Crime Song

by David Swinson

  “What are you going to do with me?” he asks.

  “Well, I don’t think I’m gonna kill ya,” I say, then hand him his cell phone. “So call your uncle.”

  Forty-Nine

  I snap a head-shot photo of Biddy with my phone, then cut the duct tape from his legs. I uncuff him.

  “You think about doing anything stupid and I’ll break you like a twig.”

  “I know, sir. I won’t.”

  I walk to the nightstand, grab his wallet, and take the fake ID and the expired license out. I let him see me put them in my pocket.

  “I need that license.”

  “Insurance. I’ll be holding on to it.”

  “I just want a way out of this.”

  “What—your addiction? Or out from under Jasper?”

  “I guess both.”

  “You guess, huh?”

  No response.

  “What does your uncle think about all that?”

  “I never smoke in front of him. He’s tried to get me to quit. More than once.”

  “What’s the longest you’ve gone?”

  “Almost a week.”

  “That’s good. So what brought you back?”

  “My mother’s death.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “No need. I guess I’m what you’d call a crack baby.”

  That’s a good excuse. Or is it really in his blood?

  “Is that how your mom died?”

  “It didn’t help. She got pneumonia.”

  “Well, going a week is good,” I say in an effort to change the subject. “That means you can go longer, have a better chance of quitting next time.”

  “Thing about this stuff? Once you start smoking? You can’t stop. When I run out I sometimes don’t get anything for a day. It’s not that hard for a day, maybe.”

  “That’s because you know you’re going to get more. You trick your brain.”

  He looks at me like How would you know that?

  “In my career I’ve interviewed a lot of users,” I say.

  “Oh. It’s just that it’s not that hard when it’s not around. What’s hard is not thinking about it.”

  He’s got that right.

  “Speaking of addiction, the first hit was on me. I want you to use the bathroom if you need another one, ’cause I don’t want to see it anymore or smell it, so put the fan on or blow that shit into a wet washcloth.”

  “Wet washcloth. That’s a good idea.”

  “I heard it works for weed.”

  “So I can pick this up?” he asks, looking at the baggie.

  “No. I’ll be holding on to it, too,” I say.

  I pick it up, open it, and pull out a nice chunk he can break some off of. Hand it to him.

  “Use it wisely.”

  “Will I get all of it back?”

  “Like I said, that depends on how this plays out.”

  I look at my phone for the time.

  Daylight’ll be creeping in soon, and so will Diamond.

  Fifty

  There’s a purpose in all this, but it still feels like nothing but an all-night binge with a crackhead. And now I have Diamond to grapple with. The first thing I did when he came in was pat him down. Doesn’t matter what Biddy told me about his uncle. I don’t know them, and I don’t trust either of them.

  Now Diamond is standing at the foot of the bed staring at the blank TV screen, like everything’s starting to collapse around him. Well, it is, but I didn’t put him in that position. If anyone should feel that way, it’s me.

  Biddy’s in the bathroom. We both know what he’s doing, but it’s harder to take for Diamond.

  Yeah, like I said, I don’t trust him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a good man. Shit, look at me.

  Biddy walks out of the bathroom grinding his teeth.

  “Everything just got real complicated,” Diamond says to the television screen.

  “Didn’t have to be that way. It was simple, but I understand why you don’t trust me. I wouldn’t trust me.”

  “He could have turned me in,” Biddy tells his uncle.

  Diamond turns to him. A hard look.

  “Yeah, you think he’d do that and get his ass locked up for kidnapping or some charge like that?”

  He makes a good point, but I don’t let him know.

  “But he’s a cop.”

  I’m beginning to think Biddy might be a little slow. Or maybe it’s all the crack he’s been smoking, speeding him up so fast on the outside that his brain doesn’t have time to catch up.

  “Robby, he ain’t no cop no more. Shit, he’s a private eye.”

  “You showed me a badge, said you were a cop.”

