Holy Hell

by Elizabeth Sims

  "I've dealt with the press before," he murmured, as if talking to himself. Then he evaluated me with his eyes once again and said, "I'm going to tell you something off the record, all right?"

  I waited.

  "All right?"

  I knew enough not to respond.

  He pursed his lips in annoyance, then went ahead. "Iris's second job was her business. She had a—an unconventional streak in her. Well, it was a wild streak, to name it right. The girl was wild. But instead of trying to break her, I decided to let her go, you know? Take her chances, as long as she didn't interfere with mine. Do you know where I work and what I do?"

  "You work for Hastings Benevolex. I don't know what you do there. Or what that's got to do with anything."

  He leaned forward and said, "I'm vice president in charge of special projects. You know anything about Hastings Benevolex?"

  "Well, it's a high-tech company—computers. They subcontract with the car companies..."

  "Yes. And it's a very conservative company."

  "I've heard that too."

  The place, owned by some fundamentalist idiot-savant, had a ten-page dress code and an unwritten series of personal conduct laws that rivaled Nazi Germany's. A copy of the dress code had found its way to a reporter on one of the Detroit dailies, which printed parts of it, causing much public derision. Hastings Benevolex's stock price, however, was unaffected by anything but its ever-surging profits.

  It was a gigantic employer, and like Amway, everybody knew somebody who was involved with it. The few gay people I knew who worked there were a well-paid but sorry lot, heavily closeted and doomed in most cases to stagnant careers, the best promotions going to white men with families. I'd never met any person of color who worked there.

  "Somebody murdered Iris," Macklin said. "All right. I can't do anything to bring her back. She probably got mixed up in something over her head. That was a bad part of town. It could've been a random thing. Those things happen, don't they?"

  His voice accelerated. "The publicity's been bad enough already. I don't want it in the papers or anywhere that my wife moonlighted as a DJ at a goddamned lesbian bar. I do not want that! In about six months I expect to be considered for senior vice president. Ingersoll is retiring." He touched his temples.

  "I'm going to get it. Nothing's going to stop me. I've worked for this company for thirteen years. I started out in Memphis. I walked into Memphis with nothing! Then Indianapolis, then Cleveland, then here. I don't want anything more about Iris in the news. My God—I'd be out of there like shit through a goose."

  He looked at me fiercely. "I know what you're thinking. Well, I'm not."

  "Not what?"

  "A token! I am not a token!"

  The thought hadn't occurred to me. "Mr. Macklin, I'm really not interested in your career. Could we get back to—"

  "I've worked like a dog for what I've got!" His voice jumped at me from across the coffee table. "You don't know how hard I've worked!" He clenched and unclenched his fists.

  "Do you miss your wife?"

  His face crumpled. He threw back his head and let out a long, keening sob. Then more sobs. After a few minutes he began to choke out words.

  "I loved her. I did. Oh, damn!" He punched himself in the head. I'd never seen anyone do that. "But she, she—I was losing her. She said she wasn't sure she wanted to be married anymore. I thought if I gave her some slack, you know, she'd go off on her little adventures—whatever, and then—then come back to me a hundred and ten percent. Was that wrong?" He looked at me, his eyes streaming.

  Taken aback by the force of his emotion, I couldn't speak.

  He choked on, "And now this. You don't know what it's like. To be a black man. You can watch all the PBS specials in the world, but you have no idea. To gut it out every day, every day. The pain of trying to make it in an industry that ought to be color-blind. It ought to be! But it's not." The muscles of his cheeks gleamed with tears and sweat. "I've had to deliver three times more than any white man, and I've had to eat ten times the shit. Lady, I don't know why I'm telling you this."

  He pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed his face roughly. Then his voice softened. "To make it into the inner circle, onto the top rung. Lady, do you realize I'm almost there? Can you begin to imagine what I've gone through and how bad I want it? I want it so bad." His face twisted in anguish. "I don't care what you say. The Lord will be the judge of me."

  He stopped, and we sat in silence for a few minutes. I looked at the sky beyond the doorwall while he used his handkerchief again. He cleared his throat. "What's done is done. I'm burying her tomorrow. I don't want any more publicity about Iris. I don't want you telling the police about her and that bar. Do you understand?"

