Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  Douglass was asked to sign a property sheet. Then, with a copy of the same, he was handed the Ziploc bag of hygiene needs (toothpaste, toothbrush and comb) and directed down a hallway to a door. The sheriff stepped ahead of him and with one of many keys on a brass ring, unlocked the door. Douglass intuitively stepped through and the door was slammed impersonally behind him. In the room alone, Douglass was left to vegetate in an atmosphere of grimy, pissy cement walls and floors. There was no natural light, just fluorescent tubes that glared from high above. Scores of graffiti signatures and messages were either inscribed with a pencil, scratched in with a sharp object or burned in with matches all across the wall. Similar inscriptions were marked into a trail of wood benches which ran the perimeter of the room. A stainless steel toilet-sink combination, a coinless payphone and an adjacent door with a thick glass portal were the only other luxuries in the room.

  A payphone!!!

  “Hi, baby. Are you alright? Where are you?” Mechelle’s was the compassionate voice that Douglass longed to hear. Although she was far away, the phone made it seem that she was standing before him—a taste of the world he’d been taken from.

  “I’m okay. I’m in Passaic, New Jersey. Got a pen? I’ll give you the address.” Douglass reviewed the receipt he’d been given as Mechelle scrambled for a pen and paper. Douglass relayed the information, asked for a $25 money order to be mailed out, and he left it at that. No mention of bail or the circumstances of the case. Nothing about his current enslavement.

  But Mechelle had words for him.

  “Douglass, everyone’s sayin’ you killed Moet.”

  “Moet? And whaddaya mean, everybody?”

  “I mean . . . well, it was on the TV, in the newspapers and on radio ’n stuff. People are just sayin’ stuff.” Mechelle sounded distraught and unsure.

  “Mechelle, that’s not everybody. That’s the press. But at least, now I know who this Nadine Butler is.”

  “Yeah. That’s Moet’s real name. I . . . uh . . . Douglass? What’s happening here? How long you think you’ll be in there? Will they let you go? Can I see you?” Mechelle was obviously upset, looking for something tangible. Douglass’s voice was her only form of hope.

  “Easy, baby. Just relax. That’s the best way to handle this. With a clear mind. Let me work this out and you’ll see. Everything’ll be alright. We just have to be patient and . . . and . . . Mechelle, just look out for things for me, okay? I’ll be fine. Love ya.” Mechelle hung on to every word. Wanting more. Trying to draw a full picture. But when he hung up, all she could do was cry.

  Demetrius walked into 950 North, startling Mechelle. She felt so alone and nervous that even his entrance caught her off guard. She was in tears on the living room couch at the time, thinking about Douglass, about her baby issues and about her future. She knew that she’d have to stop dancing soon, and now she couldn’t stop thinking about the worst-case scenario regarding Douglass’s arrest—she didn’t want to be a statistic; another single parent raising a child. She was sure that such a circumstance was harder than it was supposed to be, and these ideas hurt her the most. More tears.

  Demetrius sat by and embraced her, consoling her as a friend. It helped, but it wouldn’t erase Mechelle’s frustrations and tensions. Mechelle; the distressed pregnant woman.

  “Boss, you got my word. I ain’t had nuttin’ to do wit dat murder at da club.” Tony was wide-eyed and filled with fear. His arms were flailing as he begged for understanding from the Capo of the Bianco family. Tony’s memories of the Capo’s deeds—executions that left dismembered bodies—were the only images that he could think about. He knew just how easily and how quickly that he too could meet Doctor Death.

  The Capo was a Ralph Cramden look-a-like. And, like the Honeymooner, he also had a hot temper. For now, he took a breath, as if to inhale some surplus faith for dealing with his underling.

  “Well . . . I’ll tell you what. You’s been workin’ dat dare Paradise club for almost a year now. All we’s got is trouble from the joint. And all for what? A fuckin’ hoop shoot game? And now the Bianco name is all over TV again. But now we’re tied in with these . . . these . . . moolies! Who da fuck are dees Gilmore people? How we get caught up in their shit if a you’s didn’t have nuttin’ ta do wit it?” Now, the Capo was visibly red.

