by JJ Partridge
My hand went back as if to slap the look off his face but instead I stepped away and grabbed the kitchen phone. I began to punch in 911 when, without warning, Lavelle Williams’s street-born insolence evaporated: tears filled his eyes and he broke into sobs. Real honest-to-goodness sobs! “I just can’t fuckin’ stand it! Every fuckin’ thin’ is goin’ bad. Da cops, da fuckin’ spics, dey all want to .... I didn’t kill Annie! I didn’t rape nobody! But who da fuck believes me? Who gives a flyin’ fuck for me?” His body shook maniacally, rocking the chair back and forth in a struggle against his restraints, mucus mixed with sweat and blood erupting from his swollen nose.
I hesitated, then touched the “off” button. I searched his face for a hint of a reversion to smartassness. But there wasn’t. It was all self pity.
“I didn’t kill Annie. It coulda’ been fuckin’ anybody, ya know.” His head pivoted from side to side like a bobblehead doll. “Anybody dat knew her mighta done it. Annie could piss anybody off. She’d say shit to hurt ya, be in ya face, until ya just can’t stand it.” He tried to wipe his mouth by brushing it against a raised shoulder but it barely grazed his chin. “She didn’t care. She liked ta do it. She was always screwin’ around, showin’ off how much smarter she was. She didn’t care at all if she fucked ya over. She liked ta do it ....”
Almost before I realized it, I said “Your lawyer says that somebody gave her money. A lot of money ....”
His mouth opened, displaying a row of teeth with spaces. “Ya talked to Franks ...?” His bewilderment immediately gave way to an expression of fear and I knew he was through talking. That merited a twist of sweatshirt under his Adam’s apple. “One more chance,” I grunted. “Who gave it to her?”
He locked his eyes in mine. Little flecks of orange appeared as they widened. “Fuckin’ cash cow!”
“‘Cash cow’?”
I tightened the twist, shaking his head with force. What was he talking about? “What cash cow?”
“Dat’s who sent da money, man! Dis cash cow! Da cash cow! Dat’s all she said.”
I released him and his head bounced backward. “She acted it was funny. Some kinda joke. Da name. Always said it widda smile. Wouldn’t say no more. Not Annie. Too fuckin’ smart for dat. Took da bucks, had da ‘operation,’ she said. Zip, and it was gone, but money just kept comin’ in. Lived huge—bought all da shit she wanted, DVD’s and computer shit, took off to New York all da time—and the rest went to da bank.” His voice slowed and he spoke as though mystified. “Saw da bankbook once. Told dat to Franks. Ten grand at first and she was still packin’ it away. Even after buyin’ all da shit. Money came in ’round da first of da month. Went down to the post office and picked it up. Just like welfare, I says to her, and she laughs but says she ‘earned’ it. But she never had to do nottin’, no work, nottin’! Sleep all day, da lazy ho’. Never go out except at night, like she was hidin’ from somebody. Den, dis month, the cash didn’t come in!” His lips smacked together as he started a gaspy laugh. “I told her da cash cow musta run outta milk. She got pissed at dat. Too fuckin’ bad!”
He took a long look at the crumpled cigarette pack on the counter. I pulled out a joint and rolled it between my fingers, and considered if a toke would loosen him up. The cabinet drawer next to the counter had matches; I stuck the joint between Williams’s lips, lit it, and he inhaled deeply. His eyes closed, and as he exhaled, his shoulders slumped perceptibly. I snapped the joint from his lips. “Da bitch was messin’ wid me, ya know. Couldn’t let dat happen again ....” He nodded towards the joint; I raised it to his lips and watched him inhale and the smoke leave his puffed-up nose. I took the joint and ran water over it in the sink, and stuffed it into the garbage disposal. He didn’t seem to care. “If I’d offed her, I’d have gotten my ass outta here.”
I gave him that. “Why was she on your case?”
