In the back room I keep a travel bag with an emergency outfit and toiletries. Carol was right; there is an odor about me. Standing in the men's room before the face bowl, smelling myself, my grandmother enters my thoughts.
I was about sixteen, and she'd gotten sick for the first time in my life. The doctor told her not to bathe, but she had me help her to the bathroom anyway: “Boy, a birdbath is better than no bath, and besides, ain't a place on my body I can't reach with a soapy towel. Being sick ain't no reason to be smelling, you smell yourself before anybody else can smell you.”
When she called me back into the bathroom to help her back to her bed, she was smelling fresh. After she got propped up on her pillow and settled under her covers she gave me a wink and said, “Nobody on God's good earth wants to be stinky.”
It takes a couple of sinks full of water but I finally get the scent of the basement off of me. In my travel bag is a pair of jeans, briefs and a black oversized jersey. I hear a tap on the office door.
When Eleanor walks in she looks tired; she accepts my swivel chair, and I sit across the room at Carol's desk. Eleanor is wearing a very pretty pink linen dress. Slung over her shoulder is a straw bag purse. It seems like days ago that we sat in her garden.
“I've been getting repeated emergency pages from Michael. Why do I feel as if you have something to do with that, Mr. Price?”
“Why indeed?”
“Sorry?”
Niceties between her and I are over. She should receive an Oscar for her performance in the garden. She actually made me feel regretful for upsetting her. Eleanor knew Peal was involved in her mother's death, but like Martin, she let the wealth soothe her taste for retribution.
“How could you sit up in Daphne's parents' house, knowing what you do about the murders? Are you that heartless a person? You weren't raised to be an uncaring person, Eleanor. You come from good people, Eleanor, and we both know it.”
“Daphne was my friend and so are her parents,” she says in a snippy tone, trying to get defensive. “My going over there to pay my respects was the right thing to do. Daphne was my friend.”
“What is Michael MacNard?” I ask hard.
“My houseman!” she snaps back.
Neither of us speak, I'm searching her face for sincerity or concern. Both are missing. What I see is nervousness.
Calmer, she says, “Mr. Price, Michael has been a troubled soul since his father's suicide.”
“Troubled! Eleanor, he killed Daphne and Stanley, but you know this, right?”
“I didn't know when we spoke earlier, Mr. Price, I swear. Had I known, I would have turned him over to the police.”
“Yeah, right. You can call the police now.” I hold up the phone.
“No, I'm too involved now.” She's fumbling through her bag avoiding my stare; she pulls out nothing and looks back up at me. “My aunt said he was getting stuff together to leave; perhaps he'll run.”
I put the phone back in the cradle.
“Involved how?”
“Pardon?”
“How were you, Martin and Michael connected?”
She put her elbows on the desk, and drops her head into her palms. She rolls her eyes, looks up to the ceiling then back to me.
“Mrs. MacNard and my mother grew up together in the South Shore neighborhood. The three of us grew up like cousins. Even as children, Michael was the one always in trouble.”
I put my hand up to stop her. “I'm not trying to hear about his troubled childhood.”
“Mr. Price, ever since Michael's father died he's been hooked up in street mess: robbing people, selling drugs and even breaking into people's houses. Eventually he got hooked up with a crooked lawyer doing traffic accidents. Through these associations, he got wind of a rumor that his father's truck accident was a setup.
“Initially, Martin and I didn't believe, until we met the driver of the car. Once we discovered that he was a well-known crash expert, it was almost impossible to contain Michael. He wanted to kill Randolph and everyone involved.
“Martin convinced Michael that waiting would yield better results. He was in his second year of law school, and figured as a lawyer he could damage Randolph more. Daphne already had me in the firm, so my getting next to Randolph was no problem.
“Believe it or not, Randolph was guilt-ridden. Anything I asked that man for he gave me, but he took away the only person I really needed. I hated Randolph Peal, and I am happy he is dead.
“Martin allowed the money to take his focus. And I understood because we are the children of working-class parents, money at that level was a culture shock.
“He tried to persuade Michael against vengeance; well, actually, we both did. It didn't make sense to risk losing everything we had gained, and were gaining, for revenge.
“Michael didn't see it that way. He got tired of waiting and went after Randolph. He would have killed him if the police hadn't been in the restaurant that day. His promise to us was that when he got out of prison, everyone associated with the accident would die.
“Upon his release, Martin suggested he be my houseman. He did no work other than answering the door. The Bentley was pretty much his, and between me and Martin he had more than enough money to buy whatever he wanted. None of it was enough, he wanted them dead.”
