SK01 - Waist Deep

by Frank Zafiro

  The door opened and a couple of people walked in. I ignored them and continued to look directly at Rolo. “No, I’m not her father. I’m helping her father find her. That’s all.”

  Rolo nodded like he already knew that. “And you sure we ain’t never met before?”

  “Positive.”

  “Because you look familiar to my eyes. Maybe it was a long time ago. Back when you were five-oh, maybe?”

  I shook my head. “Like I said, I’d remember you.”

  Rolo snorted. “All those niggers you were busy hassling? You could forget just one. Maybe it slipped your mind, because all us niggers look the same.”

  “No,” I said, wondering where this was going but not liking it. “Like you said before, you’re pretty unforgettable.”

  Rolo broke into a smile, but it was insincere. “So I did. I did say that. Yes, I did.”

  He leaned back and gave a wave toward the bar. The old man who’d come in a few moments ago sauntered over. He held his hat in his hands in front of him.

  Rolo jerked a thumb in the man’s direction. “This here is George. Say hi to George, white boy.”

  I nodded to the old man.

  Rolo gave another small wave and a moment later, two more black guys appeared at the table. The larger of the two was even bigger than Rolo and he remained standing, his arms crossed like a bouncer. The other, only slightly larger than me, slid into the booth next to me, forcing me to scoot over. He grinned at me, revealing gold inlay on two of his upper front teeth.

  “You like my grill?” he said, false friendliness dripping from every word. He draped his arm along the back of the booth.

  “If it works for you,” I said, turning my gaze back to Rolo. He had the same friendly mask on his face. He glanced at the man next to me. “He strapped?”

  Grill ran his hands roughly down my sides and around my waist, jostling me in my seat. “Not unless it’s in his boots.”

  Rolo nodded, and turned back to me. “I can’t decide if you’re stupid enough to come in here strapped or stupid enough not to.”

  “I didn’t figure this was a discussion I needed a gun for,” I said.

  “No shit?” He motioned toward the old man. “How old do you figure George is?”

  I shrugged. “Sixty.”

  Rolo chuckled. “Sheee-it. Motherfucker is almost eighty. You believe that?” He shook his head. “Eighty. Spent his whole life right here in your All-American city. And you know what that makes him?”

  “A patriot?” I asked.

  Rolo snorted and shook his head. “No. It makes him better than the motherfuckin’ Internet, that’s what.” He looked at George. “Whatch you think, my man?” he asked, motioning toward me. “Was a cop, maybe ten years ago.”

  George turned his bleary eyes to my face. He looked at me, blinking and thinking.

  I felt sweat begin to trickle down the sides of my body. On the jukebox, the final strains of a horn solo ended and the piano took over again.

  Finally, after what seemed like an hour but couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds, George leaned down and whispered something in Rolo’s ear.

  Rolo nodded slowly, looking at me while he listened. When the old man finished, he smiled. “Go ahead and get whatever you want, George. On me.”

  The old man nodded his thanks and shuffled toward the bar.

  Rolo turned back to me. “You know, you’re right about something. We never met before. That is true as a motherfucker. But,” he tapped his temple, “I knew I recognized you from somewhere. I just couldn’t remember exactly where.”

  And now he has.

  Shit.

  “You’re pretty good, white boy,” Rolo said. “You had me going. You got what you wanted, fair and square.”

  “Then we’re done,” I said, shifting in my seat.

  Grill’s hand shot down and grabbed the nape of my neck. “You done when the man say you done, bitch,” he growled at me.

  Rolo’s expression didn’t change. “No, we ain’t quite finished. See, you got your end of the deal. I don’t know where Star is now, but I told you where she went. I kept my end of the bargain. But where’s your end?”

  “We discussed that,” I said. Adrenaline coursed through my body and my heart was racing. Meanwhile, Grill’s finger’s bit into my neck, full of wiry strength.

  “Yes, we did,” Rolo said, “But you, motherfucker, are in breach of contract. You know what that means?”

