Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (14 page)

Beauchamp's eyes suddenly widened behind his thick lenses. “Miller . . . hold up . . .” Scowling, Miller reached into his anorak's cargo pocket. Beauchamp yelled this time, “
Miller!
Hold
still!
”

“Shit, I ain't gonna drawn down on you—just grabbin' for my radio. Self-righteous, prick-ass . . .”

Miller felt his heart plummet to his knees. For now, he was hearing a low growl. He turned around, slowly. There . . . a boxy black shadow punctuated by red eyes. And fangs, gray, like the fallen snow in the darkness.

“Aw fuck me . . .” Miller shuddered. “Beauchamp . . . Beauchamp . . . you armed?”

“Never carry, Chief,” Beauchamp answered with quivering lips.

The dog—a huge black pit bull terrier—didn't attack. “Why don't he bark?” Miller called.

“Miller . . . keep quiet . . . just back up, slowly.”

“Hell widdat. I'm getting my boys ta . . .” Miller's jaw dropped as the animal sat down in front of him, just three feet away. But its snout remained curled in a snarl. “What's this sumbitch want with me?”

The dog didn't even look at Beauchamp when he replied, “You picked up on that, too, eh? Maybe it's blood, the hair, on your F150 . . . you hit that dog up there, didn't you? What—did you booze up, take your eye off the road, while you were chasing this Belleweather and his companions . . . chase them down for your cut?”

“Are you . . . you fucking looney?”

“I guess your friend here is the only witness.”

“Huh . . . you hear yourself talkin'?” Miller took a step back; the dog rose up. It drew closer, then sat again. “
Shit!
You listen here, Beauchamp—that was an accident. I was just scarin' 'em . . . just flash my lights,
nudge 'em. The Johnsons were pissed off . . . didn't like the product these kids brought . . . kids knew we wouldn't interfere, just stay clear of the state troopers . . . safe for Super Bowl . . . bring down their little Pu-Pu, and Lord knows what from up North . . . let these fancy niggers party . . . jus' long as there's no sales . . . private use . . . no sales . . . no violence. That's my rule. But I didn't kill them kids . . . I swear.”

The dog's cropped ears turned like radar: DeKalb and Stone Mountain officers were shouting for the chief. The dog locked eyes with Beauchamp, and instantly, Beauchamp remembered the looks of terror on Sekou, Sojourner, Myesha. Sekou's jacket, ripped. Adam's throat, ripped. Drag marks, laid in the ice hours ago.

“Oh my God,”
Beauchamp muttered. Disbelief washed over him for what he was about to say to an animal. “You . . . it was you. But why hurt those kids?” It was as if Beauchamp expected a human reply.

And he got one. The dog's ears dropped. Its massive head hung, and Beauchamp heard a solitary whine.

The voices of officers and the sweep of flashlight beams drew nearer. Miller saw his opportunity; he spun around and tried to sprint through the calf-deep snow. He'd run only a few feet before the dog was on his back, tearing out the tendons and muscles at the base of his skull. The officers seemed entranced by the surreal sight, if only for an instant. But they recovered and aimed their weapons. They feared hitting the flaying, screaming Miller, until the dog raised its red-frothed maw. And gave a single bark. An exhortation.

Nine millimeter rounds popped as the dog fell backward with a yelp. Beauchamp rushed forward—to the dog, not Dub Miller. The dog licked Beauchamp's bare wrist, then its tongue didn't move. While one officer called for an EMT, the others stood in shock as Beauchamp strained to lift the heavy animal, blood streaming.

Beauchamp said, voice soft, “Chief Miller's to be cuffed in the ambulance . . . if he's alive.”

Dumbfounded cops cursed after Beauchamp as he struggled back to the now taped-off area, where an old shepherd-Irish setter mongrel named Brokebottom lay next to a human named Sekou. Both dead because of
greed, rage, lust, apathy, fear, hubris, loss. Beauchamp laid the born killer named Goblin between them.

Agent Cooper jogged up, flanked by two state troopers with their Berettas drawn. He halted by Beauchamp. “Christ Cal . . . wh-what's this all about?”

“Penance,” Beauchamp answered. “Doggy style.”

Life is funny. Not funny ha-ha, but funny weird. Funny strange. I was itching for work and made the mistake of appealing to the patron saint of private detectives to send me a case. Had I known the petition would send me the one I got, I'd have stayed in bed with the covers pulled over my head.

My undoing was the part of the appeal that went, “It doesn't have to be the crime of the century, just something to get me out of the office.” Three hours later, I was locked in to finding old Mavis Conroy's half-blind dog that'd gone missing.

Yep, life was one big yuck-a-rama.

I'm Eve DeHaas. Private detective. I earn my living, such as it is, sticking my nose into other people's business . . . for money. I'm thirty-three years old, black, five years off the police force, and, with one eye closed, I can shoot a rusty penny off a baboon's backside. That last bit's not something I advertise—if I did, some idiot would ask me to prove it—and, well, that just wouldn't be fair to the baboon.

