St. Louis Noir

by Scott Phillips

“Jimmy who? I don’t know no damn Jimmy! What the fuck you want?”

  “It’s Jimmy Mack, your cousin, fool. Open the damn door, it’s cold out here.”

  Two deadbolts turn, a chain drops, a metal bar slides away, and the door opens to a warm, cozy living room. Keith Sweat’s “Make It Last Forever” plays in the background.

  “Hey, Jimmy, what’s up? Ain’t seen you in a month of Sundays,” Wanda says, turning one of the locks behind us. “You done got your education and stop comin’ by to hang out with us . . . Look at you, all dressed up. Where you goin’?”

  “I’m on my way to a wedding after-party and we want to get a nice package to take with us.”

  “Who is we?” she asks, peeping through the window shade on the front door. “This your woman?” she adds and snickers.

  Wanda wears a bright yellow halter dress, a black silk flowered shawl, and a huge pistol grip sticks out of her cleavage. She’s holding a pint of cheap vodka smeared with red on the bottle’s mouth. A heavy-set, middle-aged woman, her hair’s pulled back tight in a tiny ponytail, and her lips are slathered with red lipstick.

  “That’s Barbara. She’s a good friend of mine and she wants to comp a couple of ounces. I know you still dealin’ ’cause I see you still carrying Ole Ugly in your bosom.”

  “A .357 ain’t no fashion accessory. I ain’t got that kinda weight here, but I can call Kenny. He’s just around the corner on Westbrook. You remember Kenny, don’t you?”

  “You talkin’ about Little Kenny, Jackie’s youngest boy?”

  “Yep. Me and him work together as a team. He runs the neighborhood.” Wanda calls him on her cell phone, walks toward the hallway mumbling into it, then comes back into the living room.

  “Kenny was a smart little boy,” Jimmy comments, “I would have thought he’d be in college by now.”

  “He is in college, goddamnit—street college!”

  I start laughing and Wanda invites us to sit down, turns the volume back up on the CD player, and starts swaying to the moanings of Keith Sweat. I can’t stand Keith Sweat, but I bob my head to the music to act like I’m happy to be in this stuffy, quaintly decorated room.

  “Is that your car, Jimmy?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “What kinda of car is that, uh . . . what’s your name again?”

  “Her name is Barbara,” Jimmy answers, just in case I forgot.

  “You look like money, Barbara. What you do for a livin’?”

  Boom—boom, boom, boom, boom!

  Before I can think of a lie, Wanda looks out the window of the front door and turns the deadlock. In walks Kenny, a tall, beautiful young man, well groomed, expensive cologne, solemn face. I can’t stop looking at him.

  “Who is that sitting outside in that Jaguar, Wanda? I told you about people sitting outside looking like they waiting to cop.”

  “Look, Killa, don’t be comin’ in here with that bullshit. He’s with Jimmy and them!”

  “What’s up, Jimmy!” Kenny reaches out to slap him a manly handshake. “Ain’t seen you in a long time.”

  “Yeah, well, I moved on to bigger and better things. I see you looking good, prosperous. How old are you now, nineteen, twenty?” Kenny doesn’t answer. “How’s your mama doin’?”

  “She’s on disability, works part time at Nelson’s liquor store. She still lives around the corner.”

  Kenny looks over at me then turns to Jimmy. “So what’s up?”

  “You tell me. What’s with this Killa shit?”

  “That’s what Wanda calls me. It keeps the scallywags in line.”

  “We want to get a couple ounces, man . . . for eight bills.”

  Kenny takes a long look at Jimmy with a smirk on his face. “All right, man, since you spending that kinda cash, come on to the back.”

  As I stand up to follow them, Kenny pauses and turns to Jimmy: “Who is this?”

  “That’s Barbara. She’s cool. She’s the one with the money.”

  “Is that your Jag out there?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  In the kitchen he lays down two large plastic sacks of powder on the glass table. I pick them up, open one, dampen my pinky with my tongue, and taste the product. I nod approval and count out eight hundred-dollar bills on the table. Kenny picks them up quickly, walks down the hallway, and exits, slamming the door. Wanda locks it behind him and comes back to the kitchen.

  “Uh, what’s up, Jimmy?”

