The big man’s oversized hands work nimbly returning the lighter to the small pocket on the front of his overalls. The joint bobs between his lips. He pats the pocket reassuringly and winks at Calvert a second time.
Calvert makes his mouth in the shape of a smile.
“Wake and bake?” the man-bear asks and tries to pass the weed.
“No thank you. I can’t get high anymore,” Calvert explains.
“That’s too bad,” the man-bear says, but he doesn’t offer twice. He holds the smoldering twist of paper close to his heart. Smoke burrows into his bushy white beard. “I heard you coming up the stairs and thought I’d introduce myself. You the new neighbor?”
“Yes. I’m new.”
“Hmm. From around here?”
“I was at a transitional mental health facility until yesterday.”
The man squints his eyes and holds in more smoke. He speaks with a tight voice, “You know you should probably close your robe.” He points toward Calvert’s exposed briefs.
Calvert looks, finds his robe wide open. “I forgot to belt it. To be honest, since I died I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”
The big man scrutinizes Calvert, “You’re saying you’re dead?”
“For a while now. Months.”
“You look good, though. You pull it off. Not everyone could. Besides, it happens to the best of us.”
This strikes Calvert as unassailably true. “May I ask a question?”
“Knock yourself out,” the big man says kindly.
“Should I cover myself?” He glances down his body again.
“Up to you. I don’t mind.”
Calvert leaves his robe open. He feels good about the decision. “I got a new job. I start Monday.”
“Gotta pay the tax man,” Man-bear says around a mouth full of smoke.
Calvert believes the conversation has ended so he waves, takes the newspaper, and shakes it open. He begins reading, walks through his door, and knocks it closed behind him.
The Lord’s Day
It’s Sunday. The sun is out, the sky clear. Moe is parked across the street from Pilgrim Baptist, waiting for services to end. The church is white clapboard. The grounds are lush green and immaculate. Moe has her helmet off and sips tea from the screw-top cap of her thermos. She stands next to Taibbi, biker boots crossed at the ankle, leaning her butt on the Honda’s seat. Her face is warm in the sun. Not a bad way to kill a little time.
She spent the previous day researching the list of homicides Vivian provided. Jerome was helpful with contacts in police records. It was slow going as her process was stymied by irregular interruptions from Loni and Dale, the two ankle biters Vivian had recently recruited to the Text Block’s cause.
Loni seemed bright but wouldn’t listen. Moe gave her suggestions and notes on an article about the link between kids living in urban food deserts and poor academic performance. An hour later, Loni returned with the same copy, along with a long argument about why it was best to keep her writing structured as is.
Dale was overambitious and wrote a frantic, scattered article that lacked any clear point and was far too long. She wondered exactly what he’d been taught in J-school. Moe sat with him and patiently chipped away two-thirds of his initial story. What they discovered was a solid, well-researched narrative on aggressive application of fines for traffic infractions caught on red-light cameras, and how that abuse was leading to a modern-day debtor’s prison. It was time-consuming, and every red mark of Moe’s pen seemed to eat away at Dale’s brittle, idealistic soul. Dale’s feelings were something Moe tried not to be concerned with. But the empathy trap was inescapable. In the end, both articles were published to the website. It felt like the longest day she’d spent as a journalist.
Now, she hopes to interview the mother of one of the victims for her own article. When Moe called Loretta Sharpe, the grieving mother had been receptive, even grateful.
“Mrs. Sharpe, I know this is a hard time for you. I’m truly sorry for your loss. My name’s Moe Diaz, and I’m the executive feature writer for Text Block.” It was the first time she’d used her new title. She wasn’t yet convinced she liked it. “It’s a digital newspaper. You may have heard of it.”
“Oh, honey. Thank you for calling. I’ve never heard of your paper. I don’t read newspapers, so don’t take it personal. When I find time to read, I spend it with my scriptures.”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand. I’m calling because I’m writing about your daughter, Precious. Not only about her death but about her life too. Could we meet?”
