Details at Ten

by Ardella Garland

  Reverend Walker saw Zeke aiming the camera at him and he cleared his throat and straightened his tie. “I’m going inside,” he said, looking right into the camera, “to console the family. I was here earlier in the day.”

  “Don’t look at the camera, look at me, Reverend,” I instructed him. “Tell me what this latest tragedy means to the community.”

  “It’s yet another sign of the devastation in inner-city communities spurred on by joblessness, hopelessness, and ungodliness. The economy is in a shambles and young men in these gangs have no jobs, and no prospects. They are idle and they are angry. They turn to easy money by peddling drugs and easy fun, which to them is violence.”

  “So you’re saying if there were more jobs in the community there would be fewer gangs and gang violence?”

  “Yes, more jobs and more teachers and more programs. Our young people need guidance. And we need more police presence. Since I got the Defender to do Butter’s story, media coverage has increased and it’s put pressure on the police to do their jobs. I’ve seen more police patrols in the last few days than I’ve seen for months on end prior to this. It’s too late for Jackie Martin. . . . We hope it’s not too late for Butter Johnson.”

  “Do you want to say anything to the people who have Butter?”

  “Yes. Turn her loose. That child is a baby and wouldn’t harm a fly. Harm her and the wrath of God shall rain down like fire.”

  The Right Reverend was over the top. He played heavy to Zeke’s camera.

  “But I’m not just talking about something needing to be done,” Reverend Walker preached. “I’m going to do something. Tomorrow evening I’m going to lead a march through the park.”

  “What’s the march called?” Doesn’t every march have its own name nowadays?

  “It will be called the Healing and the Hope Vigil. Healing for the wounds left by the untimely death of young Jackie. And hope for the safe return of Butter. We’ll march through the neighborhood, five blocks to the park. Anyone who wants to bring about a change is welcome to join. Eight P.M. I hope to see you there?”

  “Channel 8 News will be there,” I said to Reverend Walker. I told Zeke, “Cutaways.” He began circling to shoot various wide shots of us standing and talking. With cutaway video you can show a wide shot, then go to a tight shot, and it looks like a natural change, as opposed to video shifting or jumping all over the place. You have to stand in your same position. While Zeke shot cutaways, Reverend Walker and I exchanged hopes for Butter’s safe return.

  “I got enough,” Zeke said with a hard sniff as he snapped off the overhead light on his camera.

  “I hope to see you at the rally,” Reverend Walker said. Then he paused and mumbled sheepishly, “I heard from Butter’s family that you were angry about the Defender article.”

  “That’s old and over with. I know you did what you thought best for Butter and her family.” I thought, And for yourself.

  “God bless,” Reverend Walker said, touching the cross at his neck. He turned and walked through the automatic doors of the hospital.

  I started scribbling notes on my pad. I was about halfway finished writing my story when out of the corner of my eye I saw Doug standing there. The hazy yellow light above the emergency entrance hit him just right as he stepped out of the shadows. He had on a dark blue T-shirt, tight-fitting jeans, and a big brass belt buckle in the shape of a clenched fist.

  “Georgia?” he called.

  I looked back down at my notes, up at the sky, down the street—any way but his way. I was still a little bit mad at Doug for hanging up on me earlier in the evening.

  Zeke was sitting on the edge of the open door of the truck. “Hey, Georgia, Detective Midnight is callin’ you.”

  I just looked at Zeke and rolled my eyes. Didn’t he ever know when to shut up?

  “C’mon, Georgia, I want to talk to you.”

  “She’s gotta go live in ten minutes,” Zeke said to Doug.

  Just did not know when to shut up. Ever.

  At that moment Jason came down with the picture. It was a color photo of Jackie at her junior prom. She had her hair swept up in the back, two long twisted strands down by her ears, and tiny pale blue flowers around a beautiful headband. “Nice,” I breathed admiringly.

  Zeke came over and I held the picture for him. He zoomed in and focused. We would beam back video of the picture to the station where the graphics department would use computer software to cut out Jackie’s image alone, soften the edges, increase the clarity, and mount the picture on a blue background with her name printed at the bottom.

  The entire time Doug stood up against the side wall, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He watched us work. I prepared to go live, practicing what I would say. Zeke was setting up the shot.

  When I got a break, Doug came over and spoke firmly. “Georgia, I came down here to say I’m sorry. When you finish, come over to my car. I’ll be there waiting.”

  Zeke popped his head out from behind the camera. “I know you ain’t going for that.”

  “Will you shut up, Zeke?”

  “That’s what my wife says to me all the time, Shut up, Zeke. That’s all I get out of a woman is shut up . . . no hugs, no kisses, no pus-”

  “Zeke!”

  He stooped down and started fiddling with the cable, mumbling, “Women . . .”

  I got through the live shot, which included my piece that had the produced picture of Jackie, file footage of the drive-by scene, exterior of the hospital, sound bites from the family and from Reverend Walker. When I finished the car was still there, parked by a fire hydrant—isn’t that just like a cop?