“Who knows? I seen her down at da CVS. ‘Bout six. Ain’t seen her for awhile but she wanted some stuff so we went back to her place, had a couple joints, and I fucked da ho’. Den, she gotta use my cell, ’cause hers ran outta juice, while I went and got a pizza. When I got back, she had a joint in her face, baked out. Told me dat da cash cow was gettin’ milked again. She was goin’ to get her ‘milk’ again, startin’ right away. She had some pizza and started dissin’ me and talkin’ trash. Mean shit. So dis time I gave da ho’ a few whacks to remember me by, and I left.” His voice sought justification for the “whacks”. “It was still early, only ’bout nine or so, and I was pissed so I wanted ta party, got my car and hit a party out in Olneyville, took care of some ... business, and went back to my crib and smoked some ganja.” He looked up at me. “Not dis shit. Da bomb!”
“That’s your alibi? A party in Olneyville? Drug sales? Going home and getting stoned?”
“Man, I was stoned,” he said, focusing his reddened eyes on me through the lingering smoke, then arching his head way back. “Shouldn’ta been so stoned! Saturday night is a business night. But she got me so fuckin’ mad ...!” His head looped in a slow circle. “She caused me all dis trouble. Damn me for foolin’ around wid a white ho’!”
“When did you start going together?”
The smirk almost reappeared. “We didn’t go together. It’s not like fuckin’ ‘dates’, ya know?”
“Dope?”
“Not junk. After da ‘operation’, she’d smoke. Smoked alot. Always had some stuff around. It was always the same. She’d smoke and she’d get mean, real mean. I could tell when it was comin’ on like Friday, when she’d got jammed. Shoulda left her alone … her old man had sent da word on me and dat ain’t good for business so I ain’t seen her for a couple weeks. Just couldn’t take all her shit anyhow.” A grin started at his face. “Hey, man, I supply! I got da stuff. I got whatever you want. Da good stuff, straight from Colombia. I’m like da pizza man. Page me and I deliver.”
“Where’s the bankbook?”
The brightness left him. “Man, ya just don’t get it! Annie didn’t tell me shit.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe her sister. She was da only one Annie would trust.” He shook his head. “And dat bitch really hated me.” He slumped back. “I don’t know what happened to Annie. It could’ve been some junkie, or dis dude dey looking for ... dis Stalker. Wouldn’t even have to break in. Da crazy ho’ was always leavin’ da door unlocked.”
I pushed myself away from the counter, not sure what to do next. More questions? Why? He started squirming within his restraints which brought me back to practicality. “Look, ya gotta let me go. I can’t get picked up by dem cops. Ya know what dey do.”
I didn’t respond.
“…Or call Franks. If I go down dere wid him, dey gotta be careful. He knows everybody. Dat’s why dey got him for me.”
“Who did?”
He was silent.
“Who did?”
“My friends,” he said sourly. “Dey take care of deir people.”
“Wise up! They’re not going help you if you’re going to be charged with murder! Nothing to do with them.”
This time, he actually laughed. “Franks ain’t goin’ to let ‘em pin dis on me. No way! Dey is only interested in money, and dey don’t get money when dey have to lay low ’cause someone’s goin’ to da joint. Anyway, I ain’t a snitch, ‘cause if ya snitch, ya die! Sometimes,” he continued in a low, almost instructional tone, “when somebody has to do time, he might give up someone for a little better deal ... and stuff. So, to make sure dat don’t happen, we get Franks. Ya get out on bail and ..., who knows? ’Course, if ya do snitch, it don’t make no difference where ya is; dey gets ya in da joint, or outta da joint.”
I shook my head, realizing I was out of my league in trying to deal with Lavelle Williams. He was no different from the grim-faced punks I’d prosecuted years ago, people you can’t reason with or cajole because they didn’t care about what you care about.
“How come you went to your mother’s when you knew the cops were looking for you?”
“Couldn’t go to my place, had to stay away from …, and …. Mistake. Don’t know why I told her ….”
I went over to the sink and threw water on my face. There had to be more to it. Was there a cache of money or drugs hidden at his mother’s apartment? Was he smart enough to figure on Reverend Thomas being his good will ambassador to the Providence cops?
“Call Franks. Gimme a break. I didn’t mean ta hurt ya. Ya know what could happen if ya call da cops and dey get a mind to hurt me. C’mon, man, I need Franks.” He didn’t know it but he had things going his way until my silence let him relapse into his street persona. “What’s dis? Some fuckin’ game? A story to tell ya snotty friends about? What da fuck does it mean to ya if I get lynched? Just a dead nigger? I ain’t you. Dey ain’t gonna treat me like you.” Then, the scorn left his voice. “I ain’t like you.”