“Oh now, honey, I’d like that. Precious was a blessing. She’s in a better place.”
“Yes, ma’am. Is there a time that would be best for you?”
Loretta Sharpe had asked Moe if she’d accepted Jesus Christ as her Lord and savior, and invited her to attend services. Moe pretended she would be attending church elsewhere. When Loretta asked for specifics, Moe said, “Nondenominational.” Loretta seemed to find that disappointing but minimally acceptable. Meeting after services was Loretta’s idea.
Moe wants to start writing. She hadn’t written anything yesterday. Her initial article about the woman strangled north of the river was her most viewed story so far. She wanted to build on it. The police had issued a basic statement giving the name of the victim and her age, and had confirmed several details that bolstered Moe’s reporting.
She and Whistler were playing text tag. He sent a note late Friday night, after filling his guts with hot sake and sushi. He complained about the aftertaste of raw fish. Or “Soosh.” Apparently Whistler’s new partner refused to stop calling it “soosh.”
Whistler: 31 times. Now 32 times he has said the word soosh! He’ll be Chicago’s next homicide if he says it again. At least hot sake goes down pretty easy after the initial shock.
Moe: Have you gotten the preliminary report from the ME? Any witnesses? Which way are you leaning on this? Can you give me any background on the victim?
Even in his drunken state Whistler didn’t respond to her questions. After her third not-so-subtle inquiry, he wrote that he was heading home. That didn’t bother her much, nor did it surprise her. Had to give it a shot.
What’s starting to get under her skin is developing a long story. The notion of digging deep and researching, nurturing witnesses over time, and breaking uncharted journalistic ground is all very romantic. In practice, it goes against the pattern she’d developed freelancing.
As she waits in the warm sun, Moe knows Precious Sharpe had no criminal record. She had finished her first year pursuing an associate degree in applied sciences in respiratory therapy at Malcolm X College. She had been choked to death in the stall of a spray-it-yourself carwash. No one was arrested. There was no press coverage other than a three-line mention in the Sun-Times and a paid notification for the memorial service.
Officially, as far as the CPD was concerned, there was nothing to go on. After learning the little she now knows, Moe wants to paint a portrait of a girl with a close family and a bright future who died too young. But she’s holding back on presuming too much until she speaks to the person who knew Precious best. Yesterday she found a Facebook page that seemed little used. Precious’s profile picture was of a pretty girl making an ugly face. Searching Instagram she found images of Precious at parties, drinking, dancing in crowded small rooms teeming with bodies and hormones. Moe had found nothing shocking about a teen being wilder than her family might approve of. She sips a bit more tea, shakes the dregs into the weeds growing through cracks in the pavement, and twists the cup lid in place.
In recent years, Moe had come to terms with her career. Yes, there were negatives associated with working as a freelance journalist: low pay, no benefits, no stability, no real opportunity for advancement. But she had time to perfect her craft.
In truth, she was an adult with a college degree, living with her father, and making only minimum payments on her student loan. Moe often claimed she needed to be ho
me for her aging parent. That was at best convenient shorthand and at worst a blatant lie. Francis always made her feel welcome, but he didn’t need her around. She did cook for him some evenings, and they’d watch a game or an old rerun, share a beer or three. The reality was she couldn’t afford a place of her own. His continued understanding allowed her to attempt to make a living doing the thing she loved. Or enables me to continue living a pipe dream.
If she believed in metaphysical hoodoo, she’d say she was called to be a journalist. Writing had chosen her, not the other way around. But she prefers practical concepts. She tells herself that her innate skills and the demands of investigative reporting are a good fit. Nothing more.
