Nickel City Crossfire

by Gary Earl Ross

  “All right.”

  I went over to the sofa and sat beside her. There was a pillow against the armrest, not a sofa pillow but a bed pillow. I pulled it onto my lap.

  Phoenix turned to me, light dancing on the left side of her face. “Is there anything you want to ask before I start?”

  I held up the pillow. “Is this where Keisha slept last night?”

  “Yes.” She bit her lip.

  “You don’t need to worry about her tonight. She’s sleeping in her own bed now.”

  “Good.” A few seconds passed. “How did you know?”

  “Jen and Bianca showed me Keisha’s text this morning. The number was yours. Want to tell me about it?”

  Phoenix tightened her arms around herself and sank down a bit, crossing her bare feet on a throw pillow on the coffee table. “After the crash, after you got out, she started to cry. She said they would never leave her in peace unless she did something about it herself. She swore she would and asked me to be her lawyer.” Phoenix smiled in the firelight. “She even did the old TV thing of giving me a dollar as a retainer. I gave her my spare key and one of the special business cards I keep for client emergencies. It’s coded to tell building security the woman holding the card is at risk and has my key with my permission.”

  “You’ve done this with women you’ve represented from Hope’s Haven,” I said.

  “Yes, five or six times. But this is the first time I gave anybody my cell to get an Uber.” She shifted a bit, continuing to stare into the fire. “I didn’t tell you because—well, these people were pretty good at following you. I thought I could give her a chance you couldn’t then. Sorry if I seemed odd or off. I’m not used to keeping things from you.”

  I swallowed and took a breath. “Is that all?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not.” I put the pillow behind my head and leaned back. “I thought being shot at—I mean, it’s bad enough I got shot a few weeks back. Now you almost got shot.”

  “That’s part of it, but it isn’t just that. It isn’t just that I could lose you.” She pulled my left hand into her lap and held it with both of hers. “It’s that I could lose me.”

  “No, I could lose you,” I said. “If something happened—Look, I understand why you could be having second thoughts, why you’d want out of the danger zone. Getting shot at—”

  “You’re not hearing me, Gideon,” she said, turning to me. “Just listen. Please.” She turned back to the fire. “Until you, I was a loner, a hyperactive attorney working myself into the grave. No family but Tia Rosita. Few friends. Figured I was living on borrowed time. Preventive mastectomies or not, I figured it was only a matter of calendar and clock before the cancer that took out the women on my mother’s side would take me too. So there I was, driven, with a good income, clients who loved the energy I gave them, and devil may care certainty I had only myself to live for. The occasional one night stand? What did it matter? Better to break a heart early than succumb to hope. Two or three days without sleep? So what? Soon enough I would sleep forever. You get the idea.” She brought my hand up to her lips and kissed it. “But then I met you, and things were different.”

  Having been told to listen, I waited for her to continue.

  “Yesterday, after Keisha ran and I found your gun, I almost killed that man,” she said, finally. “I wanted to. Something I never thought I’d want to do. I know you’ve killed in self-defense, and I get that. But when I saw him on the ground, self-defense was the last thing on my mind, even as he tried to fight you. Even after he was still, I wanted to make him pay for what he did to us. If you hadn’t taken the gun, I know I would have pulled the trigger. That’s what I meant by losing me. I don’t want to lose me, but I don’t want to lose you either.”

  Still, I said nothing.

  She moved her head to my shoulder and reached over to touch my chest. Her fingers moved over the bumps and edges of the various supplies in the pockets of my utility jacket. “Jesus. Who gave you this thing? Bruce Wayne?”

  “I’ll take it off,” I said, standing. “It’s kind of warm in here anyway.”

  She remained quiet as I slipped off my jacket and lowered it to the floor but she snuggled against me when I sat back down.

  “I think I’m afraid,” she said a few seconds later. “Of us. Of having feelings so intense so fast.”

  “I’ll understand if you need time. Or space…”

  “I don’t want time.” She took hold of my hand and squeezed. “I especially don’t want space. What I want you to understand is how it messes with my head that I was ready to kill for you.”

  “I think I do.” I hoped she would take my word for it because I hated talking about the emotional firestorm of combat.

