by Rick Bennet
He wonders how he could have let himself get pulled into all this. Just a few hours ago he was home watching television. His phone rang.
It was the Mayor, who told him the FBI director had just called to say the Goof Squad he’d put on the James boy’s “kidnapping”—whose sole effort consisted of monitoring the boy’s grandmother’s house for a ransom call that no one expected would ever come—had got an address for the boy. The Mayor wanted Mallory to go along as his personal representative and liaison. Specifically, to get the tapes. Of all the Mayor’s police, Mallory was the one he turned to when he needed someone to work with white cops or, in this case, FBI agents, because Mallory was the only white cop in the Mayor’s police club.
So Mallory went with the Goof Squad to get the kid. To get the tapes (although the Director was to be allowed New Africa’s blackmail tape of him). But not to hurt the kid. To be part of the rescue team.
Then the man who’d found the boy that night, Preacher—who had not known who the boy was or why he was wandering around the alley, but had just taken him to his own emergency home and nursed him, as he could better than almost anyone because he’d been through so much himself—then that man, upon answering the door tonight, turned to run out the back. Mallory was the one knocking on the door. The agents were in the back. They pushed Preacher back inside.
Preacher, strangely terrified, maybe from having seen the tapes, from thinking the Jameses were killed for them, grabbed a kitchen knife. Came at one of the agents. The agent ducked aside, grabbed the man’s knife hand. Another agent, the psycho bigot, grabbed the knife and, furiously, started cutting Preacher. Mallory stepped in, but it was too late. Preacher was cut too bad to live long without emergency medical treatment, and maybe not even then. And the agents said they weren’t going to let one of their own go before a black jury on murder charges. These agents were the biggest fools the Director could pull together, and now their stupidity was blowing up on them all. They refused to call for local police or an ambulance.
The agents called the Director, who told them to set up the frame on the Preacher. (Mallory called the Mayor, who, upon hearing what had happened, said the line was bad and hung up.)
The agents locked the boy in a closet until they could decide if it was necessary to kill him. Mallory searched for and found the videos, while the agents interrogated the dying man, who, they learned, called himself Preacher.
Although the home was owned by Preacher’s grandmother, and she was dead, the estate had not been settled. The electricity was still on, and there was a VCR and a television.
Mallory, using the VCR, fast-forwarded through the tapes, none of which were very long, to make sure of what he had. He’d seen them all before, of course. Except for one.
It was of Henry and Jessica James, and Jimmy Close, of all people. Mallory, curious as to whether the tape might have some of the same value as the others, watched a minute.
Jimmy Close: I have this woman now, Joan Price, she’s a tiger. Electric. The best public speaker I’ve ever seen in person. But her push is Nazi-like to me somehow. That’s not fair, I know, and we all use the Hitler allegation too easily, but still I can’t help but see how quick she is to say “they” hate “us” and then use that as justification to hate back. She’s not the only one that does it. She’s just better at it than most. And white. She’s got this thing now where all she does to warm up an audience before she speaks is set up a big-screen TV and play tapes of blacks cheering the Simpson verdict. She lets that picture of the smug face of racial victory sink in to the white audience. Has a banner hanging over the screen saying “Eighty percent of blacks think Simpson is innocent of a crime because eighty percent of blacks don’t think that killing whites is a crime.”
Henry James: Every bigot in America, black and white, loved that verdict.
Mallory fast-forwarded to check for anything important. He stopped to listen one more moment and heard Henry James say: “I know what you mean. I’ve got a brother, an older brother, named Long. He’s well known in this city, on the streets. The city doesn’t know he’s my brother and would hardly believe it. But I know it, and I never forget it. Not a day goes by I don’t think about how he lost his own life’s value so many years ago. It’s his fault, not society’s. It happens to whites as well as blacks. But all those people we’re losing, we have to find. That’s what my life is about. I think that’s what yours is too, brother.”
James put his hand out to Jimmy Close. They shook.