She liked the flexible schedule, autonomy, personal freedom, sovereignty, and independence of freelancing. She knows her list is a string of synonyms, but they carry more weight than the negatives. Her articles give her a place in this world. On a good day, she writes things she cares about for a publication whose goals she shares. She holds the powerful accountable and shines a light on corruption and hypocrisy. Sure she works ten hours a day, sometimes seven days a week. She wears freelance like a comfortable pair of jeans; freelance fits her just right.
The new title Vivian had thrust at her turns everything on its head. She has less flexibility, has to spend her time reading and editing Lola and Dan’s insipid attempts to write. Or whatever their fucking names are.
She suddenly has a salary and benefits, and will soon be able to afford her own place. May have the cash to pay down her student loan; could even help her dad with his medical bills. Potentially she will get the privacy and space needed to pursue a relationship. At the very least, a sex life. But none of it is sitting well with her. She’s worried she sold out. I’m Sophia without the mass-market sex appeal.
The church doors swing open, and a dark-skinned man in white robes steps out and takes a prominent position at the top of the steps. Moe straightens up and stows her thermos. She puts her bag over her head and strolls across the street, keeping an eye out for Loretta.
A line of well-dressed men in bow ties and sweater vests, and women in hats and matching summer dresses, files out of the church. Some of the younger women have sleeveless dresses and sport elaborate shoulder tattoos. Moe feels underdressed. What she thought was a cool biker look may actually scream “young queer.”
Loretta told Moe she’d be in a pink dress and a white hat with pink flowers. She isn’t too hard to spot. She lingers with the preacher as she exits, exchanges a few words, perhaps condolences, perhaps a discussion of the day’s sermon. She nods at his parting message. He hugs her. Loretta waves at Moe as she walks down the steps, one step at a time, as if she doesn’t trust her balance.
“Mrs. Sharpe. Thanks for meeting. Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
“Oh now, I don’t know why I would.”
They walk slowly around the block. Loretta tells Moe about her deceased daughter singing in the church choir, about a childhood illness that “might have killed a baby that wasn’t so strong.” About what a good student Precious was. “She placed fourth in a citywide spelling bee. Not enough for a trophy. But praise be to Jesus, it was enough to help her get an academic scholarship.” She put her palms up to heaven when she said, “Praise be to Jesus.”
“Precious sounds like a wonderful daughter.”
“Oh now, she was. For the most part. She had her moments.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Well, I think she didn’t make the best choices with boys.”
“I see. Why do you say that?”
“Well, look how it turned out.”
“You’re saying a boyfriend was responsible?”
“I told the police Ronnie was the one that did it. They broke up. She wouldn’t tell me why. People say he was dogging around on her. He warned her she best not break up with him, but she went on ahead and did it. Not ten days later, well …”
“You know Ronnie’s last name?”
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. If he gets caught it won’t bring her back, will it? It’d be another black boy in prison, and I don’t want any part of that. Romans 12:19: ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ The pastor spoke on it at the funeral service. Another reason I know it was Ronnie is he left town right away. Went out West with his brother. I told the police the whole story.”
They talk the rest of the way around the block. Finally Loretta says, “Now if you ever want to come to a service, Pastor Jenkins is about as good a preacher as you’ll ever find. You can feel the Lord come right down among the congregation when he gets after it. And the choir will have you dancing in the aisles.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll remember that. Here you go,” Moe passes over her old business card on which she’s written her embarrassingly long title. “You can read the article on that website later this week. Spread the word. You can call me anytime if you think of something. And if you don’t like what I write, if you feel I got it wrong, you can send me a note. I will work with you to write a correction. I want to pay respect to your daughter. She deserves that much.”
Moe is surprised when Loretta traps her in a warm hug. “I know you’ll do right by my Precious baby. But she’ll get her reward in heaven. She is blessed not to grow old, not to toil on this earth a day longer than she needed to. And you. You gotta get yourself right with the Lord.”
“Believe me,” Moe says, “I’m doing my best.”