  "Maybe you're misjudging the guys you work for."

  "I'm not."

  I didn't tell him I'd already connected Iris to the Snapdragon for the police. I made him no promises. I just said, "Well, even if you're not interested in justice for your wife, the police are. And I am."

  "Get out."

  As I walked to my car, I reflected on Gerald Macklin and his obsession, and realized that there were, and always would be, things in this world beyond my understanding.

  Chapter 14

  Shitsville. I'd been hoping for either a shocked, grief-stricken nice guy who'd become my ally in uncovering the facts, or a sinister bastard who'd murdered his wife. Macklin's indifference to anything but his career baffled me, but I found myself more determined than ever to see justice done. Somebody had to give a good goddamn about Iris Macklin.

  The Caprice mixed and mingled with traffic on Woodward Avenue, and I found myself thinking about cars. The car, Iris's car, the maroon Escort. If somehow a professional ring had got hold of it, goodbye, but that didn't seem likely. It must be somewhere.

  When I got home I consulted the phone book and found a Carl Creighter on Salem Street in northwest Detroit. I remembered Kevin or somebody saying Bonnie lived with her mother; likely her father was dead. Perhaps, as many widows do, Mrs. Creighter let the phone listing stand. I dialed the number and got a sixtyish sounding female hello.

  Once in a while reporters do things to confirm information or hunches that they don't teach in journalism school, not that I ever went to one. I could do a passable Swedish accent, and used it at that moment. It's all in the up-and-down rhythm and intonation. "May I speak to Mrs. Creighter, please?"

  "Uh, speaking." Most Americans are caught off-guard by Northern European accents; their first impulse is to listen carefully and respond clearly, which leads to a cooperative feeling.

  "This is Mrs. Olsen from the Northern European Life Insurance Group. Your late husband had a policy with us. Were you aware of it?"

  "Why no, no, I wasn't." Mrs. Creighter's voice took on a suspicious yet hopeful tone. "European Life? Mr. Creighter has been dead for six years. European Life?"

  "Yes, in the amount of fifty thousand U.S. dollars. There was a delay. We need to send you some paperwork for your signature. Let me see, you have one daughter, Bonnie, and our records show no other children, and no one else residing at your address. Is that correct?"

  "Yes, no other living children. But wait, is this something he got at work or what? I never knew—"

  The important thing is to interrupt and go fast. "You are still residing on Salem Street in Detroit? Yes, fine, we'll send this information along. Thank you very much and goodbye, Mrs. Creighter."

  I put down some food for Todd and changed into a black T-shirt with my jeans, and my black Chuck Taylor basketball sneakers.

  My thought was, I'd just drive by the house and have a look.

  The Caprice was on the street beneath my balcony. As I approached it with my keys, a van with the Detroit city shield on the door pulled over across the street. As soon as I saw it, my heart sank and sweat sprang out on my hands. Lou climbed out, in her uniform and equipment belt. The way she got out of a vehicle was to grab the roof and swing herself out. She rushed toward me.
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  I was so startled that I ran around to the other side of my car. I stood, panicked, on the curb on the passenger side.

  "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by!" she cried, planting her hands on the Caprice's roof. Her left wrist was bandaged. Her eyes were hectic. A miserable low howl issued from the rear of the van.

  "Lou, you're scaring me." I looked up and down the sun-dappled street. Other than a couple of kids playing catch in the distance, nobody was around.

  "Scaring you?" The look in her eyes changed to wonder. "Scaring you?"

  I nodded emphatically. "Yeah."

  "But I'm a very loving person, Lillian. I just had to see you for a minute." Her shoulders were rolling from side to side as she shifted her weight rhythmically and rapidly from boot to boot. Her face was extremely red. I sensed she was at the very edge of self-control.

  Her vehement, raspy voice bounced at me across the car's roof. "I know I probably shouldn't be doing this," she went on, "but it's like—it's like I can't help it. It's like I had to come here."

