Pipe Dream

by Solomon Jones

  “What kind of information do you want?” Eldridge said cautiously.

  “First of all, we want to know if you saw either of the men we’re looking for go into the house.”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear them in the house?”

  “I heard a man’s voice say, ‘Shut up!’ And then I heard somethin’ slam against Clarisse’s dining room wall.”

  “Do you think the voice you heard belongs to one of the men we’re looking for?”

  “Yes, because I seen that boy Black goin’ in there before. Clarisse must know him or somethin’.”

  “Did you see Black or anyone else leave Miss Williams’s house?”

  “No. But Clarisse’s car was out there earlier and now it’s gone.”

  “What kind of car does she have?”

  “You askin’ a whole lotta questions,” Eldridge said. “You sure she ain’t in no trouble?”

  “We’re trying to keep her from getting into trouble, Mr. Scott,” Ramirez said impatiently. “Now, please, what kind of car does she have? It’s very important that we know.”

  Eldridge paused.

  “Mr. Scott?” Ramirez prodded.

  “She has a 1991 black Honda Accord,” Eldridge said after a moment. “Her license plate says CWRN, for Clarisse Williams, registered nurse.”

  “A late-model black Honda Accord, license plate CWRN?” Ramirez repeated.

  The detectives standing next to Ramirez—the ones who’d been the first to arrive at Clarisse’s house—began to look confused. Then they looked as if they’d been struck by lightning.

  “A late-model black Honda Accord?” one of them said as recognition swept across his face. “Isn’t that the car . . .”

  “That car rode right past us when we were on our way here,” his partner said. “There were four ladies inside wearing big hats.”

  “If you remember anything else, or if you need to talk to me for any reason, call me, Mr. Scott,” Ramirez said, quickly giving Scott his number when he heard them say that they’d seen the car.

  “Which way was the car traveling?” Ramirez asked the detectives after disconnecting the call.

  “South on Broad.”

  Ramirez reached into his pocket for his radio and called J band. “Dan 25 to Radio. I’ve got some flash on the suspects in the Park Avenue job.”

  “Dan 25 proceed,” the dispatcher said.

  Ramirez repeated the description of the car and its occupants over J band.

  One of the detectives, still befuddled, said, “At least they looked like ladies.”

  * * *

  The cop in car 611 was playing his usual cat-and-mouse game with the drug dealers on 6th Street. Every ten minutes, like clockwork, he’d ride slowly down the block and sit there. The drug dealers would walk away, never straying too far from the drugs they’d stashed when they’d seen his car. After five minutes, he’d cruise slowly away, and they’d complete the ritual by walking back to their corner.

  This Sunday, like every Sunday, was slow. There was little more than the ritual to keep the officer occupied. Of course, there were a few disturbances here and there. But the closest thing to excitement was the search for the guys who’d killed the city councilman up on Park Avenue.

  Homicide was broadcasting a blow-by-blow description of the search on J band, and car 611, along with the rest of the department and all of the Philadelphia press corps, was tuned in. From what he heard, the periodic updates on the descriptions of the guys who had supposedly shot the councilman sounded like hyped-up guesswork. But then, who was he to judge? The detectives from Homicide were supposed to be the experts. He was just a patrolman trying to keep the drug dealers off the corner. Not that he was complaining. Keeping drug dealers in check was important to him, even if everyone else in the department figured it was a lost cause.

  Causes were his thing. He was the kind of man who wrote letters to the Daily News to correct the views of what he perceived to be the sickeningly liberal editorial department. He wanted abortion abolished, gun control loosened, and Bush reelected. He thought welfare was killing the people it was supposed to be helping and that crack was the scourge of the inner city. He knew that God was the only thing that could save Philadelphia from itself.

  That’s why, when he’d gone to check out the unfounded auto accident a few minutes earlier, he was glad to see the four ladies in the black Honda coming from a church revival. Attending revivals and spreading the good news was what everyone in North Philly should have been doing. Instead, too many of them were smoking crack and collecting welfare.

