The Stones Cry Out (7 page)

But Mel stood in the ring. His arms hung at his sides. With the sweat-drenched shirt, he looked like driftwood sent in by the tide.

Ray Frey was watching Ronnie.

"Reminds me of Hamal in his prime. If I can keep this one outta jail, we might make it to the top." He raised his voice. "What can I say, Mel. Guy's a killer. Natural-born killer."

Mel nodded. He hadn’t taken off the gloves or the headgear. "I know."

His voice sounded feminine, like he was going to cry. Listlessly he made his way from the ring. But he didn’t seem to have the strength to take off the headgear.

Ray Frey shook his head.

"Mel's a good kid," he said. “Bad home situation but what’s new? Problem now is Hamal was like his brother. When I heard about this whole thing Saturday...."

The old man's eyes were light blue but obscure, like dull opals. I was weighing my next question: why he put a kid that broken up in the ring with a pounder like Ronnie. Then again, boxing had its own proving ground, and I let the question drift away.

But he seemed to sense my wonder.

"Like I told these guys yesterday. The last thing Hamal would want us to do would be to sit around moaning and moping. Hamal was a fighter, all the way through. They got to keep fighting.” He sighed. ”But Mel, he took it harder than anybody. Harder than me, and I knew Hamal most of his life."

"What about Ronnie, how did he take it?"

"Ronnie?" He barked that hard laugh. "Ronnie ain't built like that. Plus Ronnie and Hamal hated each other. Too much alike."

Across the hazy room Ronnie looked like the perfect physical specimen, every muscle developed like a medical chart. His movements showed the predatory elegance of a tiger and if that was what resembled Hamal, maybe the cops were right. Detective Falcon didn't have a chance.

"When Mr. Holmes left--"

“Disappeared.”

"All right, disappeared. Where did he go?"

"To Atlanta. To see Coretta Scott King."

I hesitated. "Mr. Holmes knew Mrs. King?"

"Sure. And then once he got to her house, she poisoned him."

I didn't know what to say. Baffled, borderline confused, I decided not to say anything.

"He could never stop eating,” the old man said. “God rest his soul. Whatever fell into the trough, it went straight into Hamal's mouth. Even as a kid, all he liked to do was eat. And hit people. It was a struggle keeping his weight down. So maybe the poisoning really did happen."

I tried to imagine how to write this on an FD-302. And couldn’t. “So let me get this straight. Coretta Scott King poisoned Hamal Holmes?"

"For crying out loud!" he said, peevish. "Are you listening to me? He didn’t even know Mrs. King."

"But you said--"

"I said it's possible somebody slipped him something. Somebody might have poisoned him. But he was delusional. On drugs for awhile. But whatever happened it ruined his ranking."

"Who would poison him?"

"Who -- how about the four fighters ranked ahead of him? Hamal could've KO'd any of ’em. That's why Don King called. Man knew the score. Hamal was the real deal."

When I asked how long ago this happened, Ray Frey had to think about it. He decided it was summer of 1997. Two years later Holmes became part owner of the gym.

"That was generous," I said.

"Not really. When he up and left, my heart gave out. Broke. I mean, snapped in half." He tapped his bony chest. "Quadruple bypass. Hamal kept the doors open. Started bringing in the kids, then the city was giving us money. For community programs. We've managed okay ever since."

The boys had stopped skipping rope. All eyes were fixed on Ronnie. The rock star hammered a teardrop-shaped speed bag into a red blur.

"What happens now, without Hamal?"

"Depends," said Ray Frey. "His widow filed suit against the city. You heard about that? Wrongful death, that sort of thing."

I didn't know about the suit. But it meant whatever facts the Bureau uncovered, some defense attorney could probably use to sue the socks off the police. Maybe now the widow would cooperate with us.

Maybe not.

"She's asking for twenty-five million," he continued. "Unlawful search and seizure, some such thing. I don't know the particulars. I don't want to know."

And here was the Don King of questions: "Any idea why Hamal was on that roof?"

"None. Guy had his own life. But the truth?"

"Please."

"He could've done what the cops said. He could’ve, sure. I don't want to believe it. But Hamal was capable of anything, really. He had an unpredictable side."

I made a mental note, memorizing the statement verbatim. "But you believe the widow has a case?”

“Twenty-five million sounds like a steep asking price, even for death. But I heard some lawyer told her it was based on what Hamal would've made, if he'd lived."

"If somebody like Ronnie got a call from Don King."

Ray Frey's old face crinkled into some version of joy.

"Now you're getting it. And I'm telling you, Don King’s gonna call. I can feel it. Even if he don't, we'll be all right."

"If the widow wins her case?" I didn't add the second part: If she shared.

"Child, she’ll win.” He was still smiling. “This is Richmond. These folks are gonna make sure the city pays. That's how it works. Payback time. These people, they feel like slavery was yesterday, understand? And they take care of their own."

After too many hours slogging through paperwork and writing up my FD-302s – Ray Frey’s was surprisingly difficult—I had only one desire. Drive home and slip into the carriage house unnoticed.

When I opened the iron gate to the courtyard it felt as hot as a branding iron, baked by the sun. And I was turning to close it when a black streak knocked me sideways. I hit the house’s brick wall.