  He knows exactly what she’s expecting. He opens his package, pulls one of his business cards from his inside jacket pocket, and scoops out a hefty portion of powder.

  I see Wanda has baking soda sitting on the counter. “You mind if I rock this powder up?” I ask.

  Wanda grabs a cigarette out of her pocket and lights it as she ponders the request. “So you one of those high-society crackheads who knows how to cook dope?”

  “Don’t let my looks fool you, Wanda,” I answer. “I know my way around this shit.”

  Jimmy balks and gives me an I’m not about to stay here look. “Wanda, let me talk to Barbara for a minute.”

  Wanda leaves the room.

  “Look, Kaycie. Me and Jeremy use powder, we don’t smoke that shit. How about you stay here to do what you got to do and I’ll take your car to the after-party. You can catch a cab home. Let me talk to Wanda. She’s cool. She ain’t gonna do nothing to you.”

  I’m so eager for another hit, I don’t protest. Jimmy goes to the front room to talk to Wanda and soon they both come back to the kitchen.

  “Jimmy, be careful with my car, hear? Let me have thirty dollars for cab fare and you can drop my car off at work.”

  “Wanda, is that cool with you?” Jimmy asks.

  “Yeah, it’s cool. I like your style, Barbara. You got class.”

  * * *

  My plan was to cook up the powder, leave some with Wanda, and catch a cab to Michael’s, but after listening to music, talking about our love lives, and drinking a fifth of rot-gut vodka, it’s four o’clock in the morning before I call a cab. I arrive home, shower, and get four hours of sleep before waking up. I call a cab to take me to the courthouse.

  When I arrive there’s a long line of people waiting to be scanned for weapons and contraband. I stand in line with eight other lawyers with motions for continuances. At eleven thirty, I’m out of there and I call Jimmy to check who’s called.

  “Lance returned your call this morning and a cashier’s check for ten thousand came from the Jeffersons for their son’s armed burglary case.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  I usually bank the legal fees but right now I have to use it to keep afloat because of my recreational activities. Luckily, it’s enough to stop the foreclosure proceedings on my condo. Before I leave I get a call from Lance.

  “Kaycie, one of my boys, Kenny Rollins, has been locked up for murder. He’s downtown and needs a lawyer.”

  “I’m on the way,” I tell him, and then I ask Lance about Kenny.

  “I’ve been knowing him since he was a little boy. His mother has been struggling with drugs just about all his life. Kenny has to pay her rent and bills to keep her from getting kicked out. He’s been trying to beat a case where he claims a detective name Lakewood planted a bag of crack in his pocket when he couldn’t find any other reason to detain him during what the detective called a ‘routine traffic stop.’”

  An hour later I’m led into the holding cell. Kenny’s perfectly featured face is scratched, swollen with dried blood in the corners of his mouth, and oily sweat stains smear both sides of his face. He looks like a defeated pit bull, hunched over, elbows resting on his knees, his hands cuffed. He glances up when the guard opens the cell and stares at me, stunned.

  “Hey, Kenny. I’m Kaycie Crawford. Lance called me to represent you. What happened to your face?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Barbara—or whatever the hell your name is. I sure don’t need a motherfucking crackhead for a lawyer.”


  “You’d be surprised how many crackhead police, lawyers, and judges are out there. One thing for certain, you’re the one caught up in jail, not me. Now, do you want me to help you or not?”

  Kenny looks at me again, humbled at the possibility of being sent up. “I guess you must be okay if Lance called you.”

  “Lance is one of my oldest clients. You see, he hasn’t been convicted of anything yet. So talk to me.”

  “The police found one of my customers dead in the gangway in the 3900 block of Westbrook. Her name is Maxine Robinson and her husband, Grady, is one of my associates.”

  “How did she pay for her dope?”

  “She was a substitute teacher over at the Delmar Middle School by day and a dope fiend by night. Grady is a good shade-tree mechanic, but he can’t keep a job in a shop very long.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Grady works on the hustlers’ cars in the alley, sometimes for cash, sometimes for hits, sometimes to pay his dope bills. Maxine was the one with the steady income.”

  “How did she die?”

  “She was beat to death. The police showed me a picture with her face bashed in and her body all twisted. They say they found my fingerprints on her purse there on the ground.”

