Port City Black and White

by Gerry Boyle

  “No—listen. Question for you. You know Chantelle Anthony?”

  The woman looked at him warily. “The one with the baby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The jumper.”

  “Yeah, that one. You have kids?”

  A long pause, and then the woman said, “If we’re going to talk, can I get in? I’m freezing my ass off.”

  Brandon hesitated, then popped the lock. He took the gun, moved it to the other side of his seat. The woman opened the door, slung herself into the seat, her bag on her lap.

  “How ’bout some heat?” she said.

  He started the motor, turned the dial, cranked the fan. She sniffed. Flipped the visor down, snapped the mirror out. It was lighted. She tried to fluff her hair, dug mascara from her bag.

  “You mind?” she said.

  “No,” Brandon said. “Knock yourself out.”

  She did the left eye, then the right. When she was done she turned and looked at Brandon. “You’re pretty cute. You sure you don’t wanna—”

  “So, you have kids?” he asked again.

  The woman fell back, resigned. “Yeah. Two.”

  “How old?”

  “Eric is three and Marise is one.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “With my mom.”

  “Because you’re working?”

  “Just because.”

  “You ever worry about somebody stealing your kids?”

  She considered it. “Yeah. I mean, my mom, she’s all right, but she drinks pretty hard. Puts the old coffee brandy away.”

  “Who do you think would do that? Steal your kids.”

  The woman pulled at her skirt, rubbed a hand over her bare thighs, lifting her leg where it stuck to the leather seat. Brandon saw bruises, faint splotches in the dark.

  “You asking me?”

  “Yeah.”

  She thought, staring straight ahead. “I guess I think it would have to be somebody who didn’t have any,” she said.

  They sat, quiet for a moment.

  “And no chance of having any,” Brandon said.

  “Right. I mean, some seventeen-year-old, she don’t need my kids. She can crank out some of her own.”

  Another long pause, cars passing, tires hissing on the wet pavement. A cruiser crossed at State Street, bounced over the hump.

  “They never found that kid, huh?” the woman said.

  “No,” Brandon said.

  “But you’re working on it?”

  “Yeah.”

  A pause.

  “You want coffee? Warm yourself up?” Brandon said. “I’ll drop you.”

  “Sure,” the woman said.

  He dug in his jeans, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, handed it to her. She took it and tucked it deep in her bag.

  “Playing it a little close, aren’t you?” the woman said. “An off-duty cop, in a car with a”—she made the quotation-mark gesture with her fingers—“known prostitute? Handing her cash?”

  “Way I roll,” Brandon said, and he started the car and pulled away.

  Brandon dropped her at the Dunkin’ Donuts on Forest Avenue, gave her another $20 for a taxi before she got out. The guys sitting at the window counter eyed her, then Brandon, then the red Saab pulling away.

  He headed back downtown, deciding to give Big Liz another shot. If she showed him how the baby was burning a hundred feet under Longfellow Square, he’d know she was nuts and leave her alone. But what if she wasn’t totally nuts? What if there was a kernel of truth in what she was saying? Hell and burning, screaming babies.

  He was driving up Preble Street, soggy stragglers camped out on the sidewalk around the shelter. Brandon was thinking of what the woman had said. You steal a baby if you don’t have one. Or do you steal a baby because you know someone who doesn’t have one—and will pay?

  Lance, or any of the other crackheads, seeing the kid as a crawling, breathing, winning lottery ticket. But could they pull it off—not taking Lincoln, but passing him on?

  Brandon swung onto Congress, listening to the radio chatter—Dever with a DWI on Riverside, Perry back in South Portland, talking to their shift commander out by the shooting scene near the mall. And then Kat, back in service after a bathroom break. Brandon reached for the phone, felt it ring in his hand. Ready to say, Great minds think—

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Brandon,” a woman said. The sound of a car door closing. “It’s Lily.”

  “Hey.”

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “We need to talk. Where are you?” Lily said.

  “Congress. Downtown.”

  “Working?”

  “More wandering.”

  “Do you have a key to Mia’s? We can talk there.”

  “About?”

  “Different things. Mia. Important things.”

