On the Ropes: A Duffy Dombrowski Mystery

by Tom Schreck

  Walanda’s neighborhood was always full of activity. It wasn’t all positive activity, but the idea that everything going on in the streets of urban areas is drug traffic, crime, or drug use is ridiculous. The street can be a wonderland of personal interactions, both positive and negative.

  Kids create playgrounds in their imaginations, using what the city has to offer for their amusement, and it seldom has to do with slides and swing sets. Mothers catch up on hairstyles, recipes, and childcare. Adolescents play hide-and-seek with their hormones as packs of girls and boys spy each other up and down the streets in coming-of-age rituals. Old folks go to church or go through their daily routines in the neighborhoods they’ve spent their whole lives in.

  A group of women were gathered three houses up from Walanda’s old place, chatting in a circle. Usually, when a white guy approaches a group of black people in an almost all-black neighborhood, there’s a guarded resistance and for good reason. White people usually mean police or some sort of other authority who seldom venture into these neighborhoods to pass out sweet potato pie. I had some slack because I was known as a decent guy who did social work and as a fighter. Most of the local boxers were brothers and I had some respect there as well.

  One of the three ladies was a recovering crack addict named Laila. I hadn’t been her caseworker, but I had run a few groups she was in and she liked me.

  “Hey Duffy,” Laila said. “What you doin’ out here in the hood?”

  “I wanted to see what I could find out about Walanda,” I said.

  Al jumped up her leg, getting about as far as her knee. Laila returned the affection. Clearly they were old friends.

  “That girl was a shame,” the woman to Laila’s right said. She was very dark skinned and had tight little braids in her hair. “Started to have it together and then lost it even worse. For real, she shoulda stayed in the Nation.”

  “You guys ever see her with somebody she shouldn’t have been with?” I asked.

  “That child never stopped bein’ with people she shouldn’t been with, Duff,” Laila said.

  “I guess that was a stupid question. Ever hear her talk about ‘Webster’ or ‘The Webster’?”

  “She went on and on about some ‘Webster’ taking her stepdaughter Shony for hoin’,” the third woman said. She was lighter skinned and freckled with a short and very wide nose. “I don’t know what that girl was talkin’ ’bout.”

  “Did you know what she was talking about?” I asked the darker woman.

  “Nah, that girl crazy from the crack.”

  “Anybody ever hear about ‘Webster’ or anybody like that pimping?”

  “All her men were pimps and she went on the street when she need to get high. Everybody know that,” said Laila.

  “Anything having to do with ‘Webster’?”

  “No,” the light-skinned woman said. “But there was one ugly white dude used to come ’round givin’ her crack. Big ugly-ass biker dude. They’d go for a ride or something. I don’t know if he was pimping her or what.”

  “I never heard no ‘Webster’ stuff,” the dark woman said.

  “Tell you what, though, that Shony a pretty girl,” said Laila. “Like a young Whitney Houston. She wasn’t Walanda’s, but Walanda loved her.”

  “Shony’s a good girl too. Sings in church, volunteers with the old folks, and gets good grades,” said the light-skinned woman.

  “That’s right. My gramma is in the county home, and Shony and the other church girls come sing for her every Sunday afternoon,” said the darker woman.

  “Duff, that girl was Walanda’s hope,” Laila said. “It was like Walanda was goin’ put every ounce of whatever positive she had left inside her for that child to make up for all of the years she’s done wrong.”

  “I think she was also givin’ Shony all the love that she lost when Benjamin was killed in that home,” the light-skinned woman shook her head. “That was a damn shame, him gettin’ murdered. Walanda ain’t never been right after that.”

  “Anyone know where Shony’s father is?” I asked.

  “Her natural father was that crackhead Bertrand. He ain’t around no more. Walanda was livin’ with Tyrone for a while with Shony,” Laila said.

  “Tyrone? That man is a stone-cold pervert,” said the dark-skinned woman.