  “I know what it means, but I don’t see where—“

  Rolo held up his hand and Grill squeezed even harder. I stopped talking.

  “It means,” Rolo said, “that you’re trying to fuck me over here.” He leaned forward. “I know who you are now, bitch. You’re the one who shot Morris the Cat up north, way back in the day. Shoot-out at the OK Super Mart or whatever.”

  Fresh fear lanced through me.

  Rolo held up a finger, “Now, I don’t care about that gang-banging worthless shitbag, but this I do care about. You’re also that stupid mother fucker that let that little white girl die. You could’ve saved her and you fucked it all up.”

  My jaw clenched.

  “Tell me it isn’t you,” Rolo challenged. “Your lily white face was all over the TV and the newspapers both times. I remember.” He gestured toward the old black man at the bar. “George definitely remembers. So tell me it isn’t you.”

  I didn’t answer right away. Grill squeezed harder, pushing my face toward Rolo. “Answer the man!” he ordered.

  I tried to say something, but it came out a gurgle. Rolo waved at Grill and he let me go. Rolo waited a moment, then gave me an “answer the question” turn of his hand.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “I know it’s you,” Rolo said. “What I also know is there isn’t a pig on the entire force that doesn’t think that you are about the dumbest motherfucker that ever lived.”

  I didn’t argue. He was pretty close to right. Another shot of fear radiated sharply from my stomach out to my hands and feet. I wished again that I’d brought my gun.

  Rolo leaned in. “That means, there’s nobody you can call that’s gonna listen to one motherfuckin’ word you got to say, whether it’s about me and some sixteen-year-old bitch or how to turn apples into blowjobs.” He pointed at me, leaning back. “You’ve got nothing to trade me. And that is breach of contract.”

  “I gave you the fifty dollars,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

  “I told you, that was a tax.” Rolo shook his head at me. “You think you’re some kind of player? That you’d come in here, into my place and play me?”

  “I just wanted some inform—“

  Rolo looked up at the huge man next to the table. “Leon, if this cracker says one more thing inside this bar, you go ahead and bust a cap right in his fuckin’ face.”

  Leon nodded, his hand slipping inside his jacket.

  I shut up.

  Rolo pursed his lips and leaned in a final time. “Since you paid that tax and since that girl you let die wasn’t a little black girl, I’m gonna go easy on you. But don’t you ever come back in my place again. Now nod that you heard me.”

  I nodded.

  “Good.” Rolo leaned back and waved to Leon and Grill. “Now show this motherfucker out.”

  26

  Grill’s vise-like grip on my left upper arm and the back of my neck hauled me out of the booth. Leon lumbered behind us, his hand beneath his jacket. I’d expected us to go out the front, was actually looking forward to it, but Grill directed me toward the back of the bar and through the small pool room with a single table. We headed for an exit at the back of the room.

  My stomach clenched. This wasn’t a simple escort.

  Grill opened the door with my forehead. We burst out onto a narrow, gravel alley that ran parallel to Sprague. It was dark. The little warmth of the day had fled, leaving the air bitter. My breath plumed in front of me.

  With another hard shove, Grill flung me into the far wall o
f the alley. I turned and caught the brunt of the push on my right shoulder, my good one. I grunted and slid to the ground.

  “Get up, bitch,” Grill hissed at me.

  I stood up slowly, feigning that I was more hurt than I was. Leon remained in the doorway, his hand still beneath his jacket. Grill stood three feet away from me, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He held his hands up at shoulder level, his fists lightly clenched.

  “You better do what you can to stop me,” Grill said. “’Cuz I’m coming at you like a motherfucker.”

  I turned my body away from him, my stance bladed with my left foot forward. My hands came up all on their own, though it had been years since I’d done any training.

  Grill smiled, a hint of gold glinting in the light from the streetlight at the end of alley. “Bitch wants to play. Good.”

  He moved lightly to the left and right. I held my position, watching the center of his chest and gauging his movements. He was light on his feet and athletic. All the while, I was aware of Leon’s hulking frame in the doorway just ten feet away.

