The Policeman's Daughter

by Trudy Nan Boyce

  Salt, running the routine, radioed Pepper. “3306 to 3307, come on in.” The pressure was working on Lil D but it was too late for him to leave cool, his timing was off and he had to protect the dope. Pepper pulled up and was quickly out of his car, moving toward Lil D. They hemmed him in between the building, their cars, and themselves.

  Lil D said, “You got nothing in that bag, ’less you took it back there with you.”

  Salt responded, “But you don’t know, do you, Lil D.”

  Pepper: “Get your hands on the car.”

  Lil D appealed to Salt. “You always been straight, now you plantin’ dope on folks? What’s up with you?”

  She stepped toward him. “Put your hands on the car.”

  Outmaneuvered, Lil D assumed the position, hands on top of the cruiser, legs spread. She patted him down, ignoring what felt like a small bag of weed in his right pants pocket. She leaned close and told him quietly, “A little bit there, huh, Lil D?”

  “You ain’t got no charge to take me. You can’t do this, man.” Lil D knew the rules of probable cause as well as any defense attorney. He had been arrested and through the system many times for minor stuff. But he had never done more than a few months.

  “Get in the car,” Salt said, opening the back door of the cruiser.

  Pepper stepped closer, his six-foot-plus frame diminishing the slight dope boy.

  “Man,” said Lil D, getting in the car.

  Salt shut the door and Lil D leaned his forehead against the backseat cage. As they moved out of his hearing, Pepper asked, “You want me to hang around?”

  “No, I’m just going to talk to him. Ask some questions about how he got all those fresh clothes, what he knows about who Shannell was hanging with before she was killed. Then I’ll turn him loose.”

  “Homicide’s working Shannell. They don’t need you messing around in that.”

  “It’s my beat. I don’t like folks getting murdered on my beat.”

  “You keep messing with these dope boys, they’re gonna make things even more rough for you out here.”

  “It’s my beat. I’ll raise you after I let him go,” Salt said, turning to get in her car.

  With Lil D protesting, Salt left the parking lot, drove a couple of blocks, and turned into the drive of the elementary school that served The Homes. Spacious frontage and playgrounds put acres between the school and the apartments. Around back was dark except for one dim bulb above a steel-bolted door. Lil D asked, “What we doin’ here?”

  Salt stopped the car, put it in park, turned around, and faced Lil D through the metal screen. “I could have stood around at Sam’s trying to ask you about your mom’s murder. Would you have talked to me in front of your boys? I could have asked you about your new clothes. Would you have talked to me? This way they don’t see you talking to me.”

  “I ain’t got shit to say to you anyway. I ain’t got to answer. Ain’t no crime to have new clothes.” Lil D’s face in the low light was shadowed through the latticework steel. He avoided looking at her and instead kept his head turned toward the dark side of the car.

  “You’re right, but it is a crime what you do to get those clothes, and even if you don’t believe me I do want to find out who killed Shannell. Your mother probably died because of dope, yet you’re out here slinging.”

  “I ain’t talkin’ to you about my business and you can go ax Big D ’bout who killed my mom,” he said, gritting his teeth, breathing heavy, and for once looking at her.

  “And how do I find Big D?”

  “I don’t give a shit. You the poleese.”

  The minutes clicked by and the car air conditioner began to fail, putting out a powdery odor. Sometimes she thought of her police car like a church, or a confessional.

  Lil D said, “Let me out or take me to jail.”

  Radio was dispatching and asking for units to clear for backed-up calls. She couldn’t keep sitting there, hoping that Lil D wasn’t too far gone.

  How long? she wondered.

  She could just add Mother’s Day to a mental calendar on which the holidays were blighted: malnourished children at Thanksgiving, mothers robbed of their children’s toys at Christmas, a grandmother raped coming home from Easter services—a calendar of grief, starting with January, the worst.

  How long?

  Five years ago in The Homes, working New Year’s Day, first call out of the precinct, baby, dead, two months old, another broken child. Salt wouldn’t remember his name, would not. Left in the apartment with some guy who paid for a room, the witness who testified that he told the mother he wasn’t going to “watch after no baby while she was out getting high.” Mother had come home geeked up and drunk, had passed out on top of her baby, found him suffocated underneath when the hangover woke her New Year’s Day. In Salt’s custody the mother cried, not over the baby but for her broken bottle of gin.

  How long?

  For months after she would sit in her car or in some fast food place between calls, trying to hide the silent tears running down her cheeks. One day Pepper said, “You have got to be able to close the door on these calls once they’re over. You have got to shut the door or you’ll never be able to stay doing this job. We bleed enough for our own. I refuse to bleed for all the rest of these people out here.”