* * *
Jerome Franks was not a happy camper. When I called his home on Blackstone Boulevard, only a mile or so away, I hadn’t mentioned Williams but assured Franks that it was a matter of utmost urgency. He had been reluctant, complaining about the snow but I was insistent and he finally agreed; possibly, he felt something akin to the curiosity which brought me to his office only two days earlier.
The front door lights revealed a dusting of snow on the tweed cap that crowned his large head, a blue scarf overflowed from inside a camelhair overcoat, and he entered with a flourish of self-importance. With the hall light off, my face, which even after a wash was very much damaged goods, was barely visible. “This had better be worth it,” he said impatiently, taking off his gloves to unbutton his overcoat and inspect an oversized gold wristwatch. “Ten-thirty,” he intoned.
I snapped on the hall light. His florid face, stubbled by a day’s whiskers, lost its pompous expression when he saw mine. “Well, you can decide. The police, as you are well aware, are searching for Lavelle Williams. Since he is sitting rather uncomfortably in my kitchen, I—”
Franks’s mouth gaped open, then closed, and opened again. “What the hell is he doing here?” he sputtered.
“I thought you might wish to inquire, counselor. Right this way,” and pushed open the kitchen door. Williams, with his pants around his sneakers, his undershorts barely covering his knees, and his arms lost behind him in the restraining jacket, looked ridiculous. Before Franks arrived, the cash, pager, and wallet had been wiped clean and returned to his jacket’s pocket and the pot and plastic bags, wiped very clean, had been tucked back into its lining. The screwdriver, woolen cap, and driver’s license remained on the counter.
As nonchalantly as I could fake, I leaned against the doorway with my arms folded and found the insouciance that I knew irritated Franks. “Of course, you understand this is really a courtesy to you as well as a convenience to me, that is, having you take him in, rather than my calling the police and charging him. As you said yourself, the situation remains ‘venomous’.”
“What ...?” said Franks, still staring at Williams who exhibited a mixture of sullenness and downright fear.
“‘Venomous’. Your word to describe the atmosphere at the department.” A little rub of salt in the wound as I crossed to stand behind Williams and face Franks. “He assaulted me. He—”
“He’s nuts,” Williams blurted. “He ….”
I jammed his wrists upward, garnering a groan, as I untied the knot in the belt. “But we’ve had such a nice chat! How he lives, how he survives. Shocking! As you said, one of our wasted youth ....”
Williams’s head snapped straight up. “I didn’t say nuttin’ ....”
“Reverend Thomas was on a fool’s errand,” I said, and with the final loop of the belt unwound, Williams pulled his arms forward and attempted to right himself. His hands were too numb to brace against the counter and he slumped awkwardly back on to the chair. I remained behind him, ready to make a grab in case he thought of escape.
Franks’ lips slid back and forth, his expression not bothering to hide the depth of his anger. “You expect me to take Williams to the police, for you?”
My voice struck the right annoying pitch. “I understand they have more questions for him about the Sullivan murder. And you might want to use the time to discuss other matters, like her bankbook and her abortion. If I were to simply hand him over to the police, well, as you say, no telling what might happen. It is still ‘venomous’, isn’t it? Probably more so after today’s events.” I smiled, even though it hurt.
Franks’ eyes sparked with hostility as he divined my motives: he was being forced to be my messenger boy, instead of the other way around.
I yanked Williams up by his sweatshirt and pushed him toward his lawyer. He almost fell into Franks.
“Pick up your pants,” Franks snarled and Williams struggled to obey. Over the back of his client, Franks struggled to keep his voice under control. “You’re trying to play me for a fool. Nobody does that to me.”
“I’ll keep his cap and license, together with his ... weapon, enough I dare say to give whatever I say some credibility. And surely there are sufficient fingerprints all over my cars ....”
