remember you turning me down.”

  “You sound like you’re in a good mood, today, Detective Klaus. Very playful.”

  “Oh, I forgot. Everything’s real serious with you. You got an emergency or something?”

  “You wanted me to tell you about Barry Mayhew. Well, I have something to say about him now.”

  “Ah, now you’re ready to rat him out. Is that it?”

  I was also ready to slap Jack Klaus. But I beat down the impulse and asked if I could have a cream soda.

  “Barry hasn’t been back at the apartment since yesterday morning. I don’t know where he is or what happened to him. But I think he’s found Dan Zuni, and I think they both might be in serious danger.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I saw Barry yesterday afternoon, not long after I spoke to you. He was driving Dan’s Volvo.”

  “Very interesting,” he said, nodding sagely.

  “Did you hear what I said? He was in Dan’s Volvo. I thought you were looking everywhere for that car.”

  “Go on.”

  “You were right; he does sell grass, and a few other things. He thinks he’s the sharp one, likes to treat everybody else like an asshole. But now I think he’s in over his head, mixed up with some people who don’t play. Barry can be pretty oily sometimes, but I don’t want to see him get hurt. Anyway, I’m much more worried about Dan.”

  “I bet.”

  “You bet? What the hell is this? You’re not really listening to a thing I’m saying, are you?”

  “Sure I am. But you can stop worrying about Dan Zuni.”

  My heart froze. I thought the sadistic bastard was going to tell me I needn’t worry about Dan anymore because he was dead.

  “Mr. Zuni is safe and sound. We took good care of him.”

  “You what?”

  “He’s been in custody since the night of the murders. But he was released a few hours ago.”

  “You son of a bitch.” Tears rose to my eyes. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. But he’s a free man now.”

  I couldn’t help letting out a sob.

  I guess that touched his so-called heart. “I couldn’t tell you, Cass. I couldn’t. There’s reasons for it, though.”

  “What reasons? Whose?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Police bullshit. That’s the reason, isn’t it? Jesus Christ, I knew something was crazy about the way you guys were acting.”

  “I have nothing to do with the way this case is being handled. All I could do was try to look out for you a little, to the extent you let me. I’m still not free to tell you why things shook out the way they did.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure you have a very good reason for throwing a man in prison when you know he didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Look, I told you. I didn’t make that decision.”

  “Okay, so not you personally. It was that pig Norris who decided. He knew Dan was innocent, though, didn’t he?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And now you all are letting him go because you have to. Of course. You must have reached some kind of legal limit on how long you can keep a suspect, even a murder suspect, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what about Barry? What’s he got to do with this crap?”

  “All I know about Mayhew is that he was looking at some serious time on a smuggling charge. Narcotics has been running him for a while now.”

  “You mean he’s a snitch.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who’s he snitching on? Or for?”

  “Not me.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You don’t have a thing to do with it. Your hands are clean. Wow, man, you are something. How the fuck do you live with yourself?”

  “Knock it off, Cassandra. I’ve had enough of you talking to me like that. I do my job and I also try to pay my debts to people. Like Woody. You and your freaky friends hate the police. Well, ain’t that too bad. But you know what? You can’t make me ashamed of what I do. You get that? I was trying to keep your ass safe, that’s all. And this is how you thank me for it.”

  I hooted at him.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  “Oh, Klaus.
Be sure and let me know the next time you keep me safe, okay? I’ll hire a bodyguard. My ass would be dead if I had to depend on you.”

  “What the hell have you people accomplished that you think so much of yourselves? Oh, yeah. You’re gonna stop the war. How’s that one coming?”

  “Fuck you.” I shot out of the chair and nearly knocked it over.

  “I should take a belt to you, Cassandra.”

  “Did you hear what I said, Jack? I said, ‘Fuck you.’ ”

  7

  “Did you know?”

  “Woody’s not hard of hearing,” Ivy said. “I suggest you lower your voice.”

  I ratcheted it down to a slightly quieter scream. “Just tell me the truth, Woody. Did you know they already had Dan?”