“Them?”
“Daphne and Peal.”
“Wasn't Daphne your friend?”
“Yes, and I did everything I could to stop Michael. Martin and I begged him to let it go. He called us both sellouts and threatened us. I believe Martin is getting his nerve up to go to the police. Daphne's death hurt him.”
“Martin is dead, baby. I was there for that one.”
“Martin's dead?” I heard shock, but no sympathy.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to call the police?”
“I can't, like you, I'm too involved.”
“That means he is going to come after me next! He's killed Daphne, Martin and Randolph. Mr. Price, you have to protect me!”
“He didn't kill Randolph. I was kind of thinking you did that one.”
“What? You need to stop playing. This is not a time for levity. Of course he killed Randolph, and he may come after you too.”
She responded to my accusation too quickly to be guilty.
“No, he's not coming after me or you. He's running for his life.”
She stands, but sits back down.
“Who is he running from? He's not scared of anyone. He's crazy.”
Telling her about Ricky is pointless. Besides, how can I explain being aware of one black man hunting down another to kill, and doing nothing about it because the hunted one tied me up in a basement like a slaughter hog, threatened my life and took my Rolex? Would my explanation justify knowing of his impending death, and doing nothing?
What if my explanation included Daphne and Stanley's murder, would that vindicate my desire for Michael's death? No it wouldn't; but by not doing anything I might as well be pulling the trigger myself.
I see urgency in Eleanor's paper-bag brown face; the news of Martin's death has gotten her edgy. “Why are you sure he's running? He could be outside waiting for us!” She's up and pacing behind the desk. “Is this how you protected Daphne and Stanley? No wonder he got to them. Shouldn't you be up doing something?” She grabs her purse from the desk, and moves her pacing to the door. At the door she suddenly stops, turns and looks up at me, “Well come on! I need to go.”
“The safest place for you is right here.”
“You're kidding, right? We got to go to the police.”
“What you say could connect you to the murders.”
“Maybe, but we need protection. I'm going to the police!” She storms out the door. I guess she changed her mind about contracting my services.
I pick up my phone and dial Ricky's cell. I've got to stop this Michael situation.
“What's up, D?” Ricky answers rapidly.
“I need you to come pick me up.”
“No can do, bro. I'm in motion.”
“Swing by.”
“Cain't do it.”
“Where are you?'
“About to see a man 'bout a dog.”
The phone clicks off and I don't bother to call back. Maybe another cup full of brandy is not such a bad idea.
Chapter Sixteen
I smell food. There is a McDonald's bag in my lap with two Quarter Pounders and a large fry. On my desk is the large drink. Ricky is here somewhere. I look on my wrist for my watch and remember it's gone. The clock next to the door reads one-thirty, the sun that is filling the office lets me know it's
P.M.
“What's up, man?” Ricky is walking up from the back in his stocking feet, jeans and his undershirt. I look across to Carol's desk and see his stuff; looks like he slept over there.
“Good morning. Where is Carol?”
“Ain't morning no mo'. Carol came in earlier and woke me up, but I fell back to sleep. I ain't seen her after dat.” He bites into a Quarter Pounder.
“Did she try and wake me?”
“Naw, she said you needed to sleep.”
“She must have the phones forwarded to her cell. Any of the other staff come in and see me like this?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Cool. When did you get here?”
“Been with you since yesterday, you know what I'm sayin'.” He looked at me hard with that sly grin on his face. “My truck got stolen from the Jewels lot down there on Roosevelt and Wabash. I called my manager from the Roosevelt and Ashland store. He gave us a ride to my house where I got my old Blazer. We went to the strip club out in Gary, got drunk and crashed here.” He didn't even look up from his food while he gave me our alibi.
While unwrapping my own burger, I notice my Rolex and wallet on the desk. So much for MacKnock. Damn, part of me was hoping the police got to him before Rickyânot for his sake, but for Ricky's.
Ricky is trying to change his life, but I don't think a substantial change will happen if he continues to live by street rules. Rules of the street do not govern a normal life. It's the same for a square turning hustler: he can't bring his normal morals and rules to the street and expect to survive.
Ricky is not going to be able to take his hustler mentality into normal, everyday life and expect to survive either. He is going to have to become square, if he really wants to change. And Martha is right. It is time for them to move.
“It's time for you to move, Ricky.”
“When I finish my sandwich, man, I'm up.”
