Richmond Noir (5 page)
So had her eyes.
He strode to within a few steps of her. He wavered the light across her eyes. They did not blink or follow.
“You’re blind.”
“That’s right.”
“What happened?”
“The sugar diabetes.”
“When?”
“Took awhile.”
He waggled the light again, disbelieving. She did not register, but lifted her gaze to where she approximated his head must be. She missed, looking just to the left of his face, and this was disconcerting.
She said, “Go ahead and take what you need. Then please leave without breaking any more of my windows. You’ll find the newest thing in the house is the stove.”
He did not move away, or pull the flashlight from her eyes. She stared blankly and intently ahead, keen with her ears, he could tell. He examined her features for some modicum of fear, regret, even disgrace at being sightless, but saw none on Mrs. Wilcox.
“I’m going into the bedroom. You sit still.”
“That is my intention.”
He made quick work of her drawers and closets. True to her word, he found no valuables or loose jewels. She had no iPod, laptop, or cell phone. She’d pared her possessions down to only furniture and items of comfort. He found her purse on the dresser table and rooted inside. Her wallet surrendered one credit card and four twenty-dollar bills. He took the cash. Credit cards were a sucker steal, a fast way to get tracked and caught. He left it.
He didn’t bother with the guest bedroom. He returned to the den where she had not moved, her feet still up. A pang struck, widespread in his body, in his veins.
“You’ve got to have something,” he said.
“I don’t.”
He raised his right hand high across his chest, above his left shoulder, and brought the knuckles down hard across her cheek. The blow knocked Mrs. Wilcox sideways in the lounger; she almost rolled off it but the arm of the chair caught her. He stood in front of her, his hand followed through high, stinging.
“You do.”
She righted herself in the chair. She worked her jaw and touched fingertips to the angry mark spreading on her face.
“What I find fascinating,” she said evenly, “is that, somehow in your view, I deserved that.”
“You weren’t supposed to be blind.”
Lowering his hand, he backed away to the sofa. He cut off the flashlight, to sit and join Mrs. Wilcox in the darkness. They sat silently for a minute. He began to feel at a disadvantage, that she could function like this better than he.
“Why on earth,” she said into the inky room sizzling with the aftermath of the violence, “would that matter to you?” This was no plea or whine. Mrs. Wilcox was puzzled, and figuring. “Do you know me?”
“I know you.”
“Were you one of my students?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I had over a thousand. Stands to reason one of you would turn out a bad penny.” She said this with her hand returned to her cheek. She nodded into the darkness that was only hers.
He sat rigid on the sofa, afraid of her fixed stare. She cocked her head. Across the street on the ball field, a few children whooped, playing night-blind baseball. Mrs. Wilcox listened to them for a few moments, perhaps trying to recognize voices.
She spoke, still with her head tilted, as if the man across the room from her and the misbehaving children outside were no different.
“Where did I fail you?”
Did she just call him a failure? The notion smacked him across his own cheek. He hadn’t failed. Lousy luck, rotten economy, poor employees, greedy bankers, bad blows. These had failed
him
.
“What are you going to buy with my eighty dollars? Drugs, I assume, and what else?”
“Some food. A bus ride back downtown.”
She shook her head at the hook rug between them. Then she seemed to understand, or unravel, something. She put clouded eyes on him.
“Are you homeless?”
“For now.”
“How did that happen?”
He did not like the question; it seemed too complex a thing to ask about so simply. He was not sitting at a little desk anymore answering her.
“It took awhile.”
Her cheek glared a harsh vermillion. He expected to strike her again.
“Son, listen to me. In every life, at some point, we can’t predict when, a snapshot goes off, and there you stay. I’m seventy-seven years old now, but inside I’m just fourteen. You, I can tell, you’re still nine. You still hurt.”
He rose to take a step toward her.
She stopped him with an open hand. Her thin white fingers looked like pieces of chalk. “I don’t know who you are.”
“I think you do.”
