However, the nickname changes, along with the property values, just a few blocks west as you pass Western and head toward Dale. The cops call this neighborhood simply “the Hill.” To the media it’s known as “Crack Street.”
I had spent a lot of time on the Hill, mostly trying to take it back from the dealers who ply their trade there. It was a losing battle. It did not matter that we walked day and night patrols throughout the area or that neighbors would walk with us, pointing out the stash pads and crack houses, cheering when we hit them, taking personal pride in our soaring arrest rates. Cocaine distribution is an example of a free-market economy in its purest form, and as long as people want to buy, someone will sell. That’s why I begged my superiors to ignore the dealers for a time and instead concentrate on the lily-white suburbanites who cruised the Hill in their Honda Civics and Ford Tauruses—destroy the demand and let’s see what happens, I pleaded. Unfortunately, my experiment was never attempted. Of course, punching out a prosecuting attorney didn’t help my argument much.
I had been undercover for seven months, setting up busts, pretending to be all kinds of people. For some reason one suspect got antsy and decided to move. He’d loaded all of his goods into a large suitcase: two kilograms of powder, thirteen pounds of crack—we’re talking sixty thousand hits—a half dozen nickel bags of grass, fifty-eight thousand dollars in cash, and a Colt Python and holster. Then he threw a going-away party for himself. We crashed the door as he and his friends were toasting themselves with champagne, the suitcase lying open on the living room floor. Only the prosecutor wouldn’t file. He’d said there was a chance the constructive possession rules would have resulted in a dismissal—I couldn’t prove which suspect actually owned the suitcase.
The prosecutors are always doing that, refusing to file charges unless they have a lock. Over sixty percent of all drug cases are dismissed before charges are brought. Sure, of the forty percent that are actually filed, nearly all result in convictions, but that only proves my point: Most prosecutors simply will not risk screwing up their conviction rates, an admittedly important part of their performance-review process.
So I hit him. Call it anger, frustration, stupidity: I hammered his collar bone, cracking it, and walked away. For a long time I thought I had lost my job along with my temper. Hell, he might even have filed charges. He certainly had had the right. Instead, I was transferred to Homicide. I was ecstatic. Laura was not. The word “homicide” conjured frightening images to her. As it turned out, after Narcotics, Homicide proved positively restful.
F
ROM WHERE
I was parked, I could see the comings and goings of all the residents of Crystalin Wolters’s apartment building, located at the high end of Selby, close to the Cathedral. I had only a cursory description of Crystalin. But she drove a Porsche, and there was only one in the lot. I watched that, using the small, collapsible 3X binoculars I sometimes carry in my jacket pocket.
At about eight-thirty a young woman with Crystalin’s hair color exited the building’s glass doors and walked purposefully to the Porsche, glancing at her watch as she went. Sixty seconds later she was on Selby, heading west. I followed. She turned left, then right, then left, then right again. We were on Fort Road now, heading toward the airport.
Fort Road used to be called West Seventh Street. As West Seventh Street it had as dreary a reputation as Block E in Minneapolis. But the St. Paul City Council did not have the same resources as the City of Lakes, so instead of taking a wrecking ball to it, they simply changed its name, hoping that would solve everything.
And politicians wonder why so few of us bother to vote.
Crystalin pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant that advertised eggs, ham, hash browns, toast, and coffee for $3.99. I wondered if she was meeting Levering for a cheap breakfast. But she wasn’t. She sat alone in a booth, ordering quickly, not waiting for anyone. I was lucky again because the place was jammed with customers. Crystalin thought nothing of it when I asked if I could share her booth.
She was a buxom, green-eyed blond, bursting with energy and rosy-cheeked health. She looked like she’d come straight from the factory—no nicks or scratches. She had a little voice; when it dropped down at the end of her sentences you sometimes lost it completely. Her smile came quickly and stayed long.
We both ordered the special. While we ate, she asked what I did for a living.
“Public relations,” I lied. “How about you?”
“I’m a student at Macalester College.”
“Really, what’s your major?”
“I haven’t decided, yet.”
“Hmm.”
