Sleep Don't Come Easy

by McGlothin, Victor

  “I’m waiting . . .”

  Was all her ad said. And below was listed a code for him to click on. When he did, the response was almost instantaneous.

  I want to meet you. How soon can we get together?

  He pulsated and throbbed so hard, pain shot down his legs.

  Tonight, he responded. Now.

  In an instant, an address was sent to him.

  Angela’s picture didn’t do her justice. She was petite, with doe eyes, satin black hair that hung down to her lower back, and she didn’t speak a word of English. For three hundred dollars, she treated him like a god, and Lucas came back to his room just before dawn and slept better than he ever had.

  His fetish followed him home, and he went out of his way to be careful. He wasn’t about to lose his wife. He loved his mistress. But he craved something that neither one of them could give him.

  When Toni discovered his secret, the look on her face crushed him. Her disapproval crushed him. Her rejection devastated him. But Lucas knew that as much as he couldn’t stand the thought of losing her, he was too far gone to turn back and be anything but that thing he’d turned into.

  “I don’t know what this is,” he said, desperate to get her to hear him. “I don’t know how I let it go this far, baby.”

  “It’s sick, Luke. It’s disgusting!”

  “I know it is, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

  She looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “So that’s supposed to make it OK? I’m supposed to be cool because of how you feel about me? You pay for prostitutes and I’m supposed to act like it’s just a bad habit?”

  The only thing he remembered about the rest of that conversation was seeing her walk out the door screaming that she was through with him, and she should’ve stopped seeing him a long time ago. She cried when she said it and Lucas couldn’t wait for her to disappear so that he could finally get to the Internet.

  She needed time. He’d give her time. He needed counseling. He needed intervention. He needed to stop and take a long hard look at the destructive path his life was heading in. He needed some sex.

  A feeling of dread filled his stomach. Lucas took a sip of bourbon, and relished the warmth of it going down. He felt like throwing up because deep down he knew that he was hanging on to everything he’d worked so hard for by the skin of his teeth, and he was one wrong move away from losing it all if he didn’t get his fetishes under control. He chuckled bitterly, because Lucas had lost control a long time ago.

  The Season

  Lazarus knew enough to be respectful. Hell, this was the holiday season and the city was filled with holiday things: lights, bells, folks singing, and kids. This time of year, there seemed to be millions of them, in every size, shape, color, holding on tight to momma’s and daddy’s hands, and all of them laughing and looking happy and glad to be together. The shit was almost sacred, and Lazarus did whatever he could to disappear into the shadows and stay far removed from this picture postcard scene. A man like him didn’t fit into all this, and he saw no reason to mess it up for everybody else. He watched, though, like he were watching a movie, and oddly enough, he enjoyed every minute of every scene unfolding in front of him.

  He couldn’t remember if he’d had any kids of his own or not. Lazarus couldn’t fathom anybody running around calling “Daddy” after him. It didn’t seem natural.

  “Whe . . . where’s my . . . where’s my baby . . . where is . . .”

  He shook loose the image of the man whose car he’d hit, lying bleeding on the ground, reaching out his arm for his daughter.

  Lazarus saw her, though, her small head twisted towards Lazarus, staring wide eyed at him, like she really wasn’t dead. And then he saw nothing. Just black and dark and memories of the yellow ribbon and pink barrettes in her hair. And nothing.

  Tonight was a good night. Lazarus wouldn’t let dark thoughts take away his good night. He closed his eyes, and squeezed everything negative as far away from him as he could. Lazarus had something to do. He had to have a clear head and steady thinking to take care of some business because he hadn’t taken care of it before. And he owed her that. He owed all of them that.

  That damn cop had pulled him in to jail and fuckin’ fed him questions he was supposed to swallow and throw up answers to.

  Did you see the dead woman? Did you see who killed the dead woman?

  Lazarus blinked away the blurred memory starting to form in his head. Tonight wasn’t the night for all that. Lately his thoughts were riddled with shit that didn’t make sense. He thought about the dead woman too much. He’d seen her time and time again, but never the way he did that night, close. And he thought about the girl with the pretty lips, living underground out of the light and fresh air. She looked pale like a ghost, her eyes empty. He’d passed by that same alley where that building stood a couple of times today, and each time, he thought of going back to see if she was still there. But maybe she was just a bad dream like everything else.

  He’d failed people. Lazarus had failed far too many people in his life. He’d failed that woman who ran where he slept and then died there. He even failed that damn policeman that he hated, and Sweet Thang who smiled so nice whenever she spoke to him. He remembered her, but from where? God was testing him. He tested Lazarus over and over waiting for the moment he would pass. And suddenly it dawned on him why he was left here in this place to rot. It made sense. He couldn’t believe he’d been missing it all this time. He couldn’t believe he’d been so dumb and so blind. That ghost with the pretty lips was another test. Oh, Lord! He’d almost missed it again. It was another test to not fail. Maybe she was real. Maybe she wasn’t. But it was up to him to show up for once in his life and see what it was like, not to fail.

  He stood up, stomped the feelings back into his legs, and walked back to the last place he’d seen that ghost—with the pretty lips.