“I don’t. Anyway, why would that be a concern? I’m blind. No court is ever going to let me be a witness.”
He stood rooted, halfway to her in the room.
“I can’t help you,” she said.
These words condemned him.
“I can’t help myself.”
Mrs. Wilcox’s hands flew from her sides, a familiar flapping gesture from long ago, for a wrong answer.
“Well, that’s downright ignorant, and disappointing to hear. I clearly did let you down, if that’s where your life has wound up on you. Can’t help yourself. What kind of pitiful fool did you grow into?”
Mrs. Wilcox pushed forward, collapsing the lounger into a regular chair. She put her bare feet down and rose, steady and spiteful.
“Let me be plain about this. Smack me around, if it soothes you. But you, young man, have to take care of your problems yourself, instead of dragging them in your third grade teacher’s back door. Aside from the obvious illegality, this is farcical and not worthy of you.”
He followed her with the flashlight, illuminating her way without considering that she did not need it. She stepped with her gray head high, back to her bedroom. She did not close the door between them. The bed springs creaked when she lay down.
She announced, “I am going back to bed.”
Carl cut off the flashlight. His need and his ache swelled.
He felt his way to the lounger. He sat on the warmed upholstery and leaned back, lifting his legs. In the blackness he sat like this, listening to her breathe in the next room. Little by little, his eyes adjusted to seeing nothing.
Across the street, children continued to laugh. A ball hit the chain-link backstop behind home plate. A boy called for it to be thrown again. Moments later, a wooden bat struck solidly. Carl used to do this with his buddies, thrilling to the peril of trying to hit and catch a baseball in the dark. He cringed in his memory, unable to see the ball out there in the night, falling somewhere.
“Tell them,” Mrs. Wilcox called from the bedroom, “to go home. It’s too late for that nonsense. Someone could get injured.”
He rose from the recliner to do as she instructed. He walked out her door to the field. High above, a jet streaked home to the airport, lights at the extreme of each wing like falling stars. Sandston hummed to window units, cooling behind closed doors and windows. These kids on the ball field broke that pact which Sandston made with itself, to stay quiet, and, in that way, stay.
“Y’all need to go home,” he announced to five boys.
The one batting answered: “Who says?”
“The lady across the street.”
“Who’s she?”
“A teacher.”
This seemed enough, and they quit.
Carl mounted the bleachers to watch the boys shuffle off. He sat for another ten minutes to guard against their return. Years back, if he’d been one of those kids, he’d go directly home down Union Avenue after being told by an adult. He recalled his mother, who kept brownies in a tin on top of the refrigerator, or German chocolate cake slices in wax paper. His father, shutting the front door with a loud click after struggling all day with high blood pressure and passengers’ bags. His grandfather, Lucky Strike on his lips, gazing like a green-faced gypsy into the sweeping screen. They all fought hard over this land, though not in blue or gray, and without streets named after them. Mrs. Wilcox will depart too, from this town out by the airport. Carl considered staying.
He climbed down from the stands to cross the street before she locked him out and he had to go in again through the back door.
L
ong before she was a stripper, nicknamed
Blaxican
because of her mixed parentage, Gaia Esparza was a good student. As a schoolgirl, she’d learned that her street, Ladies Mile Road, had been a haven, a mile-long neutral zone in Providence Park. It was named for the white women who’d been tucked away there, safe to consider their fate and care for children while their men fought Union soldiers in Church Hill. That had been a long time ago. Now, it was probably difficult for most people to imagine that anyone had ever felt safe in Providence Park.