It was a hot Tuesday in July, the clock hands inching their way toward high noon, when Conroy and my grandfather, Edwin Priester, dropped by my office, unannounced, to see me. I was leaning back in my swivel chair, an iced coffee within reach, the morning's paper laid out across my lap—
chillin'—when they walked in just as bold as you please. To my grandfather, the case of the missing pooch was “business” that he was more than happy to toss my way—us being family and all. This alone told me two things. One, my grandfather had way too much time on his hands, and two, he had absolutely no idea what the hell I really did for a living.

I folded the paper, tossed it on my desk, and eased my reading glasses off the bridge of my nose. “You want me to look for a
what
?” I asked, as he sat completely guileless across from me in one of my client chairs. He'd just turned seventy-six, but was as active and as in control of his faculties as he'd ever been. Or so I'd thought. He fixed me with eyes the color of strong coffee.

“Don't tell me you're turning down business,” he said.

I looked at him, flabbergasted. “This is what you call business?”

“It's legitimate work,” he said. “Looks like you can squeeze it in.” He eyed the folded newspaper in front of me. “It's a
case.
”

I looked from him to Mavis Conroy. She was all of four feet, thin as a rail, but sourpussed and flinty eyed, which more than compensated for her lack of height. The shortness on top of the flintiness made for a disarming combination. I might have been able to muster up at least some enthusiasm for the whole thing if Mavis Conroy hadn't been the neighborhood curmudgeon who, when I was a child, tottered around the block on a thin wooden cane spearing minute pieces of trash off the sidewalk and butting her stout nose into the affairs of others. The self-professed arbiter of the community's morals, she was the tallyman who measured with great alacrity and diligence the comings and goings, the ebb and flow, and the how much and how oftens of total strangers' lives. She hated kids, wasn't all that wild about adults, and had no qualms about saying so. Playing anywhere near her property line was putting your life at risk. And a ball tossed, batted, thrown, or rolled across her grass was a lost ball, and that was all there was to it.

Caldonia, her canine life partner, a stocky little thing—all blue gums and firecrackers, loyally pitter-pattered behind her mistress, straying away only long enough to terrorize squirrels, nail a mailman new to the route, or poop on somebody's roses. The pair was as popular as urban blight and falling property values.

“Not yet it isn't,” I said, taking a sip of coffee before all the ice melted and ruined it.

Old lady Conroy, clutching a faux rhinestone leash and a rubber squeaky toy in the shape of a milkbone, sat quietly, appraising me, making me nervous. Apparently, she'd agreed to let my grandfather turn the screws without any help from her. I smelled a trap. But I was no fool. I ate traps for breakfast.

“Mavis here is the victim of a crime,” my grandfather said.

I glowered at Conroy. She glowered back. She'd chased me out of one of her backyard apple trees when I was eleven, and none too gently. I'd climbed up there on a dare, but I doubted she'd remember. I reached for my Rolodex. “I'll give you the number for the police. They'll come out sometime between now . . . and next Christmas. You can fill out a report. You might also want to contact the Animal Control people. I've got that number here, too . . .”

My grandfather cleared his throat and leveled his eyes at me. “Eve, can I see you outside in the hall for half a minute? Excuse us won't you, Mavis?”

I sighed and followed him out into the hall, closing the door behind us.

“Don't you find things?” he asked, crossing his arms across his chest.

The hall was empty except for him and me, but someone was strangling a clarinet down the hall at the music school, and it didn't sound like the instrument was going quietly.

“Sometimes I find
people,
” I said, my voice lowered.

“Well, to poor old Mavis in there, Caldonia
is
people.”

“Well to poor old me out here in the hall, Caldonia is a
dog.
Grandy, I am not taking this.”

“You're too busy?” He asked.

I was not too busy. In fact, I wasn't busy at all. Hence my morning's petition and the iced coffee. But . . .

“I could be busy any time,” I said. “And then what would happen? I'd be out looking for a forty-year-old dog with a hearing problem.”

“Probably wouldn't take you but half a day,” Grandy said. “How many other detectives made the honor roll three years straight?”

I buried my face in my hands.

“
I'll
pay for your time,” Grandy said calmly.

I dropped my hands. “Oh, no you won't,” I said, shaking my head adamantly. “No sir. I am not taking money from you.”

“Then do it as a
favor
to me.”

We locked eyes for a time. I was trapped, good and thoroughly. I clinched my eyes shut and grimaced, listening as the valiant clarinet breathed its last.

“If anybody I know finds out about this I'm going to have to move, you know that, right?”

Grandy draped a long arm over my shoulder and squeezed affectionately. “And you know me and my Priester gumbo'll be right along with you so you don't get lonely.”

Back inside I faced Conroy again. “I'll see what I can do,” I told her. I hoped I sounded pleasant.

“Sounds kind of some-timey to me,” Conroy said. “Just so you know, I'm only paying if I get Caldonia back.” She stuck her bony chin out defiantly. “Money doesn't grow on the backyard bush.”

I looked at Grandy, wanting to scream.

“Now, Mavis,” he said, patting her hand. “No granddaughter of mine is gonna do a shoddy job. She'll find Caldonia for you. Don't you worry about
that.
”

Conroy didn't look convinced. “Seems to me this is the same Missy I found picking crabapples off my back tree one summer Sunday.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Remember Edwin? I'd like to think a certain somebody has learned a little discipline since then. I'm payin' detective fees, I want one knows a little something and won't be distracted by the first crabapple comes along.”