  “Boss, I’m tellin’ ya dat this thing is all a fluke. It’s got nuttin’ ta do wit us. Plus, I put almost two years in this project. I’s close enough to get my . . . our teeth in the piggy bank. I’m startin’ to learn how dis thing ticks. I don’t think we should blow this here for . . .”

  “You don’t think? You don’t think? No! You don’t fuckin’ think!” The Capo got up from the crate he was sitting on. The warehouse was dark and a hanging light bulb still cast light on him as he approached Tony. There were other shadows, many of them standing at certain points inside the cavernous facility.

  “Gimme your gun.” Tony froze like stone while the Capo came closer still.

  “I said gimme your fuckin’ gun!” Now Tony’s stomach quivered and his heart palpitated, almost jumping inside of his chest cavity.

  “Alright, fuck it. I got my own.” And before Tony could move, the Capo reached in his belt for a pearl-handled 9-millimeter and pointed it at Tony’s head.

  “Boss, please, boss!” Tony’s accent was thick as he pleaded, with pearls of sweat beginning to form on his brow.

  “Lemme tell you sumptin’, Antonio . . . I made your fuckin ass. Me! You either produce, or I’ll do da job myself. Then I’ll do you!”

  —the Capo was still pointing the gun at Tony’s forehead—

  “Now, git the fuck outta here.” The Capo busted a shot off into the air. “Git!”

  There must have been a dozen earners standing ready to carry out a Capo order. His gumbada were on balconies, ranges, and on top of freight and cargo shipments, prepared to put their firearms to use. Everyone looked forward to the chance of becoming the next made man. Tony knew this, and partially pissed himself while leaving the Jersey warehouse, back first, his eyes rolling around scared and erratic like pinballs. Once he was outside in the night air and safe from the spray of bullets, Tony leaned up against the warehouse in total relief, wiping sweat from his brow. All he could think about was how he was gonna infiltrate the Gilmore empire.

  Absent Minded

  Wade’s phone was buzzing and he rushed through the squad room to pick it up.

  “Hey, Wade? Ken.” Wade already recognized Ken’s voice and that he was on his cell phone. What he didn’t know was how much talking Ken was going to do before he got to the point.

  “How are you, Stevens? How is the series going?” Wade even knew that New York was up 2 to 1, and that they were away for the next 2 games in Texas.

  “We’re almost there. I think I’m starting in Texas. My arm is working magic!”

  “Okay . . . I’ll go find a bookie. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Wade had magic of his own, more than ready to move the conversation right along.

  “Well, there was something else I remembered.” Wade thought to himself, remembering how the last thing Ken suddenly recalled was a damned bombshell. Maybe now Ken saw who really shot Kennedy?

  “You once asked me if I knew anyone of Moet’s friends . . . Debbie? Remember?” Wade controlled his temper, sure not to shit himself.

  “Uh-huh . . . and?”

  “Well, I didn’t remember her name when you brought it up before because . . . well, you know how I’m not good with names . . . how I have to give them nick . . .”

  “Ken . . . Ken! Yes! I know. Now, cut to the chase—” Wade had to catch himself; keeping his voice at a minimum so that nobody would be in his business; his case. “—Debbie. Please. Tell me about Debbie!”

  “Well, I took her home one night when Moet brought her along to a game.”

  “Took her home. You took her home? Where? Where!” Wade was answering faster than he was thinking, clumsy and desperately searching for his pen and note
pad.

  “Well . . . I don’t exactly know the address. But I’ll never forget the location. See, they took me in the house with them. There were all of these African things . . .”

  “What? What do you mean you don’t know the address? But you do know the location? Listen, Ken. I want you to listen to me very carefully—Debbie may have been the last person to see Moet alive. Nobody knows where she lives. If you have that information we might be able to find Debbie and she may help us find Moet’s murderer. Now please. Take your time and think about this.”

