by Alfredo Vea
The two men walked up the hill and through the incredible din of boom boxes, maundering dope fiends, and narcotics hawkers at the street corners.
“You cops?” one young man asked threateningly through a set of expensive gold teeth. He was wearing a tattered Domino’s pizza uniform, a paper hat with matching jacket.
“No,” said Jesse, “I am Biscuit Boy’s lawyer and this is his investigator.”
“Is the Biscuit in trouble? ” said the young man. “He ain’t that kind of boy, I’ll tell you that much. Fact is, he a chicken-chested wimp. He don’t know how to do no drama. He ain’t even strapped. How he gonna do a drama?” As he said it he proudly opened his Chicago Bulls jacket to show Jesse and Eddy the Mac-10 semi-automatic he had tucked into his belt. It was the nine-millimeter model. The young man smiled.
“Have you ever considered a membership in the National Rifle Association?” asked Eddy sarcastically. “They worship projectiles just like you do.”
“Ain’t they the enemy?” answered the boy after scratching his head for a moment.
“Can you tell me something more about Calvin?” said Jesse impatiently.
“The Biscuit Boy don’t use no drugs, didn’t never hardly drink, don’t do nothin’ but steal biscuits. He kind of a sissy. Hey, do you want to buy a twenty-shot?” He opened his mouth to display two off-white rocks on his tongue. “Say, was you my lawyer once?”
“I don’t recognize you,” said Jesse. “What’s your name? ”
“I know I seen you someplace,” said the young man without answering the question. “I seen you, too,” he said pointing toward Eddy. “Is you here from the pizza parlor? I swear I didn’t steal that van!” He pointed to a van that was parked halfway up the hill. It had been put up on blocks and stripped clean. Only the plastic pizza on the roof of the van was left intact. With a confused look lingering on his face he turned toward Jesse. “I think I remember something about a pizza parlor. Maybe I worked there. Was you my boss? ”
“I told you, I’m Calvin’s lawyer. Do you know who those kids were?” said Jesse, pointing downward to the four empty graves on the hillside.
“Yeah, I know,” said the young man who turned away suddenly and began to punch in a number on his tiny cellular phone, his long curving fingernails savagely entering the digits. Evidently, Jesse’s conversation with him was over. A phone not thirty feet away began to ring. The young man screamed “Fuck you” twice into the phone then pulled the instrument away from his lips. “Now I remember you. You done Mark Ballinger’s cases, didn’t you? ”
Jesse nodded. The young man’s lips returned to his phone.
“Biscuit’s got that Mexican lawyer who done them cases for Baby Strange. No, not that Baby Strange. We talkin’ about his son, little Baby Strange with them three murder beefs. Remember, he touched up them two dudes from Valencia Gardens and he did a touch-up on that one-eyed dude from the Fillmore? Baby Strange beat the gas chamber.”
“I’ve never been very religious,” sighed Jesse to his investigator, “but I think I could be a born-again Luddite.”
The young boy terminated his conversation with an expletive that was yet another synonym for intercourse, then turned to Jesse and Eddy.
“You okay up here. You can come on up.”
Jesse realized that this seeming buffoon had just transmitted the lawyer and the investigator’s identities and credentials across the entire hill, and in code, to boot: “These two are not the enemy.” He was an RTO and cryptographer combined.
“People will talk to you now, but you can’t subpoena nobody. Nobody up here will take a subpoena,” the young man cautioned. Jesse noticed that the young man’s voice had changed. There was a deeper, more authoritative tenor in his words.
“That’s some tired shit you’re peddling. It’s gaffle, man,” spatJesse angrily. “Everybody in the projects is always crying and moaning that they can’t get no justice in the courts, but no one ever wants to help. These people don’t want to be subpoenaed because they have warrants for traffic and petty theft. Biscuit could be charged with six murders! Do you understand that? Scream that into your damned phone!”
The investigator laughed at Jesse’s frustration while he turned to a page of his notes. The young man walked slowly, mechanically toward the van and stood next to it, touching the metal, probing it as though it held a secret
“Calvin’s mother lives in 27D,” said Eddy. “I spoke to her on the phone this morning. She’ll be home. According to Calvin she’s always home.”