  I walked up to the passenger-side window, which Doug had rolled all the way down. He had his seat back, and his arms crossed over his broad chest. His tired eyes slowly turned toward me.

  “Say, mister,” I said, “I’m just getting off work. I don’t feel like waiting for a cab. Can you give a sister a lift?”

  “Sure.” Doug smiled. “Where to?”

  F I F T E E N

  You ah dirty dog, but I got ah hold of your leash . . .” As Doug and I got out of the car, I could hear my twin cutting up with one of the blues songs she’d written. Doug and I hadn’t said much in the car, a simple exchange of sorrys. I suggested we unwind at my sister Peaches’s place.

  “Awwwwww, baby . . .” Peaches wailed.

  We got to the door, and as usual, Milton was sitting there just bobbing his head and popping his fingers. He looked up at us, winked at me, and asked Doug for ten dollars.

  Doug looked at me. Please . . . free? Peaches owes me too much money for that. “Pay the man, Doug.”

  “ . . . You ah dirt-ay, dirt-ay doe-whog . . .”

  Milton took the ten-dollar bill and warmly welcomed us with his traditional, “Go on in, and good times.”

  “ . . . but I gotta fist full of your leash . . . !”

  Peaches was at that point in the song where she was hunched all the way down to the floor. I stopped Doug and warned him, “You have to step back for this part.” I eased us off to the side of the stage. Peaches was about to do what I called her nasty dance.

  Peaches started singing, “... I’m tuggin’, rubbin’, kissin’, and huggin’. . .”

  She worked her way down to a squat and then started doing a twist coming back up but slow, like a good old-fashioned up-against-the-wall grind. She worked the word “huggin’” over and over again.

  The piano man was hitting four notes at the same time, in two different octaves. Dude was sweating and pounding the keys until they sounded like they were shrieking. Peaches was contorting and straddling the mike stand. The infamous nasty dance. The first time my grandmother caught her doing it, she chased Peaches down a dirt road with a switch.

  When we were teenagers, Peaches used to practice this with a broom and call it her witch twist. Tonight when she got all the way up on her toes, she kicked off one of her pumps. Actually, it was one of my pumps. Every time the chick came over to my
place to visit, she raided my shoe closet. The red satin scud went sailing through the air. Ten sets of men’s hands went rebounding after that shoe. I reminded myself to put a Master lock on my shoe closet door.

  “Wow!” Peaches laughed into the mike and started walking the stage peg-legged, singing and shouting.

  A regular, the proud owner of a countrified Gomer Pyle voice, shouted, “Peaches! Peaches! Peaches!”

  “Man!” Doug said, his face brilliant with pleasure, which made him even more handsome. “Your sister is something!”

  “Yep!” I said very proudly.

  Rita the hostess came over to us. That poor chile was forever working her wrist bangles and sipping her drink. Rita tried to seat us at the house table but grudgingly agreed when I asked for a rear booth, out of the range of Hurricane Peaches.

  Doug had a shot and beer. I had wine.

  “Ahh, yeah,” I moaned, not realizing how much I needed a sip-sip of a little something-something.

  Doug had the heel of his shot glass up against his forehead, rolling it back and forth. “It’s been a crazy few days, huh?”

  “Yes, Lord.” I sighed and eased down into the lap of the booth. “I called the hospital and they said Audrey Darrington was released. I’m afraid for her—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got a car stationed outside her house as we speak. But tomorrow her sister is going to drive her to Memphis for a while, till this thing blows over.”

  “Good, I like Audrey. She’s a nice lady.”

  “With a fucked-up son.”

  We clicked our drinks, said cheers, and sipped.

  I wanted to put all that had happened aside, but first I had to ask Doug about Jackie’s death. What did Jackie’s death mean for Butter?

  Doug didn’t say a word.

  What about the trace on the phone call to my house, the one asking for ransom?

  Still working, Doug said.

  I asked about the prints from the scene beneath the el. Not back yet, Doug said.

  Would they kill her? Could she be dead already? Maybe the police should ease up, give the Rockies and the Bandits room and in that space, maybe they would make a mistake.

  “Georgia, let’s talk about something else, huh? Put the reporter in you aside and I’ll put the detective in me aside and let’s try something new.”

  “Like?” I said, flipping the word up into the air.

  Doug cocked his head to the left and let the syllable’s sound float down between us. When it landed, he said, “Like us.”

  I felt a little anxious but I played it cool, sipped my drink, and let Doug proceed.

  “So . . . Are you married, single, or divorced?”

  I’m hanging by a sculptured nail off Mount Late Thirties. I work like a fiend, so meeting a man is tough. But I didn’t want to seem too anxious. I simply said, “I’m single.”

  Doug nodded. Tracing his finger along the rim of the shot glass, he countered, “I’m divorced. It’s been about a year and a half.”

