Pernicious (10 page)

 
       
She told the 911 operator that she had discovered her husband unconscious, which, in a way, was true.

         
Two paramedics rushed in carrying medical supplies.

         
“Where’s the victim?” one asked.

         
Tasha led them into the hallway.

         
“What happened?” the other asked.

         
“I found him there.”

         
“What’s his name?” checking Neal’s pulse.

         
“Neal Montgomery.”

         
“Any history of heart attacks, strokes, drug use?”

         
“No. Not that I’m aware of.”

         
“His pulse is good. Neal? Neal…what’s the matter, big fellow?”

         
Still no response.

         
Wearing latex gloves, the paramedic passed a strip of smelling salts under Neal’s nose. “Neal?”

         
Immediately Neal reacted, pushing the man’s hand away.

         
“What’s the matter, Neal?”

         
Neal, dazed, pointed at Tasha. “She did it!” his voice slurred.

         
“What she do to you, Neal?”

         
Neal closed his eyes. “She shot me!”

         
“You’re not shot, Neal.”

         
Rubbing his chest and stomach, Neal said, “Are you sure?”

         
“I’m sure. You wanna go to the hospital? It’ll be a good idea to let them check you out.”

         
Neal shook his head.

         
An uniform stuck his head inside the doorway. “What’s the problem?”

         
The two paramedics stared accusingly at Tasha. She flashed her badge. “My husband.”

         
They helped Neal to his feet. “What she do to you?” the paramedic persisted.

         
Neal shuffled toward the living room. “I’m not sure. She did something. It hurt like hell. We were arguing. I think she shot me with a rubber bullet.” He leaned toward the couch and collapsed into it.

         
The uniform, who she didn’t know, took out his notepad. “Did you?”

         
Tasha gave him an incredulous look.

         
“You want to file charges?” he asked Neal.

         
Neal stared blankly at the television, a lady jumping up and down after winning the grand showcase on the
Price Is Right
. “No,” he mumbled, sounding as if about to cry.

         
The uniform lingered behind after the paramedics left, said he wouldn’t write this one unfavorable to Tasha and suggested she seek marriage counseling.

         
Tasha, as expected, slept alone that night. The following morning she was shocked to find Neal still sitting on the couch, in the same position, the same white towel wrapped around his waist, the same glum expression painted on his face.

         
Neither Neal or she spoke as she prepared for work. When she came home that evening, Neal was
still
there, in the same spot. She looked into the garbage pail, an empty can of Campbell’s Chicken Soup.

         
He’s faking.

         
Lazy rascal had her worried all day she’d somehow messed up his nervous system.

         
Tasha sat up in bed, thought to go in the kitchen and fix herself something to eat. But the memories, seemingly yesterday, made her tired. She lay down. Thank God, Derrick wasn’t born yet. Then again, the incident prompted Derrick.
 
After receiving 50,000 volts, Neal lost his swagger. Actually he acted if he were neutered. No more shouting, no more threats--and definitely no more hot checks.

         
And no more passion…in bed or otherwise.

         
Why in the world did I think a baby would rekindle the flame, or at least motivate Neal to get serious about finding and keeping a job?

                                     
* * * * *

         
The next day, Tasha awoke with Perry Davis on her mind. She’d had a nightmare in which she and a faceless woman, whom she was sure was Perry Davis, fought viciously on a rooftop.

         
She couldn’t recall what ignited the fight, though clearly remembered the woman standing over her with a large rock, the woman calling her names, the woman grunting as she lifted the rock overhead--then she woke up, sweating.

         
Tasha showered, fixed herself a breakfast consisting of Fruit Loops and a Pop Tart, and turned the television on. Unlike Neal and Derrick, she rarely watched the tube. She surfed to a
Soul Train
rerun
and watched dispassionately as beautiful young women danced in sync to the music.

         
If she looked that good, that trim, she wouldn’t be wiggling her wares on TV; she’d be at a country club…
Doing what? Shaking my money-maker in front of geriatric sugar daddies? I don’t think so!

         
That had to be what Perry Davis was thinking when she invested her interest in Tyrone Banks.

         
“Make that money, girlfriend! Damn decency and self-respect--make that money!”

