Blood Passage (18 page)

Smoke’s real name was Warren Archer. He was 67 years old, stood five feet six inches and weighed 137 pounds. His white hair was bound behind his neck in a long pony tail and his white beard was neatly trimmed. He wore glasses with heavy black rims and thick lenses. The glasses were mended at both hinges with black electrical tape.

A former high school history teacher, Warren had been accused of sexually assaulting a female student in 1975. He was fired by the school board when charges were laid, but when it went to trial the student admitted that her accusations were false. She and her boyfriend, whom her parents disliked, had concocted the story to hide their own relationship and her pregnancy. It was too late for Warren to salvage his life, however. His wife had already filed for divorce, forcing him from their home, and his friends had turned their backs on him in distaste. Although he was innocent, the whiff of scandal stained him and Warren found himself without a job, a family or a home. He lived in his car while he hunted for work but soon discovered that the publicity surrounding the case had rendered him unemployable. He sold the car for a few hundred dollars in cash to buy food. He fell into the street life because it was the path of least resistance and he’d been there ever since.

He became known as Smoke because he liked to ask passersby for a smoke before following up with a request for spare change. Alcohol kept him warm at night and became a problem for a while, which was how Hank first met him. Drunk one summer night, Smoke was beaten up by teenagers and robbed of the few dollars in his pockets. Someone called it in and Hank, a patrol officer at that time, responded. He checked on the old man while he was in hospital and after Smoke was discharged made it his business to visit him whenever he could. When Hank became a detective, Smoke began to furnish useful information about what was happening on the street. Being in South Shore East and well inside R Boyz territory, the old man saw a great deal.

“
What’s happening around?” Hank asked. It was understood that Smoke wouldn’t offer him any hospitality such as tea or coffee. He wouldn’t be staying long.

“
Oh, this and that.” Smoke removed one of the packs of cigarettes from the carton and peeled off the cellophane.

“
I’m looking into the shooting of a Chinese kid off 121
^st
Street four years ago.”

“
Long time ago.” Smoke freed a cigarette from the pack and lit it with a match from a book of paper matches that advertised a restaurant not far from here. Hank knew that the cook gave Smoke a meal once in a while from the back door in exchange for taking out the garbage and performing other simple chores.

“
Yeah. His name was Martin Liu. He was found in the alley next to the Biltmore Arms.”

“
Not many Chinese come into this ’hood.” Smoke tipped his head back and exhaled, looking at the rafters above him. “I ’member, vaguely. Kid had horse or something he shouldn’t have. How come you asking questions ’bout it now?”

“
New information,” Hank said. “A couple of names, Shawn and Gary. Shawn’s a black guy and Gary’s a white guy. May have had something to do with it.”

“
Shawn,” Smoke repeated softly, rubbing his thumbnail across his lower lip. “Shawn and Gary.” He shook his head and dragged on the cigarette. “Nobody jumps right out.” He smoked for a few moments. “Gary means nothing to me,” he said finally.

“
That’s all right. What about Shawn?”

Smoke shrugged. “Only person come to mind is ShonDale.”

“
ShonDale. Who’s that?”

“
ShonDale Gregg. Works at a place owned by RaVonn Pease.”

“
R Boyz, that’s what you’re saying?”

“
Yep.”

“
This ShonDale Gregg’s some kind of tough guy?”

“
Like to think he is,” Smoke said, making a face. “Big sonofabitch, that’s for sure, and like to throw his weight around. Quick with the fists. Bouncer at the En-R-G Club or whatever they call it, and extra security shit for the man.”

ShonDale. Hank thought about the way in which a three-year-old boy might have difficulty saying the name and considered it a possibility.

“
Arrogant sonofabitch too,” Smoke went on. “One time I was looking for bottles behind the club and he come after me, like to kick my hairy ass into next week. If it weren’t for Pease yelling at him to get in the car I’d’ve ended up in the hospital for sure. Arrogant bastard.”