  Grill flicked out a left hand at my face. It was more of probe than a punch, and I brushed it aside. He smiled a little wider and continued to dance left and right. Another probing punch snapped out, then a third. I moved my head out of the way of both.

  His next punch had more conviction and even blocking it hurt my forearm. He followed up with a right that I ducked under. I realized too late that he was following through with a kick. His shin blasted into my upper leg, catching the nerve that runs beneath the muscle. I let out a cry of pain and fell to the ground hard.

  “Oh, yeah!” Grill said. “That shit hurts, don’t it?”

  I forced myself up onto all fours and spit dirt from my mouth.

  “Get back up,” he ordered. “Or I’ll kick you right there.”

  I stood up slowly, watching him out of my peripheral vision. My left leg throbbed and I tested it with a little weight. It wouldn’t hold much.

  Grill didn’t wait. He stepped through with another kick, this one drilling straight into my midsection and throwing me back into the wall. I saw it coming and exhaled at the last second, but it still hurt like hell. Both of my shoulder blades absorbed most of the collision, but my head snapped back a little, too, cracking it against the wall. My vision doubled for a second before sliding back into focus.

  I stood still, watching Grill dance on the dirty gravel. He raised his hands up in the air and glanced over his shoulder at Leon.

  “And the black man is the superior athlete!” he chanted like a manic, racist sportscaster. “He strikes back for four hundred years of oh-presh-un!”

  Leon’s flat eyes didn’t waver.

  Grill turned back to face me, stepping in and throwing a punch to my face. I moved to my right at the last second and he cracked his fist on the brick wall. He let out a cry of surprise and pain.

  Warmth had enveloped me, like it always did in battle. I delivered several short, quick blows to his belly, throat and nose while he was still yowling from punching the wall. Before he could recover from that or from my strikes, I slid behind him, snaked my arms around his neck and clamped down.

  I squeezed as tightly as I could, trying to put Grill asleep as fast as possible, before Leon could—

  Without warning, I was ripped from Grill and slammed to the ground. I started to get up, but Leon didn’t wait. He kicked me in the ribs, sending me sprawling. There was a shuffle on the gravel, then another kick, this one bouncing off my shoulder. When that kick didn’t move me, he followed with a third, this one low and below my ribs. A blinding white pain flashed through my head when that one landed.

  A moment of merciful silence followed, then someone grabbed a handful of hair and jerked my head up. The breath next to my cheek reeked of salami.

  “I should kill your white ass,” Grill said. He settled for punching me in the face with his free hand and letting my head drop.

  Grill grabbed the sleeve of my jacket and slipped it off of my arm. With one more hard yank, he pulled it off entirely.

  “That’ll be my tax,” he said.

  I thought they might leave me then, but Leon lifted me up by my belt with one massive paw. “You want to be leavin’ this muthafuckah,” he said, and shoved me down the alley.

  I staggered away, in perfect agreement.

  27

  I kept walking at the end of the alley. My leg hurt, my knee ached and I could feel blood on my face, but I knew that it was time to leave the entire neighborhood.

  The pain from my kidney throbbed, but it eased a little as I walked. I didn’t think Leon had done any permanent damage, though a guy his size could easily tear open a kidney with a kick like the one he laid into me.

  Thank God for small favors.

  The cold February night had me shivering less than a block away from the Hole. The thought of Grill wearing my coat sent a flare of rage through my chest, but I knew there was nothing I could do about it. Not now, anyway.

  Something good might come of it, I realized. If he showed Rolo the folded up file in the sleeve that Katie had given me, it might convince him that I actually do have friends on the department. That might buy me just a little protection.

  I checked my pockets as I walked. I still had my apartment key and my wallet. And Kris’s picture, still in my back pocket.

  Not a total loss. Just my jacket, Katie’s file and a few dollars in cash.

  Oh, yeah, I thought. And my pride. Don’t forget about that.