My grandfather grinned and avoided eye contact with me. Good thing too, because I was staring daggers at him. “Now that was more than twenty years ago, Mavis,” he said, clearing the chuckle out of his throat. “Don't think Eve's partial to crabapples anymore.”

“All right then,” she said, “just as long as we agree. I won't be paying for nothin'.”

That wasn't exactly how the whole PI thing worked, but I let it go. Explaining things would only keep Conroy in my office longer. I also dispensed with the standard contract. Mavis Conroy's “case” wasn't going
on any record I held sway over. I bit back a tantrum and smiled. Then spoke. “Sounds reasonable.”

And then she was gone as quickly as a gust of ill wind. I grabbed for the phone and called Animal Control. The sooner I found the dog, the sooner I could give Conroy the big adios. Expedience was all.

“What breed is the dog?” the guy on the phone wanted to know.

I made a contemplative face. “Is mutt a breed?”

“No,”
he said.

“Well, look, you can't have that many dogs down there that answer to Caldonia,” I said. “She's old. She's brownish. She's got beady eyes, and she looks like somebody just ran over her with a pickup truck.”

“Where'd you lose her?”

“She disappeared from a yard at 89th and Indiana.”

I could hear the sound of paper flipping on the other end. “Nope, no pickups in that area since last week. Does she have a license?”

I narrowed my eyes. “I wouldn't think so.”

“We got tons of dogs,” he said. “I just can't walk up and down the cages yelling, ‘Caldonia' at the top of my lungs. I'll have to have somebody check when they can and maybe get back to you.”

“
Maybe
get back to me?”

“Best I can do, lady,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, hanging up. “Put it to music.”

Mavis and Grandy were waiting on Mavis's front porch when I drove up around one. Her front lawn, as always, was a thing of beauty. The lush grass, the pampered tulip beds and rose bushes rivaled those found in castle gardens. Here was where the grass grew greener. There were no weeds anywhere, no crabgrass, no nothing that had not been clipped, mowed, sprayed, or sculpted into submission. Even the birds appeared to fly in formation when they passed over Mavis's little plot of Shangri-La.

I climbed the porch stairs and right away Mavis thrust an eight-by-ten glossy of Caldonia at me. The dog stared back at me glassy eyed, a Santa's hat on her nearly bald head and a ring of shiny sleigh bells gripped in her blue gums.

“That was taken two Christmases ago,” Mavis informed me. “But she looks just the same . . . she won't be wearing the hat, of course. That's upstairs in my top drawer.”

My grandfather, dark and lean, his hair snow white, stood protectively beside Mavis.

“See? You got a visual aid. This won't take you no time at all.”

“From your lips to God's ears,” I muttered under my breath. I was sure Grandy heard me. There wasn't a thing wrong with his hearing.

“Let me know the minute you find somethin',” Mavis yelled, as I trudged off down the street with the dog's picture rolled up—a little too tightly—in my fist. I eased my sunglasses on to mask my identity and then set off to canvass the neighborhood.

Caldonia and Conroy had lived on this block for more than forty years. I wouldn't think any of the neighbors would take Caldonia even if she were the last canine on a planet where dogs were legal tender. But one can never
assume.

“We'll be right here waiting if you need some backup,” added Grandy.

God forbid.
I pulled a face and wondered just when my life had shifted so completely from the sublime to the all-out ridiculous.

“Do it as a favor to me, he says,” I muttered as I walked. “Looking at me all innocently. Blackmail that's what it is.
Emotional
blackmail. We're going to have a little talk when I get back. Set some ground rules. Some limits. Lost dog. I don't
think
so. Am I not grown? This is it.
This
is the last time he gets me.”

I turned back to see Grandy and Mavis Conroy lazily swinging back and forth on the porch swing, enjoying the breeze, waiting for results.

“Just swinging there. Not a care in the world,” I muttered. “Why not? I'm the one running around like a fool. Oh, yeah,
serious
ground rules will be set.”

To say that Mavis's neighbors did not share her concern for her pet was to overstate the obvious. A couple of folks actually laughed in my face before slamming their doors on it. Still others greeted the news of Caldonia's loss as a cause for national celebration. One man even offered me ten bucks
not
to find her. And by the time I'd made it to his house, I was more than tempted to take the sawbuck.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” I began at a house three blocks over. “I'm looking for a dog.” I smiled, hoping I looked friendly.

The elderly woman on the other side of the screen door blinked at the photo, then at me, her rheumy eyes taking in every inch of my 5'8" frame. She looked at me hard, as if trying to memorize my face for the police artist. Hanging off her frail frame was a bulky yellow cardigan pulled over a formless blue housedress. Knee-high support hose rolled down just below her baggy knees, which looked like pockets. Her swollen feet were wedged into a pair of overrun slippers.

“Lost your dog, eh?” She cackled, revealing a toothless cavern.

“Sort of. I'm looking as a favor.”
A BIG favor.
“Have you seen it?”