  "Get ahold of yourself," I said. "Where the hell did this come from? What can you possibly want from me? I can't be your girlfriend." I heard pleading in my voice. "Why don't you leave me alone?"

  She looked down at her boots, then up at me. Suddenly her body language calmed down. "It's terrible, I know it," she said quietly. "I didn't ask for this to happen. Before, you were always in some damn relationship. Don't I have any chance with you? You are so cute."

  Clamping my tongue between my teeth, I shook my head. "I'm sorry."

  "But how do you know you wouldn't love me if you don't ever give me a chance?"

  Her hands were moving on the Caprice's clean roof, leaving trails of perspiration. It bugged me, but I noted with satisfaction that the sweat was beading up: proof of a good wax job.

  Lou's fingers were oddly slim, ending in ragged nails. She noticed me looking at her hands. "Do you have a problem with bull dykes? Do you have a problem with butches?"

  "Oh, God, Lou. No! No! OK? But I do have a problem with you!"

  "If only," she said, "you'd give me one chance. One date. That's all I ask."

  "No, Lou. You're really pushing it here, and the more you push, the more you're not going to get what you want."

  "You mean if I back off, you'll go out with me?"

  "No!"

  We just stood there for a moment.

  "Then I guess I have to try to—" She made a chopping motion with her hand. "I don't cry in the daytime. I cry at night. I don't sleep good. I'm not sure what I might do."

  "What?" I looked at her narrowly.

  "I just mean, I'm not sure what I'm going to do."

  I didn't like the sound of that, but I believed she would, in fact, get over it, and pretty quickly too. I couldn't imagine anyone obsessing over me for more than a week.

  "Do you have someone to talk to, Lou?"

  She grunted and squinched her eyebrows together. "You're the only one I want to talk to. But I know what you mean. I don't know. I guess I could see someone."

  "I'd encourage you to do that."

  The radio on her belt squawked.

  "Hadn't you better get back to work?"

  "I gotta go over to the zoo and then back to the shelter before six. Well. Bye," she said.

  "Bye."

  She gave me a long, deep look, then backed off to her van.

  After she drove away I sat down on the curb for a while. The insane thought occurred to me that if I actually went out with Lou once, then turned her down, she'd somehow be satisfied and go away. Hah. But I had to admit a date with Lou could be an interesting experience. A crow flapped swiftly by, chased by a pair of screaming blue jays. They disappeared over the rooftops.

  I got into my car and drove to the Creighter residence on Salem Street.

  Late-afternoon light angled through the trees. The neighborhood was quiet. I cruised slowly past the address and noticed a red Fiero in the driveway. The white-on-blue license was a vanity plate that read BC-1. Check. The house was a basic brick two-story job, with white-and-green metal awnings, '50s-style. The driveway terminated in a small wood-frame garage set far back on the lot, with no window on its large metal door. I circled the block and drove by a second time, noticing the front door standing open behind a screen door, and a fan running in a window.

  From the side door, which opened onto the driveway, a woman appeared, toting a large plastic trash bag. I rolled to a stop and slouched in my seat. She was heavy and old, unmistakably Bonnie's mom, wearing a sleeveless, flower-print housedress and wooden-soled Dr. Scholl's exercise sandals.

  She walked stiff-legged to the garage, jingling a grapefruit-size clump of keys in her other hand. Together with the clacking of her sandals, the keys created a sort of samba rhythm. A spreading maple in the backyard cast a mottled shadow that swallowed her up momentarily. She emerged from the shadow at the side of the garage where there was a regular door, glanced over her shoulder, inserted a key, leaned inside, and swung the trash bag in.

  For a moment all I could see of her was her sizable printed rump and her stocky legs, knees locked. Her upper body reappeared minus the trash bag, and she carefully relocked the door. I slumped all the way down as she turned to make the trip back to the house. After a few minutes I peeked up and drove away.

  I went over to Café Yokey-Dokey in Ferndale, which despite its name was a serious coffeehouse, run by a couple of earnest guys who believed in the city's potential. For a while downtown Ferndale was a lot like Lincoln Park, a tired business district far gone to wig shops and laundromats, but lately a regeneration was happening. Citizens groups had forced the porno theater out of business, and shoestring entrepreneurs were making a go of it here and there.