  “I’ll come to you,” Brandon said.

  “No, I’ve been cooped up with people all night. Big party at the restaurant. I’ll just walk over.”

  “You sure?” Brandon said, but Lily didn’t answer.

  Brandon drove down Morning Street, slowed when he could see Mia’s building, big and square and plain, the lamps glowing in her apartment windows like it was a lighthouse.

  He pulled over. Parked. Killed the lights. Watched and waited. A tipsy couple walked by under the shade trees, the woman leaning on the guy for support. Was this whole city drunk?

  Two guys in baggy shorts, sideways hats, came toward the Saab. Slowed. He tensed, held the gun low. They looked at Brandon, he looked back.

  They kept walking.

  Brandon laid the Glock down, started the car. He pulled out and drove slowly past the building, nobody showing. He circled the block, down to the Prom and back around. A woman was walking a small black dog, a baggie in her hand, the dog sniffing each slat on a fence.

  And then Brandon was back.

  He parked in the street. Shut off the motor and waited. After a minute, he got tired of waiting and got out, stood by the car in the shadows. He was fishing in his jeans pocket for the key when Lily appeared beside him.

  “Hey,” she said. She smiled, snuggled into him, then fell away. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We were so worried.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  “Thank goodness,” Lily said, and she gave him a quick hug. They turned and she tugged his arm as she led him to the door on the driveway side. Brandon opened the outside door and they moved into the landing, the staircase dark. She reached around his waist, felt the Glock sticking out of his jeans.”

  “Whoa. That kind of startled me.”

  “Never leave home without it,” Brandon said.

  “Really?” Lily said.

  He patted along the wall, found the switch. The light glared. They started up, Lily first. She was wearing black jeans, a black blouse, her hard back showing, buttocks snapping from side to side. She walked like a runway model, Brandon thought, something provocative about it.

  The hallway was dank, stuffy. On the second floor there were two mountain bikes, seats removed. The third floor: a ski rack, a snowboard, Mia’s hiking boots covered with mud. Lily turned and Brandon stepped in, opened the inside door.

  “You smell like cheap perfume,” Lily said.

  “A hooker on Park Street,” Brandon said.

  “Really?”

  “I talked to her. About the baby.”

  “I was going to say—” Lily said, and she stepped inside, flicked on a lamp. The front room was lifeless, silent, like the people who lived there had died. The windows were shut and the air was tepid and dense, made Brandon want to take a deep breath.

  Lily closed the door, started toward the back of the apartment. She took Brandon’s arm, said, “Stay with me.”

  They started for the kitchen, Lily leading the way, then turned right toward the bedrooms. The guestroom door was open, and Lily started to tow Brandon in.

  He stopped
, she turned.

  “Don’t you know how much I’ve wanted you?” Lily said. “Can’t you tell, Brandon?”

  “Whoa, wait a second,” Brandon said.

  “Just kiss me once. Mia will come back, I’ll go home with Winston. It will be our little secret. Don’t you feel anything toward me, Brandon? I feel like you do. I know it. Women can sense these things. If we’d met in different circumstances—who knows?”

  “Lily, I don’t think this is a good idea at all.”

  “One kiss. Just one and we’ll know how good an idea it is.”

  She stretched out her arms, moved toward him, and wrapped her arms around his neck, her hands clasped. “Who cares about a kiss? It’s not like—”

  Brandon’s phone rang in his pocket, a persistent buzzing. Lily laughed, swinging him toward the doorway. “Is that a phone in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?”

  He ducked, said to Lily, “Just a sec,” got the phone out. Said, “Yeah.”

  “Blake. Chooch.”

  “Hi. What’s happening?”

  Lily was nuzzling him, her tongue flicking across his neck. Still trying to pull him into the bedroom, the big bed.

  “You got some stuff over the fax. Didn’t know when you’d be in. Mr. Investigator.”

  “Really.”

  “Calling to give you a word to the wise. Perry, he’d be fried. And you’re in deep enough, my friend.”

  Lily kissed his neck, put her tongue in his ear.

  “This a bad time, Blake?”

  “No. It’s fine.”

