by Leo Sullivan
He ran across 43rd near Indiana. His lungs burned with effort of his flight and just as he thought maybe he had outdistanced the cops, he saw a police car zip by a block away. Then he saw another at the other end of the block. It wasn’t until it was too late that he realized they were surrounding him.
He ran into a dark alley, hiding behind a large, overflowing garbage can, panting with fatigue, unable to run no more. Peeking from his hiding place, he saw a police van pull up a block away and a pair of police dogs being unloaded by their handlers. His eyes frantically searched for a path of escape and a rank odor suddenly overpowered all other senses. He looked down at his feet and found himself standing on a rusty bent metal coat hanger to which was still attached a blood encrusted fetus; the remnants of a drug addicted prostitute’s late night do-it-yourself abortion.
Freddy jumped back in horror, and then heard the sounds of voices and the excited yips of approaching dogs. They had gotten his scent! He pulled the pistol from the back of his pants and looked at the large green dumpster just behind him. It was the only place to hide, his last resort.
He pulled up the lid and climbed inside, the pistol banging against the side as he lowered the cover back in place. He was nearly overcome by a fetid odor of death and decay, gagging on the bile that rose in his throat. He lie still in the dark, the gun clasped tightly to his chest, swearing to himself that they would never take him alive.
There was a high pitched skittering sound as a small, furry body suddenly sped across his chest and arms. Another ran up his leg and back down. Rats! Lots of them all around him!
Freddy was petrified, silently suppressing a scream, fighting the urge to jump out and surrender. He felt around in the garbage with his free hand for something with which to ward them off. His hand sank into a lumpy, wet mass of filth…it was a dead dog. The rats had been feeding off it. “Oh, God,” Freddy whispered in panic. It was all too much for him as the excited rats began to run all over him, bouncing off his face and slithering up his pants legs.
Closing his eyes, Freddy, for the first time in his life, began to pray in earnest. “Please, Lord! Please, Lord, help me Lord…” A sudden tranquility washed over him and the voices in his mind, those voices to which he had always refused to listen, were clear and compelling: “Go inside yourself; listen to your soul. Quit fighting against yourself and learn to control your special gift. It will keep you safe.” Freddy recognized Dr. Utomo’s voice.
“Freddy, in this life, I will always be with you.” He could hear Sasha’s voice.
“Cum is thicker than blood.” Now he heard Mario’s voice.
On and on, for the first time in his life, Freddy listened to the voices in his soul while lying in a rat infested dumpster. Finally, he understood the very thing he had been running from all his life.
Now relaxed, he lay back in the reeking filth, pulling the carcass of the decomposing dog on top of him, burrowing down and burying himself in the gutter of urban life. Maggots fell in squirming clumps onto his face and the pungent juices of the dog’s final decay gushed into his hair and soaked his clothes. Yet, a supernal calmness enveloped him, the voices in his mind merging to speak as one, urging the control of mind over matter. It was like an out-of-body experience, and Freddy gave himself up to it, feeling nothing yet sensing all.
His soul was alive and vibrant with the recognition of its place in the never-ending cycle of life and death and the unity of all things.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Outside the dumpster, the dogs were going berserk, snapping and barking at the green metal container. With their guns drawn, the wary police approached. “All right, come outta there,” a cop demanded, banging on the lid with his nightstick, causing the rats to curry frantically.
Freddy tilted up the gun that he was holding at his side beneath the foulness. The lid of the dumpster was suddenly thrown back and a gun came over the edge as a pack of rats rushed out. A large vicious one ran up the cops arm and latched onto his cheek before he could even jump back. Squealing in terror, he tripped and fell backwards. As he landed on his ass the rat dislodged from his face.
Another cop slowly approached the dumpster and cautiously peered over the edge as the dogs continued barking around his feet. “Jeezus Key-rist!” he cursed, stepping back quickly. “No wonder the freakin’ dogs are goin’ nuts! There’s a dead mutt in there with maggots all over it and about a hundred fuckin’ rats.”