  “Crackhead sell his mother for a rock. I heard he moved to the country or somethin’. That boy need to be locked up,” said the light-skinned woman.

  “He’s that bad?” I said.

  “Walanda was always afraid he’d turn Shony out,” the dark woman said. “He might too, if it meant getting’ his ragged ass some crack.”

  “Know if he did?”

  “Don’t think so. You know that Walanda was crazy like a fox sometime. She took a bread knife to him once. Cut up his ass good too,” said the dark woman.

  “And no one knows about ‘Webster’ except her going on about it?”

  The three of them shook their heads. I thanked them and headed back to the Eldorado. When we passed Walanda’s house, Al started for the porch and I had to tug him to come with me. He let out a couple of high-pitched whines and he reluctantly came along.

  That night I headed over to AJ’s. It was late and I guess I missed Kelley, but the Foursome were there.

  “I’m tellin’ ya,” Rocco said. “They had to wrap Dorothy’s tits in a big Ace bandage so her nipples wouldn’t show through in that scene with the Munchkins.”

  “The Munchkins were deathly afraid of nipples for some reason?” TC said.

  “You know, if you look close in that scene when the good witch is flying away and they’re all waving,” said Jerry Number Two, “they’re actually all giving her the finger.”

  “That’s because the good witch wouldn’t show her nipples,” said Jerry Number One.

  It was a shame to cut into such an intellectual debate, but I grabbed my Schlitz and went to talk to Jerry Number Two.

  “Hey, Jer.”

  “What’s up, Duff?”

  “You spend a fair amount of time on your computer, don’t you?”

  “I try to limit it to eight hours a day. That’s why I come here at night. I don’t want to burn myself out.”

  “What kind of stuff do you do all day?”

  “Depends on the day,” he sipped his Cosmopolitan. “Depends on what I’m working on.”

  Considering Jerry Number Two didn’t actually work, I found this statement a bit curious. Just the same, I had to respect the man’s sense of balance in his life.

  “I spend a lot of time chatting with other Trekkies and finding out where and when the conventions are. I play some online Dungeons & Dragons. A lot of time I spend looking up the family genealogy.”

  “Are you pretty good at finding things out using the computer?”

  “Depends what it is.”

  “I’m trying to find out something and I was wondering if you would help.”

  “Sure, Duff, I kind of like hunting for stuff. What are you looking for?”

  “That client of mine that got murdered, she said that the ‘Webster’ took her daughter. I also saw some women in the jail with spiderweb tattoos. I don’t know what it all means and it goes beyond my surfing abilities.”

  “Duff, that’s a pretty broad search. You have an idea what you think you’re going to find?”

  “I’m guessing something perverted. Prostitution, porn, something.”

  “I’ll give it a go. How will I know when I’ve found something?”

  “Just let me know if you find anything interesting.”

  “Porn and prostitution usually are interesting,” Jerry finished the Cosmo and called to AJ for another.

  “Hey, Jer, knock yourself out,” I said.

  I asked AJ to back all the boys up, and I headed to the Moody Blue. It was late, I was tired, and the Schlitzes had worn me down a bit. I wanted to get in bed. When I got to the Blue and pulled into my gravel driveway, I saw Lisa’s car. She was standing up, leaning agai
nst the driver’s door.

  “Duff, can we talk?” She had been crying.

  “I don’t know, Lis, it’s been a long day,” I said.

  “I think you owe me that,” she said with a touch of righteous indignation.

  I resisted addressing what I “owed” this woman who dumped me by leaving a message on my machine. Instead there was something else I wanted to know about.

  “What did you do to your hair?” She had a man’s crew cut. Her shoulder-length hair was gone.

  “I’m re-creating myself,” she said without the confidence that she should have had.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” Even as I asked it I regretted it.

  “Us,” Lisa looked down at her work boots, which I figured were another part of her ongoing re-creation. “I’m not sure I’m ready to let us go.”

