by Meg Lelvis
He held up his beer. “Same as you. I knew your skirt meant something. On the prowl?”
Denise laughed and patted down her frizzy hair. “I was gonna order take-out. Conrad and the kids are at his mom’s for the weekend, so I’m footloose and fancy free.” She sat on the empty bar stool next to Jack.
“Come here often?” Denise asked.
“About once, twice a month. Mostly for the burgers.”
“Yeah, they’re the best.” She smiled at Linda, who leaned behind the bar. “I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay.”
“Not a beer drinker, Williams?” Jack asked.
“Not all us black folks drink beer.” She chuckled. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m more refined.”
“No, hadn’t noticed.” Jack drained his glass. “So, how’s the family?”
“Doin’ good. Kids growing up fast. Katie turned sixteen last month.”
Linda brought Denise’s wine and Jack ordered another Sam Adams. “You want something to eat, Denise?” Linda asked.
“Yeah, was gonna do take-out, but Bailey needs company.”
Jack grunted and rolled his eyes. His father would tap dance in his grave if he saw his son sitting with a ‘colored.’ But Williams didn’t fit the stereotype, allowing Jack to obscure his own biases.
Besides, this was the 21st century, for god’s sake.
Denise ordered a double meat mushroom Swiss burger, well done, plain bun, sweet potato fries, cole slaw, and apple pie.
“Good god, Williams. That’s more than I eat.”
“Gotta keep up my strength workin’ for you,” Denise said, while Linda chuckled and turned away to tend other customers.
Jack and Denise made small talk until his beer and food came.
Linda looked at Denise. “A few more minutes for your burger.” A whistle blew, announcing an approaching train.
Jack reached for his beer and plate. “Let’s take that booth over there. Get out of the lime light.”
Denise stood and took her wine. “Yeah, wouldn’t want people to talk.”
They moved to a booth nestled in a corner away from the bar and tables. Several customers were perched on bar stools and more mingled upstairs.
They talked about the Kaplan case until Linda brought Denise’s elaborate hamburger.
“Good luck eating all that,” Jack said as he bit into his burger. The floor vibrated as a train whizzed past.
“I’ll take half of it home for lunch tomorrow.” She cut the sandwich in two. “If you’re nice, you can have a fry. Delicious.”
Jack was always comfortable around Denise. Honest, straight forward, she knew the job. No blemishes on her record; damn good for fifteen years with the RPD.
He gulped his beer. “Keeping Nolan in line these days?”
“She’s gettin’ tougher by the day.”
“If she lasts, she could end up with a spotless record like her mentor.”
Denise laughed. “Yeah, well, guess you never heard about my anti-politically correct debacle years ago before you came. Lucky it’s not in my files.”
“Really. Spill it, Williams. I’m curious.”
“Okay.” She bit into her burger, finished chewing, and wiped her mouth. “One night we busted some punk high school shits for two pounds of weed. More than we’d thought. We drag ‘em from Foster High parking lot down to the station. Two black punks and a white trash.” Denise glanced around and lowered her voice.
“So Travers, this black cop who quit awhile back, wants me to question one of the black kids and he’ll do the other one, and get another cop to do whitey. Wanted to separate ‘em, so Travers tells the smaller black kid to go with me down the hall for a talk, as he put it.” Denise smiled, rolled her eyes.
Jack straightened. “What?”
“The kid looks at me and calls out, ‘I ain’t goin’ with no niggah bitch.’ And before Travers can grab him, I get in his face and say, ‘Who you callin’ a niggah, niggah?’
Jack chuckled. “Right on.”
Denise joined in. “Yeah, and the kid yells, ‘You can’t call me that.’ And I say, ‘I just did. And whatcha’ gonna do about it, you piece a’ black shit.’”
Jack grinned in surprise. “What then?”
“By then a few other cops are comin’ around, it’s late, maybe midnight. The kid looks at them and screams, ‘Did y’all hear that? She called me a niggah. Police brutality. Do something!’ Travers takes his arm, tells him to shut the fuck up, and drags him into an interrogation room. A couple other cops take the two punks down the hall. Travers tells me to join him and the kid in the room.”