  “See, I never forget directions. Never. I could actually take you there.” Ken seemed a little unsure with his own words.

  “How soon could we do that?”

  “The game comes back to New York in three days . . .”

  “That’s not soon enough. Give me your cell number again. I’ll call you back.” Wade reminded Ken not to ignore his calls like he had surely done to so many others who’d fed into his celebrity. “And, please . . . leave your cell phone on at all times.”

  Wade made a call down to Audrey. She was the communications specialist at the 45th. He had her initiate a process of elimination to hopefully find the location of the phone number left by Debbie on Moet’s answering machine.

  “Audrey Starr,” answered a vibrant voice.

  “Hey, Starr. It’s Wade. Any luck on the digits for the Paradise case?”

  “I thought you were off of that case, Walter?”

  “Yeah . . . but I, I got a hunch. Anything?”

  “I tried every one of ninety-nine combinations. There were two people named Debbie. One was sixty years old, telling me her health problems and complaints about her electric bill. Another was a thirteen-year-old in Catholic school. Everyone else wasn’t home; the phone was disconnected, or they just didn’t know anyone named Debbie. I do know that the origin of the number is in Forrest Hills.”

  “Yeah? Great, Starr. You’re a gem.” Wade hung up and no sooner did he pick up the receiver to dial Ken back.

  “Stevens?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s Wade. Does Forrest Hills ring a bell?”

  “Yeah. That’s near the LaGuardia Airport, right?”

  “Yes. Ken, don’t tell me you already knew she lived out near—Never mind. If I call you back on a cell from the airport, can you direct me from memory?”

  “Can I? Like a homing device on a missile!”

  “Okay. Look for my call at six this evening.”

  “I’ll be at the game. But I’ll have my cell. Holla at me.” Wade heard the beep indicating that Ken had hung up. He imagined Ken on the pitcher’s mound, winding up for a pitch and then stalling in effort to retrieve a ringing cell phone in his back pocket. He would have laughed at his own imagery, except just as Wade was hanging up the receiver, the phone rang again.

  “Detective Wade.”

  “Hello, Walter. This is Brenda from Channel Five News.”

  “Oh . . . hi, Bren.” Suddenly swallowing, waiting for a verbal bashing. Still picturing her pretty black hair and aerobic curves.

  “Wade, don’t give me that ‘oh hi’ stuff. I have a couple of bones to pick with you.” A hint of fire in her voice, Wade puckered his lips and folded his arms, wondering what a “couple” meant. He already knew that he’d stood her up for dinner a few weeks back. Brenda Feather. The 90’s version of Jayne Kennedy’s looks and critical, investigative tact.

  “You know . . . if I thought you were a scoundrel like some other men, I’d never have given you the time of day, you . . . you . . .” Wade stretched his eyelids in anticipation, but cut her off before she cut too deep.

  “Wait a minute, love. This case has been kicking my ass.”

  “Not since the FBI took over it hasn’t.” Brenda delivered a paper cut to get shit started, wounding his ego.

  “Alright, lady. That’ll be enough of that.” Wade wrinkled his forehead in a scolding manner.

  “Sorry,” she recanted. “I was hurt, Walter. All dressed up and nowhere to go. Plus, I haven’t been stood up since high school.”

  “Probably because you’ve been seeing those know-nothing, do-nothing, ain’t-never-gonna-be-nothings that don’t have a life. But yet, they have enough time to run yours.”

  “Okay, touché.” Brenda smirked to loosen the atmosphere between them. “Listen. You walked right past me last week at the New York game. You couldn’t have missed me. It was a bright day and before any of the major confusion started. Don’t you remember? I was across the street from the police lineup. What’s up with that?”

  Wade thought about all of the fever outside of the stadium and didn’t remember her.

  “Sorry, Bren. I didn’t see you.”

  “Wade, what’s going on? What’s happening with Ken? There’s news footage here showing you entering the clubhouse and also jetting with Ken in his truck.” Wade smiled at himself remembering how descriptive and precise Brenda was—the reason he was attracted to her in the first place; besides her youth and beauty, that is. She continued pushing buttons.

