Trouble in Mind

by Michael Wiley

  ‘Tak jest,’ he’d said when she told him that last bit – Polish for Yes, sir, a phrase an informant used with him when he worked an undercover job in the Noble Square neighborhood.

  Dr P gave him a don’t-screw-with-me look.

  Now, he thought about each step he’d taken with the redhead, testing his judgment. The redhead paid him to talk sense into Christian Felbanks, who, she said, was her drug-stealing brother. He reasonably took the job. Then she sent him after Stevens at the office building on Division Street. That time, he should’ve known better. When she called him at his apartment and told him to run, warning him to get Sue Ellen out of harm’s way, he reacted fast and sensibly – taking Sue Ellen to Nancy’s house, then holing up alone. The fact that Dan Peters brought a tactical team to arrest him the next day in no way undermined the soundness of his decision to stay. If he’d run, as the woman told him to, he would’ve looked guilty and his circumstances might’ve been worse. As for today, what choice did he have? What if Dominick Stevens had died? Kelson had a responsibility and he fulfilled it. Could he have done it without getting Stevens’s office staff to call the cops? Maybe. He would count this morning as a partial failure – though even a partial failure went down in the bad-judgment column. That made him two for four.

  ‘Batting five hundred,’ he said. ‘Pretty good for a player just off the disabled list.’

  Still, when he parked his car, went up to his office, and found the redhead sitting in one of the client chairs again, he fumbled his phone out of his pocket and called Peters.

  When Peters answered, Kelson yelled, ‘She’s here right now.’

  ‘What?’ Peters said. ‘Who?’

  ‘The redhead.’

  ‘Yeah? Go to hell. Get some help, OK?’ Peters hung up.

  Kelson scrambled to redial but dropped the phone.

  The redhead watched, arching an eyebrow.

  Kelson grabbed the phone, dialed, and, when Peters answered, said, ‘Goddammit—’

  ‘Goddammit yourself.’ The line went dead again.

  Kelson shoved the phone in his pocket and told the woman, ‘I’ll take you in myself.’

  ‘Don’t get all weirded out. It makes you less attractive.’

  Kelson went to his desk and reached for the KelTec in the hidden rig. It was gone. He opened the bottom drawer. It wasn’t there either.

  The woman pulled it from her purse and aimed it at him. She said, ‘Having a good ass doesn’t make me stupid.’

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘Now sit down and listen.’

  ‘Why are you doing this? You could just shoot me.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  He did.

  ‘We all pay for our mistakes,’ she said. ‘Mine are the only reason I’m here.’

  ‘Mine was shooting Bicho Rodriguez when he pulled a gun on me?’

  ‘Seems almost unfair, doesn’t it?’ She held the KelTec lightly. ‘But he was a kid, and you know how that goes. From Mengele’s perspective, you have to understand the anger. I mean, you have a daughter. You know—’

  ‘Don’t bring her into it. Don’t ever,’ he said. ‘And what about Christian Felbanks and Raima Minhas? What mistakes did they pay for? He was corn-fed and wholesome. Straight from farm to table. And her? An immigrant girl makes good.’

  The redhead ran a free finger down the length of the pistol barrel. She tried to sound coy, but her face showed pain. ‘We all have secrets.’

  ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Not anymore. I can’t keep them, no matter how hard I try.’

  ‘That could become a problem. Mengele has a job for you – one you won’t want to talk about. No money in this one. He wants you to kill Dominick Stevens.’

  Kelson laughed at her. ‘Not happening.’

  She looked pained, ill. ‘Stevens hurt Bicho by sleeping with Francisca Cabon. Mengele uses me to get you, and he’ll use you to get Stevens. He says you can’t pretend you aren’t already involved. He says that’s what you tried to do with Bicho.’

  ‘You’re an excellent spokesman for him. What’s he got on you?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘But I do. I couldn’t be more interested.’

  ‘He says you’re delusional. You think you’re better than others.’

  ‘I won’t kill Dominick Stevens,’ he said. ‘No one will.’

