The Alchemy of Noise

by Lorraine Devon Wilke

  “What’s going on back there? You’re awfully quiet.”

  Pretty little raven at the bird bandstand . . .

  “So tell me,” he persisted, “what’s a nice white girl like you doing with a fucked-up nigger like that?”

  Taught him how to do the bop and it was grand . . .

  The driver, who appeared Hispanic, looked over at his partner. “Hey, come on, take it easy. She’s probably just in over her head. The pretty girls, I dunno, they can get anybody, but they go for the thugs. You gotta feel bad for her.”

  They started going steady and bless my soul . . .

  “Is that right, sweetheart? You’re slummin’ for a little street flavor?” The passenger side cop smirked over his shoulder.

  He out-bopped the buzzard and the oriole . . .

  The driver glanced at her through the rearview mirror, his tone dropping as if to affect gravitas. “Seriously though, you gotta know he’s a bad guy, your fella. We’ve been looking for him for a long time, so you’re lucky we caught up with him when we did. He’s done some real bad shit, and he could be dangerous for a girl like you.”

  Blow rockin’ robin ’cause we’re really gonna rock tonight . . .

  When he realized she wasn’t going to engage, he shook his head and let silence take over.

  By the time they pulled into the station, Sidonie had been through the song more times than she could count and her queasiness had grown to full-blown nausea. They ushered her from the car up a small flight of steps, into a dank, narrow hallway adjacent to the reception area where they handcuffed her to a bench. Both transporting officers walked off behind the counter, disappearing without a word.

  And there she sat for the next two hours, without intervention, without information, cold, terrified, and sick. She threw up twice into a trashcan fortuitously placed to her left. No one in the vicinity appeared to notice.

  FIFTY-ONE

  LIMPING, HIS ARM HELD PROTECTIVELY ACROSS HIS midsection, Chris was led into an empty holding cell. He suspected, given the searing pain in his side, that he had at least one broken rib, maybe two, and possibly a ruptured muscle in his back. Both made breathing an excruciating event. He also knew his wrist and arm were badly injured, he had two loose teeth, and was likely suffering a concussion, judging from the dizziness and head pain he felt. His face was swollen and sticky with blood, making the term beaten to a pulp never more accurate.

  It was difficult, in his current state, to string things together, but as he sat there waiting for whatever was next, he went through the timeline, struggling to make sense of how he got here.

  What happened exactly? How did this go down? Assemble the details, man. Okay, back at that house. Didn’t think much about the woman behind the curtain. That might have been a mistake. Was she the one who followed him? Pointed him out? He’d had the slightest sense of disquiet when he finished up with the hose. Was he worried about using a stranger’s property? Being on a private lawn? When he pulled away from the curb, he thought he saw someone (a man? a woman?) exit from the house next door and get into a parked car. He brushed it off, deciding it was just someone getting on with their night. But when he pulled into the employees’ lot, he noticed a car fly past and remembered thinking: Was that the same car from in front of that house? He hung back for a few minutes, waiting to see if the car swung around again. When it didn’t, he figured he was being paranoid and headed in.

  Later, after they’d shut down the PA and turned things over to the DJ, there it was again: that sense of foreboding. Couldn’t shake it. He made the excuse to Jasper—“Left my phone in the car, gonna dash out and grab it”—expecting to walk out and see nothing, nothing but the employees’ parked cars and the limos lined up at the valet station around the corner. But he needed to get out there, needed to confirm his paranoia was off the mark.

  But that wasn’t what happened. He stepped through the door to find foreboding come to life. A phalanx of police officers was huddled around cars pulled into the lot in every direction, and as soon as he walked through the door, a loud “that’s him!” bellowed from a heavyset woman hovering near the officers, setting the melee in motion.

  What happened then? It was such an insane, explosive series of moments it was hard to reconstruct it in any kind of cogent sequence. He remembered his reflexive impulse was to turn toward the door, to get help, to alert Sidonie or Jasper, to protect himself. But when he angled in that direction, and before his feet could even move, he was hit by the force of three officers. They grabbed him by his arms and pulled him back, hard, while others circled with guns drawn. It was in that moment—cold, dark, and terrifying—that he realized, I might die tonight.

