Redemption (26 page)

Jimmy Lee kicked the wall, stubbing his toe. “You’re missin’ the point here, Miss. The phone is messed up. The other operator tried to call me, but she never got through.”

“
Sure she did, Bro,” J’s voice said through considerable static.

“
Oh shit!” Jimmy Lee cried. “Who the—
What the hell is goin’ on?
”

J’s voice laughed. “Funny you should say it that way, Bro. Hell
is
goin’ on, and I’m the one who’s got it goin’ on. I’ll be in touch. Stay cool!”

The static disappeared.

“
Sir? Are you there? Sir?”

Jimmy Lee slid to the floor, his feet squeaking, his heart pounding. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m here.”
But I ain’t gonna be here much longer.
“I, uh, is there any way you can stop all incomin’ calls for a while.”

“
Just use star sixty-nine, sir.”

“
No, I mean, I want
all
my calls blocked. Can you do that?”

“
Well, I guess I could. But ...”

“
But what?”

The woman’s voice changed, getting deeper and deeper as she talked. “But that wouldn’t be fair to your
brother,
now would it, Jimmy Lee?”

He howled and ripped the phone out of the wall as phones in other parts of the house began to ring.

Jimmy Lee ripped the remaining fifteen phones from the walls, poured himself six shots of whiskey, and got shit-faced, passed-out drunk.

It was only 9:30 AM.

3
7

Retired detective Jimmy Jones wouldn’t leave Overton alone about Ramsey’s Bronco.

“
I ain’t OJ, I’m JJ, but I don’t have a gun to
my
head,” Jones said. “We bein’ followed by a couple hundred police cars? And me without my bloody glove.”

“
Funny,” Overton said, pulling into the parking lot of Dude’s Take-Out Soul Food on Vine Street. “At least I wasn’t named for a former Miami Dolphins coach or a mass murderer.”

“
Don’t forget the actor, James Earl.”

“
I bet they don’t call him ‘Jimmy.’”

“
Sure they do, and I should know. They were all named
after
me.”

Jones was short, wiry, bald, and wore a tie-dyed tank top and bicycle shorts. “So I can blend in down there,” he had said as he rummaged through a few drawers at his house. “You ain’t gonna blend in at all, Sheriff. None of my stuff will fit you.”

Overton, still in his browns, looked around. “Place looks deserted. Sure this is a good place to start?”

“
Dude’s been on Vine Street for seventy years and knows everyone.” He checked his watch. “He oughta be openin’ soon. You gonna spring for lunch?”

“
Sure.”

He patted his stomach. “You won’t be disappointed.”

The door to Dude’s opened, and a wrinkled man who had to be at least eighty stepped out. Jones was out of the Bronco and inside before Overton could get his seatbelt unbuckled.
That man is hungry.
Overton left his hat on the seat and entered, smelling a pleasant mixture of grease and greens.
This place could be Callie’s kitchen.

“
He gonna be around long?” Dude asked Jones. “Man gonna scare off my customers.”

“
We won’t be long, Dude,” Jones said, leaning on the counter. “And that hurricane’s liable to scare everybody away from here.”

“
Ain’t no hurricane ever hit this far inland, and ain’t no hurricane ever gonna. An’ who’s afraid of anyone or anything named Anthony anyway? I got a nephew named Anthony, and he ain’t shit.”

“
You never know,” Jones said. “How ‘bout four with tartar and two home fries.”

Dude nodded and went to prepare the sandwiches.

“
You’ll love them,” Jones said, opening a large blue cooler and pulling out two Cokes. “Coke okay?”

“
Sure.”

Jones tossed him a Coke.

Where’s the menu board?
“How much will this cost?” Overton asked.

Jones shrugged. “It varies. Just flow with it.”

Dude was back at the counter. “That’ll be ... fifteen.”

Overton whistled. “Kinda steep.”

Dude frowned, sucking his lips into his mouth and puffing out his cheeks. “You didn’t come here for sandwiches. The extra is for what you gonna ask me.”

Overton smiled and handed him a twenty. “I’m looking for two people, one named Romelo, the other named Rommy.”

Dude scratched his nose and sat on a stool behind the register. He rolled the twenty in his hands. “Rommy Dudley. Crackhead. Used to work the corner with the rest of them ho’s. Street name: Stardust. Dead. AIDS. Seven, eight years ago.” He shifted on the stool and pocketed the twenty. “Next one’s gonna cost you your change.”

“
That’s fine,” Overton said.

“
Romelo Dudley, AKA Romeo, AKA R Mellow. Punk. Street hood gang
sta
, corner pharmacist, all-around bad-ass when he was just fourteen. Shot in the back over twenty bucks he owed another punk when he was fifteen. Paralyzed from the neck down. Shittin’ himself ever since.”

“
Where’s he live?” Overton asked.

Dude spat on the floor. “If you can call it livin’. He’s over on Twenty-second. House with the pillars like the White House, only somebody painted the entire house black. Most days he’s on the porch. Don’t expect him to cooperate. He’s still a bad-ass even if he can’t control his ass.”

“
And where’d he use to live?” Overton asked.

“
Foursquare two blocks down from here. Old Willis house. Burned to the ground in eighty-nine. Arson.”