Then we praised the glorious spring weather and lamented that no way it was going to last; the TV meteorologists were already gleefully predicting the impending arrival of several storm fronts. That was about as deep as our conversation got. Still, Crystalin seemed quite articulate, which did not surprise me at all. Most men—and women, too—they see an attractive woman, they naturally assume she’s as dumb as Sheetrock. Especially if the woman’s young and blond to boot. Not me. With few exceptions, the attractive women I’ve known over the years were all quite intelligent. Or was that the other way around?
In any case, Crystalin was pleasant enough, with a touch of little-girl shyness that was rather endearing—not at all the personality you’d expect from a gold digger, from an adulteress. The way she played with her golden hair while she spoke reminded me of a woman I pursued in college named Susan—one of those that got away. Because of Susan I actually regretted what I did to Crystalin. Just as she drove her car from the parking lot, I used the cell phone to call the St. Paul Police Department, dialing the direct line—911 is taped and the reels are stored forever.
“Someone just stole my girlfriend’s Porsche,” I told the officer. “Me? My name is Levering Field. LEVERING …”
KBEM’
s NEWS GUY
warned us that we had already reached the day’s high, that temperatures were now falling like a melon off the top of the IDS Tower. Heavy snow was predicted by nightfall. Like nearly everyone else in the Twin Cities, I was not surprised by the report, but I cursed it just the same.
I drove to my office, brewed a pot of coffee, sat behind my desk and realized I had nothing to do. So I decided to visit Dragons, my dojo, for a workout. I don’t study a particular art, but rather a combination of judo, karate, and aikido. I’m not interested in earning a belt, although they tell me I could if I applied myself. Nor am I one of those diehards who believes in the spirituality of hand-to-hand combat. I’m interested solely in survival. I barely passed the minimum height requirement for a police officer—probably wouldn’t have if the doctor hadn’t laughed at all my jokes—and in my business if you don’t have size, you better have skills because screaming “Quit it, you big meannie!” isn’t going to do it.
I’ve been taking instruction for nearly fifteen years. True, in a gym anyone above my weight class would probably kick my ass. But on the street, without a referee, without a nice, soft mat to fall on, size and strength don’t matter nearly as much as what you’re willing to do. And given the proper motivation, I’m willing to do anything.
My Gi was in a locker at Dragons with my other equipment, so I grabbed my jacket and walked out the door, locking it behind me. I walked down Sixth Street and across Hennepin to where a bearded man in ragged clothes carried a baby on his shoulder and yelled, “Minneapolis, you should be ashamed of yourself!” at whoever came within shouting distance. He never made it clear just why Minneapolis should be ashamed, and no one bothered to ask. Instead, we marched past him, trying to avoid eye contact, hoping he would go away. On the same corner a popcorn vendor shook his head. He wanted the man to go away, too. The guy was killing business.
Dragons was on the third floor of an ancient building without elevators that once belonged to a now-bankrupt dance company. I ran up the steps. An hour later I limped down. I had thrown a front snap kick at my instructor. He deflected the blow with his left forearm, stepped forward, grabbed my right shoulder with his left hand, brought his right leg behind my left leg, swept up, and flung me to the mat. Then, to emphasize his point, he shot a right fist inside my upper thigh, just to the left of my groin. It was your basic Inner Rear Sweeping Throw/Groin Attack, and why the hell wasn’t I looking for it, he wanted to know. I couldn’t believe I was paying for this.
The bearded man and his baby were gone when I hobbled back to Sixth and Hennepin, but the popcorn vendor was still there, so I popped for a seventy-five-cent bag, heavy on the salt. Yes, I know salt is bad for you. So is worrying about it. I finished the popcorn by the time I reached my office, tossing the crumpled bag into the wastebasket from fifteen feet. It danced on the rim and dropped in. Two.
Well, that had killed a couple of hours.
I decided to reorganize my filing system. When I got to the Cs, I had a brainstorm. Well, a squall, anyway. I used the cell phone to dial a 1-900 sex number. The breathlessness of the voice that answered made me fear for the woman’s health—I figured she was having an asthma attack. I gave her Levering’s credit card number and told her to just start talking.
“What do you want to talk about?” she said in a way that made me think of only one thing.
“Surprise me,” I told her.
She did.