By now, the whole alleyway was filled with the foul reeking odor. An authoritative voice yelled out, “For God’s sake, shut that fuckin’ thing it’s making me nauseous. All right, let’s do a house-to-house… He’s gotta be in this area somewhere.”
Freddy could hear the sounds of departing feet on the outside, but he nevertheless lay there for a long time listening to his newfound inside voices. They told him who the real culprit was and why cum was thicker than blood. The face that confronted him was that of a familiar lady.
******
Nightfall, Freddy climbed from the dumpster, his body covered in filth, grime, and stench. The temperature had dropped and his bare toes felt as if they were frozen. His body ached with stiffness from being in one position too long, and he felt the sensation of pins-and-needles throughout his legs as he limped to the end of the alley, his gun held out in front of him, his lungs gratefully gasping at the cold fresh air.
He crouched in the dim mouth of the alley and looked toward the bright lights of a Shell station two blocks away. He checked his watch, squinting to make out the time through its smudged face: a quarter after twelve.
A car passed, slowing down. Freddy ducked back into the darkness and watched as a slatternly dressed prostitute stepped out of the shadows and got into a car. Checking to see if the coast was clear, he hobbled across the street toward the gas station. His freezing naked foot throbbed painfully.
A car pulled into the station and he hesitated at a safe distance as a young woman stepped out of the vehicle. He had a sudden idea and reached into his pocket, pulling out the fifty-dollar bill and a crumpled piece of paper with a scribbled telephone number on it. He shoved the paper back in his pocket.
The lady returned to her car and began to pump her gas. Jesus, he was cold! His teeth chattered in time with his body’s shivers. “Now,” he thought to himself. He raced over to the car as the woman was getting back inside. He knocked on the driver’s side window, scaring the hell out of her.
“Ma’am, I’ll give you fif--”
Before he could finish she screamed at the top of her lungs, locking all her doors with the flick of a switch. An infant lay on the seat next to her.
“Please, ma’am, I’m not gonna hurt you,” he pleaded, glancing around.
She stared at the money he was waving in his hand. For a fleeting moment Freddy thought he saw a glint of something in her eyes.
She leaned forward, eyes debating. Was that bug smashed on the back of his hand, she wondered.
“Here!” Freddy pushed the money close to the window.
She leaned closer, fogging up the glass. He was kinda cute, she thought, and then she saw it--the butt of a gun protruding from the waist of his pants.
“Ohhh, naw, hell naw!” She screeched away, her tires burning rubber as she left him standing alone under the bright lights.
Freddy wondered if she was going to call the cops on him. As he returned the fifty to his pocket, he felt the ragged piece of paper and took it out. Written in a woman’s handwriting, it read, “555-9123 Call me anytime.” He stared at the paper in befuddlement.
At the side of the station near a pissy smelling restroom was a payphone. A sleepy feminine voice answered, “Hello?”
“Who is this?” Freddy asked.
“Well, who is this, callin’ my house this damn early in the morning?” the angry voice shot back.
“It’s Freddy.”
“Freddy damn who?”
“Freddy Thugstin.”
“Ain’t it a little too late to be callin’ fol
ks hou--”
Freddy recognized the voice. It was Nurse Jones, that fine looking sister from the hospital.
“Listen,” he interrupted. “I’m in trouble… I need your help, bad.” As soon as he spoke he saw a patrol car headed his way. He turned his back to it.
“Freddy? Freddy… Freddy!” Brenda Jones shrieked in recognition. Silence. “Freddy?”
Freddy drew into himself as he furtively watched the car roll by without seeing him. “I’m hurt bad,” he lied, trying to trigger her nurturing instincts.
“Ohhh, are you okay?” She asked sympathetically, and then quickly added, “Look, where are you? I’ll come get you.” He gave her the address. “Stay right there, I’m not far away. I’ll be driving a white Mustang.” She hung up.