“
Can you think of any reason why ShonDale would want to kill an Asian kid and dump him in R Boyz territory and fake a drug sale?”

Smoke stared into the shadows. The breath whistled through his nostrils. “Nope,” he finally said. “Strange dude, though. Heard he moved out of the ’hood a while back, stopped hanging with the homies and got himself a crib down on the waterfront. Expensive digs, so I heard.”

“
When was this?”

Smoke pursed his lips. “Couple years back now. Still shows up at the door of Pease’s club time to time, twisting arms and such. But putting on airs, like he’s got a better gig and is just coming back to the slums for old time’s sake.”

“
He been seen hanging out with Asians at all?”

“
Nope,” Smoke said, then frowned. “No, I’m wrong. Now you mention it, I heard tell a buncha Chinese been coming round to that club the last while. Damned strange, it being an R Boyz club and all.” He looked at Hank. “They wouldn’t get through the door less somebody let them, never mind live through the experience to come back for more. Heard it was Gregg watching out for them. Forgot that.”

“
That’s very unusual.”

“
Tellin’ me. Pudgy rich-lookin’ Chinese kid and a couple tough guys, the way I heard it. And a white dude, too. Imagine that.”

Somewhere in the alley a tin can rattled across the cracked pavement. Smoke butted out his cigarette and turned down the light from the kerosene lamp. As they sat in shadows, they could hear the sound of voices coming up the alley.

Hank held his breath, listening. It was a couple of kids, young teenagers from the sound of it. Hank listened as the voices grew loud and then faded as the kids moved away down the alley. When they were gone, he stirred in his chair.

“
I better go.”

“
Thinking the same.” Smoke cautiously turned the light up enough that Hank could see to leave.

Hank handed Smoke the plastic bag. “Thought you’d like this.”

Smoke took the bag and removed the hardcover book that was inside. He held it under the lamp, studying the paper jacket. “
Team of Rivals
,” he read aloud, “‘
The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln
, by Doris Kearns Goodwin. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize.’ Well, now.” He hefted the book and looked at Hank. “You read this?”

Hank nodded. “Last summer, while I was on vacation.”

Hank was famous for his vacations, in which he took three weeks in September, rented a car and drove somewhere with the back seat full of books. It was the only time he drove a car himself. He picked a destination on the map and headed out, stopping whenever he felt like it to read and soak in his surroundings.

“
This is very nice of you,” Smoke said, leafing through the book. He saw the envelope containing the cash and kept on leafing.

“
I think you’ll like it. I know it’s a period that interests you. It covers Lincoln’s campaign to become President and the other Republican candidates who went on to form his cabinet after he was elected.”

“
I’ll let you know what I think.” Smoke set the book down carefully. “Lincoln was the greatest American of the nineteenth century.”

Hank rose and began to make his way out of the cluttered shed. At the heavy wooden door, he paused. “Be safe.”

“
Always.”

Back in the street after a slow negotiation of the laneway and alley, Hank walked six blocks to an all-night convenience store. He took out his cell phone and called a taxi. While he was waiting for it to arrive, he thought about the alley in which Martin Liu had died. He thought about the little boy who claimed he had been Martin Liu in another life. Maybe Karen was right, maybe it was all bullshit. Hank shivered, knowing that he wanted to hear the claims himself, coming from the boy’s mouth.

“
Let’s get married,” Sandy Alexander said, propping himself up on an elbow to reach for his glass of beer on the nightstand beside the bed.

“
No.” Karen rolled over onto her side and stared at the folds in the drawn curtains hanging in her bedroom window.

“
I was thinking maybe the last week of September. We can both book it off, get married, fly down to Jamaica, have a little vacation and honeymoon at the same time. It’d be nice.”

“
No,” Karen repeated.

Sandy put the glass back on the nightstand. “Yeah, you’re right. We could wait until November. That would be better.”

“
I ain’t the marryin’ kind,” Karen drawled.