  I ordered a regular coffee and took a seat. The place had been appropriated by avant-garde teenagers. They're nice to share space with, because they're so far into themselves they don't even glance at other people. I listened to a little of their conversation. Every fourth word was "basically." The latest modifier.

  I looked at a few magazines, then wrote a letter to my best friend Truby in California. We'd been classmates at Wayne State. Her degree was in French, mine in English; we were faces in the liberal arts mob. I'd been keeping her posted on the Bucky situation, so I filled her in on the latest. I also told her about the murder. "I'm about to trespass for the first time in pursuit of truth, justice, and economic freedom (mine)," I wrote. The sun drew low through Café Yokey-Dokey's streaked storefront window. I watched it set on my first day as independent journalist and professional asshole.

  I hung out for a few hours, drinking too many refills while trying to deaden my nerves through self-hypnosis. "I am not nervous. It's normal to be nervous. But I am not actually nervous."

  Then I left and cruised the Detroit expressways for another few hours, using up some of the caffeine. I gassed up the Caprice and checked the oil. Finally, I stopped at a 7-Eleven and bought new batteries for the little penlight I kept in the glove compartment. My hands trembled as I tapped out the old batteries. Then I swung by the Snapdragon and saw the red Fiero in the first spot by the door. Check.

  The Caprice and I returned to the Salem neighborhood. I parked two blocks down and two over, took the penlight and a deep breath and climbed out. Affecting nonchalance in case anybody saw me, which no one did, I sauntered down the street behind Salem, then cut into the backyard of the house right behind Bonnie's. The

  house was dark. No sign of dogs in either yard. My Chuck Taylors made no sound on the concrete driveway nor then in the grass.

  A sliver of moon hung over the treetops, its shine augmented by streetlights filtering down here and there. There was just enough of a gleam to see by, yet I felt pretty well concealed. In case anyone discovered me, I was prepared to explain that I thought I'd seen an owl and was trying to get a better look. A birder could wind up anywhere.

  I hugged the garage wall past a couple of sour garbage cans and followed it t
o the back fence. Like all fences in those neighborhoods, it was chain-link, a little high, but fortunately with the top wires turned over. I managed it in a boost-and-roost move, my foot kicking the links just a little. The whole fence rattled slightly as I dropped to the other side in a crouch.

  The tough part about sneaking around in summer, I remembered from being a kid, was that open doors and windows made people more likely to hear you. I waited a couple of minutes, then moved forward. A few feet later I was touching the Creighters' garage. Same vintage as the house. But the paint was peeling; it seemed the garage hadn't been taken care of as well as the house over the years.

  Light poured from the windows at the rear of the Creighter residence. The sashes were heaved up—no central air. I could see yellow walls and china bric-a-brac, the kitchen. I inched along to the side garage door. The grass grew right up to the garage. A few tall weeds pressed up at the foundation, having escaped mowing. The door was wooden with a large window, which was covered from the inside with aluminum foil. That was not so very unusual; lots of homeowners cover their garage windows, windows in garages having been in style before opportunistic neighborhood crime, or fear of it, made things different. I tried the knob for the heck of it: locked, of course.

  Suddenly I heard voices close by. I darted for a shadow back along the garage wall and froze. A teenage couple passed on the sidewalk, murmuring. As I pressed against the wood covering the garage, I got a better sense of its age; it really felt weak. Chips of paint flaked off when I moved my arm. I scooted around the back by the fence again. In the dark I tested the boards with my hands: One, knee-high, was loose.

  Kneeling in the weeds, I forced the middle of the board inward as far as I could, about three inches, then flashed my light for just a second. Tar paper or something covered the inside.

  Out came my pocketknife, a little Case knife I always carry in the back pocket of my jeans. It's got rounded nickel bolsters and a black handle. At the paper I used it every day for cutting open packages, jimmying the lock on the paper-towel dispenser whenever we lost the key, etc. At the swamp I could pry an interesting stone out of the mud. Carrying the knife got to be a habit.