Freddy waited in the frigid, bone-chilling cold, anonymous in the darkness. Now he understood why they called Chicago the Windy City. After what seemed an eternity, a white Mustang pulled into the station’s lot, its lights flashing and horn blaring. Freddy limped over to the car, barely able to walk, and got in.
“Jesus Christ!” Brenda said, hopping out of the car and wrinkling her nose at him. “You smell like a dead rat.”
“Nope… you’re close. Try a dead dog,” he said.
Brenda got back in the car holding one hand over her mouth and rolling down the window down with the other. She looked at him and did a double-take.
“Where’s your shoe?”
Freddy ignored the question. “Take me to 49th and Perry,” he said while trying to rub some feeling back into his foot.
“You need medical attention. Let me take you back to my place,” she suggested, driving with her head half way out the window.
“Thank you, Ms. Jones, but--”
“Freddy, please call me by my first name, Brenda,” she said tenderly. Her nose was still wrinkled in a cute little you-stink expression.
“Brenda, this is important! It may be a matter of life or death--”
“Is this friend of yours a woman?” she asked, watching him closely out of the corner of her eye.
“No!” he snapped, not meaning to.
“Then let me take you home and at least give you a bath. You’re filthy and your foot looks frostbitten.” She gave him a don’t-you-remember-the-last-bath-I-gave-you look.
Freddy looked down at the smooth brown fleshy thighs barely covered by a scanty housecoat. Brenda eased her legs another inch apart in a not-so-subtle invitation.
She pulled the car up in front of the Perry Street apartment building. He was suddenly brought back to the urgent task at hand. He opened the door to get out.
Brenda grabbed an arm of slimy goo and instantly regretted it. “You need medical attention. Let me help you!” she said, stomping her foot and pouting her full lips.
The gesture reminded Freddy of someone… but his mind was preoccupied with recent events and he tugged his arm free.
“Call me!” she ordered.
“I will,” he said.
“When?”
But he had already shut the door. Brenda Jones sat there silently as she watched Freddy limp pathetically up the stairs and into the building.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Knocking on the door, Freddy waited with anxious anticipation, hoping Mykle’s mom wasn’t home.
“Who is it?” someone asked.
“Freddy,” he answered.
The door opened and Mykle gasped in shock at his best friend’s appearance. Freddy limped inside.
“Damn, man. What the fuck is that smell?”
Freddy ignored him and headed straight for the bathroom. Mykle followed behind at a safe distance, listening to Freddy’s vivid description of what had happened in the last twenty-four hours of his life. His face took on an increasingly incredulous look of dismay and shock.
After Freddy had washed up and changed into the clothes he had stashed in Mykle’s room, it was Mykle’s turn to update him on what had transpired during his lengthy absence. He described, in detail, Sasha’s funeral and marveled at how much it must have cost--the elegant coffin that she was laid to rest in and the hundred white doves released into the air as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Freddy listened intently to the word pictures that his friend painted as he saw everything clearly in his own mind.
“I saw your old girl at the funeral--”
“My mama?”
“Yep. She was holding your son. He’s a cute l’il booger too.”
Freddy’s brows furrowed in dismay as he wondered how that could have possibly have happened. What was his mother doing there?
Mykle recognized his friend’s vexation, explaining, “The court of appeals ruled in her favor and she was immediately released.”
Freddy just stared off into the distance out a window, and a beacon of umber radiance suddenly illuminated his face with the kiss of the approaching dawn.
“You don’t sound too happy.” Mykle was concerned by his friend’s unresponsiveness. “Man, you been gone. Lotta shit has happened. Y’all old house been remodeled; your mom is stayin’ there…”
Freddy slid his hand through the buttons of his shirt, rubbing at the scar on his chest, seemingly deaf to his friend’s words. “I need to see my mama…we need to talk.” He spoke his thoughts to no one in particular.
Later, with Mykle asleep on the couch, Freddy watched the morning news. Mr. Lee, the funeral home proprietor, stood in the cold with a blanket wrapped around his bony shoulders, and told the reporters how a white man had come into his establishment under the false pretense of wanting to arrest a fugitive. Instead, the man had intended to harm the young boyfriend of the deceased and another man had interceded, causing a gunfight that resulted in both being shot. It was a quarter after six. Looking at his sleeping friend, he decided to make his move. He knew what he had to do.
