by R. A. McGee
There were stacks of folded laundry on top of it; Porter never knew when a situation would call for a change in clothing. He moved the pile to one side so he could access the lockbox.
Porter wasn’t exactly a gun nut, but took advantage of his Second Amendment right daily. When he was a federal agent, he had been exposed to a culture that had imprinted on him the benefits of being prepared at all times. During his tenure on the job, he’d bought numerous firearms. Manufacturers almost universally had programs where law enforcement officers, military personnel, and other qualified people received deep discounts.
His usual carry gun was a Glock 17. It was a bit large for the average person, but for a big guy, it was great. Porter checked his shirt to make sure it sufficiently covered the holstered pistol. No stranger to the side of town he was heading toward, he needed to be prepared, but didn’t want to advertise the fact that he had a weapon. Satisfied, he slipped an extra magazine into his pocket and slammed the hatch.
Driving across town gave Porter some time to think. Danny’s point of contact was her grandmother, and he wondered where her parents were. Often when a child was missing, the culprit was a parent. He assumed the local detectives would have explored that. Barring that, he would try to ask around the neighborhood and see if anyone had seen anything. He often got better results than the police did.
The place Porter was headed had been hit by the ‘stop snitching’ epidemic a few years back. Several ignorant rappers had managed to convince most of the youth that cooperating with the police was a violation of the ‘street code.’ As a result, no one under fifty wanted to talk to the cops, even when it was about something serious.
Porter let his GPS guide him the short drive across town. Turning onto the final street, he saw a shabby, graffitied sign that read Palmetto Acres. The neighborhood was sprawling, with buildings as far as Porter could see. Each building was two stories, with apartments on the front and back. There were rusty metal staircases with a landing on the side of each building, leading to a walkway that ran the length of the second floor. The buildings sat in clusters of three, with some green space in an impromptu courtyard in between. Porter lost count of the number of clusters he passed.
That’s a shitload of people, he thought.
The units were a faded salmon color. Maybe they had been burgundy at one point, but the sun had taken its toll. The grass was worn down to dirt in most places from all the foot traffic. There was graffiti on all sides of the buildings, some gang tags that Porter recognized and others that he didn’t.
Porter rode down the main thoroughfare, Palmetto Avenue, until the GPS told him his destination was on the left. Somewhere in the sea of buildings was the apartment he was looking for. There were no smaller roads to get into the building clusters, just the roads on the perimeter of Palmetto Acres, and Palmetto Avenue, which bisected the neighborhood. Porter drove halfway in, pulled to the shoulder on the right and parked.
He pulled up the text Ross had sent him with the apartment number and got out of the car. As he hit the lock on the remote, two locals approached him. Young men, shaved heads. Their khaki pants were too big and too low, barely held up by their belts. One wore a wife-beater; the other, some type of yellow and black basketball jersey. Jersey spoke to him.
“What’s good, my nigga?”
“Gents. What’s the good word?”
“Ain’t no good word, the only word is my word. Don’t look like you from around here. I would know. I know everyone.”
“Since you know everyone, you mind helping me out? I’m here to see Leona White. Which one is her building?” Porter said.
Wife-beater didn’t say a word. He was standing several feet behind and to the right of Jersey. Jersey wasn’t a big guy and stood average height, but Wife-beater was substantially larger and probably would have made a great lineman.
“Why would I show you where Miss Leona live? You look like some corny-ass bill collectin’ nigga,” Jersey said.
Porter was slightly offended at being called corny. He was wearing black and white Chuck Taylor All-Stars, blue jeans, and the white t-shirt he’d left untucked. Over that, he wore an unbuttoned shirt which hung loosely past his waist. He found his outfit comfortable and practical. Chucks were the quietest shoes you could wear, and when your feet were a size 13 wide, you needed all the quiet you could get. The outer shirt concealed his weapon and, if need be, could be buttoned up to be more presentable.
“Not a bill collector, but I need to ask her a couple questions,” Porter said.