But by the time I finished with the Fs, I had become bored listening to her. I hung up, leaving Levering with a thirty-six minute phone bill at—what? Four ninety-nine a minute?
I called Cynthia, wanting to ask her to lunch, but Desirée informed me that Ms. Grey was unavailable. She wasn’t nearly as pleasant as the last time we’d spoken.
I went downstairs, bought a submarine sandwich from the convenience store, returned to my office, and choked down half. I put a CD on the music machine, a reissue of the Bill Evans album
You Must Believe In Spring
. He does a nice cover of “Suicide Is Painless,” the old Johnny Mandel song that was the theme for
M*A*S*H
. Only I didn’t hear it all. I fell asleep.
I
T WAS FOUR P.M.
when I awoke. The sky was dark and ominous, and from the way the people on the street leaned forward, holding tenaciously to their hats, I guessed a stiff wind was blowing.
I dialed Cynthia’s number again. While her phone rang, I took her photograph off my desk and held it with both hands, using my shoulder to rest the receiver against my ear. I wanted to see her face and hear her voice at the same time.
After I got past Desirée, I asked Cynthia if she wanted to meet for dinner, but she had a meeting. She could come to my house afterward, I suggested. But she said she wanted to sleep in her own bed tonight. Alone. She had said the same thing the night before.
“How long are you going to stay angry at me?” I asked.
“How long are you going to stalk Levering Field?”
“Shouldn’t be much longer. I think he’s ready to break.… Hello? Hello?”
I
WENT TO
a restaurant on First Avenue that’s owned by a local TV sportscaster. Good food, lots of TV monitors. SportsCenter was on ESPN. The boys were interviewing Minnesota’s Tom Kelly. T. K. was saying he liked what he saw in spring training, and he expects the Twins to be competitive this year if the starting pitching holds up. But then, he always says that.
I sat at the bar, ordered a Leinenkugel’s Red after I was informed the restaurant didn’t carry Summit Ale. The lager was served in a twenty-two ounce glass. After consuming ten ounces, I decided to order dinner. They told me the special was good—orange roughy grilled in a lemon-dill sauce. They were right. I was just finishing it up when she walked in.
It was hard to miss her. For one thing, she was wearing a lustrous white cotton corset dress, loosely laced in front, that was held up by remarkably thin spaghetti straps. For another, she wore no coat, despite the fact that the temperature had dropped to nothing, the wind was howling, and snow was blowing. In fact, snow was melting off her white pumps and dripped from her ankle-length hem as she stood near the hostess station, searching the room for a familiar face.
She began to slowly move through the restaurant, paying particular attention to the faces of the men who sat alone. I watched her with great interest—something about the laces tied in a lazy bow between her breasts. You knew she was a Cosmopolitan girl, what with all the cleavage she gave away.
I was distracted by the bartender who bused my plate and encouraged me to order another Leinie’s. When I looked up, she was gone. Nuts. Oh, well. I sipped the beer and returned my attention to the TV. ESPN2 was broadcasting a hockey game featuring the much-hated Chicago Blackhawks—at least I hate them. I used to follow the Minnesota North Stars pretty closely until they were moved to Dallas by an owner embarrassed over allegations that he sexually harassed his secretaries. Now my favorite team is who ever is playing the Blackhawks. Tonight it was the Boston Bruins. The Bruins were on a power play but having a hard time setting up in the Chicago zone.
And then she was at my side.
“Is this seat taken?” she asked.
At first I didn’t hear her. That damn Wurlitzer the Blackhawks fans crank up every time their team scores a goal was ringing through the restaurant. The Blackhawks had scored short handed, the bastards.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
She motioned to the empty stool next to mine. “Is this seat taken?” she repeated.
“No,” I said, gesturing for her to take it. She did, but not very far. If anything, she moved it closer to me.
“Some weather we’re having,” she said, smiling coyly.
“It’s not so bad if you’re dressed for it,” I suggested.
She put her hands over the cups of the corset and squeezed her breasts together. They bounced when she released them, a not altogether unpleasant sight. I watched them carefully. Since meeting Sara, I take nothing for granted.
“I was betting the weather would hold for at least one more day,” she said. “I lost.”