  “Uh-huh …” I had no idea how to address that.

  “It’s just that, uh, I—”

  “I think it’s just that you ditched me and were real quick to point out my intimacy shortcomings.”

  “Duffy, I just don’t know what I need right now,” she had that fabricated look of urgency I’ve seen in women before. It comes after they break up with you and realize that being single isn’t all they dreamed of. The panic and the pleading come as a reaction to their loneliness. The problem is, it’s all about them. Once you go back with them, they return to where they were and soon you’re back to being the piece of shit you were before. I’ve seen it a lot.

  I didn’t say anything, I let the silence hang. I started to think about Trina the other night in the office. Now that was fun and in a sense more real than this bullshit. It was sex between two people who like each other a lot. No Hallmark bullshit, but no lying about “intimacy” and closeness. It was a hell of a good time.

  “Uh, Lisa,” I said. “I think you’re panicking because you’re lonely. I don’t want to play the ‘go away, come closer’ game. Not now, anyway. I think you should go with your first instincts.”

  I could have said it a lot harsher or a lot meaner, but I didn’t want to do that.

  “You’re an asshole,” she said. “You know that—you don’t know how good you had it with me.” There were no tears this time. This was the ranting of a little girl who didn’t get her way. I’d seen it before and sadly, I’d probably see it again. I’ve learned over the years that it’s best not to engage in it.

  “Good night, Lisa,” I said and headed toward the Blue.

  “Fuck you!” she screamed at me. It was getting ugly and honestly, a little hurtful. There wasn’t anything left to say.

  I heard her car accelerate on the gravel of my makeshift driveway. It had been a long day and I sat with Al on what was left of the couch watching the E! True Hollywood Story about how a bunch of childhood movie stars were now tortured by drug addiction. I had a Schlitz and thought about Lisa and a bit about Trina.

  Something told me that life wasn’t supposed to be about a bunch of shit that you couldn’t figure out. That maybe life was simpler than we made it and maybe that was the best way to live it.

  That’s as complicated as my thinking got. Next thing I knew, it was morning, Al was barking, and the TV had something on that was guaranteeing to rid your body of unwanted hair forever.

  16

  It was time to go back to high school, literally. I knew very little about Shony, and even though I suspected that her kidnapping had very little to do with anything she had done, I felt that it would make some sense to get to know what the kid was about. Shony went to McDonough High School, Crawford’s public school, which was located four blocks east of the county jail. That put it six or so blocks from The Hill, which meant it was pretty much a ghetto high school.

  I had gone to McDonough as did most kids who grew up within city limits back then. Today, the school was predominantly black and Latino, with various other minorities and the white kids making up the balance. Just about anyone with kids who could afford to headed for the “burbs” a long time ago. Most of the white kids with money either went to Central Catholic or to Crawford Academy, which built a new school just a hair within the city lines eight years ago.

  My high school years were marked by intense bouts of both anxiety and acne, though the two are probably not mutually exclusive. It was in high school that I found my way first to the karate academy and then to the boxing gym. I think I signed up for karate the day after the sixtieth time I got my ass kicked in a fight after somebody called me “pizza face” or said that it looked like I had an acid fire on my face and my mom put it out with my dad’s golf shoe. Today, I still carry a few acne scars on my cheeks that people just assume came from the ring, and if someone comments on them I don’t bother to correct them. Funny thing was that by the time I could kick somebody’s ass, I learned it wasn’t necessary to. That was the kind of effect Smitty had had on me.

  With twelve hundred students, McDonough was almost a city unto itself. Its gray bricks looked tired and dirty and the place always seemed to have a cloud over it. It was three floors and the classrooms had those tall windows divided by many panes. Graffiti was left to fade on the sides and back of the building because the city only really put an effort into cleaning off the front unless the writing was particularly vulgar. The first floor on top of the main staircase had the large suite of administrative offices where you were supposed to go and sign in and get some sort of badge before you visited. I didn’t feel like doing that so I hung out on the side of the building and waited for some truant to slip out around lunchtime so I could go in and trespass around school by myself.