  “How did your fingerprints wind up on her purse?”

  “The goddamn police is lying! They ain’t found my fingerprints. They just trying to set me up because they ain’t never caught me ridin’ or walkin’ dirty.”

  “What do you mean, riding or walking dirty?”

  “They’ve been trying to catch me slinging dope for the past year. I don’t walk around with that shit on me. I don’t carry it when I drive my car or when I’m hangin’ out on the block.”

  “So you’re telling me they manufactured fingerprints to put on her purse? Come on now, stop lying. Out of all the folks who hang out in that neighborhood, how did they pick you out? Have you ever been arrested before?”

  “Nope. For the longest time they didn’t even know what I looked like, they just knew the name Kenny, nicknamed Killa. It wasn’t until that narc Lakewood pulled me over and planted that dope on me that he found out who I was. They booked me in night court, locked me up.”

  “You still haven’t told me how your fingerprints got on Maxine’s purse.”

  “Maxine owed me a hundred dollars and she was ducking and dodging me for a week. She got paid last Friday. When I caught up with her ass Friday afternoon, she come talkin’ ’bout she ain’t got it. She was higher than a jet pilot. She had just got off work, it wasn’t even four o’clock yet. I slapped the shit out of her ass and snatched her purse and emptied it out on the ground, picked up her wallet, and took out her debit card. I hauled her ass to the ATM around the corner at the liquor store and I got my money.”

  “So Kenny, where did you take her then?”

  “Nowhere. I left her ass in the parking lot and drove off. They got cameras, they’ll show that I drove off. Once I got my money, I was through with her ass. I got no reason to kill her. She’s still one of my best customers. Hell, she got a job.”

  “How hard did you hit her, Kenny? Was she bleeding?”

  “Yeah, she was bleeding and her lip swelled up, but I didn’t care. The customers saw me dragging her to the cash machine, but they looked away, minding their own business.”

  “Well, now you got a witnesses who saw you dragging a women into the store bleeding and swollen around the mouth. That’s not good at all. The police say she was killed late Friday night or early this morning. Where were you?”

  “I spent the night at my baby mama’s house.”

  “What’s her name and where does she live?”

  “Her name is Fulani James. She lives in the Ville on St. Louis Avenue.”

  “Kenny, I charge $2,500 for a retainer and $1,000 per day. Can you handle that?”

  “I’ll get you your money. Just don’t you smoke it up.”

  Just then, a deputy sheriff arrives to take him to his arraignment, and so I miss my chance to tell Kenny to go fuck himself.

  Kenny is remanded. Lance is in the courtroom and suggests I go home with him so that we can talk more about the case.

  When we get to Lance’s loft, he goes into his bedroom, comes out counting thirty-five hundred-dollar bills on the spot, and lays them on the kitchen counter.

  “Kenny’s pretty face and good manners fool a lot of people. He can be treacherous,” Lance says. “He tells me he wants to get into the real estate business.”

  “Do you think he’s innocent?”

  “Kaycie, that’s not my concern. My concern is that you win this case. I am fond of Kenny and I want to see him make something of himself.”

  * * *

  Jaimie Brown is a private investigator. I still owe her $2,000 for my last case and she won’t answer my calls. I leave a message telling her I have her money and after thirty minutes she calls me back.

  “Okay, so you have the two grand you owe me, but I want my fee for this case up front. So what’s up?”

  I fill her in on the case. “The police report shows that an old drunk named Leroy saw Kenny slapping Maxine Robinson in the alley Friday afternoon. Jimmy’s cousin Wanda lives around the corner. She may know something.”

  The street doesn’t look so scary in the daylight. Wanda’s sitting on her porch with an older woman, both of them drinking beer and looking upset.

  Jaimie pulls up on her black motorcycle, clad in black leather from head to toe with a black helmet featuring a Black Power logo on the back. She removes her helmet to reveal her bushed hair in all its glory.

  “Hey, what’s up, Barbie Doll?” chimes Wanda. “Mama, that’s Barbara, the one I was telling you about.”

  Jaimie drops her head to hide her snickering. She knows that I’ve been over here getting high.