A small window in the door opened a crack, just enough for a pair of dark eyes to peek outside. The room behind that eye was black, lit only by the numbing flicker of a cathode-ray tube. Above the insipid drone of an announcer’s voice, the sound of a half dozen deadbolts could be heard as they were removed, one after the next, like a jagged line of old iron sutures.
A small woman used one thin arm to usher the men into her tidy, dark home. The other arm was raised to cover her eyes. She seemed like a woman who should have been blind. She was stunned by brightness; her awkward, offset eyes announced that her true life’s vocation was to be found in sleep. Jesse remarked to himself that except for the eyes, Calvin looked just like his mother.
Without asking for her permission, Jesse began to walk slowly from room to room. He opened cabinets and closet doors as he moved. He touched fabric and linen and the gaudy white oak veneer that had been glued onto every visible surface of her cheap, particle-board furnishings. He moved to the tiny kitchen, to the stovetop, where a shriveled pork chop languished in a puddle of cold grease. He would have to describe Calvin’s home to the jury, describe his life. Jesse was struck by the fact that Mrs. Thibault had so few possessions.
There was no shortage of knickknacks but nothing of any size—doilies, handmade dolls, a cluster of bottles with colored water, and a gaggle of ceramic figurines. On the wall was a single black velvet painting of Martin Luther King. There were old circus tickets taped to the refrigerator. There was a tiny gathering of photographs on top of the television.
“There, Calvin in that one. He just ten year old. That my daughter Beulah. She doing real good. She got a job at the school of cosmetology over in Oakland. She even got a credit card now. That my Marvin. He be killed in a drive-by shooting last year. At least we found his body right off and buried him proper. Not like them boys out there. Thank Jesus God for that.”
She pointed to the school photo that was taped to the wall, above the rest. “That one be my youngest boy, Angelo. We call him Pickle ‘cause he a real sourpuss. He out there somewhere on the hill sellin’ gaffle.”
“Gaffle?” said Eddy.
“It’s the latest word for bunk,” answered Jesse with a smile, referring to fake cocaine. “Ain’t you up on the lingo? Some kids are out there selling instant mashed potato buds in place of crack. That’s a dangerous business, Mrs. Thibault. Those crackheads can get really mad if they aren’t unconscious by noon.”
“I told him that, but I can’t make him stay home. No matter what I do, he won’t stay home and he won’t go to school. At least he be safe now,” she said softly.
“Safe from Little Reggie,” ventured Eddy.
Mrs. Thibault slumped to the couch, then nodded her head twice, then let it fall wearily into her lap. She put her hands behind her head and laced her fingers together. Her thin knuckles were bony and worn. Now Jesse knew why she stayed indoors, a prisoner of her apartment. She was surrounded by a world on fire and she had resigned herself to the fact that she was nothing more than kindling.
“Everybody knew they was dead,” she said softly as she lifted her head. “Them poor mamas …” She was crying. “Them poor mamas. Their poor boys died alone, without so much as a Christian burial.” The television was still blaring, so Eddy reached for the remote and turned it off. Surprisingly, Mrs. Thibault did not seem to notice. In her life, television was a loyal, mindless, and undemanding companion, an endless drone of product-objects and product-people, a
semihuman machine that automatically transformed itself into a night light at two in the morning.
“Everybody so afraid of Little Reggie that didn’t no one say nothing about them boys being missing. They went one at a time, a couple of months or so apart. We all heard the shots. Even the boys’ mothers didn’t say nothing. They got other kids, you know. Little Reggie could hurt them, too. He said he would. That Little Reggie always been real bad. I been scared to death about Pickle since Calvin been arrested.”
“Did anyone see Little Reggie do these killings?” asked Eddy. “Are there any witnesses to any of the shootings?”
“No, but he steady be saying he done it. He always be bragging on it to everybody, waving that big gun around. Mind you, as sure as there’s a devil, that boy be Satan hisself. A bad seed. And his mama’s so nice and all. She a real pretty woman. She magazine pretty. She be light-skinned and she’s got that good hair … real straight. She coulda been Miss America back in 1977, did you know that? I think it was ‘76 or ’77. She was Miss Alabama, but something happened. Something bad happened. She a nice lady. She sure deserve better than all this. Last week she braided my hair.”