  A friend of mine from the gym, Jamal, worked as a hall monitor and I thought he would be my first stop. Jamal was also a former member of the Nation of Islam, even serving in their elite Fruit of Islam paramilitary outfit. The FOI was sort of a force within the Nation and they provided security and bodyguards and stuff like that. Jamal left the Nation after a few years and though we never talked about it, I got the sense that he got to the point where he didn’t buy everything they were selling.

  I had to walk up to the third floor and go down the corridor a bit until I ran him down. He was in the process of throwing some sophomores out of the boy’s room for smoking.

  “Duffy.” Jamal smiled when he saw me. “What brings you here to my prestigious domain?”

  “I wanted to see the football coach. I still have four years of eligibility,” I said.

  “Shit, Duff, you know the Wind needs some speed on the gridiron. How you going to help with that?”

  “There you go with your racial profiling.”

  “No kidding, man, what’ya doin’ here?”

  “You know a girl named Shony?” I said. “Probably a freshman or sophomore. Her stepmom, Walanda, was one of my clients.”

  “Walanda Frazier, the woman who just got murdered in lockup?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She was a Muslim sister for a short period. I think her mental issues kept her from fully embracing Allah,” Jamal said.

  “That and the crack.”

  “Yeah, there was that,” Jamal said.

  “I got her dog now, Allah-King.”

  “Ol’ AK, huh.” Jamal smiled. “Dog as crazy as she was. You know he flunked out of the bomb-sniffing program?”

  “What?”

  “Oh yeah, for a while the Nation was training canines to sniff out explosives.”

  “How’d Al do?”

  “Not bad sniffing explosives.” Jamal paused and rubbed his chin. “Al’s problem was pissin’ and shittin’ on everything.”

  “Still is,” I said. “What about Walanda? Did you know about her relationship with Shony?”

  “Another Crawford tragedy. Shondeneisha Wright lived with her on and off. She’s a freshman, but she hasn’t been around in a while.”

  “What kind of kid is she?”

  “She’s one of the good ones, Duff,” Jamal said. “Respectful, don’t curse, don’t wear foolish-lookin’ belly shirts
and having all her business fallin’ out of her blouse. That girl is proper, like a throwback.”

  “Any idea what she was into?”

  “She’s quiet. I think she was church-goin’. She liked to sing, and I think she was even in one of the civic groups. Not sure how she got that way—that Walanda was a trip.”

  “Tell me about it. How’d you know about her mom?”

  “A couple times she came down here all raggedy-assed, cracked-up, making a scene. The kid was mortified. She was ashamed that she lived with her and made a big deal about saying she’d never be like that. It was the only time I heard the kid make a lot of noise.”

  “You know where I could find a teacher who really new her?”

  “Miss Hippenbecker was her homeroom teacher. She’s free this period. She’s in 206.”

  I thanked Jamal and headed to 206. I knocked lightly on the door’s opaque glass and let myself in. Behind an old wooden desk sat a fifty-something, rather fat woman in half glasses, reading an Oprah magazine and eating a Snickers bar.

  “Miss Hippenbecker?”

  “You’re supposed to have your guest badge. Have you stopped at administration?”

  “I—”

  “I don’t have time right now to go over any student report cards.” She laid the Oprah magazine down and continued to speak while she waved the half-eaten Snickers in her hand. “You really should make an appointment for a parent-teacher conference.”

  “I’m not a parent. My name is Duffy Dombrowski. I’m a counselor at Jewish Unified Services. Was Shondeneisha Wright in this homeroom?”

  “I’m not supposed to release that information.”

  “Yeah, but it has to do with her stepmother’s murder.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that.” She took a bite out of her Snickers. “Frankly, the kid’s better off. Her stepmom was worthless.”