The Stones Cry Out

by Sibella Giorello

  I’d seen the tax returns. The gym had never declared a profit. "I always thought there was money in boxing."

  "For good ones, yeah. But this place—" he tossed a nod toward the boys skipping rope—"this place is a glorified Boys Club. None of their moms can even buy milk, or they won't buy it. Either way she ain't shelling out for boxing lessons. Everybody here’s on scholarship. Gets expensive."

  "You helped Mr. Holmes run the gym?"

  He gave a short sharp bark. "Child, I've been running this gym since before you were born. Hamal started out as my pet project."

  "So how did he become owner?"

  "Guy could’ve owned the world, if he'd done it right."

  "What’s that mean?"

  "I mean he had the potential to be number one in the world."

  "As a boxer?"

  "Cruiser weight, not heavyweight." He straightened, almost prideful. “I got a contract from Don King, back in my office." He paused. "You know who Don King is?"

  "With the wild hair?"

  "Right. He offered six figures."

  "Wow."

  "Uh-huh. Wow. Hamal was ranked number five. In the world. Then he sunk like a lead belt."

  "What happened?"

  "Up and left, that's what happened. Disappeared. I woke up one day, and he was gone. I had a Don King contract that could've saved everybody. But Hamal took off."

  "He came back, obviously."

  "Yeah, he came back." Ray Frey's voice was suddenly weary. "But a fighter can't do that. You gotta keep the momentum. We tried training again, but he wasn't the same. Never broke top twenty again. Whole thing was over. Done. Kaputt."

  “Where did he disappear to?”

  But Ray Frey started yelling at the ring.

  "Mel! You ain't got the sense God stuck in a jackrabbit. Ronnie, go ahead. Knock his block off. What do I care? Take his whole head off!"

  The big fighter -- Ronnie, I presumed—grinned demonically. He stepped toward the small fighter named Mel and threw punches so rapid I saw only a blur of red leather. Mel staggered back. His long-sleeved shirt was drenched with sweat and what little strength remained was spent feebly raising his glove. It was a gesture of pure surrender, and somehow more heartbreaking than the beating itself.

  Ronnie kept hitting. The creepy smile never faded.

  "All right!" Ray Frey waved his skinny arms. "All right! Ronnie, stop! You're gonna kill him."

  For good measure, Ronnie threw one more punch.

  “You make me sick.” Ray Frey spat on the floor. "Both of you. Get outta here."

  Ronnie slipped through the ropes, graceful as a dancer. He was shirtless, his deltoids rippling as he pulled at the laces of his gloves with his teeth. Tossing aside the headgear, he jogged to the speed bags.

  But Mel stood in the ring. His arms hung at his sides. With the sweat-drenched shirt, he looked like driftwood sent in by the tide.

  Ray Frey was watching Ronnie.

  "Reminds me of Hamal in his prime. If I can keep this one outta jail, we might make it to the top." He raised his voice. "What can I say, Mel. Guy's a killer. Natural-born killer."

  Mel nodded. He hadn’t taken off the gloves or the headgear. "I know."

  His voice sounded feminine, like he was going to cry. Listlessly he made his way from the ring. But he didn’t seem to have the strength to take off the headgear.

  Ray Frey shook his head.

  "Mel's a good kid," he said. “Bad home situation but what’s new? Problem now is Hamal was like his brother. When I heard about this whole thing Saturday...."

  The old man's eyes were light blue but obscure, like dull opals. I was weighing my next question: why he put a kid that broken up in the ring with a pounder like Ronnie. Then again, boxing had its own proving ground, and I let the question drift away.

  But he seemed to sense my wonder.

  "Like I told these guys yesterday. The last thing Hamal would want us to do would be to sit around moaning and moping. Hamal was a fighter, all the way through. They got to keep fighting.” He sighed. ”But Mel, he took it harder than anybody. Harder than me, and I knew Hamal most of his life."

  "What about Ronnie, how did he take it?"

  "Ronnie?" He barked that hard laugh. "Ronnie ain't built like that. Plus Ronnie and Hamal hated each other. Too much alike."