  “I showed you my retirement badge. I never said I was a cop.”

  “Showing your badge is the same thing as saying,” Biddy says, almost like a child.

  “I can understand how you’d assume that.”

  “So now we’re caught up in all this, on top of everything else,” Diamond says.

  “Lesser of two evils,” I tell him.

  He looks at me direct.

  “So what you plannin’ on doing?” Diamond asks me.

  “I don’t know. Sleep for a bit and figure it out when my head is clear. I’ll figure something out so Jasper and the big guy take the fall.”

  “We don’t want any part of this here,” Diamond says.

  “You think I do? It was you two who brought me into this. Who am I to Jasper that he’d fuck with me like this? That he’d have…” I can’t say Jeffrey’s name for some reason.

  Neither of them answers that.

  Diamond sits at the foot of the bed, hunched over, arms resting on his knees.

  “The only reason I had Biddy call you was to show you there’s nothing to worry about with me. I need to know why Jasper put you on to my house.”

  “I told you I don’t know,” Biddy says.

  “What about you, Uncle Diamond? You know?”

  “I don’t.”

  “I just have one warning, and it’s not me you two have to worry about. If he finds out you talked to me, he’ll realize you’re witnesses, that you gave him up.”

  “We ain’t stupid,” Diamond says.

  “I keep hearing that. I suspect you’re not, but we all got an agenda. If I were you, Diamond, I’d get me another room at this motel, lay low for a while with your boy. I’m gonna figure this thing out. See if there’s a way to keep you two out of it. I don’t know if it’s possible. I don’t even know why I’m suggesting it, because I shouldn’t give a fuck about you two.”

  I pull out the baggie of crack from my pocket and toss it underhand to Biddy.

  Surprisingly, he catches it.

  “You two run, and I’ll give everything to the police unless I find you first, and trust me, you’ll want the police to find you first.”

  I grab my backpack and open the front door.

  “You damn well better take me seriously,” I warn, then exit.

  The chances of my getting into trouble are greater if I turn them in. That is, if they talk about how I came to find them. Fuck. Kidnapping while armed, assault, just to name a couple of charges I could face. I’ve also locked up hundreds of crackheads back when I was on the job. Turned a few of them into good CIs. Yeah, some of them ran when we got them out, but they always ran back to their neighborhood ’cause they had nowhere else to go. Diamond owns his home. They have no relations outside DC except Diamond’s son. And I sure as hell don’t think Biddy’s gonna take off to Afghanistan or wherever the hell Diamond’s son is stationed. I’m taking a big chance, but if it works it’ll lead me to Jeffrey’s killer. Untie this whole fucking thing.

  I check the whole house when I get home, make sure everything is secure. I lock the bedroom door once I enter, strip down to shower. Carry clean underwear and my gun into the bathroom with me. Lock the bathroom door, put the gun on the vanity, and cover it with my underwear.

  After my shower, I dress in comfortable khaki
s and a white T-shirt, pop two Klonopins, and lie on top of the covers with my gun at my side. Despite the Klonopin, I have confidence that if someone kicks the door in, I’ll still have the acuity to cap his ass. Be nice if it was Jasper. Save me a lot of trouble. Things rarely work out the way you want them to.

  Damn, I don’t need this in my life right now. I can’t think straight. That long night with Biddy has floored me. I feel like he’s the other side of me. A mini me.

  Fuck, I’m nothing like him.

  I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Leaving them there. I got the guy who burglarized my house. The guy who can clear my name from the suspect list and put his own name in its place. Who the fuck am I?

  The bedroom is cool. The ceiling fan helps, too. I like the feeling of the air as it pushes softly against my face.

  Leslie sneaks into my head. I close my eyes, try to see her face, but it’s no longer a clear image.

  After a few minutes of lying still, something comes to me.

  Something good that I need to do.

  I have to try to get some sleep first, ’cause it has to be tonight.