She used one hand to primp her braids.
“Do you know anything about a note that Calvin supposedly wrote to Little Reggie?” asked Jesse. “It’s said to contain a death threat.”
“My boy couldn’t death-threat nobody,” said Mrs. Thibault weakly. “And if he did, it’s about time he stood up to that fool. He was all the time making Calvin do things.”
“What kind of things?” asked Eddy, pressing down the top of his ballpoint pen. Mrs. Thibault found the clicking sound disquieting, disconcerting. People in the projects always suffered whenever a stranger came by and wrote things down.
“I don’t know,” she answered cautiously, “but Calvin used to come home crying and say that Little Reggie went and did something real mean to somebody, or made him watch while Reggie done some crazy things. I don’t know, but I’m glad that boy be dead. God help me I’m glad. His mama live right over there in the next building. She glad, too. I can tell. Is you ever seen Little Reggie?”
Neither the lawyer nor the investigator answered the question.
“He favors his mama, except for them eyes. He be a pretty boy, but he got them yellow, catfish eyes. Mean, swampy eyes. He look at you and you know there’s no use talkin’ with him. He don’t feel nothin‘. He empty inside. Something to do with his father. He be cursed or got the evil eye or something.”
Mrs. Thibault fell quiet. For a few moments the apartment experienced a rare spell of silence.
“The folks on the hill say the devil raped Mrs. Harp and she gave birth to Reggie just a week later. I seen them police diggin’ up Little Reggie’s body. He look for all the world like he be sleepin‘. Too damn mean to rot.”
Mrs. Thibault daubed her eyes with a tissue. “Death threat,” she whispered indignantly. “My boy can’t even write.”
At that Eddy walked to the refrigerator, removed a small magnet from the door, and used it to hang up the piece of paper that Jesse had given him in the courtroom. It was Biscuit Boy’s assignment, his paragraph about “A Gathering of Old Men.”
They be this one man so black that he be blu. An he proud that they be no white blood in him. He all blu-black. He strong an he African and he laff at niggas want strate hair and lit skin.
“How did Calvin get his nickname? How did he come to be called the Biscuit Boy?” asked Jesse.
Mrs. Thibault’s face lit up with one of the few smiles that she allotted herself on any given day.
“It was that poor Vietnamese girl over to the luncheonette that went and name him. God rest her soul. Calvin be sweet on her. He be real sweet on her. Here she be my age and all, and he be sweet on her. I must admit, she pretty.” She pulled her hair back with the finger of one hand. “Me … I look twenty years older than that woman, maybe more. Calvin ain’t never killed nobody, much less someone he be sweet on. That boy use to stay up on that street just to get one look at that woman. If he did, he come home all smilin’ and singin‘.”
Just then there was a loud knock on the door. Mrs. Thibault rose to answer it, but two men stepped inside before she could take a step. It was Inspector Normandie and a uniformed officer.
“Good day, ma‘am,” he said with a perfunctory nod. His red face was sweaty and his facial expression was caught somewhere between social awkwardness and a barely subdued look of glee.
“I saw your son’s lawyer walking up here, ma‘am, so I took the liberty of letting myself in. I hope I’m not intruding. This is Sergeant Thompson.” The uniformed officer nodded without smiling. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like to speak with Mr. Pasadoble for a moment.” The inspector then looked in the direction of the lawyer and said, “We can step outside.”
The inspector and the lawyer stepped onto the front porch and shut the door behind them. Jesse noticed that the sergeant had remained behind. Inside, Eddy and the sergeant were eyeing each other at a discreet distance. Mrs. Thibault had turned on the television.
“You’re a Potrero Hill virgin, ain’t you, a cherry?” grinned the inspector. Jesse’s expression made it clear that he did not understand the comment.
“This is your first time on this anonymous little hill, isn’t it? I saw you cussing up a storm and shaking like a leaf on the way up here. It takes a long time to get used to this place. Took me a couple of years. I’ve got something to show you, counselor. I don’t think the prosecutor will mind if I let you get an early peek at this.”