In a way, Gaia understood that feeling, but she didn’t share it. The neighborhood was mostly board houses, a few small clusters of project apartments, a boarded-up group home, and an ancient brick church, all just a few miles away from an industrial district. It wasn’t as dangerous as the evening news would have people believe, if you knew how to survive. And Gaia did. She’d had to learn the hard way, but she wasn’t a child anymore. Now, she knew the secret: money, knowing how to get your own, so no one could ever say you owed them anything. Money meant freedom, power, and protection. It meant that Gaia’s best friend, Charlene, could afford a real attorney. So, early on Saturday morning, when Felicia Doolittle came rattling her window screen, Gaia knew she would say yes before Doo even opened her mouth. Gaia squinted against the morning sun and leaned into the doorframe. As usual, Doo’s breasts were flattened, hidden underneath a crisp white shirt that looked oddly stark against her sepia-colored skin. The long shirt reached her knees and, in large black letters, it read,
Stop snitching. A
fitted camouflage cap, tilted to the side, covered her close haircut. Several layers of pants made her petite frame appear bulky. It was January and cold outside, and Doo wasn’t wearing a coat, but Gaia didn’t invite her in.
“You in?” Doo asked, her hand pressed against the screen, her dark, slanted eyes taking in Gaia’s long legs stretched out beneath a short, silky robe.
Gaia shifted uncomfortably.
Doo licked her lips, blackened from years of smoking. “What’s the problem? The guy is a sure thing. He has the perfect family. Two kids. Even a fucking dog that looks like Lassie.”
Gaia nodded. “I know. I’m in.”
Gaia had never met Mr. X, but Doo’s description of him was probably dead on. He probably even had a little blond PTA wife. Gaia had met many men like him before, had enjoyed taking their money. This time was different, though. Charlene wouldn’t be there and Gaia could feel her pulse pounding in her neck at the thought of being alone with just Mr. X and Doo.
Doo started to walk away, but turned around as Gaia was closing the door. “Hey, I could come by here earlier if you want to get fucked up before.”
“Let’s just keep this business, Doo.”
Doo grinned, shaking her head. “All right. Midnight then.”
Doo was unpredictable and working alone with her worried Gaia. The one person who could keep Doo in line, her lover and Gaia’s best friend, Charlene, had been locked up the week before for boosting GPS consoles and assaulting the arresting officer. Charlene needed a lawyer, a real one, and Gaia knew that working with Doo was the only way to get the kind of money necessary. A court-appointed lawyer was the surest way to lose her only friend to the prison system. Even if, lately, Gaia had been wondering about their friendship.
Charlene had been Gaia’s friend ever since Tenth House. Nine years ago, Gaia had been a shy ten-year-old who kept to herself when a fourteen-year-old girl with fuzzy braids, a bossy attitude, and a desperate need to mother something had hooked arms with her and declared that she would be Gaia’s play mom. To Gaia, that was unwelcome news. Gaia had a real mom, whose face she could draw by heart, a mom who would get sober soon and who would never again forget to take Gaia to school for forty-five days straight. Besides, Gaia didn’t want to be friends with Charlene Christmas of all people. The girl had these crazy, terrifying outbursts. One second she’d be calm, staring into space, and the next she’d be yelling at the top of her lungs. The counselors sometimes had to restrain her physically during these violent fits, when she would scream over and over again, “I want my baby!”
One day, when Charlene found Gaia balled up in a corner, weeping, she pried and prodded until, gingerly, Gaia handed her a small notebook. It was a diary and inside it was the truth about Mr. Gardener, the sixty-year-old man who oversaw the entire staff of Tenth House, and who had been molesting Gaia for a year. Three times a week, like clockwork, his bony fingers troubled her sleep. The jarring scent of his woodsy Outlaw cologne mixed with the smell of the old-people liniment he rubbed on his bad knees. He called those nighttime visits payment for putting a roof over her head when no one else would. Charlene shared the diary with another counselor and was punished for lying.
Still, it put a sudden stop to Mr. Gardener, at least up until Charlene left Tenth House for good two years later. To Gaia, Charlene was her savior, her protector, her god. She was only truly safe when Charlene was nearby. They kept in touch as Gaia went round and round the revolving doors of Tenth House, until she finally broke free from the confining walls of Mr. Gardener’s punishment room in the attic, where he sent her when she was uncooperative. She moved in with Charlene, into the housing projects not more than three blocks from their now-abandoned group home, near enough to it so that a mother coming back for her long-lost child would still easily find her. The two women fell into a comfortable routine and were inseparable. Charlene had even convinced Slick, the manager of Club Pink Kitten, to hire sixteen-year-old Gaia, so that they could work together.