  Fifty-One

  That evening I park a block and half from Riggs. It’s stuffy out. Before I exit the car, I grab the stun gun from my backpack, clip it to my belt behind the gun, and slip on my thin tactical gloves.

  I shoulder my backpack when I exit. It’s a little heavier than normal because it contains some other tools I might need, like a mini Halligan bar. Don’t leave home without one.

  I check the time. Coming up on midnight. Shouldn’t take me more than twenty minutes. Saturday night near 14th Street, so there are a few people out, maybe walking home or looking for their parked cars after hitting a bar. Two young girls pass me. One smiles. I smile back. Just a normal guy in a suit here.

  I walk leisurely so I can scope out Riggs Street. I notice a dim light on in their house through the closed curtains of the front window. An equally dim patio light is on. The block is quiet.

  I walk up the stairs. They have a sturdy security gate. It’s locked. I look around again.

  I ring the doorbell.

  Not a sound.

  I ring it two times in a row. Wait a couple of minutes, and still nothing. The security gate would be easy to pop open with the Halligan bar, but it’ll make too much noise. I walk down the stairs and east toward 13th, counting the homes between their house and the intersection. I turn left on 13th toward the alley. I don’t take the cut on Riggs just in case there are prying eyes. This way it looks like I’m leaving.

  After I make the turn into the alley I count the homes to the east of their house. A six-foot flimsy wooden fence surrounds the tiny backyard. I use my knife to unhinge the latch and enter. No exterior lights back here. That’s good. I let my eyes adjust, then move to the back door.

  No security gate, but it’s a good door. Nothing that can’t be pried open, though.

  Hitting a home at night is far more dangerous than hitting it during the daytime. It’s easier to surveil a house in the daytime before you hit it. Now I know where they are, but not for how long. And I haven’t sat on the house long enough to know who else might live here. Not smart? Maybe. Desperate times and all that shit.

  I peer through one of the square glass panes in the door. Looks like it opens to the kitchen. The light I saw through the curtains is coming from a hallway. Can’t waste time.

  I wedge the Halligan right at the dead bolt, give it a good tap with my lower palm. A little noise. Not bad, though. Without hesitation I slap the Halligan with the weight of my upper body, breaking the dead bolt out. I slip the bar back into the pack, take out my full face mask, and put it on. I shoulder the pack, then unhinge the stun gun from my belt and enter.

  Feels like they got a bit of cool air going inside, but it fucking smells. Combination of skunk weed and somethin’ much worse.

  There’s enough light coming in from the hallway for me to see without my Streamlight.

  The kitchen’s a disaster. Aged grease caked on pots and pans on top of dirty plates and glassware. I don’t wanna know what else. The smell alone is starting to get to me. It comes damn close to some of the worst smells I’ve ever walked into, and that includes when I was on the job.

  I close the broken rear door as best as I can. Once through the hallway and into the living room I have to use my Streamlight. It’s bright as shit and can blind someone for a couple of seconds, so I keep it close to my feet and away from the windows. The living room is just as messy and the smell worse. Normal shit like pizza boxes, beer bottles, even a fucking half-empty bottle of Jameson. A flat-screen is on the floor across from a sofa. Looks like it’s hooked up, and it sure as hell looks like mine, but I can’t be positive. I didn’t keep the serial number, and even if I did want to take it, I’m not about to lug that thing down the block. Then again, maybe I’ll call Diamond and ask him to come pick me up. Ha.

  Bedrooms are what I want to search. The stairs leading to the second floor are creaky. I got my stun gun ready and will drop it quick enough to unholster my weapon if I have to. Once up the stairs I find five doors. The frame of one is narrow enough to be a linen closet or something like that. One door is open, and it leads to a bathroom. Two other doors across from each other at the far end of the narrow hallway are partially open. There’s only one door at the near end, and it’s closed. A faint light on the inside from under the door. I go there first.

