Of wee sweetie mice and men

by Colin Bateman

  'You come along here, day or night, you sit in your car for any length of time, people notice,' was what he'd said. 'The police come by, check you out, people come by, try to buy drugs off you, try to sell you crack. Hell, they take your wheels while you're watching someone and you don't know a damn thing about it. The trick is, get out in the open, sit on your hood, you become part of the landscape. Act like you own the place. Then nobody messes with you.'

  'But Savant knows we're not part of the landscape.'

  'Savant knows nothing. Look at him up there. He's got money, but he hasn't a clue what to do with it. He feels outta place. You can't buy class, Starkey. He's bought himself out of the real Harlem into this fairy-tale version, and he's not sure whether he likes it. He's restless.'

  'He might be restless because we're here.'

  'He's restless because he's got ants in his pants. He'll be over here before long, wondering what we're up to. Curiosity'll get the better of him.'

  I accepted a solitary French fry. It was cold and there was no vinegar on it, and I thought of home. And Patricia. Patricia liked her chips swimming in it. It would be early evening at home; she'd be curled up in front of a fire with her baby, and maybe her lover.

  To give him his due, Smith had done his homework. His contacts in the area were obviously good. From whatever source, he'd managed to put together a list of some twenty-five employees at the Shabazz, a silver-domed mosque eight blocks away which served as the headquarters of the Brothers of Muhammad. He'd checked out a number of them and reckoned if anyone was making good money moonlighting as a Son of Muhammad, then it was Savant. Janitors just didn't live in apartments in Morningside.

  'Maybe he has family money,' I ventured.

  Smith shook his head. 'Not unless his dad's the local drug baron.'

  'You're very cynical about your own people, aren't you?'

  'My own people? You make me sound like Kunta Kinte. You try living here for fifty years. You'd get cynical about a box of Cheerios.'

  He thought Savant was probably a minor player in the organization, he reasoned that if he was going to watch anyone it was better to watch someone relatively unimportant than a prime mover who'd be more likely to watch his tail.

  I chanced another look up towards Savant. He caught my eye. I tried to make it seem like I was just panning round. I turned back to Smith. 'I take it you don't think Mary is in there.'

  He shook his head. A little piece of batter flew off his upper lip. 'No, if they have her she'll be in a safe house somewhere. It would be too obvious to keep her in one of their own places. If I can get hold of their membership list, then I suspect the police can, though it might take them a little longer.'

  'So what's the point in watching him?'

  'Nothing else to do,' he said simply. He cast his eyes up towards Savant. He nodded. 'If you're going to take part in this charade,' he said dryly, 'at least pretend to write something. He may be dumb, but he's not blind.'

  'You think he's dumb?'

  I wrote BULLSHIT in capital letters.

  'I think he's dumb.'

  'Based on what?'

  'Instinct. I never met a smart foot soldier yet.'

  I wrote DOUBLE BULLSHIT. I showed him my notes. I didn't think he'd risen much above the level of foot soldier in the police.

  He shrugged. As a speciality of mine, I regretted the fact that it was beginning to catch on so widely. Maybe I should have patented it in the early days and made some money. Then he nodded again. 'Make your own mind up. Look at him, he never made it out of Moomin Valley.'

  I turned. Savant was off the stoop and halfway across the road towards us in big, easy strides. I flipped the page in my notebook and studied Smith for a moment. Then in my best reporter's voice: 'And you were born in this very street? It must have been a tough childhood?'

  'Tough but happy.'

  'Tough but happy,' came a none too good mimic from behind me.

  I looked round at Savant. I pretended to be nervous. I gave him a half-smile. 'Hello,' I said. A little tremulous.

  'Can I help you, son?' Smith asked, mock weary.

  'I'm kinda insatiable to know just what you guys are up to.' He nodded at Smith. 'You someone famous?' One hand rested inside his jacket, like there might be a gun in there.

  Smith had a gun, but he looked far from concerned. 'You don't recognize me?'

  Savant shook his head slowly. He looked at me. 'Who is he?'

  'Don't you know?'

  He kept shaking.

  'Did you ever see Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous?' said Smith.

