Pernicious

by Henderson, James

  A long moment she stared at the checks, each stamped INSUFFICIENT FUNDS, each written to a sweepstakes clearing house.

  Neal!

  “I understand,” Captain Simmons said, “an officer’s pay will not put you on the road to riches, though I seriously doubt you’ll get rich via sweepstakes.”

  She started to explain and he cut her off. “I expect my officers to maintain a high moral standard and uphold a reasonable level of personal responsibility--especially officers vying for a position on my vice squad. I don’t want to see these blatant misdemeanors on my desk again, is that understood?”

  She felt ill. “Yes sir.”

  That evening she went home and calmly explained to Neal that he was to consult her before writing a check. She even graphically illustrated on paper that if the money in the account was less the amount written on the check, the difference would be an overdraft. Satisfied that Neal understood, she thought no more about it.

  Three weeks later, Captain Simmons summoned her to his office again.

  This time without professional courtesy.

  “You must be hard of hearing!” he said, tossing a sheet of paper her way. It drifted to the floor and she picked it up. Another photocopy of overdrafts. Four!

  “We will not have this conversation again,” Captain Simmons said. “The next damn time I see a sheet of hot checks with your name on them, slide your badge under the door and keep walking! Do you understand?”

  She mustered enough energy to nod her head.

  “Now get out my damn office!”

  She hurried out, went to her car, and made it to her apartment in record time. Neal lay on the floor in front of the television, snoring loudly. His checkbook was on the coffee table. She picked it up, stepped over Neal and went into the kitchen.

  She placed the checkbook on the stove and turned the burner on. Melting plastic dripped into the heating coil well and acrid smoke filled the kitchen.

  “What’s that burning?” Neal said.

  “Your checkbook.”

  “Yeah, right.” He stepped into the kitchen. “Give it to me!”

  “I burned it. Don’t you smell it? I told you to consult me before writing a check and you disregarded that.”

  Neal crossed his arms and glared at her. “I’m going to take a shower. When I get out, my checkbook better be on the table where I left it.”

  “It’s gone, Neal. I burned it.”

  “Then you better grow me one!” Neal shouted, and then went into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Tasha stood there staring at the melting plastic, wondering if Neal had lost his hot-check-writing mind.

  Does he really think he can lounge around all day doing nothing but bouncing checks and jeopardizing my job?

  In their two-year-old marriage this was the angriest she’d seen him.

  I’m not the one to be pushed around, threatened…I’m

  not the one!

  Tasha went into the bedroom, retrieved a key from atop the dresser, unlocked the red trunk at the foot of the bed, took from it a metal safe deposit box, dialed the combination and opened it.

  Inside were a 38 Midnight Special, which her father had given her upon graduation from the Academy, a 9mm Glock, a mace bottle and a Taser stun gun, which LRPD had issued.

  Briefly she considered the mace: effective but messy; and if she maced Neal, she’d be the one washing the stuff off his face.

  She picked up the Taser; it looked like a stapler with teeth. Unlike the mace, she’d never used the Taser, yet knew it packed one helluva jolt. She went into the hallway and waited for Neal.

  Minutes later he came out, still looking peeved, a white towel wrapped around his midriff. He passed by her not noticing her hands were behind her back and went into the living room.

  He quickly returned. “What the hell did I tell you? I tell you to do something, dammit, I mean for you to do it!” She could smell Scope, its minty freshness slapping her with each word. “You think I’m playing with you, don’t you?” His hands were to his sides, clenched. “Put my checkbook back on the damn table! Now!”

  “I burned it, Neal.”

  His hand went up, opened palm, as though to slap. Bad move.

  Tasha pointed the Taser and pulled the trigger. Two barbed probes attached to a thin wire shot out and caught Neal’s stomach, just above and a little to the right of his belly button. Later she would wonder if Neal was only feigning to hit her; he was moving rather slow.

  Neal screamed, “Aaaaaaaughh!” grabbed his stomach with both hands and jerked his left knee up. It looked as if he were preparing for a high dive. Then he fell on the floor, face first.

  “What were you saying, Neal?” removing the probes. “Did I think you were playing? No, I didn’t. You weren’t playing, were you?”

