by John Hart
“Then we’ll see where we are.”
I looked from one to the other. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever would. “May I be excused?”
My mother lifted her glass. “Do you have plans to see him again?”
“No,” I lied.
“Talk to him by phone?”
“If he has a number, I don’t know it.”
She studied me with eyes that were as cool and bright as my brother’s. “Are you still my good boy?”
“I try to be.”
“Do you love me?”
“Of course.”
“Are you angry?”
“Not anymore.”
Another sip. The same eyes. “Clear your dishes.”
* * *
I carried dishes to the kitchen, and took the back stairs to my room. Inside, I closed the door and tried to see the space as if it were not my own: the posters and old toys and plastic trophies. When my father knocked on the door, it was after nine.
“Come in.”
He opened the door, surprised by the state of my room. The posters were down. Half the stuff I owned was boxed. “What’s all this?”
I shrugged, and kept packing. “Just wanted a change.”
He looked in one box and then another. “You giving this stuff away?”
“I guess.”
“Your comic books?” He lifted a stack from a half-full box. “You’ve collected these since you were eight.” I didn’t respond. He put the comic books down and sat on the edge of the bed. “About your mother…”
“You don’t need to explain.”
“I’m happy to talk about it.”
“She’s afraid Jason will ruin my life. This is hardly news.”
“It won’t be forever, son.”
“It’s been years, Dad. Five years that she won’t let me play sports or date girls. I can’t go camping or hunting. She barely lets me leave the house.”
“She let you have a car.”
“Because I paid for it myself.”
“She still allowed it.”
“She did, yes, and it’s the only thing she’s done that’s fair.”
“None of this is fair, son. It’s not fair that Robert died, or that Jason changed the way he did. It’s not fair for your mother to worry so much, or for any of this to land on you. Just work with me. Stay away from Jason, at least for a little while.”
“He’s my brother.”
“I know he is, but there are things about Jason you don’t know.”
“What? That he did drugs? That he killed people in the war?”
My father frowned and studied the floor, less certain than he used to be. “Three or four days, just a little while.”
“You should have told me he was back.”
“You’re angry. I get it. I still need your promise.”
“I can’t give it to you.”
“Not even for your mother’s sake?”
“Not even for yours.”
I stared at him, and he stared back; and in the end, that’s where he left me: in a silence that spoke of fathers and sons and difficult truths. I couldn’t turn my back on Jason, not after losing Robert.
I thought my father understood.
That maybe he approved.
* * *
French stopped ten feet from the door, and took a moment to remember his sons as they’d been before the war: Robert, with his easy smile and gracious nature, and Jason, who’d been sardonic and brilliant and occasionally cruel. From the beginning, Gibby’s love for Robert had been the most obvious, but he’d been more like Jason than he chose to admit. He had the same insight and self-awareness, the same cutting wit. Gibby’s heart, of course, was immense, and the only reason he’d yielded, for so many years, to his mother’s insane demands. No girls. No sports.
“Damn it, Gabrielle.”
Rationality played no part in her overprotective nature. Robert had been selected in the draft, with Jason being spared only because he’d been born two minutes after midnight, which made them twins with different birthdays. Gabrielle had wept on the day Robert left for Vietnam, and broken entirely at news of his death. He’d been the first and the favorite. Gabrielle would never admit such a truth, but her cries in the dark of that terrible night still haunted his memories.
It should have been Jason!
It should have been him!
He’d tried to stifle the words, but believed, to this day, that they’d carried through the house. How long after that before Jason enlisted?
Two days?
Three?
French sighed deeply, and his face was rough beneath his palms. Pushing away from the wall, he made his way to the master bedroom door and peered inside. Gabrielle was in the bed, on her side. Moving quietly past, he lifted his weapon and shield from the dresser.
“Are you going out?” She rolled over, a rustle in the sheets.
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.”
“Gibby’s in bed?”
“Tucked in and safe.”
“Where are you going?”
“A call,” he said. “I might be a while.”
“What time is it?”
“Not that late. Go back to bed.”
He kissed her cheek, and she rolled again, showing the lift of a shoulder, a spill of hair. He felt bad about the lie, but had she known his intent, there would have been recrimination and tears; she would not have slept at all.
Outside, French slid behind the wheel, and followed a two-lane until he caught the state highway that would take him into Charlotte. As a city cop, he’d always felt guilty about life beyond the city line, but he was a father first, and city life had been trending down for years. It would be easy to blame the war, but the shift felt more fundamental than that. People didn’t care like they used to. They locked their doors, and looked away on the street. There was less trust between neighbors, and no love for cops, either. It had been that way since the Kent State shootings, at least, since the race riots in New York and Wilmington, the uprisings at Attica, the bombing in Wisconsin. Even in a city as small as this—a half-million people—French had seen things he’d never imagined, not just the protests and riots but bra burnings and flag burnings, the explosion of homelessness and poverty and drugs. To jaded eyes, the problem was larger than broken families or loyalties or even broken cities. The country was wounded and hurting. Was divided too big a word?