  'Sure.'

  Smith pointed at me. 'Well, he's a researcher for Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.'

  'And you?'

  'I'm just rich and famous.'

  'You don't look rich and famous.'

  Smith rubbed at his chin. 'Son, clothes and jewellery and a big flashy car don't make you a man, they just make you a slave to the consumer society. I keep my feet on the ground and my head outta the clouds.' He smiled paternally at Savant, who looked confused. 'I never lost touch with my roots, son. In fact that building over there, that one where you been wastin' the day sunning yourself in the clouds, that's where I was born. Before they all went and gen-tri-fied it all up.'

  'Better now than it ever was,' said Savant defensively.

  Smith shook his head. 'Shouldn't mess with the past, son. Let it stand as,- monument to our mistakes.'

  He nodded sagely. I nodded at him and at Savant. I wrote

  ABSOLUTE BOLLOCKS

  in shorthand.

  'Me and seven other kids shared a room in that block, son. I'll bet you got more room than that.'

  'I've a duplex apartment, man, top floor, all the luxuries you could ever want.' Said with pride.

  'You done well for yourself then. Where'd you make your money then, drugs?'

  'You insultin' me, man.'

  His hand slipped further into his jacket. I tensed up, ready to dive out of the line of fire, or wrestle him to the ground. I hadn't quite decided.

  Smith raised his palms. 'No insult intended, my friend. In my day, you saw a rich brother round here, he either running the numbers or running the dope. What you in, son, computers?'

  Savant shook his head. 'I'm in religion, man.'

  Smith smiled. 'Well, that figures. Muhammad looks after his own.' He nodded and extended his hand. Savant hesitated for a moment, then nodded and grasped it. 'You'll have to excuse me, son, busy schedule. You understand?'

  'Sure.' He went to walk on, then stopped. 'What you rich and famous for anyway, man?'

  'You ever see Roots?'

  Savant nodded. His eyes appraised Smith more keenly. The portly detective raised his palms, turned his face to profile, left it for a second, then turned it back to Savant and smiled. 'Chicken George,' he purred.

  'You sure gone to seed,' said Savant, and walked on down the block.

  It was just edging towards darkness when we locked the car and walked quickly across the road to the apartment block. I said, 'I still don't think this is a very good idea.'

  'Wait in the car then.'

  It wasn't so gentrified that the owners had got round to providing a security man. There was an old buzzer system in operation. There were no name tags posted on the door, so using common sense, Smith pressed the bottom button. In a second a tired sounding voice crackled over the intercom.

  'Press the damn button, man, I'm freezing my balls off out here,' said Savant, or the closest approximation to him I was ever likely to hear.

  'Fuck you, man.'

  'Please, just this one time.'

  'Savant, you betta get yo'self another key. This the last time.'

  The buzzer sounded and we were in. The foyer was well lit. We moved quickly across to the stairs. Smith, instigator and investigator, led. I, being the procrastinator and agitator, shuffled along nervously behind. For a fat bloke he mounted the stairs almost with grace, like he was floating rather than pulling a couple of tons. H
e didn't even seem to be breathing hard when we hit the landing five floors up. There was just the one door. Smith knocked on it.

  'He hasn't any family, but it's always good to check,' he said.

  We waited another thirty seconds then Smith produced a screwdriver and a couple of long pieces of thin metal piping from the folds of his coat and started playing with the lock. I stepped across and looked back down the stairs. Nothing happening. I turned back and the door was open.

  'You're sure this is a good idea?'

  He nodded and stepped into the apartment. I followed him into a small hallway. Stairs ran off it immediately to the right, up to the top floor. A lounge and kitchen were ahead of us. 'Close the curtains so no light gets out,' said Smith.

  I moved, but said: 'But if he see the curtains closed. ..'

  'Will you just do it?'

  I gave him a shrug. 'Of course.'

  I pulled the curtains. Smith closed the front door and switched on the lights.

  As my old dad used to say, Savant's taste was right up his hole.

  If it clashed, he had it. If it looked cheap and gaudy but cost the earth, he had it. He had excellent picture frames, with cheap posters of Michael Jordan and Magic Johnson in them. He had original oil paintings sellotaped to the wall. He had CDs by Barry Manilow, with covers which he hadn't even bothered to deface.