“
Of course you’re not,” Sandy shot back. “Neither am I, but why should we let that stop us?”

Karen looked at the clock next to her bed and saw that it was 11:46 p.m. “When was the last time you went to church, Sandy?”

“
A church wedding would be fine. Small, though. Nothing big.”

Karen rolled over on her back and closed her eyes. “No, seriously. When was the last time you went to church? Voluntarily, I mean.”

“
Seriously?” Sandy slowly exhaled. “Voluntarily? I’d have to say when I was 17 years old. Don’t forget, I’m from small-town Virginia. Church-going was serious social business for most families. I went every Sunday with my parents until I left home to go to college.” Sandy was a graduate of the University of Virginia, where he majored in criminology, wrote music reviews for the university newspaper and deejayed late at night on the university radio station. He considered his small-town upbringing a tiny blip in the rear-view mirror that was steadily fading away in the distance behind him.

“
We weren’t church-goers at all. My parents sent me to Sunday School one summer when I was twelve,” Karen said. “I beat up a kid, broke his nose, and there was a hell of a fuss. My father got the idea that maybe Sunday School’d make me a better little girl. It wasn’t much of an experiment.”

Sandy rolled over and rubbed her shoulder. “You never told me this before.”

“
What, going to Sunday School?”

“
No, Christ. Beating up a kid when you were twelve and breaking his nose. How old was the kid?”

“
Fifteen. He was picking on my brother. Brad was only ten.”

“
That’s hot, Stains. So, how many guys have you beaten up over the years?”

“
That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. I’m talking about church and religion. Believing in God. Be serious for a minute.”

He patted her shoulder. “All right, you mean-assed ballbreaker.”

She sighed.

“
Okay. I haven’t been to church just for the fun of it for ages. It’s just not something that comes to mind as a thing to do when I get up on Sunday morning, know what I mean?”

“
Do you believe in God?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, sure, I guess.”

“
And Heaven and Hell and all that?”

“
I suppose. It’s all part of the deal, isn’t it?”

“
Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“
Reincarnation?”

“
Yeah, you know, coming back after this life to live another life.”

“
You mean, like, if I’m a total prick in this life I could come back in the next life as a roach or an ostrich or something?”

“
You’re gonna come back as bacteria if you keep this up.”

Sandy smiled in the darkness. “No, I’d have to honestly say I don’t buy into that one. I mean, think about it. It would drive you crazy if you believed that stuff. Every time you swat a fly, you could be killing your great grandfather or something. It’s too far-fetched for me. I figure you’ve got one shot. You make it good, you go to heaven. You screw it up, you go to hell. Simple as that.”

“
Yeah. I guess.”

“
Why do you ask?”

“
No reason. Just wondering.” Karen threw off the sheets and got out of bed. They had a hard and fast rule: no talking about their respective cases in the bedroom or any other place where they happened to be naked. Cases were professional and sex was personal and the two did not mix. The only time they allowed themselves to talk business was in an office or some other neutral setting where they might collaborate the way any two law enforcement officers might collaborate on business of mutual interest. As far as anyone was able to collaborate with the FBI, of course.

She walked over to the closet and took out a white terry towel robe. Behind her, Sandy switched on the lamp on the nightstand so that he could watch her.

“
Let’s get married, Stains.”

“
No.” She tied the sash around her waist and walked barefoot out the bedroom door. “Maybe.”

“
Did I hear
maybe
?
Maybe
? She said
maybe
!”

Karen went to the bathroom and then on into the study to turn on the computer. While it was booting up she got herself a bottle of beer from the refrigerator in the kitchen. She uncapped it and took it back into the study. She logged onto the internet and ran a Google search on Thomas Gaines University. She found their website, tracked down the Division of Supplementary Studies and found Dr. Maddy Walsh. As she browsed through the website she heard Sandy get up and go into the bathroom. The shower started and he began to sing off-key.
Hell
, she thought,
I’m gonna have to think about it. Goddamn him anyway, the cute little bastard.