  Among Friends

  “Dinner was great, Fatema,” Nelson took a seat in the chair across from her in the living room. “You’re a great cook.”

  “Actually Banquet is a great cook,” she quipped. “I’m just good at following directions, then putting everything in some nice cooking dishes and making it look like I made it. The truth be known, Nelson, I’m more of a heat and serve kind of girl.”

  He laughed. “Well, you work a mean microwave, then.”

  “How you getting along?” she asked him, unable to look past the sadness still lingering in his eyes.

  Nelson shrugged. “Oh, you know. Time heals all wounds. And I’m just biding my time. You?”

  “Some days are better than others. For me, the frustration comes in not knowing who did this to her and why. I can’t believe it was just random.”

  “But maybe it is,” he said reluctantly. “Maybe Toni just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time and somebody took advantage of that. She could’ve just been convenient.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “I don’t know what to believe.” He sighed deeply. “I miss her. I want her here with me, and knowing that’s never going to happen again, well . . . like I said, I’m waiting on time to come in and save the day.”

  The two of them sipped quietly on wine as they reflected on Toni in their own ways. “Between the two of us, everybody used to believe I was the mischievous one.” She smiled.

  “You weren’t?” he teased.

  She rolled her eyes. “Toni was good at looking like Miss Goody Two Shoes on the surface, but that girl had a wild streak in her that rivaled mine any day. She just had a better handle on hers than I did. Did she ever tell you about the time that we streaked across the DU Campus one night after a lecture and mini-concert by Quincy Jones?”

  He looked stunned. “Never mentioned it.”

  “Well, we did, in front of at least a thousand people, wearing Hello Kitty masks and white sneakers,” Fatema laughed at the memory. “Toni was the brilliant one, but she was mean too. We ran across the lawn and then disappea
red around the back of the Fine Arts building, where Miss Brainiac had the foresight to hide some sweat pants and a T-shirt.”

  “For the two of you?”

  She scowled at him. “No! And then she left me shivering behind the bushes, dodging security for two hours while she took her time going back to our apartment to get me some clothes.”

  Nelson laughed hysterically.

  “I told her, ‘Why don’t you just bring the car around so I can jump in? Don’t worry about the clothes.’ And she came back with some lame excuse about not wanting security to take down her license plate number and use it to track her down.”

  “Oh, she got you good.”

  “By the time she came back, I was covered in goose bumps and bug bites, and I didn’t speak to her for a month after that.”

  “You think she did it on purpose?”

  “I know she did. She was pissed because Troy Johnson asked me out, and she had it bad for the brotha. It was revenge. Pure and simple. That woman had an evil streak in her.”

  “So do you know if the police are making any progress yet?”

  Fatema rolled her eyes. “Baldwin’s ass moves as slow as molasses in the winter if you ask me. Most of the time, I have to wonder if he even gives a damn.”

  “I’m sure he’s doing the best he can, Fatema. He didn’t have much to go on.”

  “Well, he did manage to find Lazarus. You remember I told you about him? The cat who lives under the bridge where they found Toni?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I remember.”

  “He dragged poor Lazarus down to the precinct in handcuffs, then questioned him about whether or not he saw anything.”

  “They get anything out of him?”

  Fatema smiled and winked at Nelson. “Not until they called in the cavalry.”

  “The cavalry?”

  “Yes. The cavalry. Moi!”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Lazarus and I go way back. I told you about the documentary I did with him in it? Well, I spent a good couple of days following that man around and studying him like a book. There’s a way to talk to him and there’s a way to listen to him, and if you don’t know how to do either, then you can’t communicate with Lazarus. He’s like a jigsaw puzzle with pieces scattered all over the floor. All the pieces are there. They’re just not put together.”

  “Well, what did he say? Did he see who killed Toni?” he asked anxiously.

  She hesitated before answering. “He did. I think.”

  “You think? What does that mean?”

  “He saw something. I think he saw her running and someone chasing after her.”

  “But did he say who?”

  “Sort of.”

  Nelson’s frustration was starting to show. “Fatema.”

  “He led Baldwin and me to believe that he’d seen the man the night Toni was killed, and that he’d seen him before that.”

  His expression turned to stone. “Does Baldwin have a description?”

  She shook her head. “No. Lazarus never described him, and eventually, Baldwin had no choice but to let him go.”

  Nelson took the long way home, thinking long and hard about Lazarus and who or what he might’ve seen. That old man was the key to solving Toni’s murder. He had all the answers, but the problem was, no one knew how to get to them. If he’d been there, though, why hadn’t he helped her? Why hadn’t he tried to stop it from happening? Was he so far gone that he could just sit there and watch a man take a woman’s life, and not think anything of it?

  Lazarus would come back to the shelter eventually. Instinctively, Nelson knew he would. People like him were habitual and when he got hungry enough, he’d be compelled to visit again.

  Ivy

  The sound of voices woke her up. The light from the street lamp in the alley filtered into the basement, as she strained to hear what was being said.

  “. . . sample the wares . . . quality merchandise . . . don’t make this difficult . . . more than generous . . .”