Jack, engrossed, leaned forward and took a swig. “I’m all ears.”
Denise was clearly enjoying herself. “Well, get this. Travers makes the shit head apologize to me. Of course, the kid says I had no right to call him the n-word, but Travers tells him it’s his fault. So I get an apology. Kid didn’t dare fuck with Travers, who’s about 6’5”, weighs in at 280 if an ounce.”
Jack laughed and raised his hand to get Linda’s attention. “That calls for another drink. So that’s the end of the story?”
Denise chortled. “Don’t I wish. Next day I come in at noon. The kids are bailed out. Turns out the one kid’s ol’ man is connected with the school board or some shit like that. He’s all pissed, comes in demanding answers about a cop calling his kid the n-word. Murphy appeases him, and later calls me in.”
“Ha!” Jack is loving this, but he’s thirsty. He waves his hand again. “Come on, Linda, don’t make me get up.”
Denise drained her glass. “Anyway, Murphy asks what went down, and I tell him the truth. I’d had a bitch of a day, dead tired, couldn’t take their smart ass mouths anymore.” Denise nibbled her last fry and started on the pie. “So he says he’ll let it go, but tells me next time to do this and that to handle emotions, blah blah.”
Jack smiled. “Good for Murph. I’d like the guy if he wasn’t such an arrogant asshole.”
Linda arrived, cleared the dishes, and took their drink orders. Jack would stay for one more beer. Denise’s story proved her reputation as a hard nose. Other than that, he didn’t know much about her, but she was good company; better than most.
Jack fiddled with his napkin. “Where are you from, Williams?”
“Born in Dallas, and moved to Houston when I was a kid. My parents were from Trinidad and came here in the 40’s. We’re not all from Africa.”
Interesting comment. Maybe that’s why she’s a cut above. “Trinidad. That’s what? West Indies?”
“Yeah, most people don’t know where it is. Just off the coast of Venezuela, northeast.”
Linda showed up and placed their drinks on the table. “Okay for now?”
“Fine, thanks.” Jack took a swig. “Geography isn’t my strong suit, but I can kinda place it.”
Denise held up her glass like a toast. “One of my pet peeves is this African American crap. Why do most blacks insist on being called African American? Like I said, I ain’t from Africa.” She took a long drink of wine. “But even more important, it takes seven syllables to say.” She held up her fingers and counted off: “Af-ri-can A-mer-i-can. Or you could use one syllable and say ‘black.’ I mean, you’re not called ‘Northern European Caucasian’ are you? You’re ‘white.’ It’s a pain to write and to say the longer version. I don’t get this PC shit.” She devoured the rest of her pie.
Jack chuckled. “Actually I’m Irish American, but you have a point.” Wonder if she’s had too much wine. At least she wasn’t loud, like so many of them.
The bar was filling up, and Jack
wanted to leave before the music began. He glanced at his watch.
“Yeah, I should get goin’ too,” Denise drained her glass, and fished a credit card from her wallet.
“No, this one’s on me.” Jack indicated to Linda they were ready for the check.
“I won’t argue with a free meal. Thanks, Bailey. Enjoyed myself.”
Jack paid and tipped Linda. On the way out, he greeted several cops lingering over beer and food, waiting for the band to start. Jack and Denise stepped outside into the smothering sauna, beaming signs and street lights illuminating the inky darkness.
“I suppose you’re used to this lousy heat?” Jack wiped his brow.
“Yeah, I don’t think about it. Just live with it.” Denise’s car was near Jack’s, and she clicked the locks open and settled in. “Thanks again, Bailey. See ya Monday.”
Jack climbed into the Beemer, fired up the engine, and headed through town toward home. His mood had lifted. He should socialize more, but it was a burden. He admitted he’d enjoyed Williams, like hanging out with his sister; relaxing, no strings, less than two hours, and then home. The notion of finding a woman never entered his head. Not since Karen. Not again.