Once across the city line, French worked his way past the subdivisions and commercial areas, then downtown, where buildings rose twenty and thirty stories, and people were out on the sidewalks. The restaurants were busy, so were the nightclubs and bars. The main drag was four-lane, and cars cruised it slowly before turning around to do it again. His interest was little more than passing, but eyes still found the cruiser as if cop were written on the side.
Deeper in the city, French slowed as he approached a half-mile stretch of abandoned factories built in the late 1800s. An experiment in city renewal had seen attempts at rehabilitation, but the longed-for influx of apartment and condo dwellers never materialized. The buildings now were mostly vacant. There were a few flophouses, some struggling artists, a bit of industrial storage. The building he wanted was on the last corner of the worst block, so he rolled in quietly, and got out of the car the same way. Darkness pooled between distant lights, and there was movement in that darkness, hints of glass and cigarettes where people huddled on loading bays and crumbled stoops.
“Anyone here seen Jimmy Hooks?” French showed the badge as he approached a group of men on a loading dock, their legs stretched out, backs against the brick. They saw the shield, but didn’t care enough to hide the needle. “Hey. Jimmy Hooks. You seen him?” One of the junkies turned his head and gave a slow blink. French held out a ten-dollar bill. “First to tell me gets it.”
“Oh, hey, man, I think I saw him…”
“Not you.” French knew the guy, a proven liar. “You two. Jimmy Hooks. I’m not going to bust him. I just wa
nt to talk.” He produced another five, and all three junkies pointed at an old factory across the street. “If you’re lying, I’ll be back. I’ll take the money and your junk.”
“Nah, man. No lies. Jimmy Hooks. Straight up.”
French dropped the bills, and crossed the street, stepping over shattered glass and keeping his eyes on the door three stoops down. Two girls lingered there. Hookers, he thought. They saw him, and split. He let them go. Through the open door, he saw mattresses, old sofas, candle wax melted to the floor.
“Hey … mister cop.”
That came from a junkie so skinny a good breeze might lift him up and float him away. He was on a sofa, barefoot and shirtless and half-gone.
“I’m looking for Jimmy Hooks.”
The junkie pointed into a long, dark hall.
“Is he alone?”
“Shit, man…”
The junkie grinned a loose grin, and French thought, No, not alone. Following the hall, he found other rooms and other junkies. French was too jaded to feel much, but the spring inside wound a little tighter.
At the rear of the building, the hall bent right and ended at a steel door beneath a bare bulb. French palmed the revolver, and knocked twice. “Police. I’m looking for James Manning, goes by Jimmy Hooks.” If this were a bust, French would have men behind him and at the back door and in the alley outside. Manning, though, had never been busted for dealing. He was too clever, too slick. “Let’s go. Open up.”
He pounded on the door until metal grated and a dead bolt slid open from the inside. The door opened to the length of its chain, and a sliver of face appeared, pale skin and a dark, disinterested eye.
“Warrant.” It was not a question.
“Tell Jimmy it’s Detective French, that I want to talk.”
The head turned away. “Yo, it’s like you said.”
“So let the man in.”
The door closed, and the chain scraped. When the door opened again, French saw James Manning in a leather chair with his hands behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankles. He was midforties, a local, a dropout. The men with him were a full mix of skin colors and ages. The room would be clean of drugs and weapons and cash. Those things would be in the building, but with other men, in other rooms.
“Detective French.” Manning spread his hands in mock welcome. “I thought I might see you tonight.”
“So you know he’s back.”
“Your son leaves a ripple larger than most, so yeah. I heard.”
French stepped into the room. Five men, total. Only Manning was smiling. “Have you sold to him?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“I want to know if he’s using.”
“Hey, the world is full of wants. I want. You want.”
Two men slipped into French’s blind spot; he noticed but didn’t care. “Do you know where he is or not?” Manning showed both palms and a second smile that made French feel sick inside. He shouldn’t have to do this. He should know where to find his own son. “You have a kid, right? A daughter?”
Manning stopped smiling. “Don’t compare the two.”
“I’m only saying…”
“Your son’s a junkie. My daughter is eight.”
“But as a father…”
“I don’t give a shit about that.”
“What, then?”
“Favors.” Manning leaned forward in his seat. “I’ll go first to show you how it works. I haven’t sold to your son. That’s a favor, and that’s for free. I can tell you where he is, too, but it’ll cost you.”
“A favor in return.”
“A cop favor.”
French took a steadying breath. The men around him were bottom-feeders, the worst. He wanted to arrest them all or beat them until his hands bled. “I’m not asking for a kidney,” he said. “The favor will be commensurate.”
“That’s a nice word.”
“Where is he, Jimmy? I won’t ask again. I walk and the favor walks with me.”
Manning settled back in the chair. Three beats, and then five. “You know Charlie Spellman?” he asked, finally.
“Should I?”
“Two-bit dealer. Wannabe player. He has a house at Water Street and Tenth, one of those little rentals. Your boy crashes there.”
“If the information’s good, I’ll owe you one.”
“Yes, you will, Detective. One commensurate fucking favor.”