Working Man
The morning is foggy. Calvert doesn’t feel the damp seep into his clothes. It doesn’t make him involuntarily shiver the way he assumes a living person might. He is oblivious to most sensations of the body. Death has made him a stoic.
He woke to the alarm on the watch he took from the home he once lived in. Upon opening his eyes, he wanted to close them again. He doesn’t know if the term “fatigue” applies to the dead. So he calls it “entropic degradation” and blames it on being active past his expiration date.
Upon deeper consideration, he also attributes it to the fitful dreams he had after spending all of Sunday observing his mind’s efforts to make sense of his disorganized past. Perhaps I do need rest in order to optimally exist. He’d also forgotten to eat for most of the weekend until this morning, when he crunched a few pinches of dry Grape-Nuts from his palm and washed it down with black coffee, and a dose of antipsychotics as a chaser.
Now, he stands with his back to Coffee Girl. He considers the watch on his wrist. He’s second-guessing his decision to wear it. The watch is big. It feels heavy. He worries it will stretch his shoulder tendons until his arm falls out of the socket again or comes completely loose.
The watch has five buttons and a numbered ring around its face. He has no idea what most of the buttons do. He gives the ring a turn. Nothing changes other than the orientation of numbers. He squeezes buttons; the harsh edges bite his finger pads. He’s not bothered. After his best analysis, all he knows is the time is 5:50 AM; if he squeezes the watch randomly, the alarm will turn off; and if he pinches certain buttons, the entire face lights up bright enough to leave a ghost image on his retina.
The door to the shop opens beside him.
“Good morning, working man. Long time no see.” Rosa is a few feet from him, smiling her smile. It looks especially radiant on this bleak morning.
His mouth smiles in response; the first high-quality smile he’s managed in ages. “I’ve got ten minutes before I meet my trainer, Allen.” He taps his big watch.
“Nice watch. You want coffee?”
“Yes.” His uncertainty over the timepiece evaporates.
“The espresso machine is all warmed up.” She holds the door and Calvert walks in.
Rosa ties her apron in place before starting her elegant coffee choreography. Calvert is in awe. A few moments later, she slides a drink across the counter in a paper cup. “I made it to go. Though it tastes better in glassware. Nice new T-shirt,” she says. She pinches the fabric of
her own shirt. “We look like twins.” Calvert doubts the resemblance. Rosa is younger than him, darker complexion, longer hair, with a feminine physique, and is living. He is past middle years, graying, unremarkably built, and mostly dead. She reads his confusion and adds, “Matching white T-shirts.”
Her attention pleases him. Calvert takes out sixty-two dollars and hands it to her. “For all the coffee,” he says. “Including Friday.”
“That’s too much.” She leaves the cash on the counter as she rings him up. She puts fifty-some dollars back in Calvert’s palm. When she turns her back, he stuffs the cash in her tip jar.
By the time the Bug Off van pulls up, Calvert is on the sidewalk, sipping his cortado. A wiry man with a scraggly blond beard and matching shoulder-length hair cranks down the driver’s-side window and yells. “You Calvert?”
“Yes,” Calvert replies quietly. He adds a vigorous head nod.
“Well, hurry the hell up,” the man calls with a broad beckoning wave.
Calvert holds his coffee steady and tries to make his legs and arms work smoothly as he moves to the passenger door. He climbs in and looks for a place to set his cup. The footwell is littered with crumpled fast-food bags. One cup holder is full of change and a pair of toenail clippers. The other has a half-full travel mug that reads “Hillary sucks but not like Monica;” its lid is missing, and mold has formed a cap over the liquid inside. Calvert holds his cortado between his knees and fumbles with the seat belt.
“Don’t leave me hanging,” the other man says.
Calvert sees a hand extended his direction. He grasps it.
“Allen,” the man says. There is a whimpering from the rear of the van. Allen jerks his thumb and adds, “That’s Daisy. Coffee smells good.”
Calvert lifts the cup and breathes the aroma.
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