Two for Flinching (15 page)

“You’d know more about that than me.”

Zing!

I stepped down from the stool. “If you think
of something, let me know.”

“Don’t hold your breath. Amber was always
very good at keeping secrets from me.”

Chapter Twenty-One

“My man.”

“I need to find Jeremiah.”

“He is at the same shithole he has always
been at.”

“All night?”

“And half the day.”

“You staying out of trouble?”

“No.”

“Try.”

“No.”

“How long are you staying?”

“Couple of months. Maybe forever.”

“It’s good money.”

“Yeah, but you got to earn it. You need
backup with Jeremiah?”

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can, Bees.”

“Thanks, Nero.”

***

Late evening, I passed over the Chickasaw
River into the “Bottoms.” The sun clung weakly and stubbornly to
the western sky. I drove through government housing projects, fifty
year old brick duplexes, laundry flapping in the breeze, abandoned
cars next to gleaming Escalades. Groups of teenage boys huddled on
the corners in their thick jackets and baggy jeans. Sneakers hung
from power lines, always one pair to a line. Four years ago, those
lines held two sets.

It had taken me a long time to understand how
shoes came to be dangling over the streets. I had thought it was a
long running juvenile prank, steal your buddy’s Nikes and throw
them over the power lines. It was more serious than that. Much more
serious. Every pair of shoes staked out a drug territory. Two pair
on the same line indicated the territory was contested. Jeremiah
had been busy since I had left the force.

I parked the Jeep on the pavement of the
Neighborhood Grocery. The spidey sense I had brought back from
Afghanistan made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I
pushed open the door and the bell jingled. The first half of the
long building had shelves stocked with items that met the specific
requirements of the WIC program, the coolers on the side with milk
and cheese, eggs alongside beer and wine. A counter on the right
ran the length of the store, a menu on the wall advertising
sandwiches and hamburgers. The overweight woman at the counter
greeted me with crossed arms.

“Evening, Shante.”

“Detective.”

I made my way through the aisles to the back
of the store. A half dozen young men were drinking beer and playing
cards. They gave me dead eyes and I gave it right back, not pausing
as I went through the door into a dark, narrow hall. A man rose
from a wooden chair as I approached.

“The fuck you going?”

“I need to talk to somebody.”

He was twenty, twenty-five years old, taller
than I was and it was obvious he was well invested in the steroid
market. I didn’t recognize him. Four years was a long time and the
turnover rate in the game was ridiculously high.

“Uh uh.” He reached out a hand to stop
me.

“Don’t touch me.”

He smiled, deliberately shoving me with his
open palm. I snatched his hand with mine, pushing it back and over,
forcing him to his knees. Obviously, he hadn’t recognized me
either.

“Hey, man! What are you doing?” Panic in his
voice, fear, more than a little pain.

I applied even more pressure, hearing a
tendon pop. It wouldn’t take much more before his wrist snapped. “I
asked you nicely.”

“Come on, man.” Pleading now.

“Give it the knock.”

“Shit. You know what Jeremiah will do to
me?”

“Knock or I’ll break it. Knock wrong and I’ll
kill you.”

He thought about it. I leaned forward,
feeling the fragile bones on the verge. He reached behind him,
knocked twice, then once. Somebody yelled from inside.

“Thank you.” I shoved him away and opened the
door.

The pit bull on the right jumped to his feet.
The pit bull on the left didn’t move. The one on the left was
obviously the more dangerous of the two. He was wearing an old
school fedora.

“Jajuan.”

He was neither surprised nor concerned—not
even interested. He made a noise and the dog settled reluctantly
back on her paws. “Bees.”

“What do you want?” the man behind the desk
demanded. Jeremiah Ewing was a year and a half young than me,
something of an athletic star in high school before he got kicked
out his junior year for attempting to rape his American History
teacher. His head was shaved, his scalp so tight I could make out
the plates in his skull.

“How’s Lashelle?”

“You risk your white ass coming down here to
catch up on old times?”

“No,” I said. “I just always liked
Lashelle.”