  ‘At this point, I’m supposed to ask about your ex-wife and daughter.’

  He rose from his desk chair, furious – unthinking.

  But the redhead raised the pistol with him and aimed it at that spot on his forehead where Bicho had shot away a part of the man he’d been.

  And he flinched.

  Sweat breaking from his neck, he sat in his chair. ‘If you ever – if Nancy and Sue Ellen ever even think someone might hurt them, I’ll – why are you doing this?’

  ‘I don’t want to be here. Just like you didn’t want to shoot Bicho. But it’s you or me. You angered the wrong man, and he wants to destroy you. He doesn’t want you dead. He wants you to carry the guilt.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘What will he do to you?’ he asked.

  ‘If I didn’t do this, he would destroy me too. I’ve been destroyed enough times in my life. I can’t take it again.’

  ‘What’s he got on you?’

  She ignored the question and said, ‘Do you think three days is enough? You know where Stevens works, and now you know where he lives. Since you’ve harassed him so much lately, he’ll probably be on guard, but you can get close enough to do it.’

  ‘Uh-uh. We go to the police.’

  She stood and set the KelTec on the desk. ‘They won’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth.’

  Then she walked out of the office.

  He sat for a full minute, speechless, staring at … nothing. Then he popped the magazine from the pistol, rolled it in his palm, and snapped it back in.

  He knew better than to call Peters. So he called Greg Toselli. Toselli had spent the previous night raiding a building that supposedly housed a child-trafficking operation but had found only a single mattress and a bunch of empty rooms. He was tired and cranky and seemed to have a hard time listening as Kelson told him his troubles.

  ‘But why would anyone do this?’ he said.

  ‘Exactly what I asked,’ said Kelson. ‘She made it sound like revenge for Bicho.’

  ‘But the kid shot you.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘Unless they think you shot him first.’

  ‘That question never went public.’

  ‘Either that or someone loved the kid a lot – the kind of love that makes a person violent. What does the redhead get out of this?’

  ‘She makes it sound like the man’s setting her up too. If she doesn’t do what he says, he’ll spring the trap.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘Well, this is about more than Bicho – at least enough to get Christian Felbanks and Raima Minhas killed. So maybe there’s something in what she says. But it’s mostly about Bicho. Did you get the records I asked for on him?’

  Toselli hesitated. ‘First rule – no man left behind. That includes me too. I’ll do anything for you, but you won’t let this blow back on anyone, right? You’ve got Peters coming at you on one side and these people on the other. Anyone who’s in the middle with you or helping … I mean, if I can get the files for you, will you keep it quiet?’

  ‘I don’t know if I can. You know, things come out.’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying. Don’t ask me to do something that hurts you – or me.’

  ‘So what would you do?’ Kelson said. ‘If you were where I am. You’ve always played the game smart. You get things done.’

  Toselli sounded frustrated. ‘You shouldn’t have been in that alley with that kid. You shouldn’t have had a gun. But you were there – and you did – and so how do you get out now? Seems like you’ve got two choices, and you won’t l
ike them. One, you can do something to show you’re listening to this woman. Something that shows you’re taking the threat seriously. Delay the game and give yourself time to figure it out.’

  ‘Unless it pisses this guy off and he goes after Sue Ellen and Nancy.’

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s playing you – running you over the psychological ropes, seeing what you’ll take. Sue Ellen and Nancy are his last move – game over.’

  ‘What’s the other choice?’

  ‘Take the redhead out of it. Completely out. Whoever’s hiding behind her – if there’s even such a person – either gives up or comes out in the open.’

  ‘Or finds someone new to front for him.’

  ‘Hard to find someone like her, from what you say. Of the two choices, that’s the better one. It’s what I’d do. Take care of yourself and take care of your own. Self-defense. She’s holding a gun to your head, right? Same as Bicho. And with Sue Ellen and Nancy, she’s got hostages.’

  ‘More or less,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Then do what you’ve got to do.’

  ‘Maybe so.’

  ‘But whatever you decide, do it all the way.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’ve got to live by it,’ Toselli said. ‘Make it an absolute principle.’