  Okay, enough time to avoid a lot of rebound baggage. And I knew better than to ask what went wrong. I dug in further. “Steady girlfriend?”

  “No . . . I have dates but no one special at this point.” He spoke clearly, the words anchored by a steady gaze.

  Yeah! Doug was already looking good to me; now he was looking real good.

  “You have any kids?”

  “No, no children. . . . I love kids and I wanna have some eventually, but we never got along well enough—or long enough—to plan a family. There’s nothing between us now but Lake Michigan and two states.”

  Could the man look any better to me at all? I don’t think so!

  “What about you, Georgia, you seeing anyone special?”

  “Doug, the only special somebody in my life is my three-year-old nephew, Satch, Peaches’s son.”

  Doug grinned, “Peaches doesn’t look like the mothering kind.”

  “She’s actually very good with Satch, better than his father, Mario. He’s a drummer—travels all the time and has barely laid eyes on Satch. Mama constantly warned Peaches about him. I did too. She can’t say she burned up because nobody yelled fire! We told her.”

  Doug laughed and the sound tapered to a hush when he gently bit his bottom lip, then smiled. “Your mother should have left Peaches alone. Sounds like she might have inadvertently pushed her into it.”

  “There’s a history there, you see. Mama hated performing—as a young woman she had toured as a singer but she only went into it because my grandmother was an entertainer in Memphis and pushed her into it. But when Mama’s career failed and her marriage to my dad did, too, she fled to Chicago. When we were growing up, Mama worked all kinds of jobs and went to night college, too. Then she went to law school part time. The old girl pulled it off—she’s a lawyer for the city now.”

  “Tough lady.”

  “You said it. And Mama’s really tough on Peaches because she didn’t want us performing—she wanted us to go to college and have careers. So she and Peaches do a pull and yank thing with each other.”

  “So when your mother tried to pull Peaches away from this drummer guy, she yanked him in closer.”

  “Yep, and it blew up in her face. Besides my nephew, the relationship was sour. Peaches has been trying to chase Mario down for child support with no luck.”

  “That wouldn’t happen to you.”

  “What wouldn’t?”

  “Having to chase a man down.” Doug’s voice dropped to a flirtatious whisper but his eyes held mine steadily. “Any guy would be a fool to run away from a beautiful woman like you, no matter what the circumstances.”

  Hey now! I told myself not to break out into a grin like a Cheshire cat. Don’t do it. Don’t act like a schoolgirl with raging hormones. But you know I did, grinning like an idiot, and it felt good.

  “Georgia . . .” Doug murmured, touching my hand.

  “Hey!” Peaches shouted. “What y’all doing back here?” My sister put her hands on her hips and stood wide-legged.

  Big-mouth Peaches! Her timing is worse than a busted watch. Does she always have to be the center of attention?

  “Peaches, we’re trying to have a quiet drink,” I finally answered after giving her a hug.

  “Quiet?!” She looked from me to Doug and nodded her head. “Georgia ought to know she can’t sneak nowhere around me. We got that twin vibe going. We feel what each other feels. I’m Peaches Barnett, and you are?”

  “Doug Eckart,” he said and shook her hand.

  “Don’t shake it, kiss it! Demanding ain’t I?”

  “Always have been . . .” I started to say.

  “. . . And always will be,” Peaches finished my sentence. “How’d y’all hook up?”

  “Doug, you’ll have to excuse Peaches, she’s nosy.”

  Peaches nudged me with her hips. “Yeah, I’m nosy. Scootch over.”

  What could I say? I had stuck my straw in her business and sipped many a day. So I gave her a brief synopsis of our working relationship.

  “Oh, so you two are working together to try and find that little girl who’s missing,” Peaches said. “I’ve been watching you, Georgia. You’ve been doing a good job with the coverage.”

  “Excellent,” Doug corrected and raised his drink.

  “I see.” Peaches gave me the eye, and gave me an elbow under the table.

  “Then you should be moving on,” I said.

  Doug chuckled.

  “Fine by me,” Peaches replied. “Like I said, twins got that feeling vibe going.” Peaches got up from the table and slapped Doug on the arm. “Be good now. When she comes, I come!”

  Call Forever Rest Funeral Home, I could have died I was so embarrassed. Doug, however, was laughing so hard he was up under the table practically, rolling from side to side. I gave Peaches the finger and she blew me a kiss as she sashayed away.

  “Doug, let’s go. Peaches is not going to let us have a minute’s peace, I can see that right now.”

>   “All right. Whatcha feel like?”

  “My place.”

  I blinked hard after I heard my own voice, but that sexy invitation rolled off my tongue with the greatest of ease. I wanted to get to know Doug better. I wanted to relax but I didn’t want to be alone. I knew he could understand the tripped-out stress that I was under because he was under it, too. Similar levels of tension can make pals or passion partners out of work associates.