  The thought made him sad. Made him think of Sidonie. Of his mother. About the really beautiful paint job he’d finished just a few weeks ago in the bedroom. That was an odd non sequitur.

  It was so damn noisy; he remembered that. The dissonance of barked commands, overlapping and colliding from every direction. He kept pulling toward the door, kept repeating, “I work here, I need to tell my boss what’s happening!” but he couldn’t break free, and he knew if he did they would shoot him.

  He was also in panic mode, survival mode, and a strange rigidity set in that made compliance almost impossible. His body stiffened as he instinctively angled toward the door, and that translated as resistance. They wanted him down on the ground, but he feared if he went down he might never get up. A nightstick slammed across his back so hard he dropped to his knees, subsequent blows smashing against his jaw. The pain was explosive, like nothing he’d ever felt before. He raised his arm to defend himself, and the stick came down on his wrist and arm, inflicting jolts so severe he thought he might pass out. There was so much going on, with so much accompanying noise and commotion, he lost awareness of the onslaught’s direction, stymying his ability to fend off the knees and fists making contact.

  It was then that he caught sight of Sidonie struggling toward him, which struck him with both hope and horror. Once again, the narrative of his life was dragging her into battle, and there was shame in that. The hope he felt, however slim, faded quickly as the evolving furor offered her no chance to save him. He couldn’t see all that happened, but he watched with helplessness as Sidonie was pulled away. In that moment, he succumbed to the reality that he’d probably be beaten to death, and gave in, collapsed.

  Which possibly saved him, because once fully down, they ultimately stopped beating him. There was some relief, then, in being carted off. Secured inside the transporting vehicle, he transitioned from panic to a state of holistic numbness, which offered a degree of dissociative calm.

  Now, locked in a holding cell that reeked of sweat and urine, he could only sit in agonized silence and wait. It didn’t take long before the blond cop who’d been at the scene opened the cell door and swaggered in. His expression was a combination of arrogance and gratification, as if he found some part of the unfolding events to be pleasing.

  Chris squinted through his swollen, battered eyes and said not a word. He tried to breathe without moving a muscle. It was impossible.

  “Well, buddy,” the cop said, “it’s been a long night and we’re gonna have to get down to business. I’m Officer O’Malley, and whatever you think has happened or will happen, I’m about to be your best friend.”

  Chris said nothing, his eyes fixed coldly on the man in front of him. Tick, tick, tick . . .

  “I know you’ve been running your game for a long time. You got all those fancy north side people you work for suckered real good. You got that nice white girl of yours convinced you’re a good guy, but you and I both know the truth, don’t we?”

  Tick.

  “You can sit there with that stone cold look on your face if you want, but wouldn’t you rather get it off your chest, be a man and own your shit?” O’Malley sat down on the bench, leaning in with faux concern. “Listen, I gotta be honest with you: it might be good if you came clean to me before the rest of ’em get a hold of
you. We’ve been working this case for a long time, a damn long time, so there are some seriously pissed-off cops out there ready to slice and dice. Me? I’m a little more understanding, a little more Zen. I wanna give you a shot at redemption.”

  Tick, tick . . .

  O’Malley stood. “Okay, if you think silence is your best bet, so be it.” He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and flexed his arms, thick and muscled. “Your choice, buddy. I’m cool either way. But you gotta know I work out every day of my life just to have an occasional night like this—”

  Tick . . . tick . . . TICK—

  Chris knew as soon as contact was made that another rib gave way.

  FIFTY-TWO

  SIDONIE, HEAD ON HER CHEST, WAS LOST IN DISTURBED SLEEP when a female officer startled her awake by unlocking her handcuffs. Freed from the bench, she rubbed her wrists, raw and swollen, and wiped her crusted mouth. The officer nodded with a seemingly sympathetic, “You’re free to go,” and as Sidonie glanced up, she was stunned to see Mike Demopoulos, Officer Mike, approaching from the desk, as disorienting a sight as every other aspect of this event.