  Wanda introduces her mother as Ms. Connor and we cordially greet each other. “We haven’t seen or heard from Kenny in a couple of days,” she says, assuming I’m there to score more dope.

  “Wanda, my name isn’t Barbara, it’s Kaycie, Kaycie Crawford.

  “What you mean your name ain’t Barbara? So what the hell? You the police?”

  “Kenny is locked up for killing Maxine Robinson. I’m his lawyer and this is my investigator, Jaimie Hunter. Did you know Maxine Robinson?”

  “Yeah. She’s dead. They found her beat to death in the gangway on Westbrook.”

  “They think Kenny killed her.”

  “Kenny didn’t kill Maxine! Anybody coulda killed her. She was always getting high in the alley hiding from her no-good, greasy-ass husband, Grady.”

  “Be quiet, Wanda! You talk too much,” her mother says.

  Wanda continues: “That narc Lakewood’s been terrorizing all the women in the neighborhood, taking their dope and pushing them around, trying to get them to rat Kenny out. He coulda killed Maxine.”

  “Wanda, you need to shut up telling everybody’s business in the neighborhood,” Ms. Connor says. “Whoever killed her won’t appreciate you running your mouth.” She gets up from her seat on the porch and goes into the house.

  As Wanda speculates to Jaimie about Grady and everyone else who lives in the neighborhood, I follow Ms. Connor into the shotgun house, peer into the empty living room, and hear noise coming from the next room. Quietly, I ease down the hall to the adjacent room to find Ms. Connor ransacking a bedroom. The bed is disheveled, dresser drawers open with contents tossed.

  “Can I help your find something, Ms. Connor?” I ask, startling her.

  “You can get yourself hurt sneakin’ up on people, young lady!”

  Jaimie follows Wanda into the house as she promises to kill anybody who says Kenny murdered Maxine. Seeing her bedroom torn up she turns to me, exposing the pistol grip in her bosom.

  “What the hell are you doing in my room?” She reaches to pull out Ole Ugly but hesitates when Jaimie opens her leather jacket to expose a holstered .50-caliber revolver—silver with a black waffle-textured gr
ip.

  “Relax, baby. I got a license for mine,” Jaimie says.

  “I came in and found your mother tossing your bedroom,” I tell her. “What do you suppose she’s looking for—Kenny’s stash?”

  “All right, Barbara, or whatever your name is, you can get the fuck outta my house. Biker bitch, get her ass outta here.”

  “Jaimie, why don’t we go around the corner on Westbrook to see if anybody heard or seen anything Friday night.”

  Jaimie glides past Wanda, winks at her, then walks to the curb and starts her motorcycle, revving it up loud as she makes a U-turn toward the corner.

  “I’ll kill that bitch,” Wanda mumbles under her breath.

  “You’ll answer to Lance if you try. You know who Lance is, don’t you?”

  Surprised that I know the man, Wanda cautiously replies, “Yeah, I know who he is.”

  I join Jaimie around the corner and we talk to the neighbors and folks sitting out on their porches. Nobody claims to have seen anything.

  An elderly man dressed in three layers of clothing with the smell of coal oil is collecting cans along the curb in front of a boarded-up house. I approach him with a flirtatious demeanor.

  “Hey, how you doin’? My name is Kaycie. You live around here?”

  “Sometimes I sleep in there,” he says, pointing to the empty structure. “I got it set up all nice and cozy and warm. You wanna come in?”

  “Maybe next time. I heard Maxine Robinson got killed around back last night. Did you happen to see or hear anybody getting beat up?”

  He looks over both shoulders and sees that the neighbors are watching him. “I ain’t seen or heard nothing!” he shouts, shaking his head.

  “Do you know where Grady Robinson lives?”

  “He lives in Miss Freddie’s house down there on this side of the street, way up on a hill with the white porch.”

  When we pull up in front of the Robinsons’ house, children with no coats and runny noses play in the front yard. We climb the steep steps and the kids run into the house. I ring the bell and a voice yells that the door is open, and we enter the hallway.

  There are folks in the front room playing spades. The players are slapping their cards down and talking shit. The air is thick with tobacco, marijuana smoke, and stale beer, while Johnnie Taylor’s “Last Two Dollars” plays on the radio.