The agents came out of the kitchen. They said Preacher claimed the boy didn’t know anything. They said the man would die soon. What should they do? They asked Mallory if he could clear this with the homicide dicks. The agents had a plan to kill the kid and then frame Preacher for it. They’d use what they had on the Mayor (the white-hooker blow-job tape) and on the police chief (the black cop shooting the handcuffed Latino) if they had to. But they wanted protection here. Was he in?
Mallory knew the story was bound to spring a leak, but he’d sail it as far as it went. In the meantime, he needed money. Insurance money. Get-the-fuck-out-of-here money. And of all the powerful people he knew, the one with the most money right now, the one with the most to gain from having all the tapes, the one most able to scheme and manipulate with those tapes, the smartest one, was Khalid.
Mallory called Khalid. Said, Come over. Now. You’re only a couple of minutes away, and I got the tapes. He didn’t tell Khalid about the boy or Preacher, only about the tapes.
Khalid came, and merely by walking in the place he got himself in trouble. He left as quickly as he could, after briefly viewing the tapes to make sure they were the real thing. After seeing the Henry James-Jimmy Close tape. After hearing the stunning (to him) revelation that Long Ray was Henry James’s brother.
“That guy Long works with me,” Khalid said to Mallory. “And he’s Henry James’s brother? Wow. No wonder he’s been so interested in finding this boy.”
“I know that name,” Mallory said. “Long Ray. He’s done time? Murder?”
Khalid nodded.
“What a chain of events Ells started that night,” Mallory said.
Kellogg, disgusted by Long’s talk with Khalid, says, as he drives them across town: You really are an idiot.
Long: It’s my ass. Kellogg: Mine, too.
Long: Let’s just get there and see what it looks like. I came up with this ‘cause what else we going to do—shoot our way in? Call the cops or the FBI?
They drive a minute in silence. Through a city they all know well—and differently.
They come to the street. Warehouses, abandoned homes, vacant lots, closed corner stores. It’s ten at night. The streets are quiet.
Kellogg parks around the corner from the house.
Long: Listen, man, you’re just going to pull up like a regular cabbie. There’s still a couple of white cabbies in this town, and they’re all fat like you. You pull up in front, let me out, and wait for me, like I’m just your fare. Chavez, you duck down.
Kellogg: They probably got someone on the porch. Someone else checking the back window. They’re probably all checking out all the windows. Arcides, how about we drop you off up the block. You take the rifle. If there’s a problem, Long is likely to come barreling out with those motherfuckers right behind. I’ll keep the engine running. You just be ready to give us a couple of covering shots. This is if Long comes out at all.
Long: If I don’t?
Kellogg: If they buy me as a cabbie, then I guess they’ll come out and give me some story about how you’re staying, and pay me the fare and send me on my way. If they recognize me—and since they’re cops and FBI they might have seen me sometime—then we’re fucked anyway.
Long takes his ball cap off, gives it to Kellogg.
Long: Wear this down low. Stay in the car. Park so the streetlight’s angle puts a shadow on your face. Kellogg nods.
Kellogg: If they do send me off, I’m going to assume your plan is cooked.
&nb
sp; Long: Which leaves you doing what?
Kellogg: Calling 911. Calling the fire department. Calling the Post and the FBI, even. Calling everyone. The more of a circus we can make, the harder it’ll be for these guys to pull off whatever story they’ve concocted to explain the bodies. They got pull up high, so they can probably pull off a frame. But I don’t think that shit’s ever as easy as the movies make out. I guarantee you, every guy in there is waiting for the bottom to fall out of all this. They know law enforcement, which means they know how good a chance there is that someone will talk if confronted, to save his own ass. They know the first one to talk gets the deal. On the other hand, these guys, they probably got a plan for dealing with a call to the police. They know there’s some chance of a neighbor or passerby hearing something, a scream maybe, and calling in. If I were them, I’d have a squad car they can trust waiting nearby, so it can take the call and be first on the scene and handle it right. Still, if it’s all we can do, it’s all we can do.