Now there was Doo. Doo, who in the last year had turned out not to be a phase at all but instead a permanent fixture. Doo, who stared at Gaia when Charlene wasn’t looking, who bought new furniture, new tension, and new schemes. Charlene was so in love with Doo that she had threatened to evict Gaia if she told any more lies about Doo’s flirtatious behavior. She was completely blind to Doo’s faults. Slowly but surely, Gaia saw herself being pushed away to make room for another woman. Lately, she had done everything she could not to be alone with Doo, but tonight she didn’t have a choice. Charlene, her defender, the only one who could keep the bad things at bay, needed help.
Around 6 o’clock, while Gaia was giving herself a pedicure, Charlene called collect from the Richmond City Jail.
“I’m in,” Gaia said, after accepting the call.
“I know. Doo told me.”
The sound of Charlene’s voice came through clear, but she still seemed distant.
“Are you happy?” Gaia asked.
“Of course. I want the hell out of here.”
“I’m nervous.”
Charlene sighed. “Come on. You’re a pro at this.”
“Yeah. When
you’re
there. When I can look at you.”
“Just do it.
Gaia paused. Her lip trembled. She took a deep breath. “But what about Doo? You know how she gets when you’re not around. Can you talk to her and—”
“Are we back on this? Listen, and this is the very last time I’m going to say this: Doo loves me. She thinks you’re an immature little kid, Gaia. I had to beg her to do this with you because she doesn’t trust you to keep your head straight. Was she right?”
“No. No, I can do it. I’m just a little nervous.”
“Damnit, G. This is my life on the line. And you owe me. You better not back out. I swear to God, Gaia.”
“I won’t, Char! I swear.”
“Okay. Good. You my girl.”
Gaia tried to imagine what Charlene could be wearing. Probably an orange jumpsuit. She wondered if Charlene’s hot pink nail polish was chipping away. Wondered if the phone was pressed between her shoulder and her ear or if she was clutching the receiver with both hands, like Gaia was.
“I love you,” Gaia said.
“Aw, don’t get mushy. Just do like Doo says and everything will be fine.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t let me down.”
“I won’t.”
A half hour before midnight, Gaia slipped into a curve-hugging black minidress and put on her favorite pair of red patent-leather stilettos. She painted her lips a fiery red and pulled her long braid free, letting her heavy brown curls fall around her shoulders and down her back. She found Charlene’s loaded Glock underneath the mattress and hid it in a black handbag for protection. With her short leather trench belted at the waist, she walked outside onto the dark patio to wait for Doo. She thought about Charlene in handcuffs a week before, violently kicking Officer O’Rourke’s cruiser.
Outside, the air was bitingly cold against Gaia’s bare legs, but she had been claustrophobic inside the small apartment, battling the deafening silence, the persistent emptiness, and a constant stream of thoughts that told her to double check the door to make sure she wasn’t locked in. She felt safer out in the open, where no matter how far up she stretched her hands she’d never touch a wall. On either side of her was yet another one-level apartment. These project apartments all looked alike on the inside: cold cement walls, two small bedrooms, few windows, and a clear view of the back door as soon as you walked in the front door. Outside, plastic chairs and card tables cluttered the tiny front patios, and one of Gaia’s neighbors was sitting out smoking a cigarette. Gaia settled into a cold plastic chair and watched the neighborhood pulsing around her.
The wind blew, rushing like floodwaters between the small gaps that separated buildings, blowing litter around on balding lawns and into deep potholes in the street. The street came alive at night, bustling with activity. It was rush hour for the corner boys. They hopped in and out of cars like musical chairs. Gaia took deep breaths and listened as the one-woman Neighborhood Watch Association, Ms. Nora, shooed a group of the boys from under the big shade tree in the front yard of her shabby clapboard house across the street from the projects.