  Still, there was something wrong about those women. The scenario just didn’t seem right, no matter how many times he replayed it in his mind. He remembered getting a call about an auto accident at Mascher and Girard. He remembered riding up to them and asking if they’d seen an accident. That’s when it had gotten weird.

  Only the one in the passenger seat had spoken. The driver just sat there smiling and looking uncomfortable. The two women in the backseat sat absolutely still and looked at him as if they were praying for him to go away.

  Under other circumstances, he’d have called for backup and checked the car. But the women looked like what they told him was true. They were coming from a revival. They were lost. They were tired. So he gave them directions to I-76 and left it at that. Still, there was something.

  He was trying to put his finger on it—contemplating going to lunch so he could think about it over a hamburger—when he heard a detective come over the air with additional flash on the suspects from the Park Avenue job. He turned up his radio and listened.

  “ . . . in connection with a founded shooting on the 3700 block of Park Avenue and an assault on a police officer on Roberts Avenue off-ramp of the northbound Roosevelt Expressway, two black males, Leroy Johnson and Samuel Everett Jackson . . .”

  The cop tuned out the descriptions he’d heard five or six times in the last hour. He sipped his coffee and thought about taking another spin around 6th Street. But just as he began to turn the corner, he heard something that caused him to pull his car over and look at the radio in disbelief.

  “ . . . last seen traveling south on Broad Street from Dell Street fifteen minutes ago in a 1991 Honda Accord painted black, license tag C—Charlie, W—William, R—Robert, N—Nelson. All four of the occupants are wearing wide-brimmed ladies’ hats and ladies’ trench coats. One or more of the occupants may be wearing sunglasses.”

  That’s what had been strange about them, he thought. The driver and the one in the backseat were wearing sunglasses. And they weren’t unattractive women, as he’d originally thought. They were men. And they were wanted for murder.

  As he picked up his handset, not wanting to tell anyone that he’d seen them, talked to them, and let them ride away, the officer felt himself slipping into what could only be described as an embarrassment-induced state of shock. Still, he did what he had to do.

  “611,” he said, speaking over J band.

  “611 proceed.”

  “I saw that vehicle ten minutes ago. It was occupied by four . . . people who fit that description. The driver and a passenger were wearing sunglasses.”

  The officer released his talk button and drew a deep breath. He knew what he was about to say was unforgivable. But there was no other way. He pressed his talk button again.

  “I gave them directions to I-76 from Girard and Mascher,” he said, wincing. “They said they were going to Valley Forge. They were heading west on Girard from Second approximately ten minutes ago.”

  There was a cacophony of clicks as everyone on J band depressed their talk buttons repeatedly to show their displeasure at what they’d just heard.

  “Dummy!” someone said between the clicks.

  “Can’t you tell a woman from a man?” someone else said.

  There were more clicks and more anonymous comments. Someone gave a short rendition of “Sunglasses at Night” by Corey Hart.

  “Six Command,” h
is lieutenant finally said. “Have 611 take headquarters.”

  “611 okay,” the officer said quickly, no doubt relieved that he wouldn’t have to see another cop on the street for the twenty minutes or so it would take for him to get chewed out at headquarters.

  If only the detectives from Homicide would find the suspects, he thought, no one else would have to endure the embarrassment of allowing them to slip away.

  Reds Hillman heard Ramirez give out the flash information on J band, then listened as the 6th District cop confirmed the suspects’ most recent location.

  Hillman knew that they would need information in order to find them. So he went to the one person who could tell him all he needed to know.

  When he arrived at Ruth Jackson’s three-story house, Hillman saw two detectives staking out the property. One of them stepped out of the car and tried to wave him away as he walked up the steps. But Hillman had already rung the bell.

  “Mrs. Jackson?” he said, holding up his badge when she lifted the blinds. “I’m here about Samuel.”