  I kept walking, rubbing my arms. Most of my pride was gone a long time ago.

  28

  I walked through one of the worst parts of River City, my arms wrapped around my chest and my limp more prominent by the block. I kept my head down and trudged forward, always forward.

  The hookers and dopers gave me little more than a casual glance as a customer. I saw them eye me up and down out of my peripheral vision. Once, a pair of kids, one white and one black, slipped in behind me for half a block before breaking off. I’m sure that they were thinking about mugging me. Maybe they sensed the brooding anger I was sending out in waves and changed their minds. More likely, they figured that a guy who couldn’t even afford a coat in February wasn’t likely to have more than pocket change.

  Twice, police cars rolled past me, but thankfully neither slowed or gave me more than a momentary glance. None stopped me.

  Slowly, those businesses with dark, recessed doorways filled with the piranhas, sharks and feeder fish gave way to more modern buildings. I walked on. A few more blocks and the same buildings were newer yet and had minimum-wage security types standing out front.

  One of them stood in front of a building full of law firms and insurance companies. He looked to be in his late forties, though he could have been older. He had no gray hair and that throws off estimates. His bushy mustache was a holdover from the Seventies. He wore a uniform shirt that was several shades of blue lighter than the police wore, but he sported a huge metal badge on the left chest of his open coat. His large belly sloped out beneath his badge.

  He followed me with his eyes as I approached, doing so in the blatant way that only someone with authority can do. My head ached from hitting the back of it on the alley wall, but I didn’t think my face was too bad. Mullet-man at the Flyers game had pummeled my left arm and Grill and Leon had done a number on my torso, but I believed my mug was mostly untouched. Then I remembered Grill punching me in the face after Leon used me for a football. There was probably a little swelling, maybe even a small cut I wasn’t noticing because of the cold. Great.

  The security guard opened his mouth to speak. I thought for sure that he was going to warn me away from the property he was entrusted to guard.

  Instead, he said, “You okay, man?”

  Surprised, all I could do was stare at him as I walked. That didn’t do much to convince him I was all right.

  “You ain’t got a coat?” he asked me, his eyes narrowing with concern.

&nbs
p; I slowed almost to a stop and managed to shake my head.

  He motioned toward my left leg. “Hurt your leg, too, huh?”

  I shook my head again and stammered, “Old injury.” It was hard to force my jaw open and speak. The words came out more like o-old-ld-d in-n-njur-re-rey. I came to a complete stop and shivered violently.

  “Holy cow, mister,” the guard said. “How long you been out in this cold?”

  I looked into his face. His question and his concern were honest enough, even though there was no reason he should care about me.

  “I walked in from The Hole,” I said, but through my chattering teeth and short breath, I might as well have been speaking Swedish or Swahili for all the sense I made.

  His eyes narrowed briefly at the mentioning of The Hole, but he shook it off. “It’s twelve degrees out here,” he said. “How much further you goin’?”

  “Browne’s Addition,” I stammered.

  He immediately shook his head. “Uh-uh. You’ll never make it. You’re damn near hypothermia as it is.”

  I stared at him stupidly.

  He removed a ring of keys from his belt. “C’mon,” was all he said, turning to the large glass front doors and unlocking one.

  When I didn’t move, he glanced over his shoulder at me. “My name’s Clell. You can warm up in here.”

  I stood in place, the violent shivers feeling more and more like epileptic spasms, especially now that I was no longer moving. Clell swept the door open and a gust of warm air washed out from the lobby of the office building. It was like Mexico inside there. I stood, unable to move despite the welcoming tropic air.

  Clell stepped forward and took me by the arm. “Easy now,” he said, guiding me toward the door.

  With his help, I limped inside.

  29

  Clell locked the doors behind us and motioned over to the corner of the lobby. A spartan desk stood there, partially obscured by a column. The only items on the desktop were a telephone and a notepad. My teeth chattered as we walked, my knee grinding like a rusty hinge. I had the perverse thought that if I wasn’t careful, I’d chop off my tongue with my incisors.