Madame leaped frantically, jumping on my legs, pinning me to the brick like an intruder.

"It’s me,” I said. “It's okay, it’s me."

But she kept jumping until my mother's boarder Wally Marsh came racing around the corner, calling her name. Then, like some canine bullet, she shot across the slate. Wally sidestepped her flight path like an acrobat. The dog raced in circles around the patio furniture before jumping into the flower beds that brimmed with weeds.

"She's a little pent up," Wally said, walking over.

"What happened?"

"She hasn't been out all day."

I was afraid to ask. "Because…"

"Because your mother hasn't been out."

The first wave of dread washed over me, sinking my heart. The second wave while I watched the crazed dog. But the third was heaviest. My lie to Phaup rushed back, unbidden, with an undertow whispering the ancient warning. Do not test God.

"I found her in the living room," Wally said. “Every window open. Music turned up. Loud."

The music. That was it. "Who called?"

"The Bensons, that old couple down the block. The music was loud enough to knock Robert E. Lee off his horse. Mrs. Benson's exact words.” He waited for me to say something. “It was a Mahler symphony."

Gustav Mahler. My dad's favorite composer.

The brick’s accumulated heat radiated through my cotton blouse. It felt like a sunburn on my back. As Madame careened around the courtyard like a windup toy, I pulled myself from the wall. But my blouse snagged on the stone’s rough texture, the cotton threads sticking to the tiny crevices like Velcro.

I made my way to the kitchen door, slowly, resisting the urge to drag my palm against the house, physical pain to match how my heart felt.

"She’s upstairs now," Wally said.

The second-story window was open, and a lace curtain billowed softly. “Thank you.”

"A deal’s a deal.”

Our agreement was that he would watch over her when I couldn’t be here, and in return I slashed his rent to almost nothing.

He said, “You want me to call Dr. Simpson?"

A retired physician, Dr. Simpson made informal house calls. A courtesy to my late father. But sometimes his visits ignited even worse episodes; my mom feared doctors and hospitals. Especially mental hospitals. I glanced back at Wally. A thin man with skin as black as wrought iron, he had large soulful eyes. Sensitive eyes. "How bad did she seem?"

"She didn't accuse me of spying."

That was good. I nodded.

"But she wanted the water cut off in the kitchen. ‘They are sending signals through the pipes. I asked who 'they' were. She said, 'The government.'"

Somewhere inside, the heavy anchor that had become my heart pulled up and I felt my little boat drifting for the falls. My mother's mind had clouded and cleared and clouded again over many years. During her worst spells she became convinced the government was keeping files on her. “They” watched her every move. Her paranoia was why my dad and I decided she should never know I worked for the FBI. I was a geologist, we told her. And that was true. Sort of.

"Don't call the doctor yet. Let me talk to her first."

"First thing should be to get her off that health food," Wally said. "I mean, 'all natural'? What does that mean anyway?"

“I don’t like that stuff either.” I walked for the kitchen door. "Cyanide is ‘all natural.’"

"What I'm saying."

Inside the house the humidity clung to the air like a stubborn guest. The kitchen smelled like damp dust and old dish towels. I gazed around the room, searching for clues. Nothing seemed out of place.

"By the way,” Wally followed me inside, “right in the middle of all this some guy stopped by."

I opened the refrigerator. Did she eat something weird?

"Said his name was DeMutt."

"DeMott?” I turned to look at him. “DeMott Fielding?"

"He didn’t give me a last name."

"Tall; dark hair. Blue eyes?"

"Looks like the bloodline goes to Jamestown?"

"Wally, what did he want?"

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a small envelope. It had been folded twice. "The doorbell rang just when I got Nadine upstairs. I thought it was the cops. But there he was, Mister Richmond. Probably wears madras shorts to parties."

I dropped the note in my purse and tossed the bag on a kitchen chair.

"I didn't read it," Wally said.

"What a good friend you are."

"The dog appreciates me."

“You know I appreciate you.” I turned to look at him. The recent strain made the sinewy muscles in his arms look tight, almost ropy. “No rent this month, okay?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Telling you. No rent.”

“I’m going outside, before you change your mind.”

He stepped out, and I wandered through the next room, still searching for triggers. The white plaster walls seemed to sweat with the heat. The big rooms felt tight as cupboards. Once upon a time my sister and I used to beg our parents to install air-conditioning, but they insisted we didn't need it. An extravagance, they said. During summer, we kept every door and window closed, positioning ourselves in front of fans. We kept the lights off until dark. And the more we complained, the more my father smiled. Challenges, he told us, build endurance.

Nothing fazed that man. Not even his wife’s rocky sanity.

But the windows had been open for an entire July day and now the old brick gripped the moist heat like an unexpressed sigh. Wandering through the nine rooms on the first floor, I mopped sweat from my brow, searching for anything that would explain this sudden episode.

Anything to alleviate the guilt I felt, lying to Phaup about my mother's condition.

In the front room, Wally had pulled the blue velvet curtains over the antique glass. Drawing back a panel, I watched the traffic winding around the grassy rotary that displayed General Lee and Traveller. Out there, everything looked normal. Life marched forward. I dropped the curtain.

On the couch, a red mohair blanket lay beside notepaper and a pen. I picked up the top sheet. My mother's square-block handwriting covered the pages.