  Of course, Neal said nothing; he just lay there, as though he’d suddenly decided to nap on the floor in the middle of the hallway. She stepped into the bedroom and returned the Taser to the trunk.

  “That’ll teach him to try that Ike Turner crap with me,” she said to herself. “He’ll think long and hard the next time.”

  Back in the hallway she was shocked to discover Neal still lying there.

  Somewhat frightened, she said, “Neal…!” Tugging his shoulder: “Neal!…Neal…!”

  No response.

  She shook him. “Neal, Neal!…Neal, get up!”

  Bordering panic: “Neal, are you all right?” No response. She checked his pulse, good, his breathing, normal.

  Why is he unconscious? A stroke?

  She told the 911 operator that she had discovered her husband unconscious, which, in a way, was true.

  Two paramedics rushed in carrying medical supplies.

  “Where’s the victim?” one asked.

  Tasha led them into the hallway.

  “What happened?” the other asked.

  “I found him there.”

  “What’s his name?” checking Neal’s pulse.

  “Neal Montgomery.”

  “Any history of heart attacks, strokes, drug use?”

  “No. Not that I’m aware of.”

  “His pulse is good. Neal? Neal…what’s the matter, big fellow?”

  Still no response.

  Wearing latex gloves, the paramedic passed a strip of smelling salts under Neal’s nose. “Neal?”

  Immediately Neal reacted, pushing the man’s hand away.

  “What’s the matter, Neal?”

  Neal, dazed, pointed at Tasha. “She did it!” his voice slurred.

  “What she do to you, Neal?”

  Neal closed his eyes. “She shot me!”

  “You’re not shot, Neal.”

  Rubbing his chest and stomach, Neal said, “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. You wanna go to the hospital? It’ll be a good idea to let them check you out.”

  Neal shook his head.

  An uniform stuck his head inside the doorway. “What’s the problem?”

  The two paramedics stared accusingly at Tasha. She flashed her badge. “My husband.”

  They helped Neal to his feet. “What she do to you?” the paramedic persisted.

  Neal shuffled toward the living room. “I’m not sure. She did something. It hurt like hell. We were arguing. I think she shot me with a rubber bullet.” He leaned toward the couch and collapsed into it.

  The uniform, who she didn’t know, took out his notepad. “Did you?”

  Tasha gave him an incredulous look.

  “You want to file charges?” he asked Neal.

  Neal stared blankly at the television, a lady jumping up and down after winning the grand showcase on the Price Is Right. “No,” he mumbled, sounding as if about to cry.

  The uniform lingered behind after the paramedics left, said he wouldn’t write this one unfavorable to Tasha and suggested she seek marriage counseling.

  Tasha, as expected, slept alone that night. The following morning she was shocked to find Neal still sitting on the
couch, in the same position, the same white towel wrapped around his waist, the same glum expression painted on his face.

  Neither Neal or she spoke as she prepared for work. When she came home that evening, Neal was still there, in the same spot. She looked into the garbage pail, an empty can of Campbell’s Chicken Soup.

  He’s faking.

  Lazy rascal had her worried all day she’d somehow messed up his nervous system.

  Tasha sat up in bed, thought to go in the kitchen and fix herself something to eat. But the memories, seemingly yesterday, made her tired. She lay down. Thank God, Derrick wasn’t born yet. Then again, the incident prompted Derrick. After receiving 50,000 volts, Neal lost his swagger. Actually he acted if he were neutered. No more shouting, no more threats--and definitely no more hot checks.

  And no more passion…in bed or otherwise.

  Why in the world did I think a baby would rekindle the flame, or at least motivate Neal to get serious about finding and keeping a job?

  * * * * *

  The next day, Tasha awoke with Perry Davis on her mind. She’d had a nightmare in which she and a faceless woman, whom she was sure was Perry Davis, fought viciously on a rooftop.

  She couldn’t recall what ignited the fight, though clearly remembered the woman standing over her with a large rock, the woman calling her names, the woman grunting as she lifted the rock overhead--then she woke up, sweating.