I went slowly to Jajuan, turned around and
lifted my leather jacket. He pulled the .45—holster and all—from my
belt and laid it on the table. The guard at the door banged into
the room clutching a sawed-off shotgun. Jajuan stopped him with an
upheld hand.

Jeremiah said, “You’re fucking worthless,
Trey. Get out of here.”

Trey, downcast, left without speaking.

“I wouldn’t be too hard on him,” I said. “He
didn’t know who I was.”

Jeremiah shook his head. “Dumbass. You still
look like police.”

“You heard I left?”

“I heard your ass got canned.”

I shrugged. “Professional differences.”

“Yeah. They wanted a professional. Why you
bothering me? You ain’t even police no more.”

“You remember my partner?”

“Muthafucka bitch slapping me in the back of
that police car? I remember him.”

I nodded. “I remember pulling him off
you.”

“You sure as hell wasn’t in no hurry. Told me
if I came back at him you would make me gone.”

“Also told you to file a complaint.”

“Uh huh.”

“You know what happened to him?”

“No,” Jeremiah said. “What?”

I studied his face, looking for a tell. I
didn’t bother with Jajuan. Jeremiah was angry, indignant at the
remembered beating, nothing else. Nothing I could see. I said, “I
was hoping you could tell me.”

“What is this bullshit? You fucking with
me?”

“I only wanted to see if you knew what
happened to him.”

“Man, four years ago I couldn’t take a piss
without you two clowns stepping on my nuts. And then I never see
you again. Until today.”

“Jeremiah, there was a shooting down here
every week.”

He gave me an ugly grin. “Now, there’s peace
in the valley. Amazing how they go together.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means as soon as you clowns moved on, I
could take care of business.”

“Sounds like a good reason to get rid of
him.”

Jeremiah turned to his bodyguard. “You know
what this white boy is talking about?”

A single shake of the head.

“Adrian is missing.”

“So?”

“For four years.”

Jeremiah shook his bald dome. “It took this
long for you to come talk to me? And you not even police?”

“Some new information has come up.”

“You start smoking herb since you left? I
want to get less heat by taking out a cop? They’d be all over my
ass. I ain’t stupid. The only reason I didn’t green-light your ass
is because you police.”

“That and Lashelle.”

“Lashelle is dead.”

“What?”

Jeremiah gave me a quizzical look. “You
didn’t know?”

“Of course not. I would have come to the
services. She was my friend. What happened?”

“Car wreck.”

“When?”

“Three, three and a half years ago.”

Three and a half years ago I had been in a
haze, a fog fueled by a cheating wife, a friend’s betrayal, an
infant child and dark rum. “I’m sorry, Jeremiah.”

“We’re done.”

I nodded, shaken. Lashelle Ewing and I had
been in kindergarten together, all the way through graduation. A
childhood friendship that had stood the test of time and distance.
It had given me no pleasure to go after her little brother.

“I’ll walk you out.” Jajuan took me by the
elbow and led me into the hallway. There was no sign of Trey. He
pushed open the bar to the back door. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” I tried to shake it off. “Yeah.”

“What do police do when they ain’t police no
more?”

“I don’t know. What do shooters do when they
ain’t shooting no more?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nice hat.”

I had forgotten how…ordinary Jajuan was.
Average height, average build, medium complexion, he never stood
out in the crowd. Aside from the hat.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“Now I gotta toss it.” He handed me my gun.
“Cracker like you appreciates your style, you know it’s time to
change it up.”

***

I had also forgotten how utterly dark it got
in the Bottoms once the sun went down. The streetlights had been
shot out and the power company had long ago given up on replacing
them, the only light leaking from the occasional porch light. The
boys on the corners had been joined by whores shivering in their
tight miniskirts. Traffic was almost nonexistent, the businessmen
and shift workers waiting for the weekend before venturing into the
hood for their crack and blowjobs.