  “I don’t like that feeling but I’m ready to feel it again. Does that make any sense?”

  “Yes. It’s one thing to feel, another to enjoy what you felt.” I hesitated. “You’re a survivor, Phoenix. That’s why you do so well in court, why you had pre-emptive surgery. You’re determined to live. When circumstances demand it, that part of your nature kicks in, but you don’t find any pleasure in it. You just do what must be done.”

  “Like you.” She chuckled. “Maybe it kicks in harder because I finally have a reason to outrun the calendar.”

  “Hm.”

  We stared at each other for several beats and the air shifted, going from emotion to awareness. She stood and slowly pulled me toward the bed in the corner.

  The sex started gradually, then became more feverish than ever—all arms and legs and sweat, all hands and nails and clashing tongues. Desperation, heat, whimpers and finally surrender—through it all she clung to me more intensely than I would have thought possible. Her tears hit my chest when she was astride me, hit my face when she leaned down to kiss me, zigzagged down the sides of my face into my ears. Whispers of something she said for the first time echoed in my dizzy brain long after we had stopped: “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  Afterward, as I drifted toward sleep while lying on my belly, my head resting on a pillow encircled by my forearms, she half stretched herself atop me.

  “Too heavy?” she said.

  “Never,” I said.

  “So now you know.”

  “I do.”

  “I didn’t intend to tell you like this. I just couldn’t keep it in anymore, not after yesterday.” She was quiet a moment, her head between my shoulder blades, a hand lightly holding my shoulder. “You don’t have to say it back, you know.” Her breath was warm on my back. “If you’re not there yet, I understand.”

  “But I am there,” I said. “I love you too. A thousand kisses deep.”

  “Quoting Leonard Cohen? You’re full of surprises.”

  “I think that’s my last surprise for tonight. You take no prisoners in bed, baby. I’m too beat down to do anything but fall asleep.”

  “It was a good beat down, though. Right?”

  “Finest kind.”

  51

  Mid-afternoon on Christmas Day, Phoenix and I kept a promise to stop by the Simpkins home before we went to Mira’s for dinner.

  Mona answered the door, wearing a godawful holiday sweater with elves and candy canes, a pair of fuzzy reindeer slippers with red noses, and a pair of felt antlers with little bells attached. As she was still recovering from her chest wound, her breathing was a bit shallow when she invited us inside. But in my brief acquaintance with her, she had never looked happier.

  She smiled as I introduced her to Phoenix. “Win told me you were a real nice lady, and Keisha told me what you did for her. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “No thanks necessary,” Phoenix said.

  “Just the same, God’ll bless you both for being so good to us.”

  Then she ushered us into the living room. A crowd of thirty or so, most in sweaters, stretched from the decorated tree by the front window to the back of the dining room. Red plastic cups in hand, they stood or sat on good furniture, fol
ding chairs, and even the floor, engaged in conversation. Many faces I recognized like Winslow, Louisa and Oscar (who was interim minister at the church), Ike Kelly, Carl Williamson, Ileana Tassiopulos, a few Humanitas staffers, and faces from the church. Deeper in the dining room, amid faces I had never seen before, I noticed a tall, dark-skinned man in an army dress uniform. Nearby, Keisha stood laughing with Fatimah and Bianca, as Jen rested her head on Bianca’s shoulder.

  Mona shushed them all and introduced us in a loud voice. “Everybody, this is Mr. Rimes and Miss Trinidad, the ones who helped bring our Keisha home.”

  Whether standing or seated, they all applauded us and did so for a long time.

  Her smile matching the one I first saw in her photos, Keisha pushed her way through the gathering until she reached us and threw an arm around each of us, hugging us so tight I thought she had invented a new sleeper hold. When she stepped back, happy tears brimmed her eyes. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “I hear you’re going back to work in January.”

  “Thanks to Ms. Trinidad,” she said, high-fiving Phoenix.

  “Now they can’t stay with us long, baby,” Mona said. “They’ve got somewhere else to be. With family, right?”

  Before I could answer, Phoenix said, “Yes, with family.”

  “They can’t stay for dinner,” Mona announced to all, “but we can’t let ‘em outta here without a piece of my Christmas cake, now can we?”