“No, man, I am not talking moving from here, I'm talking about your home.”
“Oh yeah . . .” He pauses and looks up from his meal to me. “You right, last night kinda brought it right down front. Da love and respect niggas have fo' me ain't stronger than they need fo' money. MacKnock ain't da only nigga dat will see me as a payday. And I'm gettin' too old to do what it takes to deal with 'em . . . Hold up, let me say dat different.
“I am old enough not to want to do what it takes to deal with 'em. All MacKnock had in his crew was one guy, but what if they was ten or twenty deep? Dis shit coulda went on and on and on. The ransom game is gettin' strong out here. It's only a matter of time befo' a fool brings it to my family.
“Look-a-here, I ain't immune to gettin' got. And hungry hustlers are born every day. I have enough money to eliminate some of da danger. You right, it's time to move. But what about you?”
“What about me? I'm not as high-profile as you, my brother. I'm staying right where I am.”
“Man, people know Gina's face. She in da paper every day. What a crook thank about grabbin' Chester ain't shit.”
I hadn't thought about that; he's right.
“You grew up in da life just like me; we know the same type of people. You high-profile too. Jealous folks hate on you just like they hate on me. How many pistols you got on you? Normal people don't carry around pistols, D. Only shady folks. And don't even try dat escort shit, cause you was totin' pistols befo' you had da business. And in case you fo'got, bro, we got snatched workin' on yo stuff. It wasn't my business dat got us kidnapped, it was yours.”
He's right on all points.
“Who we was ten, fifteen years ago, don't mean jack to da young, hungry seventeen-year-old hustler. So you might as well go suburban house shoppin' with me.” Saying that tickles him. He laughs so hard he chokes on his Quarter Pounder.
I never thought about living outside of Chicago. I love my hood and the people in it. That includes the hustlers, whores, shady folks, hardheaded youth, the squares and the church folks. I'm comfortable with them all, and as if he is reading my mind Ricky says, “It's like Martha said to me; to grow, people got to get out of they comfort zone.” He stuffs all the food wrappers into the bag and stands. “I gots to get on home. You want me to drop you off?”
Before I can answer him Regina walks in. She looks at both of us and doesn't say a word. She sits in the chair in front of my desk. She has on a gray business suit with a pink cotton shirt. Her tennis shoes are pink too.
Ricky sits back down, delaying his departure.
“I owe you an apology, David. Detective Lee called me at work. It appears Martin had a deranged brother. They found him and a friend both intoxicated out of their minds in Randolph's BMW truck. And poor Martin was found dead in the trunk of the truck. Johnny thinks . . .”
“Johnny?” I ask.
“Oh, I'm sorryâDetective Lee . . . he says the gun they found in the car with them was the same caliber as the one that killed Daphne and Stanley.”
“What about Peal?” The question is to Regina, but my eyes are on the crooked smirk on Ricky's face.
“Yes, Detective Lee is confident that them being in possession of Randolph's truck, wallet and belongings will be enough to tie them to his murder as well. And Eleanor is relaying all the information concerning the bus accident.” The smile that appears on her face interferes with her talking. “Oh . . . and I got the exclusive! It's running tomorrow on page three!”
She's doing a little tap dance while sitting in the chair. Ricky and I both start laughing, and I am happy for her.
“But, David, another part of why I stopped by isâI was wondering if you would like to keep Chester for me tonight?”
This woman has balls bigger than a bull. It is always about what she wants, when she wants it.
“What . . . you got plans already . . . so soon? Shouldn't you give yourself time to grieve over Randolph?”
She blows a heavy sigh and sucks her teeth. Then she turns to me and sets those will-weakening emerald eyes on me and asks, “What makes you think my plans aren't business?”
I flutter my own eyelashes, give a diva-imitating smile and say, “'Cause I know you, Gina. You going out with the red Bob Marley tonight.”
She crosses and uncrosses her thin legs. “Who? Never mind, can you or can't you keep Chester?”
I blow her a kiss and say, “Yes . . . I can. Who has him now?”
“My mother is watching him at the house.”
“Can you drop me out there, Ricky?”
“You got it, bro.”
Regina stands to leave. She looks as if she wants to say something, but changes her mind. What she says is, “I'll see you two later, and be careful. Whether you two know it or not, y'all getting too old for the streets.” She hurries out of the office and I'll be damned if my eyes are not glued to her narrow hips. The truth be told, I still want me some of that.
I ask Ricky, “Why didn't you tell me, man?”