  And they hung up.

  Toselli was right – Kelson disliked both choices. Part of him admired his friend’s ability to act decisively in bad situations. He lived by his principles – and other cops owed him their lives. But he also seemed unconcerned about the damage he caused to people outside of his circle.

  ‘Rough justice,’ Kelson said. ‘Stay on the right side of a man like that. Still, you’ve got to admire him.’ Then he added, ‘Admire but not emulate.’

  So instead of gunning for Stevens or the redhead, Kelson went looking for a man he hadn’t seen in two years, since before Bicho shot him in the head.

  TWENTY-NINE

  DeMarcus Rodman could’ve been a great cop, the kind newspaper articles get written about when they retire and who become legends in the bars where cops hang out. Kelson and Rodman started police academy together, at the same time as Greg Toselli and Nancy, and while Nancy scored in the top three percent and Kelson and Toselli scored in the top ten in both the intellectual and physical testing, Rodman blew through the charts. He was tall – taller than even Dan Peters – and as wide at the shoulders as two men. His eyes were set a little too close together, he wore a goatee, and his brown skin was soft. When he did the bench press, the academy instructors called the other cadets to watch. When a classroom instructor handed back an exam, he said, ‘You’ve got to be kidding, Rodman’ – in a good way. Instead of trying to break him the way they did most of the others, the instructors treated him like one of their own.

  Then, a month before graduation, his little brother stepped into the middle of a street bust. Something on him flashed. Maybe his belt buckle. The cops said he had a knife, but none of the bystanders saw him pull it. It didn’t matter, though. When the cops saw the glare, they fired fourteen bullets into him. The mayor and the police superintendent promised a full investigation, but ten days later a review board ruled the killing justifiable. And Rodman quit.

  ‘The review board lived by it too,’ Kelson said now as he drove downtown toward Rodman’s apartment.

  In the years since Rodman quit, rumors about him floated back to the department. He’d joined the army. He’d left the city to live with relatives in Maryland. He’d gone rogue and was climbing the ladder in the El Rukn street gang. But three years ago Kelson learned the truth.

  Kelson was working on a drug operation in Bronzeville, on the city’s South Side, pretending, as usual, to be a south suburban businessman with a coke habit and plenty of friends whose habits he wanted to supply. Twice a week he drove along Forty-Fifth Street in a black Corvette the narcotics squad had confiscated from a meth lab operator, and a kid would run from the alley by the Ebenezer Baptist Church, take Kelson’s money, and give him a baggie. Once the dealer recognized him as a regular, the process relaxed, and soon Kelson was standing outside his car explaining his needs to a man who sold coke to most of the neighborhood users.

  One morning as they chatted, a police cruiser – sent by a narcotics liaison – drove past, and the dealer and Kelson slipped into the alley and deep into the dealer’s world. After some friendly prodding, the dealer sent a lookout to the end of the alley and then showed Kelson the wares he had on hand – more than enough, he promised, to keep Kelson and his buddies screaming high for a month. That was all Kelson needed to see. He told the dealer he would bring cash the next morning, though he planned to arrive instead with Greg Toselli and a raid team.

  But before he could go back to the Corvette, DeMarcus Rodman came out of the back door of a third-floor apartment that reared to the alley, and jogged down the wooden stairs. He was enormous, and before he put a foot on the asphalt, the dealer pulled a small pistol out of his belt and pointed it at his wide chest. Rodman winked at Kelson and raised his hands.

  ‘You come closer, I’ll cap you,’ the dealer said.

  Rodman answered with the softest, gentlest voice. ‘You’ve got to wonder with a man like me, how deep a bullet from a little gun’ll go. If it kills me, you win. More likely, it stops in the muscle layer. Then you’ve got to wonder what it’ll feel like to have me cram that pistol through your teeth and down your puny throat. If I was a man like you, that’s what I’d wonder about with a man like me.’