“What is you, a cop? We don’t like five-oh around here,” Jersey said.
“Do I look like a cop?”
“Nah. You too big and brown to be a cop. Plus, I never seen no cop in no old Yukon before.”
“Very true. So how about it?”
Jersey looked at Porter for a little while longer, then put his hand to his mouth and whistled. A boy poked his head around the corner and ran up to the trio. Wife-beater whispered something to him and the boy took off running through the mass of buildings.
Porter eyed the two men. “Nice pants.”
“Shut yo ass up.”
Porter smiled.
A short time later, the boy reappeared, streaking around the side of the building, back toward Wife-beater. He whispered to Wife-beater, who nodded at Jersey. “Little Man’ll take you over there.”
“Appreciate it.”
“I don’t know what you want, but don’t be messin’ with Miss Leona. That’s my word. Feel me?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The kid looked expectantly at Porter, shifting back and forth as Porter walked over to him. Porter got a better look at Wife-beater when he passed. He was about the same height as Porter, but probably had fifty pounds on Porter and was well past the three-hundred-pound mark. Porter didn’t think he would be much trouble if it came to it. Probably.
Little Man wore dirty flip flops and cutoff jeans. He walked fast and stayed ahead of Porter most of the time. Porter tried to make conversation. He often found it was easier to pry some choice nuggets of info from children than from adults. “Is Jersey the shot-caller around here?”
“Jersey?” The kid looked over his shoulder, back to the two men they had left. “Jamal? Yeah, he’s the man.”
“Wife-beater his muscle?”
“His name’s Terrell and you too nosy. That can get you in trouble. I’m only talking to you ’cuz I know you ain’t no cop. That’s the only reason Jamal even let you in.”
“Fair enough. How about your name? I can’t just call you Little Man.”
“Everybody else does.”
“What’s your daddy call you?” Porter said.
“I don’t got a daddy.”
“What about your mama?”
“She don’t call me nothin’. She ain’t around.”
Porter took the hint. As they rounded the corner, Porter found himself in one of the courtyards in the middle of the building clusters. There were clotheslines strung everywhere. At a graffitied picnic table sat a tied-up pit bull. Several paper bags with glass bottles were strewn about.
The doors facing him were all barred, as were the windows of each unit. Cheap protection, Porter thought, until there’s a fire. Per building code, there was supposed to be a quick-release latch, so people could get out in an emergency. Porter doubted these units had that feature.
Little Man walked Porter up to a building in the cluster straight ahead. It looked like all the others, and the front door was propped open with a large rock. Little Man knocked on the door. “Miss Leona?”
From deep in the front room, Porter heard the soft clapping of flip-flops a few moments before a short, slight woman appeared. Her coffee-colored skin went perfectly with her salt-and-pepper hair. She was wearing a see-through hairnet and an old blue dress with flowers on it.
“Miss Leona, this here’s the man that’s looking for you,” Little Man said. He looked down at his feet when talking to the old woman
.
“Thanks, baby. You know my hip wasn’t going to let me walk all the way out there. I appreciate you very much.”
“No problem, Miss Leona. If you need anything else, yell for me.”
“Sure will, baby. And Keith?”
“Yes, Miss Leona?”
“Don’t let them boys get you in any trouble. I tell you every day, you one of the special ones. Hear me?”
“Yes, Miss Leona.”
Keith scurried off the way they had come.
Shit, he’s really fast, Porter thought. No wonder they use him as a messenger.
“Miss Leona? My name is Porter. I’m here to—”
“I know who you are. Mr. Gianullo called a little while back and told me you were stopping by. I told Keith I was expecting you and to tell those other boys to send you back. If I didn’t, you would have never gotten in here to see me.”
“Never is a long time.”
“That it is, baby, that it is,” Miss Leona laughed.
“Are those guys out there a problem?”