I didn’t drive straight home after my
sit-down with Jeremiah, instead wandering aimlessly through the
projects. What Jeremiah had said made sense and I was inclined to
move him down my list of suspects. Only I didn’t have a list. It
would have been a very bad business move for Jeremiah to go after a
cop. But I still remembered the humiliation my former partner had
inflicted on him—not to mention the beating in the back of that
car. Adrian had told me he wanted a minute alone with him and I had
obliged, thinking Adrian was going to give Jeremiah an
off-the-books threat. The attack shocked me, standing outside the
car. As soon as I heard the commotion and the screams, I had jumped
into the back, but it took me a while to pull Adrian off. At the
time, I couldn’t understand why he had done that. Looking back, I
expect the stress had gotten the best of him, the stress of
cheating on his wife and working day in and day out with his
lover’s husband.

Jeremiah had tried to go after him—cuffs or
not cuffs, cop or no cop—and it took all I had to keep them
separated. Jeremiah threatened his life, the life of his wife and
kids, promising to burn his house to the ground. And it was true, I
had whispered into Jeremiah’s ear. The whisper reached him, among
all the yelling and cursing, the quiet promise it held. He settled
right down.

The gas station was lit up like Fort Knox,
floodlights along the front, powerful lamps over the pumps, bars
across the windows. I could never understand the bars since the
place never closed. I pushed open the door and the little Indian
guy at the register perked up, then relaxed. I had personally
investigated two robberies at TJ’s, closing one.

“Evening, officer.”

I needed to go home and mark this date in
my calendar; someone who hadn’t heard of my difficulties at the
Sherriff’s Department.
“Hey, TJ. How you been?”

TJ shrugged. “You get transferred or
something?”

I took an overpriced Coke from the cooler.
“Or something. You had any more troubles?”

He shook his head. “Been at least a month
since anybody has tried anything.”

I handed over the money. “I guess word got
out about that shotgun under the counter.”

He grinned and gave me my change. “Don’t be a
stranger. Coffee still free for police.”

I shuddered at the memory of TJ’s toxic brew.
“Take care.”

“You as well.”

A mid-eighties Cutlass with more rim than
rubber had pulled alongside my Jeep. Trey and another kid from the
grocery stood on the walkway. Trey said, “You a long way from home,
white boy.”

“Finally.”

That stopped him. He raised a wary eyebrow.
“Finally what?”

I set the Coke on the ground. “A chance to
beat the hell out of somebody.”

Trey turned to his friend. “Q, you believe
this—“

I kicked him in the jaw, the tip of my boot
catching him under his chin. Trey didn’t go down, but was out on
his feet, his eyes floating to the back of his head. I spun on Q,
side-kicking him in the ribs. His arms instinctively dropped and I
jabbed him with my left, following it with an overhand right,
another left and finished him with one of my best right hooks to
the temple. I let him drop to his knees, fall forward on his
hands.

I looked over my shoulder. Trey had regained
at least part of his bearings. He swung a lazy punch and I snatched
his wrist, yanking it behind his back. I grabbed the back of his
neck and ran him headfirst into the dumpster. Trey collapsed in a
heap and did not move.

The world swam back into focus. The Cutlass
backed out in a hurry, tires squealing as it hit the street. I
waved to TJ inside the store. TJ shook his head and reluctantly put
the twelve gauge out of view. Clapping came from the alley.

“Thanks for the help.”

Nero stepped from the shadows into the light.
“The day comes you can’t handle Trey and Quentin, you need to stay
out of the hood.”

“I still got it.”

“You got something.” Nero was a young man,
twenty-five years old, a couple inches shorter than me, broad of
shoulder and narrow of waist.

“How’s your mom?”

Nero said, “She was okay yesterday, not sure
about today.” Nero’s mother had been fighting the beast since she
was fourteen. She was half-black and half-white, a product of a
woman on the street and a businessman on the make. Nero’s father
was a mystery. Nero himself could pass for a light-skinned black,
dark complexioned white, Hispanic—even Middle Eastern. “How’s the
princess?”

“Good. She was asking about you. Hasn’t seen
you since the welcome home party.”