  He was in street clothes, his face a mask of concern. He turned to the officer and said quietly, “Thanks, Sheila. I owe you one.” She nodded and headed back down the hall toward the desk. Without a word, Mike took Sidonie’s arm and gently led her out the door. The wind was cutting and she shivered as he helped her down the steps.

  Once in his car—a Cadillac Escalade, not his police cruiser— Sidonie did her best to keep emotions in check, but within minutes she burst into tears. Mike drove in silence as she sobbed so hard he feared he should pull over to see if something needed to be done, some first aid administered. Finally she wore herself out and looked over at him, confused and grateful.

  “I don’t know what just happened, but thank you.”

  “I had a favor to pull. Police interference is a bullshit charge, especially under those circumstances. You didn’t need to get caught up in all that.”

  “So I’m not arrested?”

  “Well, you were arrested but they didn’t charge you.”

  “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

  Mike looked unsettled himself, as if he couldn’t quite reconcile his role in the metastasizing drama. “Sidonie, I gotta be honest with you: Chris is in some pretty deep shit here. It’s not minor. He’s charged with criminal trespassing, resisting arrest, and peeking, no small beans right there, but they’re also looking at him for a few other things.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He glanced over, took a beat, then looked away. “They got his fingerprints in a rape case.”

  If the world could have tilted any further off its axis, this moment made the push. Sidonie leaned forward, her head dropped to her lap.

  Mike drove in silence. While she remained wordless and immobile, he continued: “There’s been a rash of break-ins in that neighborhood over the last year, so people have gotten real on edge, real vigilant about it all. Then about six months ago a young girl, I think she was about thirteen, was raped in the basement of a brownstone not far from where Chris stopped his car, and . . . well, they said they found his fingerprints on the windows of that basement.”

  “No!” Sidonie’s scream was so loud Mike panicked and finally pulled over.

  “I know this is real upsetting, but fingerprints don’t lie—”

  “But police do! They do, Mike.” Her words tumbled out as if she couldn’t hold them any longer. “I know you’re a cop, I know you’re a good person, and maybe you’re different from the bad ones, but they can be assholes who profile and abuse and falsely accuse a black man without the blink of an eye. I’ve seen it, I’ve experienced it, I know. And I’m sorry to say that to you—because you just rescued me—so if you want to let me out right now, that’s fine. But I will not sit here and let you tell me that the man I love, the man I live with, the man I’ve known long enough to know his heart and soul, is a rapist! That is insane!”

  Mike, his own discomfort severe, motioned for her to quiet down —as if anyone on the street at two o’clock in the morning cared a whit about the commotion in his car. “Sidonie, I’m not gonna try to defend the whole department, and I’m not trying to convince you of anything. I’ve always thought of Chris as a good guy. But if they have fingerprints from a crime scene that incriminate him, you can’t just look away and call it profiling. He’ll need to get a good lawyer and play this by the book, or life could get real ugly, real fast. I don’t want that for either of you.”

  “What’s going to happen to him right now? How do I get him out of there?”

  “He’ll be booked, there’ll be a bond hearing, and, depending on what he’s ultimately charged with, his bail will be set. I’m assuming he’ll make a call to get that taken care of. Hopefully he’ll be out by later today, but if they do run with the rape charge, things could get complicated.”

  “So he hasn’t been charged with the rape?”

  “Apparently not yet. Not sure what the deal is there, but these guys have been on this case for a long time and they’re motivated. Anything could happen.”

  Sidonie looked out the window with a thousand-mile stare, so exhausted she couldn’t put anything into cohesive form.

  “Do you want me to take you home?” Mike asked carefully.

  “No, my keys and everything are at the club . . . I need to get my car. Can we call and see if anyone’s there? I won’t be able to get in if it’s closed.”

  “Frank and Al are there. Said they’d wait until I brought you back.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  FRANK WAS THE LAST PERSON SIDONIE WANTED TO SEE. She wanted to go home, scrub away the stench of her unfortunate circumstances, and sleep until she could start making calls.