  Across the hazy room Ronnie looked like the perfect physical specimen, every muscle developed like a medical chart. His movements showed the predatory elegance of a tiger and if that was what resembled Hamal, maybe the cops were right. Detective Falcon didn't have a chance.

  "When Mr. Holmes left--"

  “Disappeared.”

  "All right, disappeared. Where did he go?"

  "To Atlanta. To see Coretta Scott King."

  I hesitated. "Mr. Holmes knew Mrs. King?"

  "Sure. And then once he got to her house, she poisoned him."

  I didn't know what to say. Baffled, borderline confused, I decided not to say anything.

  "He could never stop eating,” the old man said. “God rest his soul. Whatever fell into the trough, it went straight into Hamal's mouth. Even as a kid, all he liked to do was eat. And hit people. It was a struggle keeping his weight down. So maybe the poisoning really did happen."

  I tried to imagine how to write this on an FD-302. And couldn’t. “So let me get this straight. Coretta Scott King poisoned Hamal Holmes?"

  "For crying out loud!" he said, peevish. "Are you listening to me? He didn’t even know Mrs. King."

  "But you said--"

  "I said it's possible somebody slipped him something. Somebody might have poisoned him. But he was delusional. On drugs for awhile. But whatever happened it ruined his ranking."

  "Who would poison him?"

  "Who -- how about the four fighters ranked ahead of him? Hamal could've KO'd any of ’em. That's why Don King called. Man knew the score. Hamal was the real deal."

  When I asked how long ago this happened, Ray Frey had to think about it. He decided it was summer of 1997. Two years later Holmes became part owner of the gym.

  "That was generous," I said.

  "Not really. When he up and left, my heart gave out. Broke. I mean, snapped in half." He tapped his bony chest. "Quadruple bypass. Hamal kept the doors open. Started bringing in the kids, then the city was giving us money. For community programs. We've managed okay ever since."

  The boys had stopped skipping rope. All eyes were fixed on Ronnie. The rock star hammered a teardrop-shaped speed bag into a red blur.

  "What happens now, without Hamal?"

  "Depends," said Ray Frey. "His widow filed suit against the city. You heard about that? Wrongful death, that sort of thing."

  I didn't know about the suit. But it meant whatever facts the Bureau uncovered, some defense attorney could probably use to sue the socks off the police. Maybe now the widow would cooperate with us.

  Maybe not.

  "She's asking for twenty-five million," he continued. "Unlawful search and seizure, some such thing. I don't know the particulars. I don't want to know."

  And here was the Don King of questions: "Any idea why Hamal was on that roof?"

  "None. Guy had his own life. But the truth?"

  "Please."

  "He could've done what the cops said. He could’ve, sure. I don't want to believe it. But Hamal was capable of anything, really. He had an unpredictable side."

  I made a mental note, memorizing the statement verbatim. "But you believe the widow has a case?”

  “Twenty-five million sounds like a steep asking price, even for death. But I heard some lawyer told her it was based on what Hamal would've made, if he'd lived."

  "If somebody like Ronnie got a call from Don King."

  Ray Frey's old face crinkled into some version of joy.

  "Now you're getting it. And I'm telling you, Don King’s gonna call. I can feel it. Even if he don't, we'll be all right."

  "If the widow wins her case?" I didn't add the second part: If she sh
ared.

  "Child, she’ll win.” He was still smiling. “This is Richmond. These folks are gonna make sure the city pays. That's how it works. Payback time. These people, they feel like slavery was yesterday, understand? And they take care of their own."

  Chapter 9

  After too many hours slogging through paperwork and writing up my FD-302s – Ray Frey’s was surprisingly difficult—I had only one desire. Drive home and slip into the carriage house unnoticed.

  When I opened the iron gate to the courtyard it felt as hot as a branding iron, baked by the sun. And I was turning to close it when a black streak knocked me sideways. I hit the house’s brick wall.

  Madame leaped frantically, jumping on my legs, pinning me to the brick like an intruder.

  "It’s me,” I said. “It's okay, it’s me."