  Tasha showered, fixed herself a breakfast consisting of Fruit Loops and a Pop Tart, and turned the television on. Unlike Neal and Derrick, she rarely watched the tube. She surfed to a Soul Train rerun and watched dispassionately as beautiful young women danced in sync to the music.

  If she looked that good, that trim, she wouldn’t be wiggling her wares on TV; she’d be at a country club…Doing what? Shaking my money-maker in front of geriatric sugar daddies? I don’t think so!

  That had to be what Perry Davis was thinking when she invested her interest in Tyrone Banks.

  “Make that money, girlfriend! Damn decency and self-respect--make that money!”

  If Tyrone was generously sprinkling the sugar, why did she kill him? He had a heart condition and was getting long in the tooth, and they didn’t have a prenup. Why kill him?

  Why the rush?

  She called the station and asked a detective to retrieve and relay her notes in her desk. She wrote down Shirley Banks’ phone number and address.

  Saturday, her scheduled day off, but instead of piddling around all day doing nothing, she would work on a case that she knew might never see the light of day in a courtroom.

  Dressed in blue jeans, a blue-and-white blouse and soft-white tennis shoes, Tasha steered her car past Central High School, the legendary high school made famous during the late fifties when then-Governor Orval Faubus refused admittance to nine African American students. Back then the neighborhood was mostly white. Now it was predominately black.

  Tasha slowed down, remembering Mrs. Banks had said that her recently painted green house was a rock’s throw from the high school.

  Mrs. Banks hadn’t sounded concerned when Tasha told her she had questions regarding her husband’s death.

  Asked when would be a good time to talk, Mrs. Banks said, “Today. Tomorrow, next month,” her voice slurred and disjointed. Tasha wondered if she was intoxicated.

  Tasha stopped her Honda Accord in front of a lime-green, single-story house, which, despite its unusual color, was one of the better kept homes in the neighborhood. She got out, crossed to the front door and rang the doorbell.

  “Come in.”

  “Detective Tasha Montgomery,” tentatively entering the house, not wanting to surprise anyone.

  A shirtless teenager reclined in an Lay-Z-Boy with his legs draped over the armrest, watching a video where three young men, also shirtless, cruised in a convertible.

  “Hello, I’m Detective Montgomery. Is Mrs. Banks in?”

  The teenager focused on the television. Tasha repeated the question.

  With his left foot, he gestured toward the hallway.

  A voice from that direction: “Who’s at the door, Donny?”

  “A detective.” He sat up straight and pointed a remote at the television: Gilligan running from the Skipper. “She’s looking for you.”

  “Tell her to come back here in the kitchen.” The voice rose sharply: “And didn’t I tell you to get up and go cut the grass!”

  He got up, grumbled something and stomped out the door.

  Tasha could smell greens cooking.

  “Come back here,” said the voice.

  Tasha crossed a hallway, past a bathroom and into the kitchen area. There, three women of various ages sat around a dinette table.

  “Hello,” Tasha said. “I’m Detective Montgomery.”

  The oldest-looking of the three stood up. “Damn, girlfriend. I thought you were white on the phone. You sure sounded white, had me fooled.”

  “Mrs. Banks?” Tasha said.

  “I better be,” the woman said, grinning. “I’ve been cashing all her checks.”

  The other two women laughed, somewhat nervously, Tasha thought. “Mrs. Banks, is this a good time for you? I can come back another time.”

  “Naw, girl. This is a good time as any. Uh…” She paused, fingering an earlobe. “Uh, it wouldn’t bother you if we continue playing cards, would it?”

  “No, it wouldn’t. I’m a guest in your home.”

  The other two women cast furtive glances at Mrs. Banks. “Uh…we’re sorta playing for money. Just a friendly game of tonk. We talk a lot of shit. We don’t get mad, stab and shoot each other--not yet at least. Do you mind?”

  Tasha shook her head. “It wouldn’t bother me.”

  That said, a deck of cards suddenly appeared on the table, along with a half-gallon of Gibley’s Gin, a quart of orange juice and three money purses.

  Mrs. Banks, a cigarette dangling from her lips, started shuffling cards.