He reached inside his overcoat and pulled out a zip-top plastic bag that contained a small, folded piece of paper. With the tip of a wooden pencil, the inspector reached inside the bag and carefully unfolded the small sheet. He then handed the bag to the lawyer. He smiled as Jesse lifted the note to his eyes. The inspector was enjoying himself.
“Reggie, you is gonna die jest like the rest of them,” read Jesse aloud. “I swear you be a dead man. Calvin.”
“We haven’t told Mrs. Thibault yet, but we’re pretty sure we’re going to find Angelo the Pickle out there, too.” He nodded toward the hillside and the four open graves.
“We know he’s been missing for a few days now. I must say, counselor, your boy is the worst case I’ve seen in this town since the Night Stalker. As soon as we find that nine-millimeter gun with Calvin’s fingerprints all over it, we’ll have our ballistics tests and we’ll have our special circumstances. The Biscuit Boy is going to fry. Oh, excuse me. I misspoke. We’re doing lethal injections in California now, aren’t we? I hate them goddamn federal courts.”
“You’re crazy if you think Calvin killed these boys,” said a dazed, angered Jesse. “You’re even crazier if you think he would kill his own brother. You and I both know that Little Reggie Harp is the killer.”
“Then who did Reggie?” smiled the Inspector. “Who touched up my man Reggie? Do you think it was a strangulation suicide? As a matter of fact we’re beginning to think that Calvin is the brains behind the killings at the Amazon Luncheonette. It’s true, we haven’t found the gun yet, but that won’t hurt our case and you know it. Shit, the less hard evidence we have, the better off we are. The jury’s just gonna love the cold-blooded execution of two pretty women. All of that bra and panty and bullet testimony … you get my drift.
“Even if he hasn’t got any criminal history, five or six murders will get him the leather restraints and the hypodermic needle. Remember, counselor, the eyewitnesses may not be able to point to a killer, but they do say that two black boys did it and one of those boys is named Calvin.”
Jesse pushed open the door of the apartment and waved Eddy outside. He then reached into the pocket of his coat and removed a tiny recorder. As Eddy said goodbye to Mrs. Thibault, Jesse switched the recorder on, then stated the exact time, date, and location of this conversation as well as the identities of those present.
“Eddy Oasa is present, as well as Inspector Saxon Normandie o
f San Francisco homicide detail. Inspector Normandie, do you object to my recording this conversation?”
“Hell yes, I do!” shouted the inspector.
“Good!” laughed Jesse, “because you have just verified your presence with that answer. Inspector, I hereby forbid you as well as any member of the homicide detail to have any contact with Calvin Thibault. I forbid anyone to speak to him at your behest. Any handwriting exemplars or physical evidence from his person must be obtained by court order and with notice to me.”
He turned off the recorder, then, after signaling for Eddy to follow, began walking away from the inspector and toward the Amazon Luncheonette. They had gone only about thirty feet when the figure of a woman appeared in a distant doorway. Without knowing why, Jesse walked toward her. As Jesse got closer to the woman in the doorway, the reddish and alabaster blur of her image resolved into the incredible form of a woman wearing a pink strapless evening gown and matching shoes.
Her long, straight hair was done in a combination bubble and flip. From a distance she looked like a middle-aged Josephine Baker or Lena Horne. Up close she looked even better. One leg was straight while the other was just bent at the knee. Her feet were at a perfect ninety-degree angle to one another.
“For your information, counselor, that is Mrs. Harp, the mother of Little Reggie,” shouted the departing inspector, nodding toward the woman. “She’s quite a celebrity around here. Folks say she’s a real Jezebel. Now, I’m as close-minded as the next male chauvinist redneck”—the inspector smiied—“but I sure as hell wouldn’t mind dippin’ my pen in some of that black ink.”
“Jesus!” said Eddy, who shook his head with disgust at the police officer as he turned away. Jesse and his investigator walked toward the woman, stopping at the base of her front porch.
“May we speak with you, ma‘am?” said Eddy with uncommon deference. The inspector’s crude comments were still ringing in his ears.