  For a moment, the resounding “No!” made me feel as if I were back in the church.

  So, for us, they had dessert before the Christmas dinner. The cake had buttercream filling, green and red frosting, candy cane shavings, and green and red maraschino cherries. As we ate off paper dessert plates, I had a chance to talk with several guests. Carl Williamson patted my back and thanked me for getting his son’s killers. “I hear you kicked some serious ass,” he said. Rhonda Williamson kissed me on the cheek and wiped her eyes. Ike introduced me to his daughters, telling them I was the guy who brought Aunt Keisha back to them.

  Jen said that in a just world I would have shared in her service commendation and told me to look for my lock pick gun in the mail sometime soon. Any time you need help with something, you call me,” she said. I thanked her. I also thanked Ileana for helping me understand the world of the homeless, to which she replied, “You couldn’t save Veronica but you damn sure pulled Keisha out of the fire and iced the bastards who put her there. I’m the one who should thank you.”

  The tall man in dress greens had a neatly trimmed mustache and the green and yellow trimmings of an MP. He came to me and introduced himself as Sonny Tyler, Keisha’s ex-boyfriend, on leave from Stuttgart. “Heading back before New Year’s,” he said. “Had to see for myself she was okay. We’re just friends now. I don’t hope for more, especially so soon after what happened to Odell. But I wanted her to know I was a phone call away if she ever needed to talk. Thank you for passing on my message.” Then he saluted me, and I saluted back.

  When it was time to go, Winslow and Mona walked us to the door, with Oscar and Louisa behind them. Mona and Louisa hugged us both, and Winslow shook our hands. Oscar walked us out to Phoenix’s car.

  “Thanks for putting me back in the real game for a quick minute,” he said. “You’re both welcome any time, in our home, or the church.” Before I could say anything, he held up his hand. “I already know you’re not much of a believer. But I think I told you before, you don’t have to believe in God for God to believe in you. He believes in you, Brother Rimes. You should feel blessed.”

  “I do,” I said. “You gotta be cold in just that sweater.” I embraced him. “Thanks for having my back.”

  “They’re nice people,” Phoenix said, as she pulled away from the curb. “All of them.”

  “Good people,” I said. “They didn’t deserve to be caught up in something so bad.”

  “Feeling philosophical, are we?”

  “Maybe a bit Dickensian.”

  “Oh, God, if you’re gonna go all Tiny Tim on me—”

  “No, not that one,” I said. “This was a tale of two churches, two gangs, and double identities. Ultimately, it was a tale of two women, one bad and willing to do anything to hide her true self and one good, willing to sacrifice herself for those she loved.”

  “What was in that red punch we drank anyway?” Phoenix said, laughing. “Seriously, honey, one of the things I love about you is your need to make sense of a world that proves chaotic with every breath it takes. Sometimes things are what they are, but you see patterns that give you hope. You claim to be a cynic but you’re the most optimistic person I know.”

  “No need to be insulting,” I said.

  “That was nothing. Wait till we start looking for your new car. I looked up that special bumper thing you want to put on the front. Ugly as sin!”

  Because it was Christmas and traffic was light, we took Main Street toward Mira’s Williamsville home rather than get on the highway. The sun was still bright. The city was beautiful as we drove through the center of it, just enough fresh snow to make the streets look sparkling and clean, just enough lights, decorations, and closed businesses up Main and into the suburbs to make us feel the holiday spirit had not been sacrificed on the altar of commercialism. Things would be different by February, of course, when the snow was dirty slush and Presidents’ Day sales tried to draw people out of their winter doldrums. But right now, on Christmas, winter in Buffalo was breathtaking.

  Just as we reached the edge of the Village of Williamsville, my phone buzzed. Pulling it from my pocket, I saw I had a text from a number designated UNKNOWN. I opened the text function and saw a link. I didn’t have to click the link to understand what it meant and who had sent it to me. The tiny headline and subheadline told the whole story: Suspect in Buffalo Triple Murder Found Dead in Detroit River. Cuthbert shot once in head.

  “Dante Cuthbert’s dead,” I said.

  “Good,” Phoenix said, turning onto Mira’s street. “That means he won’t be coming after you. Who sent the message? Your psycho acquaintance?”