  The dealer lowered the pistol, and Rodman lowered his hands. Rodman ignored Kelson, though Kelson sensed he was performing for him when he told the dealer, ‘See that apartment up there? Me and my girlfriend just moved in. A nice place, and you know what? We don’t even need an alarm clock. Old Ebenezer Baptist tells us the time with his bells. If you like, you can come up for coffee.’

  The dealer stared at him with contempt. ‘I don’t drink the shit.’

  ‘Or tea,’ Rodman said. ‘Cindi likes the tea. But she don’t like this business you got going down here.’

  The dealer smirked. ‘She don’t like it, she can—’

  Rodman held a single huge finger to silence him – nothing especially threatening but enough. ‘She don’t like it because this is our home now, and all that pretty church-bell music sounds cracked if a man like you is making junkies out of the neighbors.’

  The dealer tried again. ‘It’s a free—’

  ‘No,’ Rodman said, as soft as before, ‘it ain’t, and it never was. If you think it’s free, you’re confused. I could tell you stories – over a cup of coffee, or tea – that would make you reconsider that falsehood. It ain’t free, and you ain’t free.’

  ‘I’m working this block for five years,’ the dealer said. ‘No one tells me where I do business. A man that tries gets some of this.’ He raised the gun again.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Rodman said, ‘because I thought we could be pals. I thought you liked your teeth in your mouth and liked your throat without blood running into your lungs.’ His gentle voice scared the hell out of Kelson and the words weren’t even meant for him.

  The dealer’s hand wavered. He stuck the pistol inside his belt.

  Rodman moved close to him and looked down as if he would pat the top of his head. He took the gun from the man’s belt and held it in his palm, and the man looked relieved he didn’t take more of him than that. Then Rodman pulled a trash bin away from the church wall, reached into a hole in the bricks, and took the dealer’s stash.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ the man said.

  ‘Wrong again,’ Rodman said. Then he winked at Kelson again and climbed the stairs to his apartment.

  That afternoon, Kelson reported to his squad captain that the Forty-Fifth Street operation had imploded. These things sometimes happened, and when the captain asked, Kelson said only, ‘The dealer cut and ran. He spooked.’

  And the next afternoon, Kelson went back to Rodman’s Bronzeville building. The lock on the st
reet door was broken, and after going up to the apartment, he knocked. Rodman, wearing a pair of huge boxer shorts and nothing else, pulled the door open. He grinned and enveloped Kelson in a hug. ‘Goddamn, it’s good to see you,’ he said, and his gentle laugh made Kelson think of a volcano. ‘You know how surprised I was when I looked out yesterday and saw you?’

  He made Kelson wait as he started a pot of coffee, and then they went into the living room.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like that,’ Kelson said.

  ‘When you move into a new place, you’ve got to sweep the trash out of the gutters.’

  On the wall behind a sofa, there were three portraits that looked as if they were painted by the same hand – Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and, between them, a woman with beaded hair who looked about twenty-five. ‘That your girlfriend?’ Kelson asked.

  ‘Cindi,’ Rodman said. ‘Working right now. She’s a nurse at Rush Medical.’

  ‘How’re you getting by?’

  ‘I do what I need to do,’ Rodman said. ‘Hustle some. Take jobs when I find them.’

  ‘Everyone wondered what happened to you.’

  ‘I got hit by a truck that’s called America. It’s a good truck but it hurts like hell to get hit by it.’

  So Kelson asked what he’d come to find out. ‘What’ll you do with the coke?’

  Rodman said, ‘A guy my size, that stash lasted an hour. Had to go looking for another guy to rip off last night.’ He watched for Kelson’s smile and, when he got it, said, ‘Nah, there’s a bunch of happy Lake Michigan fish right now. I flushed it. What I always do.’

  ‘We were about to bust him.’

  ‘What good would that do? If the judge put him away at all, he’d be out in a year and set up right here again or down the block.’

  ‘What good is stealing his stash going to do? He’ll set that up again too, if his supplier doesn’t kill him.’

  ‘And I’ll take it too. I’ll take it again and again until he loses the heart to try anymore. Then maybe he’ll come up and have a cup of coffee. It’s happened before.’