Franks’ jowls seemed to multiply as he puffed up like an iguana for his rejoinder, and decided against it. He forced Williams through the kitchen door, down the hall, and out of the front door. I watched from behind the storm door as Franks propelled his charge towards a white Lincoln Town Car parked at the curb. It was still snowing heavily; Williams’ rubbery legs kept buckling all the way to the car. Franks held the passenger door open to make sure Williams entered and slammed it shut. He glowered in my direction as he high-stepped through the snow to the driver side door and got inside. The engine roared, the wipers cleared snow from the windshield, and the car lumbered forward.
In my smugness, I actually waved, satisfied in my payback to Franks, and remembering that the garage door remained open, I retrieved my jacket from the kitchen and went outside. An overhead light in the garage revealed a broken pane of glass in the rear door window and my fedora, dirty and crushed, on the floor between the Mini and the Range Rover. I scooped up my hat and earned a stab of pain in my lower back. I walked around the SUV to search for whatever Williams had used to deliver the blow to my head and shoulder and spotted a two-by-three sticking oddly out of a box full of old climbing gear. Must have been that, I concluded, and then remembered the tools—like ice axes—that nestled within that box!
I snapped off the light and was closing the garage door when I kicked a small and metallic object and sent it spinning into the snow. I might not have found it except it landed in a footprint where it caught the glint of a distant streetlight. A cell phone, a flip model. I opened it up, touched the power icon, and it flashed on. Had to be the business phone of Lavelle Williams, lost in the scuffle. A souvenir to add to his cap, license, and screwdriver.
I pocketed it and with hurt in every stride, made my way back to Congdon Street. Second guessing had commenced. Maybe it had been a mistake not to have called the police: I had been assaulted and he was wanted by the cops for questioning. Would Franks break his code and reveal the bankbook? Or the abortion? He’d have to, now, wouldn’t he, to get Williams out of there? But suppose he didn’t? Was the risk to Williams worth the pleasure of putting down the preening Jerome Franks? What kind of payback could Franks deliver? As I entered the house, I remembered the joints and bags of junk inside Williams’s jacket lining. Suppose, in haste or confusion, they forgot to remove them before Williams was brought in?
What a satisfying thought!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Friday
A hot shower identified and magnified the hurt of every scrape and bruise. I swallowed six hundred milligrams of Advil, swabbed the cuts and abrasions I could reach with Neosporin, then inched my way under the covers. It was beyond my capacity to remember where the heating pad might be or where I could comfortably plug it in. Eventually I slept only to be roused to semi-consciousness several times by twisted images of the attack or by a stitch from a shift of my scal
p or torso. About six, a roll to my right side triggered a shock of pain from screamingly-tight lower back muscles that was more effective than any alarm. I crawled out of bed and took baby steps to the bathroom where I stretched what I could and braved another teeth-clenching hot shower.
It took twice as long as usual to towel off and when I wiped away the condensation from the bathroom’s pivot mirror, the damage was all too visible: my forehead, chin, and right cheek resembled pieces of basketball cover, my puffy lips would have made a Hollywood ingénue giddy with jealousy, my right shoulder was a blight of purplish-red, and the skin over my right ribs was a mixture of mauve and yellow. Shaving proved to be an adventure as I attempted to avoid the grit marks on my cheeks and chin. I applied Neosporin again, took more Advil, rubbed BENGAY on all the tender spots, and struggled into underwear after wrapping my lower back in a surgical corset. In the triple mirror in the loft, I looked like one of my jarhead, Section 8 bound, clients after one helluva shore leave.
But, I had fought, prevailed, and was proud of myself!
The kitchen was flooded by brilliant sunlight. Through the french doors, the patio and garden were a dazzling white; the top of the brick boundary walls measured the inches of fallen snow. I brewed some espresso and tuned the radio to a local AM station which reported “... five inches in Providence ...” and “... a record snowfall for this time of year ...” every two minutes, along with no school and no work announcements, and a lot about a low pressure system that had sucked in a layer of cold off the Atlantic and turned flurries into winter’s first snowstorm. From Foster-Glocester to Newport, the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations was closed. I switched the radio’s band to FM and tuned to WCAR-FM, our campus station, which confirmed that the University had suspended all classes and activities, including, mirable dictu, Jesse Kingdom’s rally!