Chapter 14
Boone went into his usual frenzy when Jack drove in the garage. When he opened the door, the huge dog jumped on him and bounded away to relieve himself under his trusty sego palm.
“Let’s go in, Clifford,” Jack called, and Boone trotted back, yipping his response. No sign of Baumgartner, thank god.
A note on the kitchen island informed him there was chicken casserole in the fridge, and peanut butter cookies near the coffee pot. Along with microwave instructions, Baumgartner wrote that Boone had enjoyed a walk down the block.“Guess the ol’ girl ain’t so bad.” Jack massaged Boone’s furry neck.
He poured a shot of Jamesons, untucked his shirt, and plopped into his recliner. He noted the blinking on his answering machine and hesitated before punching the button to listen. He heard his oldest brother’s voice.
“Hey, Jack. Been awhile. Gimme a call. Nothing urgent.”
“Shit.” Jack sat back and gulped the whiskey. What the hell did Tommy want? Other than to badger him to move back to Chicago. For the umpteenth time, he wasn’t ready, maybe never would be. He couldn’t be near family; too many reminders. He needed his sanctuary. Impenetrable walls surrounding the Richmond-Houston area where life didn’t resemble frigid winters and mild summers of a past he attempted to erase.
“I’ll call him tomorrow. Maybe,” he said aloud. Jack had always looked up to his ‘big’ brother Tom, a sergeant with the Chicago PD. He’d probably make captain like their old man. Jack reached down to scratch Boone’s tan ears. “Let’s hit the sack.”
Boone grunted and ambled after Jack through the kitchen and into the bedroom. He jumped on the bed, circled twice, and flopped down, his head between his catcher-mitt paws.
Jack soon joined him and faded into an Ambien-induced slumber. During the night, far-away green hills and grazing sheep floated through misty fields. Then explosions of flying black debris, red-orange flashes, and deafening blasts of eruption. And blackness. Then silence. Despair.
Jack jolted awake, sat up, and wiped his forehead with his hand. “Shit. Gotta get some meds for this. Call a shrink tomorrow or today, or whatever the hell it is.” Boone grunted his response.
Tossing and turning, Jack finally slept, dreamless, until the clock showed 9:00. The weekend loomed ahead, his life staring him in the face.
He heard a knock at the front door. “Damn, can’t she leave me alone on a Saturday morning?”
Boone clambered off the bed, barking and galloping toward the intruder. He jumped up, his front paws aimlessly scratching the door to guard his castle.
Jack heard a key in the lock. Crap, he’d forgotten the chain.
“Yoo hoo, Mr. Bailey, hope you’re dressed.”
Erna Baumgartner waddled through the foyer and into the living room. She wore her usual baggy floral housedress and brown sensible shoes with white anklets. “Fresh baked cinnamon strudel for your breakfast,” she chirped.
Jack trudged into the room tying a maroon terry cloth robe around his waist. “Good god, Baumgartner, how many times have I told to leave me alone on the weekends to wallow in peace?”
She walked past him into the kitchen. “It’s still warm, here’s a fork. No coffee yet? Let me make some.”
Jack reached for the carafe. “No, I’ll do it. Your coffee’s too weak. Tastes like water from the Brazos.”
“Did I tell you my niece is coming from New Braunfels to visit? She’s about your age, and I think—”
He ran cold water into the carafe. “No, I’ve told you a thousand times I’m not interested, not now, not ever.”
“But she’s such a friendly, smart lady, and so pretty—”
“Give it a rest, Baumgartner. Now I’m gonna get the paper and relax.” Jack took her shoulders and guided her out the door. “Thanks for the strudel, and see you next week, no earlier.”
“Ya, looks like somebody got up on the wrong side—”
“Good bye.” Jack closed the door behind her. Damn, he forgot the paper. He quietly opened the door and saw the old biddy heading for his newspaper. She bent over to retrieve it, her considerable posterior in plain vision. “Too bad I’m not nearsighted,” he muttered.