Long: If they come out and tell you I don’t need a cab anymore, tell them you heard a shout. If nothing else, I’ll try to scream, like you say, so a neighbor, or you, the cabbie, have an excuse to call it in. But don’t leave. I ain’t asking you this for me. I’m saying for the boy. Be persistent. Honk the horn. Wake up the neighborhood. Make those calls.
Chavez: I will come running too, like I heard a noise too. I will say, What is happening? And refuse to leave.
Kellogg: That’ll make it harder for them to explain what they were doing here before any call came in. I’ll bet they’re going to have someone call in reporting the murder, so they can come out and investigate it themselves and make sure it all gets handled right. They got to have some plan. But they might have a lot of plans. Contingency plans. Shit, all they got to do is say they got tipped, came over, found the boy dead, and killed the wino, Preacher. They kill the boy with the wino’s knife. Claim the wino started stabbing himself—I’ve seen it happen—and when they tried to stop him he came at them and they had to shoot him. They’ll put a few bullets into his body to back the story up. Then it’s just a few forensic realities to fix, and they’re home free. The FBI’s presence can be explained because they’re part of the team investigating the boy’s disappearance. They can even say they’re the ones who got the tip and brought Metro in for the arrest. See? That’s a story I just made on the spot. These guys have had time. They’ll have figured out the angles. We got to throw a monkey wrench into it.
He looks at Long.
Long: Don’t be calling me no monkey.
Kellogg: Pull off your play, man.
Chavez: Come on. The boy is in danger.
Kellogg: Get out here, Arcides. Go down this alley and up the side street. Stay out of sight. Come as far down the front of the block as you can, but don’t let anyone see you. Even in this city, a man walking around with a rifle’s going to get attention. And if there is a squad car nearby, look out for them. Look out for other lookouts, for that matter.
Chavez nods. Gets out. Looks around carefully. Trots quickly off.
Kellogg: Ready? Long: Do it.
Kellogg: Your gun is a waste. They’ll take it from you first thing.
Long: Fuck ‘em.
Kellogg drives to the house. Double-parks in front. Sees a curtain pull back, peeking width.
Long inhales. Gets out. Stretches. Cool. Walks up the sidewalk path, through the weedy, scruffy lawn to the peeling wood porch. Up the steps. An unshaded bulb over the door lights his face.
He knocks. A barely audible voice tells him to come in. He does.
Mallory closes the door behind Long. Puts a gun to his ear.
Mallory: You don’t mind if we frisk you, do you?
Long lifts his shirt, revealing the gun stuck inside his pants. Mallory takes it.
Mallory: Still got to frisk you. You understand.
Long: Sure.
Mallory: We got a delicate situation here.
Long, as one of the agents searches him, says: I know. Khalid told me.
Long is taking everything in. The furniture. The number of men. The looks on their faces. The white plastic gloves on their hands. Where the doors and windows are.
Mallory: So you’re going to take care of things for us. Long: Khalid told me to.
Mallory leads Long into the kitchen, where Preacher lies unconscious on the floor in a pool of blood.
Mallory: There’s the knife. On the counter. Finish the guy off.
Long, without hesitating, takes the knife, kneels beside Preacher, cuts his throat.
He stands. Faces Mallory. Long: Where’s the punk? Mallory: The boy? Long: Yeah. The boy.
Mallory, pointing down the hall: There’s a big closet back there. No windows. He’s in there.
Long: I’m going to take him away. Do him out in the woods.
One of the agents speaks: Nah, do him here. It’ll be better.
Long: I do what Khalid tells me to do. Khalid said take him out to the woods and do him there.
Agent, pointing a gun at Long, speaking slowly: Do him here.
Long: Fine. In the closet or the kitchen?
Agent: Who cares? You do him, or I will.
Long: I’ll do him. He’s the son of that James asshole, who was trying to hurt Khalid? It’ll be an honor to kill the litde punk. Want me to do him here? Fine. What do I care? But I don’t want no witnesses. Especially not white ones.
He is cold. Mean. Heartless. So believable Mallory almost forgets it’s an act.