  After repeating her appreciation to Mike for his intervention, she climbed out of his car and knocked on the employee entrance. Mike pulled away with a quick wave when he saw Al crack the door.

  As she stepped into the empty club, Al grabbed her in a clumsy hug that held long enough to convey true consolation. “Jasper wanted me to tell you he was gonna wait, but Andrew’s windshield got smashed up in all the bullshit, so he needed a ride home. Said he’d call you tomorrow.”

  “I know, thanks. He texted me.”

  Al assessed the abraded side of her face. “That looks pretty rough.”

  “Feels pretty rough. I’ll soak it in peroxide when I get home.”

  “Damn, Frame . . .”

  He led her to the bar as if she might break, gentleness she found touching. Frank sat on a stool nursing a port, looking miserable. He, too, gave her a hug, though his was a tidier affair. Sidonie could feel the tension between them and it riled her.

  Al whipped together a gimlet without even asking, and, after draining it, Sidonie ran down the whole tawdry tale, leaving out, for the moment, the doomsday fingerprint theory. While Frank held a pensive pose, Al exploded in righteous, appreciated indignation.

  “That is fucking nuts! Chris is one of the best guys I know. I can’t believe they’d charge him with some pansy-assed bullshit like peeking and trespassing!”

  “I know, and thank you, Al. The problem is, he did walk into the yard to use the hose, so if they want, they can make a case for trespassing. The peeking thing is utter fabrication.”

  “Unfortunately,” Frank countered, “his being in the yard could give a jury reason to believe he was peeking, so he needs to get a really good lawyer.” Sidonie knew he was right, but something about Frank’s tone rankled. Right now she wanted him to be less practical and more infuriated.

  “I agree, Frank, and as soon as I’m able to talk to him, we’ll start figuring that out. My sister knows a lot of good people. His sister probably does too. Between all of us we’ll get him set up.”

  “Sidonie, if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know, okay?” Al interjected.

  She smiled, noting his atypical, and endearing, use of her first name. “Just sending Mi
ke down was a huge favor. If you hadn’t, I’d probably still be cuffed to that bench, or I’d be booked. He saved the day, so thanks.”

  “No problem. I told you he was a good guy.”

  “You did. And he is one of the good ones. I need to believe there are some.”

  Frank bristled and Sidonie noticed.

  “Frank, is there something you want to say to me?” The edge in her voice was undisguised. “I feel like you’re sitting there with judgment seeping out all over the place and if we need to hash something out, let’s do it now, okay?”

  “It’s not judgment, Sidonie, but as someone who’s worked with and knows a lot of honest, courageous men and women in the police force, it annoys me when you use such a broad brush in your condemnation.”

  “That’s what you think is the salient point here? My condemning the cops?”

  “Look, I understand you’ve got issues with them now that you’re involved with certain racial demographics, but—”

  “Wait, what? ‘Involved with certain racial demographics’? What does that even mean? Why don’t you quit with the jargon, Frank, and say what you want to say?”

  He turned to her squarely. “Okay, kiddo, I will. I’m going to say this now and I hope we can get past it and onto what needs handling, both in your personal life and here at the club.”

  “Fine. Have at it.”

  “First of all, one of the reasons I don’t like in-house relationships is their potential to impact the club in ways very particular to inhouse relationships. As this one has. I’ve now had a night where I had to duck and hustle the goddamn mayor into his limo so he wouldn’t see my top managers being hauled off by the police, with both of them now wrapped up in legal issues, my sound manager likely unavailable for who knows how long. And while I have empathy for the plight of the black man in America, I’m concerned that your concern is contributing to a sort of reverse racism scenario, where you think everything’s about race . . . when sometimes it just isn’t. I love you, kiddo, and I care about what happens to you, but I don’t want to see you get caught up in someone else’s problems. And because I love this club and the people who work here, I also don’t want to see those problems impact our operation. There. That’s it in a nutshell.” He leaned back. Done.