  'Money to burn,' I said.

  Smith nodded. 'Let's get lookin',' he said. 'For what?'

  'Evidence.'

  'Evidence of what?'

  'Anything.'

  He held my gaze for a moment. Then I nodded. 'Shouldn't be hard to find now that you've spelt it out.'

  'I'll go upstairs,' he said.

  He glided up the stairs. I started in the kitchen. Through the cupboards. All the right equipment, but none of it looked overused. The fridge had a fair selection of vegetables, no meat, some Coke, some Dr Pepper, some CDs. I'd read in a magazine that keeping CDs in the ice-making compartment was supposed to give them a longer life, but Savant had missed the point. His approach to cryogenics ensured that not only did his CDs avoid the life extending ice but that they would also smell almost indefinitely of cauliflower on the turn. Yum.

  The bathroom was clean. There was one bedroom downstairs, plainly furnished. One cupboard full of expensive clothes. A bottle of perfume sat on a bedside table. I moved on to the lounge. One massive television set dominated the room. The right wall was partly hidden behind a large bookcase. It was half full. Most of the books seemed to be of a religious nature. Along the left wall, beneath the basketball posters, there was a CD system and a stack of CDs. Beside them in a cardboard box there were about a hundred long players. I flicked through them: a lot of seventies disco, several good Motown compilations, Italian and German opera, early rap; not a power chord amongst them. There was a big black leather sofa. I pulled the cushions out of it and checked down the back and sides: an assortment of pens and candy wrappers, a few dimes and nickels. I did the same with both armchairs. More bits and pieces.

  Smith appeared at the bottom of the stairs, having descended in almost total silence. He shook his head. 'Clean up there,' he said. 'I'll do the bathroom.'

  'Done,' I said.

  He nodded and went into the bathroom. He emerged a minute later.

  'See?' I said.

  'We'll see.'

  He began moving around the lounge, his fingers extended before him like a blind man on a crazy golf course. I stood back and let him search. He was the professional. I went to the window and pulled the curtain back a little. I watched the street for a couple of minutes. Cars, plenty of life; it would be difficult to see Savant returning.

  I looked over my shoulder. Smith stood in the lounge doorway, finger on lips, looking thoughtful. 'You think there's something worth finding here?' I asked.

  He nodded slowly. 'When you were a kid, a teenager, and had something to hide from your folks, where would you hide it?'

  'Depends what it was.'

  'Something they'd hate you for having.' I thought back. 'Like porn mags.'

  Smith nodded.

  'I used to keep them inside my album covers. The ones they'd never look in in a million years.'

  'Been there,' he replied and crossed to the box of long players. He began flicking through them, his fingers slipping inside the covers. After a while he looked up. A smile slit his face. He produced a hardback envelope. He held it up for me to see, then twirled it in his fingers. 'A thrilla in Manila,' he purred.

  'Open it,' I said.

  He nodded and pulled back the tongue.

  'Well, I'll be a Son of Muhammad,' said Smith.

  19

  Smith asked me to be quiet. He had work to do. Savant, tied to a chair with some handy electric flex, watched him intently. He was coping rather well. There had been no hysterics once he had picked himself up off the floor after Smith flattened him, no attempt to flee. He had sat patiently while Smith tied him and I covered him with the gun.

  His wallet contained three hundred dollars in cash, an American Express card, driver's licence, several restaurant receipts and some concert ticket stubs. Smith took the cash and stuffed it into his pocket. I said nothing. He took his coat off and then fished into an inside pocket. He withdrew a set of rose clippers, held them up to the light, squeezed the action, then, satisfied, set them on the arm of the sofa. He folded his coat neatly along the sofa cushions. Then he rolled his sleeves up.

  He stood in front of Savant, towering over him. Savant looked up at him. Smith slapped him hard across the face. Savant let out a surprised grunt and his kitchen chair rocked to the right, but didn't topple. When the movement stopped, Smith put a finger to his lips, his own lips. Savant nodded. There was a little crack of blood on his upper lip.