Long strides purposefully down the hall, knife in hand. Aware of doors and windows and men. Aware of who’s where in relation to what.
He opens the door of a walk-in closet. Sees the terrified boy huddled in a corner, shaking, eyes wide.
Long, over his shoulder: I’m doing the kid here.
He shuts the door behind him. Kneels down. Speaks in the softest tone of his life: Stay cool, boy. I’m getting you out of here.
The boy doesn’t understand. Long, whispering: I’m not going to hurt you. Okay? But we got to move fast. I got to get you out of here.
The boy, his thin voice trembling: Do you have a gun?
Long: No.
Boy: Then how can you get me out? There’s five of them, and they have guns.
Long sucks in a deep breath: Boy? I’m going to get you out.
He leans closer. Holds the boy. Feels him struggle. Hears him cry out: No!
Long, fiercely: I’m not going to hurt you!
Boy: Who are you?
Long: I’m your uncle Long.
The boy stares. Then leaps onto Long, grabbing him tightly around the neck.
Long lets out a deeply held breath. Thinks, I need five seconds. There’s a window in the room just to the right when I step out of here. A window on the street side. I know these motherfuckers are onto me. I think their play is to just shoot me when I step out this door and fix my ex-con ass for all the shit. I smell that on them. See it in their eyes. But if I can just get five seconds. Three seconds, even. Just so they don’t shoot as soon as I open this door. Just so I can duck inside that room and bust out that window.
Long: Boy, there’s a man outside in a cab. He’s a friend of your father’s, and he’s going to drive us out of here. Okay? We’re just making a break for it. Okay? The boy nods.
Long: If these guys let us walk out, cool. I got a story going with them, and if they’re buying, we’re easy out. But if not, then fuck ‘em. We’re just busting, okay?
The boy nods.
Long: If we got to, we’re just diving out the window and running fast as we can to the cab. You got it? The boy nods.
Long: You just think about running. You see that man-he’s a big fat white man—and you run to him. Don’t worry about me. Don’t look back. I’ll take care of these motherfuckers. Now tell me, what are you going to do?
Boy: Run to the white man in the cab.
Long stands. Hears one of the agents call out: What the fuck are you doing?
Long
thinks of telling the boy to scream. Decides instead to. make him scream. He needs a real convincing scream, and blood. He needs the agents to hear the scream. They’re not expecting him to really hurt the boy, so they’ll be confused if he does. He needs to open the door and have them be confused at what they’re seeing. Have them looking twice to see what’s going on.
He takes the knife. Speaks in an impossibly deep voice: Be strong, boy. He takes the knife and slashes the boy’s arm. The boy screams. Bleeds. Long slashes him across the belly. Not deeply at all, but painfully, so the boy’s second scream is as real as the first, and the blood comes out. Long picks the boy up with one hand, holds the bloody knife in the other. Tells the boy to play dead.
He opens the closet door. Steps out.
The agents, guns ready, stare at him. They thought he was going to fake killing the boy. Did he really do it? They stare.
Long—a lifetime of death-if-you’re-wrong instincts coming through—knows he was right about their plans. They weren’t going to let him out.
He moves.
One step out to the door on the right. Two steps across to the window.
He hears a gunshot. Knows he doesn’t have time to open the window.
He tucks the boy into his chest and dives headfirst out the window, but he doesn’t make it all the way through. He feels his legs catch on the sill as he spills out. Hanging upside down, slashed by broken glass, he drops the boy. Hears another gunshot. Another. Feels one of the agents hit his feet. Long kicks at him. Another agent sticks his gun out the window. Down. At Long. Fires. Twice. In Long’s face.
Kellogg, alerted first by muffled screams, starts out of the car when he hears the first shot. A moment later he sees Long come crashing through a window. Sees him caught there. Sees the boy fall out of his arms, hit the ground, bleeding. Hears more gunshots.
He calls to the boy: Run!
The boy does.
Kellogg sees arms with guns poking from the window over Long. Sees Long try to kick up at them. Sees Long get killed. Sees two other men with guns come through the front door, across the porch.