“Problem? Jamal and Terrell? Oh no. It looks that way, don’t it? Those boys and their friends look out for the neighborhood. This isn’t the safest place anymore and the police don’t like to come down here. We need someone to keep an eye on things. Sure, they should all get some real jobs, but they don’t mean no harm,” Miss Leona said. “I’ve known them all since they were born. Good boys.”
“They’re selling drugs, aren’t they?”
“Sure they do. It’s only weed, though. Mr. Porter, do you know weed is now legal in a bunch of places? You just got back from California, correct?”
Porter was confused.
“Mr. Gianullo told me. I’m not psychic, although I hear there are a bunch of them in California.”
Porter laughed and shook his head. Ross had a big mouth sometimes. “It’s just Porter, ma’am. California is a different kind of place.”
“I imagine it is. Myself, I never left Florida. Never found no need. You went out there for business, is that right?”
Ross again. “Well, ‘business’ makes it sound a little misleading, but I was working out there for a few days. Once I wrapped everything up, I got back here as soon as I could. It was too hot out there for me.”
Miss Leona laughed at that. She seemed sweet, with an easy smile and quick laugh. Something about her reminded Porter of his own grandmother.
“Well, it’s hot here too, baby. Let’s get off this stoop and into the A/C.”
She motioned for Porter to follow her into the house. In the front room, much too large for the space, an old china cabinet sat crowded in the corner, displaying what looked to be rarely-used dinner sets. Wedged next to the china cabinet was a flowery sofa with a thick layer of protective plastic on it. Better to keep it protected than let a bunch of asses destroy it.
On the left past the front room was a bathroom, and beyond that, the kitchen. As Porter passed, a savory smell reached his nose, and he saw pots bubbling on the stovetop. The narrow hallway emptied into a small living room, with a large couch, a recliner that looked well worn, and a large floor model TV on the wall opposite. Porter looked around, sure this was how Gulliver felt on Lilliput. A small hallway led to what must have been the bedrooms.
“Have a seat, Mr. Porter, have a seat.” Miss Leona gestured to the couch.
Porter sat down, conscious of his knees by the small wooden coffee table. “Thanks for the seat. And the A/C.”
“Gotta beat this heat somehow,” she said with a chuckle. Her smile slowly faded. “Mr. Gianullo tells me you have questions about my girl.”
“I wanted to see if I could find out a little bit more about her.”
“Well, if it helps you any, I can tell you who took her. I been trying to tell everyone, but nobody wants to listen.”
The matter-of-fact manner in which she’d made the statement confused Porter. After a few moments, he spoke. “Miss Leona, you know who took Danny?”
“Sure, baby. It’s always the devil you know.”
Five
Porter wasn’t sure what she meant and he didn’t want to say something foolish, so he remained quiet.
“It was the neighborhood boys.” The old woman reached over to the coffee table and picked up a tumbler sweating with condensation.
“The neighborhood boys? Jamal and Terrell?” Porter said.
“No, baby, not them,” she said as if Porter had said something foolish. “You need to understand the Acres. Palmetto Avenue is the dividing line and right now you on the west side, where I stay. Like I told you, Jamal and Terrell and the rest of them on this side are good boys. The east side of the neighborhood, now, that’s a whole different story. Those are different boys over there. They have different rules.”
Porter thought back to his drive into the neighborhood. He had recognized some of the graffiti and gang signs. The stuff he didn’t know was on the east side of the street. He hadn’t thought much of it, but it made sense now: There were two different gangs in the same neighborhood.
“A few years back, the Acres was all one group. This is a big neighborhood, you understand. Jamal was in charge and things were the way they were. Nobody’s proud of a gang, but they helped around here more than they hurt, and kept most problems from everywhere else from spilling over into the Acres.”
Porter listened.
“Things changed when a new boy moved in. He was from up north somewhere. Came down here to be with his family, something like that. Lived on the east side of the Acres. He joined up with the boys and all went well for a while.”
“And then?”
“Well, what do you think? He decided he wanted more.”
“More of what?” Porter said.