  But she kept jumping until my mother's boarder Wally Marsh came racing around the corner, calling her name. Then, like some canine bullet, she shot across the slate. Wally sidestepped her flight path like an acrobat. The dog raced in circles around the patio furniture before jumping into the flower beds that brimmed with weeds.

  "She's a little pent up," Wally said, walking over.

  "What happened?"

  "She hasn't been out all day."

  I was afraid to ask. "Because…"

  "Because your mother hasn't been out."

  The first wave of dread washed over me, sinking my heart. The second wave while I watched the crazed dog. But the third was heaviest. My lie to Phaup rushed back, unbidden, with an undertow whispering the ancient warning. Do not test God.

  "I found her in the living room," Wally said. “Every window open. Music turned up. Loud."

  The music. That was it. "Who called?"

  "The Bensons, that old couple down the block. The music was loud enough to knock Robert E. Lee off his horse. Mrs. Benson's exact words.” He waited for me to say something. “It was a Mahler symphony."

  Gustav Mahler. My dad's favorite composer.

  The brick’s accumulated heat radiated through my cotton blouse. It felt like a sunburn on my back. As Madame careened around the courtyard like a windup toy, I pulled myself from the wall. But my blouse snagged on the stone’s rough texture, the cotton threads sticking to the tiny crevices like Velcro.

  I made my way to the kitchen door, slowly, resisting the urge to drag my palm against the house, physical pain to match how my heart felt.

  "She’s upstairs now," Wally said.

  The second-story window was open, and a lace curtain billowed softly. “Thank you.”

  "A deal’s a deal.”

  Our agreement was that he would watch over her when I couldn’t be here, and in return I slashed his rent to almost nothing.

  He said, “You want me to call Dr. Simpson?"

  A retired physician, Dr. Simpson made informal house calls. A courtesy to my late father. But sometimes his visits ignited even worse episodes; my mom feared doctors and hospitals. Especially mental hospitals. I glanced back at Wally. A thin man with skin as black as wrought iron, he had large soulful eyes. Sensitive eyes. "How bad did she seem?"

  "She didn't accuse me of spying."

  That was good. I nodded.

  "But she wanted the water cut off in the kitchen. ‘They are sending signals through the pipes. I asked who 'they' were. She said, 'The government.'"

  Somewhere inside, the heavy anchor that had become my heart pulled up and I felt my little boat drifting for the falls. My mother's mind had clouded and cleared and clouded again over many years. During her worst spells she became convinced the government was keeping files on her. “They” watched her every move. Her paranoia was why my dad and I decided she should never know I worked for the FBI. I was a geologist, we told her. And that was true. Sort of.

  "Don't call the doctor yet. Let me talk to her first."

  "First thing should be to get her off that health food," Wally said. "I mean, 'all natural'? What does that mean anyway?"

  “I don’t like that stuff either.” I walked for the kitchen door. "Cyanide is ‘all natural.’"

  "What I'm saying."

  Inside the house the humidity clung to the air like a stubborn guest. The kitchen smelled like damp dust and old dish towels. I gazed around the room, searching for clues. Nothing seemed out of place.

  "By the way,” Wally followed me inside, “right in the middle of all this some guy stopped by."

  I opened the refrigerator. Did she eat something weird?

  "Said his name was DeMutt."

  "DeMott?” I turned to look at him. “DeMott Fielding?"

  "He didn’t give me a last name."

  "Tall; dark hair. Blue eyes?"

  "Looks like the bloodline goes to Jamestown?"

  "Wally, what did he want?"

  Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a small envelope. It had been folded twice. "The doorbell rang just when I got Nadine upstairs. I thought it was the cops. But there he was, Mister Richmond. Probably wears madras shorts to parties."

  I dropped the note in my purse and tossed the bag on a kitchen chair.

  "I didn't read it," Wally said.

  "What a good friend you are."

  "The dog appreciates me."

  “You know I appreciate you.” I turned to look at him. The recent strain made the sinewy muscles in his arms look tight, almost ropy. “No rent this month, okay?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Telling you. No rent.”

  “I’m going outside, before you change your mind.”