  Before I could reply, the phone buzzed again, a call from UNKNOWN but I knew who it was before I answered.

  “Mr. Rimes, sir, I just wanted to wish you the merriest of holiday seasons.” The voice was cold as ever and unfailingly polite. Spider Tolliver, amiable psychopath.

  “Merry Christmas to you too, Lester,” I said.

  “It’s a fine day for celebrating the things and people that matter. I just wanted to make sure you got the link I sent. I thought it might be of interest to you.”

  “I got it. Thank you.”

  “It reflects a circumstance completely free of obligation or expectation, so please, put your mind at ease. Merry Christmas to Ms. Trinidad. Goodbye.”

  “Spider?” Phoenix said.

  “He killed Cuthbert, no strings attached. He said to tell you Merry Christmas.”

  “You just bring out the best in people, don’t you,” she said. “A regular elf.”

  As we neared the end of my sister’s street and her home, I saw the cars that told me Phoenix and I were the last to arrive: Bobby’s Camry, the Dorans’ wheelchair van, Julie Yang’s VW Beetle, the red Sentra that Jimmy told me LJ had climbed out of after three all-night dates.

  “So how many of us will there be?” Phoenix said, parking a few doors away. “The house is so small.”

  “A dozen. Bobby and Kayla, Jimmy and Peggy Ann, LJ and his new girlfriend.”

  “The one Peggy Ann says is rocking his world something fierce?”

  I couldn’t help smiling at the picture of LJ and Yvonne. If he survived, he would thank me for the introduction.

  “Yes,” I said. “Also Julie and her new boyfriend Brett, a grad student in physics. Mira and Shakti. Us. A tight fit in the dining room but we’ll make it work.”

  We climbed out and went to the back of the RAV4 to retrieve the bags of gifts.

  Phoenix looked at m
e as I reached inside. “You know, I worry about the day you might have to face this Spider character. You have scruples. He doesn’t.”

  “It won’t be today,” I said, handing her a large bag and taking the other two myself in one hand. I lowered the liftgate with my free hand. “Oscar was right. Today I feel blessed.”

  Phoenix pressed the LOCK button on her fob. “You?”

  “Yes,” I said. “How often do I have all the people I love in the world under one roof?”

  About the Author

  Photo Credit: Tamara Alsace

  Retired University at Buffalo professor Gary Earl Ross is a multiple award-winning playwright and novelist. His plays include The Scavenger’s Daughter, The Mark of Cain, The Guns of Christmas, The Trial of Trayvon Martin, and the Edgar Award-winning Matter of Intent. Both The Scavenger’s Daughter and Matter of Intent have been made into culturally transliterated films by CITOC Productions of Mumbai, India. His books include The Wheel of Desire, Shimmerville, Beneath the Ice, Blackbird Rising, and Nickel City Blues, the first Gideon Rimes novel. For more information, visit him at www.garyearlross.net

  Acknowledgments

  Novels are not written in a vacuum. Knowingly or unknowingly, others help in too many ways to count. I am indebted to the following: My much better half Tammy, my sister Renee, my cousin Bobby, my friends Dennis Hollins, Duane Crockett, Scott Williams, Mitch Maxick, Gunilla Theander Kester, Susan Lynn Solomon (author of the Emlyn Goode mysteries); my brothers Steve and Rob and my son David for professional perspectives on the criminal justice system and law enforcement; artist and high school classmate Gary L. Wolfe and Karen Carman for perspectives on homelessness; Kelsey Jackson-Ross, no relation, whose performance in my creative writing class tells me she will find her way into print and whose picture of me is part of this book; Nancy Alsace, for insights on nursing practices; Satya Popuri, for insights on a life in science; Amherst Alarm, for tolerating a long-time customer’s questions about alarm systems; the Buffalo and Erie County Public Library; and the following eateries you must try on your next trip to the Nickel City: Betty’s, the Towne, EM Tea Coffee Cup (Cat and Will), Spot Coffee, Tim Horton’s, Panorama on Seven, LaNova, Bocce, Avenue, Just Pizza, and the gone but fondly remembered Vino’s (Kathleen Cangianello) and Gigi’s (Darryl Harvin).