“Go stand under that street lamp and let Jesus and the rest of the world see what you doing, niggas. Go on, you little hooligans!”
The boys moved their operation a few feet down the block, joking around in front of the fenced-in playground behind the recreation center, where Gaia had played as a child. Tonight, she thought she saw the dim glow of a lit cigarette briefly penetrate the darkness of the basketball court, its smoker cloaked in nightfall. Gaia knew that the blood of gunshot victims had touched the blacktop almost as often as basketballs had. She sometimes wondered if other people saw the ghosts of those victims roaming at night, haunting the neighborhood, hiding in shadowy corners. It made her wonder if she’d ever leave Providence Park, even after she died.
Restless, Gaia’s legs bounced up and down, the heels of her shoes rhythmically clicking the concrete. It was a unique feeling she got right before she, Charlene, and Doo set out on one of these kinds of nights. It had been three months since she’d felt it, the anticipation of being in complete control of a man’s fate, his life, his livelihood. It was intoxicating. But tonight, most of what she felt was anxiety about Charlene’s absence.
When Doo’s shiny Cadillac pulled up to the curb, Gaia pinched the cold flesh of her right leg between two acrylic fingernails and squeezed her eyes shut. She felt for the piece of Charlene she had hidden in her handbag, and told her legs not to shake as she walked briskly over to Doo’s car.
Doo jumped out from her side of the vehicle and ran around to open the passenger-side door before Gaia reached it. Charlene usually rode shotgun and Doo had never made this kind of gesture for her.
In the car with the windows up, Gaia could smell the booze coming through Doo’s pores and knew she was feeling no pain. That was no surprise. The most dangerous place in the world was between Doo and a bottle of Southern Comfort.
Doo took her hand off the steering wheel, turned toward Gaia, and rubbed her thumb back and forth against the rest of her fingers. She smiled, her eyebrows shooting up questioningly. “Feel me? Lot of money on the line with this one. You gotta be on point tonight. He’s expecting two.” She stopped talking and looked down at Gaia’s bare legs, illuminated by the streetlight they sat parked under, then chuckled lightly. “But I’m sure he’ll be more than happy when he sees you.”
“It’s Charlene that’s on the line. Remember?”
“What?” Doo’s head snapped up. “How the fuck could I forget that? She’s my number one priority, and I’m hers. You remember that.”
“Well, she’s the only reason I’m doing this.”
“Yeah, well, if you’re serious, you need to hike that skirt up a little bit more.” Doo grinned and pushed back Gaia’s stretchy black mini until the hem rested on the upper thigh. Her finger grazed and lingered over the bare skin of Gaia’s leg. Gaia used her foot to drag her handbag toward the seat. Her pulse quickened.
“Doo,” she warned, hoping a firm tone would be enough.
Doo threw her head back and laughed. “Easy,” she said, and pulled away from the curb.
Seeing both of Doo’s hands occupied with steering, Gaia leaned back against the headrest and tried to relax. Her neck felt tight, her muscles tense.
“Can I have the rest?” she asked Doo, pointing to the bottle of whiskey lying overturned on the floor mat.
Doo glanced at it quickly and nodded. Gaia put it to her lips and emptied in one gulp. It burned her throat, made her choke. Doo laughed.
They drove out of Providence Park and hit the interstate going west. They traveled past where the bus line ended; it was not more than twenty-five minutes away, but far beyond where many of Gaia’s neighbors without cars had ever ventured. Eventually they arrived at a hotel in the West End called The Studio.
After she got the key from the desk clerk, Doo pulled the car into a parking space directly in front of their room. The world was resting in this part of town. Stepping out of the car, Gaia heard the click of her high heels echo in the air. She could feel the whiskey mixing with her blood. She shuddered, feeling the wind wrapping around her legs, blowing against her face, whispering her name. She stepped up onto the sidewalk and waited as Doo opened the door to the suite that she’d reserved and paid for earlier that day.