  'I'm going to ask you some questions. If you tell the truth, and you tell it quickly, things won't get much worse than this. Mess me around and I'll hurt you bad. Understand?'

  Savant nodded. His eyes darted to me. I tried to look steely in repose.

  'Your name is Marcus Savant.'

  He nodded.

  'You're a janitor at the Shabazz.'

  Savant nodded.

  'You're a Muslim.'

  Savant nodded.

  'And a Brother of Muhammad.'

  He nodded again. His eyes held Smith's. 'And a Son of Muhammad.'

  Savant shook his head.

  Smith slapped him again. This time he rocked to the left. 'I know you're a Son of Muhammad.' Savant shook again. His nose was bleeding. 'Save yourself some trouble, son.'

  Big eyes. Another shake. Another slap. 'You're a Brother of Muhammad?' Nod.

  'And you've heard of the Sons of Muhammad?' Nod.

  'And you're a janitor and you have this expensive apartment and all this lovely furniture, and you're telling me you're not a Son of Muhammad?'

  Savant opened his mouth for the first time. His voice was strong. 'I'm well paid. Shabazz a big place. Just me to look after it.'

  'Ain't no janitor in history this well paid, son.'

  Savant shrugged. That was a mistake. Smith whopped him one on the nose and the chair shot backwards, toppling him onto the floor. He lay there, helpless. He kept admirably quiet. I would have been crying for my mummy. Then Smith kicked him in the stomach.

  He let him lie there for a couple of minutes while he lit a cigarette. He puffed on it for a little, then jammed it in his mouth and bent down to right the chair. I went over to help. I said quietly: 'You know what you're doing?'

  'Shut the fuck up,' he said sharply.

  I raised my eyebrows and returned to the door.

  'Now, Marcus, the Sons of Muhammad. They've kidnapped a lady, have they not?'

  No reaction.

  'A white lady. The wife of a boxer. You've seen her?'

  Savant shook his head.

  Smith went back to his coat and removed the manila envelope and slipped three photographs out. He showed the top one to Savant. Bobby and Mary McMaster, kissing, in Centr
al Park. Savant nodded.

  'Now, I'd like you to tell me where she is. Plain and simple. You tell me, no one else has to know. It'll be a little secret just between us, okay?

  Savant shook his head. 'I don't know anything.'

  'Of course you do. Where are you keeping her?'

  'I...'

  Smith whacked him again, but this time kept one foot on the leg of the chair so that it wouldn't fly back. It also served to harden the blow. Savant's head shot back. Blood flowed. Smith spent a couple of seconds examining the teeth marks on his knuckles, then punched him again.

  Groggy, Savant's head tipped forward. Smith gently lifted it up. 'Hello,' he said. Savant groaned. Smith turned. 'Get some water, would you?'

  I nodded and filled a cup from the kitchen sink. I gave it to Smith. He drank it.

  'Now,' he said, taking Savant by the hair and shaking his head into full consciousness, 'about Mary McMaster. Why would you have photographs of her if you weren't involved in her kidnapping?'

  Savant spat some blood. 'I just have them. They gave them out at the Shabazz. Pictures of the racists. That's all, man. Honest. If I'd known it was illegal, I'd've given them back.'

  Smith shook his head and sighed. 'Not good enough, Marcus,' he said and turned back to the sofa. He lifted the rose clippers. 'Ever do any gardening, son?'

  Savant shook his head. Droplets of blood peppered the carpet.

  'The good thing about pruning roses,' said Smith, lifting Savant's left hand, 'is that eventually they grow back.'

  He took hold of the little finger. Savant curled it back as tight as he could. Smith tried to get a fresh grip on it. Savant squirmed his hand away as far as he could in the confines of the electric flex, but Smith had it in a second; he squeezed the little finger hard.

  'Okay, okay,' Savant spat, a little high-pitched, releasing the finger.

  Smith placed the digit between the teeth of the pruner and closed it, just hard enough to keep it in place. 'You don't type, do you, son?'

  Savant shook.

  'You'll hardly miss it then.'

  He looked his prisoner hard in the eye. 'Your last chance, son.' Savant shook.