Overton’s heart thudded. “Was that
Julius
Willis’s house?”

Dude nodded and squinted. “How you know Doc Willis? He been dead for nearly forty years now.”

“
The fact is, I don’t know him at all,” Overton said. “What kind of a man was he?”

“
Best man I ever known. Only black doctor around. He and his wife Em took in more kids, raised ‘em right, got ‘em through school. Best man I’ll probably
ever
know.”

“
Took in kids?”

“
You know, kind of like adoptin’ them, though most of ‘em was family.”

Jones drummed his fingers on the counter. “Thanks, Dude. Uh, the sandwiches almost ready?”

Dude stared hard at Overton. “They sandwiches will cost you extra.”

“
Extra?” Jones exclaimed.

“
I don’t stutter.” Dude froze Jones with a stare. “You askin’ a lot today, Detective Jones. Romelo still got respect around here. Keep me out of it.”

“
We will,” Overton said. “Oh, one more thing. Have you seen a young man about fifteen or so, six-foot, light-skinned, dark hair and eyes?”

“
Name?”

“
Daniel. He’d be hanging out with a dark-skinned man, mid-to-late thirties, black cap, black work boots.”

“
No,” Dude said, and he slid off the stool. “I’ll be gettin’ you your meal now.”

“
No?” Overton mouthed to Jones.

Jones shrugged and whispered, “Must be slippin’. He has the best memory of anyone I’ve ever known.”

Dude brought two brown bags to the counter, each darkened by grease. “An’ I still got the best hearin’ around here, too. I say no, I mean no. I ain’t seen ‘em.”

“
Even if I tip you more?” Overton offered.

Dude crumpled the tops of the bags. “Who’s payin’ for these?”

Overton gave him another twenty. “Keep the change.”

Dude rolled the twenty and dropped it into his pocket. “Thanks.”

After a brief silence, Overton asked, “Have you seen them?”

Dude came out from behind the counter and walked to the door. He turned and addressed Overton. “Mister, all the money in the world won’t get me to see them two, now git.”

He’s seen them,
Overton thought as he went back to the Bronco.
He’s seen them, and he’s not supposed to tell anyone he has.

They pulled up in front of a black White House and saw Romelo sitting in a fancy motorized chair on the porch surrounded by burly boys all wearing Carolina blue.

“
They look rough,” Overton said.

“
They are,” Jones said, finishing his sandwich. “Better leave your gun.”

But if they’re rough ... I’m not in Pine Country anymore.
Overton removed his gun belt, sliding it under the seat. “We come in peace, huh?”

Jones opened his door. “Or leave in pieces. C’mon.”

As they walked up the uneven sidewalk, the burly boys came to the porch railing, arms flexed, faces expressionless. Calls of “five-oh” and “yo, it’s the Po-Po” rang out. The shortest of the crew laughed and said, “Yo, it’s Andy Griffith and Barney Fife!”

Overton stopped and stood, one foot on the sidewalk, the other on the bottom step of the porch. “Howdy.”

Jones walked up the stairs to the porch and stood directly in front of Romelo. “How ya doin’, Romelo? Remember me?”

Romelo, wearing dark glasses and Carolina Nike gear, moved his right index finger over a ball on the arm of the chair. The chair moved silently closer to Jones. “You supposed to be somebody?” he rasped.

Jones cocked his head toward Overton. “That’s Sheriff Miles Overton of Pine County, and I’m Detective Jimmy Jones. Retired now.”

“
So?” Romelo spat.

“
Jefferson Apartments. Eighty-three. You and Rommy.”

Romelo backed the chair nearly to the screen door. “Yo, fellas, go see if OJ’s in that ride.” Romelo’s crew laughed and left the porch for the Bronco. As soon as the porch was clear, Romelo nodded. “So what you wanna know?”

Overton walked up the steps and leaned on the porch rail. “Who told you there would be a baby in the cemetery?”

Romelo laughed, more of a hoarse whisper. “You get right down to it, don’t you?”

“
It’s hot,” Overton said.

“
Try wearin’ all this and sittin’ in this chair all day,” Romelo said.

“
Sorry,” Overton said. “Must be rough.”

“
That ain’t the word.” Romelo’s finger rolled over the ball, and the chair inched closer to Overton.

One delicate finger moves him.
“Who told you about the baby?” Overton asked.

“
My grandma.”

The pieces are falling into place.
“What was her name?”

“
Cassandra.”

And now a more important question.
“Do you know who told
her
the baby would be there?”

“
No.”

“
You sure?”

The chair rolled backwards. “Give it up, Andy. I don’t know shit.”

Overton looked back at the boys sitting on the hood of the Bronco then stepped closer to Romelo. “Nice chair. Who bought it for you?”

“
Bought it my damn self,” Romelo said. “Cost me sixty-five hundred.”

Uh-huh. Right.
“Who put the money in your account?”

“
I look like I got a bank account?”

Overton stepped as closely as he could to the chair, leaning his face inches from Romelo’s. “Okay. I’m going to tell you a story. If I’m wrong, tell me I’m wrong. But if I’m not wrong, don’t say a word. Okay?”

Romelo looked away. “Man, you buggin’.”

I’m doing what?
“That way no one can say I heard it from you. I can tell them honestly that you didn’t tell me shit.”