“Everything. More control, more money. He said Jamal wasn’t making as much as he should have been. The new boy, he wanted to branch out into other things—real drugs and robbing and selling women. Jamal wouldn’t have that. He may be a little lost, but he has his own code.”
“Can I ask how you found out about all this?”
“I hear things from lots of places. Sometimes from the other women in the neighborhood. Sometimes from Keith and the other kids when I watch them. Sometimes from the boys themselves. They know I’m a free ear if they need it. I try to help them if I can. Give them advice that’ll keep ’em out of trouble.”
Porter nodded. “So this new guy…?”
“Hector. He wanted to expand things. I guess he still had some contacts from his old life up north. He told Jamal they could step things up. Make more money. Jamal told him no. It’s never been about the money for that boy. Hector didn’t like that. So he got together anybody who’d go along with him and tried to make a move on Jamal. It didn’t work.”
“A move? What does that mean?” Porter said.
“Mr. Porter, I think you know exactly what I mean. They tried to sneak into Jamal’s house and shoot him. But Jamal had been staying with his baby mama so he wasn’t there. You know Jamal was mad—whew, that boy was pissed. Things got pretty messy for a while. Lots of shootings. I even had a bullet come into my house.” She pointed to a small, off-color patch in her rear wall. “Came in the front and went through the kitchen, through the opening to the living room and stuck in the wall. I was asleep.”
“Good thing.”
“I’m still good at something,” Miss Leona laughed. “Eventually, Jamal realized the beef with Hector was tearing up the neighborhood. I think Hector was okay with that, but Jamal wasn’t. He called a meeting and made a truce. No more shooting. Jamal would have the west side of Palmetto Avenue and Hector would have the east. They don’t cross over, not ever.”
“When you say ‘it’s always the devil you know,’ you’re talking about Hector?”
“That’s right,” she said drawing out the ‘i’ in dramatic fashion.
“How do you know Hector took Danny?” Porter said.
“She was going to an early start preschool, my smart baby. The last time anyone
saw her, she was getting onto her school bus in the afternoon. The bus stop is at the front of the neighborhood. It won’t come all the way into the Acres, so they let everyone off up there and the kids have to walk back. Thing is, there aren’t any other kids who go to her preschool. I put her into a lottery for a special charter school. She’s the only baby who gets off that bus.”
Porter shifted his leg, careful not to bump the table.
“I always met her there, so she didn’t have to walk alone. That day I had a terrible headache; it must have been my sinuses. I took a head pill and sat down for a bit. And I…” Her voice caught in her throat. She began to shake, first in her hands, then torso, and finally her head. She let out a wail of anguish.
Porter watched her. He was used to being played by people, and he often watched them when they showed a large swing in demeanor. The best time to tell whether someone was genuine or not was when they got emotional. Porter hated fake criers, especially when they were doing it to cover up something. He was good at reading people, a skill born of years of practice.
Miss Leona wasn’t faking.
She sobbed loudly at first, then fell silent for several minutes. She didn’t look at Porter, as though he didn’t exist and she was alone with her pain. After a time, she composed herself. She pulled tissues from the pocket of her dress, dabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose. Then she chuckled and shook her head, as if she were trying to shake it off.
“Whew. I’m sorry, baby. You didn’t come over here to see all that. I was saying?”
“You took a head pill,” Porter said.
“Right. I just hurt so bad. I usually take them early so they have plenty of time to wear off. This time I wasn’t thinking and took it after lunch. I was knocked out in my chair when Danny got off the bus.”
“What happened?” Porter said.
“I don’t know. Nobody does. The bus driver was the last person who saw Danny. All I know is when my stupid self woke up, there was no Danny. My baby was gone.”
“Then how do you know it was Hector and his boys?”
“No one else in this neighborhood would have messed with Danny. If Jamal and his guys saw her walking, they would have walked her home. That’s how they are. No other people come into this neighborhood. It has to be Hector.”