  Moments later she heard the door at the top of the stairs open. Ivy’s heart beat hard and fast, but she closed her eyes, steadied her breathing and pretended to be asleep. The next thing she knew, she was being pulled up by her wrists and dragged across the room to the bed behind the curtain.

  Rape wasn’t rape if you didn’t make a big deal about it. Ivy had learned long ago, not to make a big deal about it. Some men didn’t like that. This one was one of those men. He worked on her until he got a reaction—tears that she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. Thankfully he was the only one this time. The other man stood in the corner of the room and watched. When she looked back to him, though, he turned away.

  “You keep this up, and she won’t be so quality, man,” he told the man raping her. “I’ll be upstairs when you get done,” he said before leaving.

  They were taking her away from this place. Ivy sat in the corner of the room on the floor after it was over and willed herself to stop crying. It hadn’t been so bad here. Ivy knew that there were worse places than this for girls like her and she dreaded even thinking about it.

  A shadow crossed the small window and caught her attention. At first she was scared, but then she saw it again. She stood and slowly approached the window. That crazy old bum she’d seen the other day stood across the alley and stared back at her. Tears burned her eyes again as she pressed her hands flat against the glass, hoping he wasn’t as crazy as he looked, and that he knew she was in trouble and needed his help.

  He stood like a statue, watching her watch him.

  Go get help, she wanted to scream. Get somebody! Get the police!

  Snow fell lightly to the ground around him and on his eyebrows and beard, making him look like a poor excuse for Santa Claus. Then suddenly, he surprised her and walked towards the window. The old bum dropped down to his knees and peered at her, then squinted trying to see into the room behind her. He looked even more ancient up close, except for his eyes. His eyes were clear, and young, and inquisitive.

  He jerked and looked down the alley like someone was coming, and the old man quickly rose to his feet, and disappeared. No! Don’t go! Ivy nearly choked on those words, as she watched him leave. Ivy had been really brave for a long time. But she didn’t feel so brave now, and she crawled into bed, buried her face in the dingy pillow and cried herself to sleep.

  Fall from Grace

  The television was on, but while Bruce stared at it, he had no idea what was on it. He was losing it. That heightened sense of situations and people that led him to solve the kinds of cases that left other detectives shaking their heads. Ten years ago, he was a bloodhound. Bruce found evidence where it looked like none existed. He pieced together the puzzles of events and lives and circumstances of crime scenes, studying them from the perspective of a man with a gift that could only come from God.

  He’d solved cases more difficult than this. And it pissed him off because on the surface there was absolutely nothing extraordinary about the murder of Toni Robbins, and solving it should’ve been a piece of cake. Everybody was starting to look at him sideways. His captain, colleagues, and the media were taking advantage of the fact that time had stopped being on his side.

  What’s taking so long to solve this case, Detective?

  Do you have any leads on who might’ve killed this woman?

  The public wants answers, Detective Baldwin. What do you have to say?

  He said nothing, because he knew nothing. Anybody remotely suspected had an alibi, and he was beginning to think that maybe her death was random after all. As he’d done so many times before, Baldwin closed his eyes and mentally retraced Toni’s last night alive.

  She’d gotten off work at five, walked six blocks to The Broadway Shelter, played kissy face with her man, chatted it up with some other volunteers, and said hello to some folks waiting in line to eat. At six, she helped to serve the evening meal. Seven-thirty, she read stories to some kids, reassured some woman who, along with her four kids, had been evicted
from her one-bedroom apartment, that everything would be all right, said good night to the staff and boyfriend, and finally walked out of the door, headed back to her car parked in a lot halfway between her job and the shelter. She was found early the next morning underneath the Corona and Speer overpass.

  Denver’s honorable mayor was attending a fundraiser the night she was killed, as attested to by three hundred of his fondest admirers and lovely wife. Nelson Monroe left the shelter around nine–thirty. He gave one of his volunteers a ride home, stopped at the ATM on his way home, and held a brief conversation with a neighbor on the elevator who lived next door to him.

  No evidence had been found near the crime scene. Not a damn thing. There had been shoe prints in the snow, but by the time the cops showed up, snow had covered them and the city’s finest had trampled over any potential evidence buried underneath it. Whoever killed her wore gloves. He didn’t rape her, or hit her, or abuse her, other than to choke the life out of her. It was almost as if he were careful. Baldwin opened his eyes. It was almost as if he cared. Before he had a chance to decipher this revelation, his phone rang.

  “Yeah,” he said gruffly.

  It was his friend from vice, Dan Goodwin. “Tell me you can be up and out the door in thirty seconds or less.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “Man! You are not going to believe who we got in handcuffs for soliciting sex from an underage girl he found over the Internet.”

  Baldwin bolted up from the sofa. “Where?”

  He was out the door and in his car speeding across town with the light flashing in the window. Baldwin headed west towards Lakewood, to a seedy motel on West Sixth Avenue. All he had to do was follow the parade of lights illuminating the scene like it was a holiday party. News cameras were out in full force, and in the back seat of one of the squad cars he passed, Baldwin caught a glimpse of a man he thought looked like Mayor Shaw. He stopped, leaned down and peered at the man to be sure. Shaw glanced at him, then turned his head away.