  “No, girl. I didn’t know they had him. Now, you call me a liar again and see how fast you regret it.”

  “I didn’t call you a liar.” Not technically, anyway. I just said I didn’t believe him.

  My aunt took hold of my elbow. “Cassandra, you are dangerously worked up. Sit down for a minute and think. You’ve just been told your friend is not only safe, they just let him go. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  I cooled off a little, but still refused to sit. “Of course it’s what I want. But it doesn’t solve anything, Ivy. It doesn’t answer any questions. The police are dragging their feet on this investigation; they’re up to some kind of nonsense. It only means we’re back where we started.”

  “No, you’re not,” Woody said. “You talked to Wilton’s people, didn’t you? You just flew in here and told us everything his mother said. That’s a lot more information than you had this morning.”

  I had to admit he was right. And I couldn’t stand the look of triumph on his face.

  “I know how happy it makes you to think Wilt was some kind of bad guy, Woody.”

  “I’m not happy, child,” he said. “I’m a long way from happy. Now, what about the boy Alvin? The Mobleys know who he is?”

  “No.”

  “Then you still got a line to follow. Check him out. You don’t know who he is, your roommates don’t know who he is, the Mobleys don’t know who he is. What does that tell you?”

  “Wilt didn’t want us to know him. He had a reason to keep Alvin away from the rest of his friends.”

  “It seems obvious,” Ivy said. “He must be one of the people who were using the Mobleys’ property.”

  “Find him, maybe you’ll find out what was happening up there,” added Woody. “Or it might work the other way ‘round.”

  “Both those things sound right,” I said. “But I have no idea how to do either one of them.”

  “You’ll think of a way,” he said. “Just don’t go and do anything foolish. Let Jack help you if he can.”

  “Woody, don’t get her started on Jack again,” Ivy said. “I just pray the police do their job and do it fast. I want all this to end before Cass gets her neck wrung somewhere.”

  Yes, that would be nice. Then I could come back home. That’s what Ivy meant.

  I didn’t stay much longer. But before I left I went in and took a fleeting look at my old room, where I’d be living again, soon enough. It meant that living on my own had been a failure. It was going to be like walking backward.

  The two of them walked me to the elevator. “Get some rest,” Ivy cautioned. “You’re all frayed-looking. And have Sim wait until you get inside your apartment.”

  “I will. But we’re pretty protected now. The uniforms are coming and going all the time.”

  8

  I threw myself onto the seat next to him and sat there brooding.

  Sim waited and waited, finally asked, “Where we going now?”

  I turned to him. “I’ll tell you in a minute. Sim, did I thank you for your help today? I meant to.”

  “What you doing—you crying?”

  “No. Sim, what do you do when you’re mad and relieved and sad and . . . and everything you can think of . . . all at the same time? Where do you turn for comfort?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I put my hand inside his coat. “Wouldn’t you just want to hold on to somebody?”

  “Yeah, that’s prob’ly what I’d do.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, okay? I’m not saying you’re simple or anything. But I bet you don’t make a practice of complicating things when you don’t have to.”

  “What you talking about?”

  “I mean, if a woman let you know she was interested in you, you’d know where to take it from there, wouldn’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And it wouldn’t take you six months to say something if you had a thing for her. Would it?”

  “Naw.”

  “Do you think I’m ugly, Sim?”

  “Where you get that? You look okay to me.”

  “I’ve got some good-looking grass in my purse. Where is it that you live?”

  “West Side.”

  Gulp. Juvenile gang heaven. “Where on the West Side?”

  “Congress Parkway. That where we going?”

  “That’s where we’re going.”

  9

  We shared the can of Miller he had in the refrigerator.

  “This is my jam,” he said, taking a well-worn record from its sleeve. “You like the Delfonics?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Stylistics? I could play that.”

  “I don’t really know them, either.”

  “Bet you like Smokey.”

  “Not really.”

  “You kidding. How come?”

  “Well, they always played the Miracles when the kids were slow dancing. Nobody ever asked me. I guess it’s stupid, but I don’t like being reminded. I was alienated.”