  Tasha observed her: hair, dark and thick, uncombed, spilling past her broad shoulders. She had a manly face, square chin, high cheekbones, broad nose and piercing brown eyes. When she talked, her mouth slanted, as if she were attempting to throw her voice.

  “You want to play a hand or two?” she asked Tasha.

  “No thanks,” Tasha said. Still, Mrs. Banks dealt her five cards.

  “Wait a minute,” Mrs. Banks said. “You haven’t been properly introduced yet.” She touched the shoulder of the woman to her left. “This my neighbor, Joanne.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Joanne said.

  “And big mama here,” Mrs. Banks said, indicating the heaviest and youngest of the three, “is Kimberly Banks, my favorite sister-in-law.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Kimberly said. To Mrs. Banks: “When I hit you, you’ll never talk out the side of your mouth again. I’m not fat!”

  “Ain’t she fat, Detective?” Mrs. Banks asked.

  The three women sat there, waiting for her to respond.

  Yes, she’s fat--why you asking me? You don’t need a detective to figure that out.

  “Ain’t she?” Mrs. Banks insisted.

  “Well…” Tasha said, looking for an exit. “Are you also related to Tyrone Banks?”

  “She’s his baby sister,” Mrs. Banks answered.

  “I can speak for myself, Shirley. Yes, Tyrone is my brother.”

  “Now let’s play cards,” Mrs. Banks said. “Hey, wait a minute! There’s only fifteen dollars here. Somebody’s not up.” All three women stared at Tasha.

  “Guess it’s me,” Tasha said. “How much are you playing for?”

  “Five dollars a game,” the women chorused. Kimberly added: “No extra rounds on hits, and if you go down and get caught, that’s double.”

  Tasha held up a wrinkled fifty-dollar bill. “Can anyone change this?”

  “Lay it out there,” Kimberly said. “Money will change itself.”

  Since when? Tasha thought, tossing the bill on the table.

  Mrs. B
anks won the first three games, and Tasha said nothing as the woman debated how much she had in her fifty-dollar bill.

  As Kimberly dealt the fourth game, Mrs. Banks got up and retrieved a mason jar from the cabinet. She placed it in front of Tasha.

  “Say when,” she said, pouring gin.

  “Ma’am,” Tasha said, the glass filling more than half full. “When!”

  “Well,” Mrs. Banks said, resuming her seat, “what you want to know ’bout Ty?”

  Tasha glanced uneasily at Joanne and Kimberly.

  “Never mind them,” Mrs. Banks said. “Everybody already knows everything there is to know. No secrets here.”

  Tasha sipped her drink. Too strong. “Ma’am, forgive me if I’m being forward. Your husband’s death was in part attributed to the drug Sildenafil. Do you have any idea where he got this drug?”

  Mrs. Banks, mouth agape, stared at Tasha. Turning to Kimberly: “Didn’t I tell you she talk like a white woman?”

  Tasha sipped her drink again. “Ma’am, it’s important. If we can determine where your husband got this drug, we may be able to determine whether or not foul play was involved.”

  “Hell,” Mrs. Banks said. “I can tell you what killed him. A low-down, dirty skank named Perry Banks. That’s what killed him. Don’t waste your time looking for a drug. Perry Banks killed him. Years ago I was begging you people to arrest her, and y’all wouldn’t listen. Now, just when everybody is starting to accept what happened, here y’all come asking questions.”

  “Check yourself,” Kimberly said.

  “I apologize,” Mrs. Banks said. “I didn’t mean to sound like it’s your fault. I just get upset thinking ’bout it, you know. If it was some white woman’s husband, it would’ve been different. The trial would be over and the low-down skank would be in jail. Me? A nappy-headed black woman? Uh-uh! One of your people told me to get a life. I went down to the station--me and Kimberly--and told the man what I knew was true. He said, ‘Get a life.’ Didn’t he, Kimberly?”

  Kimberly nodded.

  “You know I was married to Ty twenty-nine years. Twenty-nine years. Bam! A koochie mama pops up and snatches him away from me. Of course, I couldn’t blame him. He’s a man, couldn’t help himself. What man could resist something like her. Young, gorgeous, sexy--everything I ain’t. She probably did stuff to him I wouldn’t dream of--”