  He stepped out, and I wandered through the next room, still searching for triggers. The white plaster walls seemed to sweat with the heat. The big rooms felt tight as cupboards. Once upon a time my sister and I used to beg our parents to install air-conditioning, but they insisted we didn't need it. An extravagance, they said. During summer, we kept every door and window closed, positioning ourselves in front of fans. We kept the lights off until dark. And the more we complained, the more my father smiled. Challenges, he told us, build endurance.

  Nothing fazed that man. Not even his wife’s rocky sanity.

  But the windows had been open for an entire July day and now the old brick gripped the moist heat like an unexpressed sigh. Wandering through the nine rooms on the first floor, I mopped sweat from my brow, searching for anything that would explain this sudden episode.

  Anything to alleviate the guilt I felt, lying to Phaup about my mother's condition.

  In the front room, Wally had pulled the blue velvet curtains over the antique glass. Drawing back a panel, I watched the traffic winding around the grassy rotary that displayed General Lee and Traveller. Out there, everything looked normal. Life marched forward. I dropped the curtain.

  On the couch, a red mohair blanket lay beside notepaper and a pen. I picked up the top sheet. My mother's square-block handwriting covered the pages.

  Yellow chiffon dress

  And

  She won't tell

  And

  Mighty fortress God

  Written vertically down the page like Oriental script, the letters lined up to form new horizontal words. Nonsense words. Crazy words. The acrostics of chaotic thought.

  Folding the pages, I walked upstairs. The house seemed to be closing in, getting warmer. Tighter. We kept most of the upstairs closed year round, using only two bedrooms and two baths, with one bath doubling as Wally’s darkroom. The third floor was entirely closed. It stored my father’s belongings. I didn’t have the courage to sort through it all.

  Knocking on her bedroom door, I waited for a reply. It didn't come and when I opened the door, slowly, she was lying on the bed. The four-poster bed she once shared with David Harmon for more than twenty years.

  "Mom?"

  The black curls were unruly, rising from her head like sprung coils. Her greenish-brown eyes were an unreal color, like polished jasper. They were the eyes of a beautiful doll. A lost doll.

  "Are you all right?"

  S
he nodded.

  She nodded the way small children do when they’re trying to be brave—emphasizing the top of the nod, then the bottom. I walked over, sitting on the bed beside her, and took her outstretched hand in mine. Despite the heat around us, her skin felt chilled, and I could suddenly see that red blanket pulled up tight against the summer heat, while she scribbled crazy words into nonsense phrases and Gustav Mahler pounded the plaster.

  "Can I get you anything?"

  "Tea." Her lips were dry, white. "Hot tea. Please."

  Down in the kitchen, I boiled water on the stove— we didn’t have a microwave because she believed the energy waves altered our brains. I blotted perspiration from my face with a paper towel, and when Wally and Madame came in from the courtyard the dog's eyes were darting back and forth, as if preparing for enemy attack.

  Wally opened the freezer and dropped two ice cubes into Madame’s water bowl. She lapped greedily, splashing more than she drank.

  I kept my back to him, waiting for the water to boil. "What's your schedule for tomorrow?"

  "Photo shoot in the afternoon. But I can stay all morning."

  "Thanks. I really do appreciate it.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll be home by lunch."

  "Like I said, a deal’s a deal."

  When the water boiled, I carried the tea upstairs. Madame followed me and jumped on the high bed, turning in a circle, and dropping down beside my mother. All was forgiven. The world’s most loyal dog.

  My mother wrapped her hands around the steaming mug and ignored the bowl of ice I’d placed on the tray. I picked up a cube and rubbed it on the inside of my wrist, catching the melt with a paper napkin. Sweat beaded along my hairline, rolling down my neck, then down my back.

  "What happened?" I asked softly.

  She stared into the teacup. Her eyelashes were thick, coal black. When she looked up, tears hovered. "I'm a burden on you."

  "You're no burden. Tell me what happened."

  "I heard a voice, it told me not to go outside."

  "A voice?"

  "In the kitchen. It said I would get hurt if I went outside." She looked into the cup again. "Did you use tap water?"