* * *
French made his way down the filthy hall, ignoring the laughter that trailed him. He felt angry and unclean, and took those feelings all the way to Water Street and Tenth, a quiet intersection in a working-class neighborhood of small houses with small yards, of people good and bad. He’d known the area since his years as a uniformed rookie. Most calls were for domestic disturbances or vandalism or public drunkenness. There was little violent crime, almost never a homicide. Taking his time to study the houses near the intersection, he keyed the radio, and asked dispatch for the make and model of any vehicle owned by one Charlie Spellman. It didn’t take long.
“Records show a 1969 Ford Maverick, license number LMR-719, registered to Charles Spellman, DOB 9/21/50.”
“Thanks, Dispatch. Got it.”
He found the Maverick in a narrow driveway, five houses up on the west side of the block. It had bald tires. Spots of primer dulled the paint. A flashlight through the glass showed trash on the floor but nothing illegal. Approaching the house, French saw movement through the curtains, heard music and laughter. He knocked, and a pretty girl opened the door. She wore bell-bottoms, a tube top, and blue eye shadow that glittered in the light. She was drunk, but friendly. Small freckles crossed the bridge of her nose.
“Hey, come on in. Booze is in the kitchen. Charlie’s around here somewhere.”
She turned, and left the door open, so he went inside. A dozen people filled the first room, and he saw more down the hall and in the adjacent room. Blue smoke hung in the air. Some of it was weed. Moving into the house, French caught a few unhappy looks, but ignored them. Everyone else was blissful and vague. A couple was making out on the stairs. A few girls were dancing in the corner as “Brown Eyed Girl” spun on the turntable.
In the narrow hall, he turned sideways to fit his large frame past a good-looking kid and a group of women in their twenties. “Jason French?” he asked the first one to catch his eyes, but she shook her head. At the end of the hall, he peered into the kitchen. Two beer kegs sat in tubs of ice, and open bottles ran the length of both counters. The men there were older, with mustaches and sideburns. “Anybody here seen Jason French?” No one answered, so French picked the one who looked most out of place and uncertain. “How about you? You know Jason French?”
The young man glanced at his friends. “Uh, upstairs, man. But he’s not exactly looking for visitors.”
“What room?”
“Uh…”
“Shut up, dude. We don’t talk about Jason ’less Jason says.”
After that, the group closed ranks, a common reaction. To certain men, Jason held a near godlike appeal. He’d enlisted to avenge a dead brother, done three tours, and kicked ass. He had the scars and attitude, the prison time, done clean. The aura of it still hung on Jason, but French was tired of it, all of it. He rolled back the edge of his jacket, exposing the shield, the holstered weapon. “I said, what room.” After thirty years of cop, he was good at this kind of thing. He could deliver a beating; take a beating. It gave him confidence that went beyond the badge and gun. “Come on, boys, it’s a simple question. No? No one? All right. That’s fine, too. But I’m going upstairs to look for Jason, and if I find any of you boys behind me on the stairs or in the hall or anywhere else near me, I’ll take it personally. Understand?”
He gave it a five count, then turned for the stairs. No one followed. On the second floor, he found a landing and four closed doors. Behind the first was a bathroom, empty. The second was a bedroom, and the door was locked. “Jason?”
He h
eard a stirring inside, then faintly, Ah, shit …
“Open up, son. I just want to talk.”
“Now is not a good time.”
“There never is with you.”
“I said, fuck off.”
“Right, then…”
French took the knob in one hand, put his shoulder on the door and felt the lock give. Cheap metal. Cheap door. Inside, a single lamp burned beneath a red cloth that softened the light and put shadows on the young woman’s skin. She straddled Jason at the hips, riding him with a slow and steady roll. Her hands were raised behind her neck and linked beneath a spill of long, dark hair. Maybe she didn’t hear the door give. Maybe she didn’t care. “Tyra, baby. Hang on.” Jason lifted his chin, and patted her hip. “Why don’t you give us a minute?”
Sliding off the bed, she dressed with an utter lack of shame or embarrassment. French averted his eyes, but she took her time, moving around the room to collect bits of discarded clothing. Dressed at last, she kissed Jason long on the mouth, then brushed past French, and said, “Pig.”
“Nice,” he replied. “Thanks for that.”
She gave him the finger, and he watched her go. On the bed, Jason was covered to the waist, the combat scars glinting in the reddish light. He reached for a pack of smokes, shook one out, and lit it. “Fresh out of prison, Dad. You couldn’t give a man five minutes?”
“I doubt that’s the first girl you’ve been with since prison.”
Jason hooked a hand behind his head and blew smoke at his father. “What do you want?”
“You didn’t tell us you were coming home.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to know.” Anger. Distance. Another jet of smoke. “So what’s with the drop-in? You heard about tomorrow?”
“What happens tomorrow?”
“Brothers doing brotherly things. I assumed you were here to stop it, Gibby being the favorite son and all, and Mom being such a flower.”
“Please don’t be disrespectful.”
“It’s the right word, isn’t it? Flower. Snowflake. Ash in a sudden wind.”
Jason made a gesture, as if sprinkling ash with his fingers. “Are you high?” French asked. “Are you using right now?”