He called a cab and waited. His foot was still hurting him something terrible, and the shoes he was wearing weren’t helping.
The cab dropped him off a block away from his mom’s house. Although he knew this was probably the fist place the police would look for him, it was a chance that he had to take. He moved stealthily through the neighbors’ yards until he finally made his way to the back door next to the kitchen window. Then he moved quickly down the exposed side of the house to his bedroom window, which stubbornly slid up with a loud screech. He slithered over the sill and lay on the floor of his room with his anxiety.
Mykle had been right. The house was remodeled. His room was unrecognizable to him as he moved toward the door, the wall-to-wall carpeting feeling strange beneath his feet. The central heat had not yet been turned on, for the room was cold and alien. He crouched by the side of the open door and listened, hearing only his own pulse in his ears.
He stepped into the hallway and started down the stairs when a step cracked in complaint at his weight. He stopped and again listened, hearing voices…laughter? His mother’s?
He went to the bottom of the stairs and cautiously approached the living room. Peering in, he saw her sitting comfortably in a chair reading papers in her lap. Freddy walked up behind a figure that was sitting in a chair with its back to Freddy.
“Mama.”
His mother looked up in surprise and a smile froze on her face, leaving her cheeks flushed. The papers spilled from her hands to the floor, sliding to within inches of Freddy’s feet.
For an infinite moment in time, mother and child merely stared at each other. Then Freddy reached slowly down and picked up the papers, instantly recognizing them. They were the land deeds that had caused the deaths of his father, Dr. Utomo and God knows how many other people. As he handed them back to her, she nervously explained.
“I… I went to the funeral… My grandbaby looks just like you…”
The figure in front of Freddy suddenly stood and turned. Freddy flinched in shock and felt as if his knees were about to give out. The piercing blue eyes of Jon Weiffenbach stared into his own. “Come on in and have a seat,” the detective said imp
assively.
“Naw, I’d rather stand,” said Freddy, taking a step back.
Weiffenbach quickly drew a gun and pointed it at Freddy. “I said sit down!” He ordered.
“Baby, put that gun away,” Freddy’s mother requested, with a note of affection. “He’s my chile and he ain’t gonna hurt nobody.” She reached and tentatively caressed the arm that held the weapon.
The words of a dead man resonated in Freddy’s mind: “Blood is thicker than water, but cum is thicker than blood.” It now dawned on Freddy what Mario couldn’t bring himself to reveal--his mother’s betrayal. She had fallen in love with the cop, Weiffenbach. And on a table next to a gas heater was a large stack of neatly wrapped money.
“Son, do as the man says…come and sit down,” his mother pleaded, trying to smile, but failing to follow suit. Freddy watched her left arm twitch uncontrollably from the side effects of all the drugs she had taken over the years in the asylum.
As Weiffenbach held the gun steady, sparkles from the diamond on his finger suddenly ignited memories in Freddy’s mind--just as they had at the hospital when they were questioning him about Dirty Red’s murder. The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Weiffenbach had been the first cop to arrive on the scene after his father’s murder. Freddy was sure of it.
“You kilt my father,” Freddy said with conviction. “You knew all the time I didn’t kill Dirty Red, “cuz he was shot with a rifle and we had a pistol. You had to know that…” Freddy shook his head in disbelief. “And all the while you played good-cop-bad-cop, there was just two crooked cops with you manipulatin’ Fermen to kill me, just like you did my father--”
“No! No, Freddy,” his mother cut in. “He left us no choice… He was about to divorce me for another woman, a much younger woman,” she said painfully. “I tried to talk sense to him but he just wouldn’t listen.” Her tone hardened. “I gave that man the best damn years of my life,” she said angrily, slamming her balled fists down into her lap, “and then… and then Jon came into my life.”