Mrs. Baumgartner lumbered up the sidewalk and handed Jack the paper. “Here, Mr. Grumpy.”
“Wasn’t necessary, but thanks.” He closed the door, locked it, and secured the chain.
. . . . .
The rest of the weekend plodded along like walking through molasses. Jack left a message for his former psychiatrist in Chicago to call him back regarding a referral. Moose phoned with the news that Derek’s girlfriend had no further information on Todd’s dating history.
“Sorry, Jack. Maybe Tilford will come up with something.”
Jack snorted. “Fat chance. The jerk-off will be happy if the case turns cold. See me kicked in the ass, demoted. Make his day.”
Moose sighed. “Yeah, the old shit head. He’s bound to hang it up one of these days. Collect his pension.”
“Hope so. Can’t wait to get rid of the geezer. Talk to ya, Moose.” Jack hung up.
He should call Tilford about his interview with Jena, the hostess at Olive Garden, but damned if he would. The case was harder because the killer left no physical evidence. Who would be so meticulous? Someone with brains for sure; not a drug scum like Murphy suggested. Jack had asked the narcotics guy to take another look at the case to appease the captain. Had to go through the motions.
Sunday evening Jack settled in his chair with a bottle of Guinness, ready to watch the news before dinner. He’d nuke Baumgartner’s dry, cardboard casserole again tonight. Too lazy to fix or order anything better. The phone rang as he reached for the remote. Shit, now what?
“Jack, it’s me again.” Tom’s voice on the machine. “Having your happy hour? Guinness?”
Jack grabbed the phone on the end table. “Yeah, Tommy, what’s up?”
“Same ol’ shit. Ma’s goin’ downhill. Knees are acting up. Wants you to visit.”
Jack stiffened. “Not gonna happen anytime soon.”
“Come on, Jack. At least think about it. Been over six years now.” Silence. Tom continued.
“I’m calling about a job opening in Janesville, in a couple months. A lieutenant position supervising a bigger crime division than you have. About fifteen. What do you have now, nine under you?”
“Six.”
“You’d be about two hours from Chicago, so you could help o
ut with Ma once in a while.”
He felt a twinge of guilt. Hadn’t talked to her in months. “She’s still in the old house?”
“Yup, me and Jimmy check on her every week, keep the place up, fixing stuff. Has her neighbors too. Jenny and Rod see her every couple weeks.”
“Mikey still in Denver?”
“Boulder.” Tom cleared his throat. “I think this job would be right for you, Jack. It’s around 105 miles from Chicago, about 63,000 people. Nice size, 92% white, less than 3% black. You gotta admit it sounds good. Can’t beat those demographics.”
“Reading the stats off your screen?” Jack smiled. “Too much to think about, Tommy. Get back to you later.”
Tom sighed. “You’ve been down there six years. I know you can’t get over it, but it’s been ten years since— You’re doing better now. Time to get back to your family, Jack.”
“Christ, I don’t know. Nightmares started again.”
“Need to call Nathan.”
“Did already. Left a message.” Jack took a swig of beer. “Look, Tommy, I know you’ve had my back all these years. Never would’ve made it without you, but gimme some space. Call ya next weekend.”
“Okay, Buddy.” Tom hung up.
Jack felt his train speeding toward an unknown junction. Had to take control. Make decisions.
His job here was on the line because of that fucker Kaplan. Maybe he should get the hell out.
Chapter 15
The next morning Jack noticed a strange car in Baumgartner’s driveway as he pulled out of his garage on his way to work. Must belong to the niece from New Braunfels. He’d make sure not to run into them. Parched casseroles weren’t enough; old lady had to play matchmaker yet.
Drops of water sprinkled his windshield when he drove into the station parking lot, with gray clouds obscuring the relentless sun for a change. Hopefully, they’d finally get much-needed rain the perky young weather girl kept promising. He parked in his usual spot and trudged into the building.