  Her face hardened at the mention of her son. “I used to know a Samuel,” she said, her melancholy voice drifting through the closed door. “But I don’t know him anymore.”

  “Mrs. Jackson, please,” Hillman said. “You might be the only person who can help your son now.”

  The blinds closed and Hillman stood on the steps, waiting for the thought of her son’s plight to work its way through Ruth Jackson’s mind. After what seemed like forever, he heard a series of clicks as she disengaged the locks.

  “Come in,” she said, stepping aside to allow Hillman to walk into her living room. “Would you like some coffee or something?”

  “No, thank you,” Hillman said, standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor.

  As he looked around the sparsely furnished living room, Hillman could see that the Jackson home held a lifetime of memories. On the mantelpiece, there were two pictures: Black in a cap and gown at his high-school graduation, and an old wedding photo of Mrs. Jackson and her late husband.

  The hardwood floors were swept and waxed to a shine, and the end tables were covered with framed snapshots from happier times. In one of them, a small boy hugged a puppy in front of a Christmas tree. In another, he rode on the broad shoulders of his father. In each of them, the laughter was almost audible.

  Now the smiles were part of a long-forgotten past. All that remained was the pride of the woman who had helped to shape them. And nothing—not even the detective standing in her living room—could take that away from Ruth Jackson.

  “Please,” Mrs. Jackson said, pointing to a chair. “Sit down.”

  Hillman sat in the chair and watched as the woman walked to the opposite side of the room.

  “Mrs. Jackson,” he said soberly, “I’m going to cut to the chase. My name is Detective Reds Hillman. I’m here because we’re looking for your son for murder.”

  “I know you’re looking for him,” she said, staring at Hillman’s reflection in the mirror that stood over the mantelpiece. “I saw his picture on television and I see the detectives outside.”

  Hillman adjusted himself in his seat and asked the question that only Mrs. Jackson could answer.

  “Do you believe that your son is capable of killing someone?”

  Ruth Jackson turned from the mirror and sat down, twisting a handkerchief in her hands as she looked into the detective’s eyes. Hillman returned her gaze, and he saw sadness and strength staring out at him as if they were alive.

  “I knew a boy once,” she said softly. “He was talkative, smart, curious. He wanted to know about everything in the world around him. And at the rate he was going, I was sure that he would find out all about it someday.

  “Samuel wasn’t like other children, Detective. And I’m not just saying that because he was my son. Other people noticed it, too.”

  Mrs. Jackson smiled fondly and walked back over to the mantelpiece, picking up the picture of her son and polishing it with her handkerchief before placing it back in its appointed space.

  “When he was in kindergarten, his teacher told me that he had a way of letting you know he was there,” she said, chuckling at the memory. “I guess that didn’t change when he got older. He was just . . . special.”

  Hillman saw the strength in her eyes overtake the sadness. For a moment, she almost looked proud.

  “When he was twelve, his father had a heart attack and died. I felt like I was going to fall apart. But Samuel stayed strong. It was like he knew something I didn’t—like he knew everything was going to be all right. And seeing that gave me the strength I needed to go on.

  “When he graduated from high school, he didn’t even study and he had a B average. He went to college for a minute, but that bored him, so he got a job.

  “I guess what I’m saying is, no matter what he did, no matter where he went, there was one thing about him that didn’t change. He was smart—too smart. He could pick up on things faster than other people.

  “Maybe that’s why, when he started messing with that crack, he lost himself to it so quickly. He knew that he couldn’t control it, so he gave up trying. He let it take over his life, and he lost everything because of it.”

  Mrs. Jackson looked at Reds Hillman, and her lips formed themselves into a wan smile.

  “So, to answer your question, the Samuel Jackson I knew wouldn’t have killed anyone. He couldn’t have, because he had already killed himself.”

  The smile disappeared and was replaced by an almost tangible pain that poured out from her eyes like tears.