         
 
If Tyrone was generously sprinkling the sugar, why did she kill him? He had a heart condition and was getting long in the tooth, and they didn’t have a prenup. Why kill him?

         
Why the rush?

         
She called the station and asked a detective to retrieve and relay her notes in her desk. She wrote down Shirley Banks’ phone number and address.

         
Saturday, her scheduled day off, but instead of piddling around all day doing nothing, she would work on a case that she knew might never see the light of day in a courtroom.

         
Dressed in blue jeans, a blue-and-white blouse and soft-white tennis shoes, Tasha steered her car past Central High School, the legendary high school made famous during the late fifties when then-Governor Orval Faubus refused admittance to nine African American students. Back then the neighborhood was mostly white. Now it was predominately black.
 

         
Tasha slowed down, remembering Mrs. Banks had said that her recently painted green house was a rock’s throw from the high school.

         
Mrs. Banks hadn’t sounded concerned when Tasha told her she had questions regarding her husband’s death.

         
Asked when would be a good time to talk, Mrs. Banks said, “Today. Tomorrow, next month,” her voice slurred and disjointed. Tasha wondered if she was intoxicated.

         
Tasha stopped her Honda Accord in front of a lime-green, single-story house, which, despite its unusual color, was one of the better kept homes in the neighborhood. She got out, crossed to the front door and rang the doorbell.

         
“Come in.”

         
“Detective Tasha Montgomery,” tentatively entering the house, not wanting to surprise anyone.

         
A shirtless teenager reclined in an Lay-Z-Boy with his legs draped over the armrest, watching a video where three young men, also shirtless, cruised in a convertible.

         
“Hello, I’m Detective Montgomery. Is Mrs. Banks in?”

         
The teenager focused on the television. Tasha repeated the question.

         
With his left foot, he gestured toward the hallway.

         
A voice from that direction: “Who’s at the door, Donny?”

         
“A detective.” He sat up straight and pointed a remote at the television: Gilligan running from the Skipper. “She’s looking for you.”

         
“Tell her to come back here in the kitchen.” The voice rose sharply: “And didn’t I tell you to get up and go cut the grass!”

         
He got up, grumbled something and stomped out the door.

         
Tasha could smell greens cooking.

         
“Come back here,” said the voice.

         
Tasha crossed a hallway, past a bathroom and into the kitchen area. There, three women of various ages sat around a dinette table.

         
“Hello,” Tasha said. “I’m Detective Montgomery.”

         
The oldest-looking of the three stood up. “Damn, girlfriend. I thought you were white on the phone. You sure sounded white, had me fooled.”

         
“Mrs. Banks?” Tasha said.

         
“I better be,” the woman said, grinning. “I’ve been cashing all her checks.”

         
The other two women laughed, somewhat nervously, Tasha thought. “Mrs. Banks, is this a good time for you? I can come back another time.”

         
“Naw, girl. This is a good time as any. Uh…” She paused, fingering an earlobe. “Uh, it wouldn’t bother you if we continue playing cards, would it?”

         
“No, it wouldn’t. I’m a guest in your home.”

         
The other two women cast furtive glances at Mrs. Banks. “Uh…we’re sorta playing for money. Just a friendly game of tonk. We talk a lot of shit. We don’t get mad, stab and shoot each other--not yet at least. Do you mind?”

         
Tasha shook her head. “It wouldn’t bother me.”

         
That said, a deck of cards suddenly appeared on the table, along with a half-gallon of Gibley’s Gin, a quart of orange juice and three money purses.

         
Mrs. Banks, a cigarette dangling from her lips, started shuffling cards.

         
Tasha observed her: hair, dark and thick, uncombed, spilling past her broad shoulders. She had a manly face, square chin, high cheekbones, broad nose and piercing brown eyes. When she talked, her mouth slanted, as if she were attempting to throw her voice.
   

         
“You want to play a hand or two?” she asked Tasha.

         
“No thanks,” Tasha said. Still, Mrs. Banks dealt her five cards.

         
“Wait a minute,” Mrs. Banks said. “You haven’t been properly introduced yet.” She touched the shoulder of the woman to her left. “This my neighbor, Joanne.”