  Fucking creaky floors. I’m no ninja. I’m closer to that smell. I know what a dead body smells like, and this is worse. I turn off the Streamlight and stick it back in my front pants pocket.

  I try the doorknob. It turns. I open it slow, enough to get a look inside. The smell hits me like an evil spirit taking possession of my body. Fucking overwhelming is an understatement.

  A dull light is cast over most of the room by a small nightstand lamp.

  An old lady in the queen-size bed, under the covers, just her head poking out, rotting or sleeping—who knows?

  Damn.

  There’s a chrome walker next to her bed, within her reach. On the floor a couple of steps from that are an orange bucket with a small toilet seat on it and a garbage bag that looks like it’s full of diapers and used toilet paper.

  I can see into the bucket. It’s three-quarters full of watery diarrhea shit. That’s what I smell, or part of it. Good God.

  I need to check if she’s alive. I’m stupid that way. I approach the bed to see if she’s breathing. I can barely make it out, but it looks like her chest is expanding and contracting. Her breathing is a bit labored. I don’t want to check her pulse. Her eyes open. I straighten up and step back.

  Her thin, angular, bony face turns to me, but her head doesn’t lift off the pillow.

  “What the hell you want now?” she says like she knows exactly who I am.

  Fifty-Two

  I’m afraid I’m not who you think I am,” I tell her.

  She looks at me harder, with deep dark eyes, and I don’t know if it’s the lighting in here or if she really does have deep dark eyes. Not like death, because there’s still glossy life in them. Something like onyx eyes. Knife-into-your-heart eyes.

  “You wearing a mask,” she says firmly, but without much volume. “Who are you, then? I ain’t got nothin’ for you here.”

  I lift my mask over my nose, but not enough to reveal my identity, just my mouth and chin. An odd sort of attempt to make her feel comfortable.

  “I’m not here for you, but I can help you if you want.”

  “Help me?”

  “Take you to a hospital.”

  She spits out a sickly laugh. Coughs a little.

  “Hospital? Why?”

  “It looks like you need help.”

  “Even if I do, ain’t got no insurance.”

  “They’d have to admit you if you’re sick.”

  “I ain’t sick. I’m dyin’.”

  “How long you been dyin’ for?”

  “What?”


  “I mean, it seems like you been in this bad environment for a while, having to use a bucket instead of a toilet. Seems you might be better off, even more comfortable, dyin’ in a hospital.”

  “I don’t know how long it’s gonna take. I ain’t God Almighty. I want to stay here in my home. That’s all. Now go on. Get out of here. Do what you got to do with those good-for-nothin’ boys and let me die in peace. All they is is trouble.”

  This really fucks things up. I was expecting maybe a sleeping grandma or at the least a livelier one who I’d have to comfortably restrain. Not this shit. I don’t have time, and I’m sure as hell not about to pick her up and carry her out of here against her will.

  “What do you want me to do about those boys?” I ask.

  “Damn. I got to tell you?”

  I exhale a “Hmmph” like an uncomfortable chuckle.

  “They your grandsons?”

  “Not by my choice.”

  “So this here is your home?”

  “Bought and paid for by my deceased husband. You the damn tax man?”

  I don’t know if she’s serious or if that was meant to be a joke.

  “You got a phone in here? Cell phone, maybe?” I ask, scanning her nightstand and not seeing anything.

  “No. Ain’t nobody I got to call or even want to. If I did, you got no worries, so get out now.”

  “I need to make sure.”

  She looks up toward the ceiling, closes her eyes.

  “Do what you need to do, then go.”

  How she can she stand the smell in here? Maybe it burned her sinuses out a long time ago.

  I’m not going to do anything. I can’t. I don’t want to lift those covers to see what’s under there. I just want to get out of this room. It’s too much. I regret even being here.

  I exit.

  I’m an idiot. I know. If she does have a phone and calls the cops, I hope I’ll see them or hear them coming. And the same goes if she calls her grandsons. Somehow I doubt the latter.