  “You crazy, Cassandra. What you listen to?”

  “Hendrix. And I like Beethoven. And Cream.”

  “Who?”

  “Say my name again.”

  “Cassandra.”

  Shortly after that, we climbed into his long, plain bed.

  Holy Richard Alpert! We were like mating whales.

  My aunt Ivy once confessed to being a bit afraid of James Brown. I liked him, but I knew what she meant. However, it wasn’t until that evening that I appreciated the profundity of his use of repetition. Namely, baby, baby, baby. The same thing with please, please, please.

  I dozed off with Sim’s powerhouse arm across me. Dreamed. Woke. Lay there for a while looking up at the ceiling. I was depleted, but I also had that interval of peace I’d been looking for since the day I heard Clea’s terrible wail, when she found Mia’s and Wilt’s bodies.

  I scared the shit out of Sim when I jerked up suddenly and jumped out of bed.

  I wrenched my purse from the arm of the chair and turned it out on the plywood table in the middle of the modest room. I pawed madly through all my junk, looking for the silver peace symbol.

  Something to remember him by. Hope Mobley’s phrase was echoing in my mind. I already had something to remember him by. At least, I thought I did.

  I’d been carrying Wilton’s keys around with me since the day after the murder. At least, I thought I had.

  I had not seen them, as a matter of fact, since that bastard assaulted me in the apartment. I flashed on the sight of my ruined canvas bag slit end to end, contents scattered all over the floor. Now I knew exactly what the intruder had been searching for, what he stole.

  He put me through all that hell for Wilton’s keys.

  Yes, of course. Keys that fit a door, a strongbox, a safe—or God knew what—but something in or near that house that had passed from one generation to the next of upper-crust Negroes who summered in Kent, Michigan.

  10

  Only a few days left before Christmas. The Loop was packed with holiday shoppers.

  “You look good, Sandy.”

  I had to laugh. It was so like Dan Zuni, at a time like this, after what he’d been through, to say something sweet like that.

  His
eyes were tired, but otherwise he did not look like a guy who’d done three days behind bars. Cliff and I nearly hugged the life out of him.

  Dan had called the apartment to tell us he was out of jail—and to say that he was sightseeing with his grandfather, who’d never been to Chicago before.

  Sightseeing?

  Right, he said. Just released from police custody on a trumped-up charge of double homicide, he was showing his granddad the Wrigley Building and the Magnificent Mile. Wilt was right: Dan Zuni was cooler than any of us.

  He asked if we could meet him and the old man downtown; they were going to take the airport shuttle bus outside the Hilton to catch the early-evening flight to Tucson.

  “Aren’t you coming back to the commune to get any of your stuff?” Cliff had asked.

  “No way, man,” Dan had said. “The vibes in that place would bury me now. But you could do me a favor and bring me my tripod.”

  We didn’t just bring the tripod. I packed up his Creedence record, his Polaroid, and the brown T-shirt he loved.

  Dan introduced Cliff and me to his grandfather, an ancient-looking version of Dan himself: implacable, with onyx eyes and features carved from granite. It wasn’t at all hard to visualize his ancestors picking their way across the mesas, fishing in the streams, worshipping the sun. I didn’t know the etiquette; you didn’t bow to Indian elders, as you would to the Japanese, but just shaking hands with this living incarnation of history didn’t feel like enough of a show of respect. I guess Cliff had managed to overcome his awe of Grandfather Zuni, because after he greeted Dan, he turned to the old man and began to hug him, too.

  We must have been about as motley a group as they’d ever seen at the hotel bar.

  “I wasn’t in the Cook County lockup,” Dan explained. “Some guys with heavy shoes had me. I guess they were FBI.”

  “Feds? They’re the ones who grilled you about the murders?” I asked. “Not a homicide cop named Norris?”

  “No. Well, maybe him, too. I don’t remember all their names.”

  “But why? What did they want with you?”

  “Mostly they were leaning on me about Wilt: What did I know about him, and did he ever talk to me about revolution. Did he have guns in the apartment. Shit like that.”