  “My son is dead, Detective Hillman. And the only thing that keeps me going sometimes is my faith in God. I pray every night for my dead son. I pray because I know that only God can bring back the dead.”

  Reds Hillman sat for almost a full minute, staring down at the floor. Then he got up from the chair and walked toward the door.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jackson. If we hear anything about your son we’ll be in touch.”

  “No,” she said. “If God chooses to bring him back, he’ll be in touch. Until then, if you want to know something about the man who’s walking around masquerading as my son, know this: He’s probably already one step ahead of you.”

  Chapter 10

  As Black pulled up at the hotel entrance off the Woodhaven Road exit of I-95, Clarisse gave him a puzzled look but said nothing. And Pookie, who had been silent for most of the ride, seemed to strain forward, as if she were ready to bolt from the backseat. Only Leroy spoke.

  “How we gon’ stay in a hotel behind a damn police station?” Leroy said as they pulled into the parking lot.

  “Same way you stay in any other hotel,” Black said.

  When no one said anything, he started giving orders. “They got a garage around back where the valets park the cars.”

  “The who?” Leroy said.

  “Valets. Car parkers.”

  “Oh.”

  “Pookie, I want you to walk up to the valet in the lobby and tell him you parked your car in the garage and you checkin’ out. If he ask you for your ticket, say you lost it. When he go the garage, ask the desk clerk if you can use the bathroom.”

  “For what?”

  “So when he come back lookin’ for you, you don’t have to explain why you don’t have no car in there. And you’ll already be inside when Clarisse check in, so you can just come out and follow her and Leroy to the room.”

  “How you gon’ get in?” Leroy asked.

  “The elevator go straight from the garage to the hotel. After I park, I’ll take it to the fifth floor. I want y’all to meet me there and we can all go to the room from there.”

  “How you know so much about this hotel?” Pookie said.

  “I used to bring my hoes up here.”

  “Hoes?” Clarisse said, obviously offended.

  “Yeah, hoes,” Black said, looking at her as if she shouldn’t expect women to be referred to any differently.

  “You so damn ignorant,�
�� she said.

  “Yeah, and I love you, too.”

  “Well, I don’t love that plan,” she said, looking at Black like he was crazy.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I know you don’t expect me to check into a hotel with a man dressed up like RuPaul,” she said, looking Leroy up and down.

  Leroy and Black looked down at their outfits. Then they began to take off the trench coats, hats, and sunglasses to reveal the oversized suits they wore underneath.

  “Keep on the glasses,” Black said to Leroy.

  “What about me?” Clarisse said.

  “You can wear mine.”

  “Wear yours for what? They’re looking for you, not me.”

  “Just in case. And when they ask you for a driver’s license and a license tag, make up a tag number. Say you forgot your license—you left it in the car or whatever. If they say somethin’, just make up a driver’s license number. I think it’s like eight numbers.”

  Black looked around to see that no one was approaching, then turned his attention to Pookie. “It’s on you.”

  “How come I’m always the one kickin’ shit off?” she said.

  “Pookie . . . ,” Leroy began.

  “No, for real,” she said. “Every time I turn around it’s somethin’ else. Lay down in the street, get on the bus. Y’all steady givin’ orders and I still ain’t seen no breakdown.”

  “You want a breakdown?” Leroy said. “Here.”

  He pulled out five hundred-dollar bills. When she reached for them, he pulled them back.

  “When we get in the room,” he said, placing the bills in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

  Pookie looked into his eyes, searching them to see if he was telling the truth. Then she got out of the car and began to walk toward the valet. She hesitated, looking around as if she might do something other than what she was supposed to do. But she must have decided that she had no choice, and began to walk toward the valet with purpose.

  “Leroy,” Black said as they all watched her go through her routine. “Don’t trust her. I’m tellin’ you.”

  Leroy tried to say something in her defense, but Black didn’t give him a chance.