  “How come you’re his personal escort? Is he in trouble? Threats? What?” The investigator in Brenda was backing Wade up to the wall.

  “Bre, don’t jump the gun. Easy, woman. There’s nothing going on with Stevens . . .”

  “Then why are you with him?” Wade kept personal escort in his mind—and rode with it.

  “Yeah. Personal escort. That’s it. I’m hauling players around these days, ever since I’ve been removed from certain murder cases. You know, gotta think about job security nowadays. Listen, love. I’m working on something hot . . .”

  “Hot? Hot like what?” Wade could imagine Brenda’s eyes flexing to their limits. He took a deep breath, knowing he put some fire on her gasoline. Time for a damp cloth.

  “I’ll let you know. You’ll be second to know. Sorry about dinner. Soon, okay. Gotta go. Bye.” Wade’s heartbeat slowed quickly. He felt like he’d escaped a croc’s bite.

  While Wade was feeling relief, Brenda cringed. Wade an escort? Stevens is bigger and stronger than Wade. —Brenda’s mind was churning a million ideas. — Why the protection? Something’s up. Something-is-up. Brenda could not rest.

  It was early Sunday morning and 911 emergency Control Offices were cooling from a busy Saturday night. Shots fired. Auto accidents. Family disputes. Fights and burglaries. Nuisance calls. Not to mention that in a city of 7 million residents, every real emergency brings an average of 10 calls to 911 Central. To aggregate that, close to 3,000 (so-called) emergencies take place in New York City each night. It was just about 6am, and Dawn, operator 376, was ready to head home. At 5:56 a call came in. Dawn replaced her headset over her baseball cap to answer the call and simultaneously pressed a red button to record the particulars.

  “Hi, this is Holly and I’m headed up a hill, like on east Ninety-sixth Street, heading west, and, like this red Blazer is going like the opposite way. Like, towards the East River. But just like totally kept going. I mean, like, I’m pulled over now in my dad’s Lex, ya know, he let me borrow it for the weekend. But I’m, like, looking back down the hill and like this is so cool—there’s, like, this opening down near the FDR. I think that truck, like, totally went through the wall and into the water.”

  Dawn had rushed to her supervisor’s office with her notes from the call and her boss reviewed the tape. Meanwhile, three other calls came in that gave similar accounts. Dawn had already taken action. EMS and NYPD were contacted with a 96th Street location and a possible auto accident as the incident.

  Down under the FDR, just a half hour after the 911 call, police units, fire trucks, EMS and news trucks were on the scene. Two tow trucks were positioned near the edge of the road with cables hooked onto the front and rear of a nearly demolished Blazer. As the wreckage emerged from the river, with water spilling from all parts of the vehicle, officers on location could see that the entire front end was destroyed. A body of a male in his 40’s was floating inside the cabin amidst his own
blood and water from the East River. The front windshield was partially shattered from where the driver’s head had smashed into it. There was still hair stuck in the glass over the steering wheel. With his face full of lacerations and his body mangled and torn, even the emergency teams on duty, with their Jaws of Life tool cutting through the metal and steel, would not be able to identify him. But one bystander in particular knew exactly who it was, as he lifted a lighter to the cigarette stuck to his lip, cupped his hands and inhaled. He was celebrating a successful slaughter. Just to think, all he had to do was cut a hose here and there. And now, Bobby was gone too.

  Detective Wade was revved up. He was so sure he was onto something, and he acted accordingly. After updating Chief Washington, he jumped in a newer unmarked sedan and headed for Queens.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Reality

  “In everyone’s life comes a time when some ultimate challenge arrives. It comes fast and furious and without warning. It comes at a time when all of our resources are tested. A time when life seems unfair. A time when our faith, our values, our patience, our compassion, and our ability to persist are all pushed to the limit and beyond. Some have used such tests as opportunities for growth; others have turned away and allowed these experiences to destroy their hopes.”

  —Dr. Dennis Kimbro

  In Jail Without the Bail