  Another nuzzle. He pushed her away.

  “Stuff is from the cruise ship people. Lists of names.”

  “Right.”

  “Didn’t know when you’d be in, with everything that’s happening.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “But I was just looking at it. For shits and giggles, you know? See who goes on these things.”

  “Yeah, I was curious—”

  “Even a few from Maine. You live in Maine, you go on a cruise to Canada? I mean, hello. The other way is south. It’s warm down there.”

  “It does seem sort of—”

  Lily pulled harder and Brandon took two stumbling steps over the threshold to the bedroom. Sensed something, smelled something.

  “You know the lady from the home-invasion thing was on that one? Yeah. Lily Lawrence. Eastern Prom. The lady who shot the guy?”

  Brandon lowered the phone, flung Lily backwards onto the bed. “What the hell—”

  The door crashed behind him, an arm wrapped around his neck, Brandon’s phone clattering to the floor. He clutched at the arm, Lily saying, very calmly, coming off the bed, “He’s got a gun. Back of his waist.”

  The other arm, big and strong, wrapped around Brandon’s chest, pinned his right. A grunt. “Mine’s in front. Get it.”

  Winston.

  Brandon kicked back, jammed his running shoe hard onto Winton’s insteps, stomped again and again, the three of them circling, Lily trying to get between them, to get the Glock.

  The arm squeezing Brandon’s neck like a python, Brandon forcing his chin down, sinking his teeth into Winston’s forearm, taste of salt and blood, Winston grunting, Lily saying, still calmly, “Hold him still.”

  “No,” Brandon bellowed, and the arm came up from his neck, covered his mouth. He felt Lily’s hand sliding in between them, two guns there, and he threw an elbow, caught her in the neck, slammed her backwards.

  Lily was up, gasping, clutching at her throat, then back to the floor, coming up with a white trashbag, a red tie showing. She opened it, started at Brandon like she was catching butterflies, the bag aimed for his head. She was muttering through clenched teeth, “You bastard—try to hit me.”

  Brandon and Winston spun aside, slamming the door, crashing onto the bed. Winston was underneath, legs over the edge, and Brandon punched him twice in the groin, felt the arm go slack, twisted loose.

  He reached for his gun, but it was gone. Saw the phone on the floor, ducked for it as Lily lurched with the bag. Said, “Chooch, Chooch,” but the call had broken off.

  And then the bag was over his face, his head, Winston pulling at him, the plastic sucking into his mouth. Brandon panicked, thrashed, felt Lily’s knuckles pressing into his neck as she held the bag tight. He turned and they came with him, the three of them crashing to the floor, Brandon shaking his head, tearing at the bag with his teeth.

  He felt the phone underneath him, pressed it to the bag. Shouted, “Lily and Winston. Trying to kill me. Lily Lawrence.”

  They were on his back, crushing him down, clawing for the phone. He lost it underneath him, clawed at the bag, someone yanking the ties tight. Tried to inhale, got a mouth full of plastic. Tried again, still nothing, no breath.

  He was suffocating. He felt the phone underneath his belly, got it up to his face, screamed through the bag, “Morning Street. Twenty-seven. The top.” Once. Then again.

  And then, “Officer needs assistance.”

  And then they were grabbing for the phone again, so they let go of the bag and his arms, and he tore at the plastic, ripped a hole with his fingers, gasped as the cool air rushed in.

  He jammed his elbows back, caught Lily in the chest, kicked at Winston, rolled away, dove into the space between bed and wall.

  A shot. He crawled, yanked the bag down to his neck, another shot. Felt under the bed, saw the Glock. He squirmed, lunged for it, it slid away. Another shot, ears ringing, the smell, but he was still moving, reaching for the gun, feeling the barrel with his fingertip, scratching it closer. Closer.

  On his back, he fired through the mattress, then at the moving feet. Heard Winston gasp. Another shot through the mattress at him, hammering the floor.

  Heard a siren.

  “They’re coming,” Brandon yelled.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Winston said.

  “Shoot him,” Lily said. “Just shoot him.”

  “I’m out,” Winston said, and Brandon heard the door rattle open, his footsteps in the hall. And then hers.