“Tell you what?”
“That Michael wasn't dead.”
“If he was dead, I wouldn't tell ya. Why would I tell ya if I let him live?”
Again, he had a point.
“I just didn't feel killin' him, D. Yeah, he deserved it, but it wasn't in me. Instead we shot 'em full of enough dope to keep 'em confused for a couple of days, by den da police should be able to piece together somethin'.
“We caught up with 'em when they tried to sell da trucks; they took 'em to Fishback's shop. He called me soon as he saw my truck, even held 'em fo' me. I let him keep the Ford fo' da favor.”
“I'm glad it turned out this way.” I feel like doing my own happy dance.
“Me too, D . . . me too.”
A small voice in the back of my head is asking me who killed Peal, but I hear another voice in my head. It's saying, “Fuck dat shyster.”
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While on the expressway heading out to Harvey to get Chester, Ricky has the Blazer cruising at around ninty-five miles per hour. Suddenly a long black car passes us like we are standing still, and it isn't shaking, rattling or swaying. It is swift.
“What was that?”
“That's that seven series Beamer, man.”
“Damn, take me to get one.”
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When the salesman opens the door to the sedan all I can say is “Ohwee.” After the test drive, Ricky and I are sold. When I see the sticker, “Damn” is all I can say. The walrus-looking sales-manager drops down two grand from the sticker and I write him a check for half the price of the car. Ricky trades the Blazer for his and writes a check for the remainder. He doesn't like car notes.
I guess the checks clear because the skinny manager brings out champagne and caviar. All I want is the manual, keys and a full tank of gas. They can keep the fish eggs.
After we finish the computer class they give on operating the vehicle, we are standing outside the dealership waiting for the porter to pull the sedans around. Ricky looks at me serious and asks, “Are you gonna go lookin' at houses with me and Martha?”
“Man, I ain't leaving Englewood.”
“I knew your hardhead ass was gonna say dat.”
When the sedans pull up, we both start cheesing from ear to ear. They are triple-black identical twins.
Ricky says, “Minez looks better den yours.”
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I darn near drive to Indianapolis going to get Chester. The car holds me hostage. I have never driven a vehicle that responds so quickly. When I pull up in front of Regina's I see Chester and Regina's mother in the back yard. Regina's mother has taken it upon herself to remove the yellow police tape. She's wrapped it all in a ball and is tossing it in the trash can. I see the soapy water running down the walkway. She must have cleared away everything. I guess she said later for waiting for the police to say it was okay.
Regina's mother is a lot more round than Regina. At first glance one would mistake her for a white woman. We seldom say more than three words to each other. She has never pretended to like me, and I don't pretend with her. Walking down the gangway, I see her pick up Chester and carry him in the house; they don't notice me.
At the back door I am about to knock, but something tells me to turn around. I do and get an unobstructed view of Mr. Nelson standing at his back gate. I wave and he just stares at me. I wave again, and still nothing. He's not moving, just standing there staring. Maybe he's gone back to drinking. I wouldn't blame him if he did. He beckons me with a couple of hand gestures. Damn it, I don't feel like talking to him right now.
Driving my new BMW, along with the prospect of spending the evening with my son, has me feeling real nice. Getting back in the heavy mood of grieving is not on my agenda, but I walk to him regardless.
At his gate he grabs me by the shoulder leads me up his walkway. He doesn't say a word. We walks up his porch steps to the back door.
Then he directs me to “Stand here, Mr. Price, right in front of me.”
I do as he asks.
“Now turn around and face your back door.” I do it.
He gets up real close behind me and whispers in my ear “It ain't but a stone toss away . . . even if I was drunk I wouldn't have missed.”
Damn. I hear him loud and clear . . . but I am neither the police, a priest nor a judge, so it's really not my business.
Without turning to look at him I say, “Mr. Nelson, my part in all this is over. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because, Mr. Price, I want you to know that in the end, old drunk Mr. Nelson took care of his family and handled his business.”
Looking over to Regina's back door, he's rightâit is nothing but a stone toss away. He could have knocked Randolph Peal in the head with a rock and hurt him. I never even considered Mr. Nelson as a suspect. When I turn to face him he is gone.
I am startled by his sudden disappearance, but that doesn't stop me from making my own rapid exit. I quickly get across the alley and up Regina's walk to her back door. When I look back at Mr. Nelson's porch, I see his back door slam shut.
God bless him.
This case is closed as far as I am concerned. I'm ready to hang out with my son.