  And then the siren, a MEDCU unit, loud, louder, then fading into the distance.

  Brandon was on his feet, found the phone, and called. He heard Chooch put the call out as he ran down the hall, clattered down the stairs and out.

  He ran to the corner, looked down the street toward the Prom. Nothing. Ran back, gun low. Looked the other way, nothing, just darkness and shadow. Then movement in a car, an SUV at the curb. In a crouch, Brandon ran toward it, put the gun at the window. A white guy with a beard turned, eyes bugging out.

  Brandon ran on. It was quiet, and then there was a noise in the distance, building like a storm.

  Sirens, the whoosh of V8s, tires squealing. And then there were cruisers, Perry in his SUV, cars pulling up, pulling away, searching for a tall black man, slender white woman with short dark hair, in a silver Mercedes SUV or a dark green Land Rover.

  Perry told Brandon to stay put. Brandon wiped the blood on his shorts, said, “I’m fine. I can help.”

  “Full felony stop,” Perry was saying. He looked at Brandon, who said, “At least one handgun. I think they killed somebody, so nothing to lose.”

  Kat figured they’d go north on the interstate, get out of Portland, then get off and head west. Cumberland. Windham, Naples. Get off in the boonies and hide.

  “They’ve got no chance,” Kat said.

  “That’s what makes them so dangerous,” Brandon said. “Everything coming apart. May want to take a few cops with them.”

  They had just crossed onto Washington Avenue, headed west. State and county units were converging, an off-duty Marine Patrol cop asking for somebody to read her the plate numbers again.

  Chooch did, then called Kat, asked for a return on the cell. Kat called and Chooch said, “Blake with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “We got Big Liz going bonkers, Granite Street, waking everybody up. Screaming that she has to talk to Blake. I mean, I kno
w everybody’s tied up. Just ship her?”

  Kat looked at Brandon.

  “Big Liz is flipping out. Wants to talk to you.”

  “Where?”

  “Granite.”

  Brandon thought for a moment, said, “You can drop me.”

  The headlights picked up Big Liz sitting on the street in front of 317, her cart overturned, cans and bottles and books and papers spilled onto the pavement. There was a Honda racer pulled up crookedly, doors open, music thumping.

  “Crazy fucking bitch,” the kid with the car—hat on sideways, shorts down low—said to Brandon. “Ran right out in front of me. Coulda run her ass down, crazy old skank.”

  Brandon showed his badge, said, “Watch your mouth. Shut off the music. Move the car.”

  “Hey, I was just—”

  “Now,” Brandon barked.

  The kid moved, the music stopped, the car started, motor revving. Brandon and Kat moved to Big Liz, splayed in the gutter. One of her high-tops was off, her foot blue-red with sores and veins, scrapes on top.

  “You okay?” Brandon said.

  “Why me, Blake? Why they makin’ me do it?’

  “Do what, Lizzie?” Kat said.

  “Making me listen. I say, ‘Burn me, you bastards. Leave him alone.’”

  “Who?” Brandon said. “The baby? Are they burning the baby?”

  “Feet to the fire, Blake. Oh, the poor little thing. The poor thing.”

  She started to cry, then to cough, a harsh hack.

  “Where?” Brandon said.

  Big Liz looked at him, her nose running, cheeks shiny with tears.

  “Can’t you hear it, Blake? Can’t you hear it?”

  Kat turned to Brandon and said, “Let’s ship her. They’ll sedate her.”

  Brandon put a hand up, one finger. “Wait.”

  “Can you hear it now, Liz?” he said.

  She closed her eyes. The bystanders had moved closer and a kid said, “She’s nuts.”

  Kat turned, shooed them back. “Nothing here for you. Show’s over.”

  Brandon crouched by Big Liz, close to the smell of her. Her eyes were closed, her mouth hung open. Suddenly her eyes snapped open.

  “There,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Can’t you hear him, Blake? Can’t you hear him crying?”

  Brandon listened. Nothing. Lizzie twisted herself onto her hands and knees and began to crawl, out of the gutter, onto the sidewalk.