  “How long?” she said out loud.

  “How long the fuck what?” Lil D kicked at the steel partition.

  Now she tried to close doors. Sometimes it worked. Here with Lil D, she didn’t know what was possible, couldn’t decide if the hope was more for him or herself and if hope should depend on one person.

  She had invoked a prayer and Shannell, his mother, had walked out through the darkness. And she’d taken her to jail for stabbing Big D. And now she was dead.

  “Let me out or take me to jail. What you just sittin’ here for? It’s my mama was killed. Now you jammin’ me up.”

  She got out, slammed the door, and threw open the back door. “You’re jammin’ yourself up, Lil D. You want to stay out here until you get put in jail or killed, have at it.”

  “You tryin’ to help me now?” Lil D stood and started to walk away. When he was about five yards out she heard him say, like he was reminding her of nine years ago, “Bitch.” He kept walking, not knowing she’d never needed a reminder.

  “Say it again, Lil D,” she called out.

  “Bitch.” His voice barely heard, soft even, as he started in the opposite direction from Sam’s.

  9.

  THE GANG

  Billy’s knobby head bobbed above the semicircle of cops that surrounded him. As Salt got out of the cruiser she could hear how angry his words sounded. “King Silver of mine,” he shouted. It was hard for people, his family, cops, to understand the fear that drove Billy’s rage. “You ain’t my own.” Billy’s bare long arms swept the air above him as he roared.

  She walked up behind almost half the officers on the shift. “I’m here, Sarge. I heard the call come up but I was on a kiddie call and had to make the run to detention. You ready for me to talk to him?”

  The afternoon sun, at its hottest, burned through their dark uniforms. Sarge tugged at his sweat-soaked shirt and eyed the teenagers joining other Homes residents gathered to watch “The Billy Show.” “It worries me that you and this crazy fucker understand each other, but he’s under arrest and we need you to get him in the wagon. We might as well write an SOP to raise you when a Billy call comes up.” He turned sideways to let her pass through the line.

  Billy Wallace picked up one of his huge feet and stomped. “You take my fish and eat them, too.” He turned toward the apartment he was standing in front of, turned back, lifted his leg, and stomped another threat toward the cops. Tributaries of sweat ran from Billy’s face, merging in long streams on his completely naked body.

  As soon as Billy noticed her he shook his fist
. “You,” he shouted. “You heard me calling you. Didn’t they tell you, King Silver?”

  At six feet seven and weighing over two fifty, Billy towered over Salt by nearly a foot and outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. He was more or less psychotic, depending on whether he had taken his meds or smoked crack or both. He had an ongoing paranoia about his family and was known to fight cops. Six months ago Billy had broken two of Sarge’s ribs.

  “I came as soon as I could.” She never lied to Billy, he’d be sure to remember the next time. And there was always a next time.

  Billy turned his back to her then, wide-eyed, jerked his head over his shoulder. He began to run in place as if warming up. Salt heard the clinks of metal batons behind her.

  “What happened today, Billy?”

  He made a rope-pulling motion with his arms. “I called you, King Silver. They ain’t my own.”

  “I’m here now.” She took a step toward him.

  He lowered his arms but kept his fists clenched.

  “I did the best I could,” she said.

  Billy sat down on the steps of the apartment’s entrance. “King Silver.” His voice went down, some of the rage dissipating.

  The children sang, “We see you thang, Billy. We see you thang.”

  Billy’s genitals swung between his bent knees. His chest rose and fell with rapid breathing. As she walked closer he took in a long slow breath, even while his eyes jerked over the other cops, the children, and a few others in the crowd.

  Salt said, “What’s going on?” She took a step closer.

  “I want all them, King Silver”—motioning at the other cops—“to leave.”

  “They can’t leave, Billy.” Salt moved forward another step. “How ’bout a cigarette?” she asked, keeping her eyes on his arm and leg muscles, watching for any increased tension, watching his eyes, his breathing.

  Billy let his arms loosen and said, “I want a fishy, Orange Fanta.”

  “We’ll get it for you.” Salt nodded to Sarge, who motioned a rookie to go get the drink.

  Salt shook out two cigarettes from the pack she kept in her pocket. She lit them and offered one to Billy. As he took the cigarette she nodded. “Before you get in the wagon, your drink will be here by then.”

  “I don’t want to go in the fishy wagon.”

  He didn’t say he wasn’t going. “You know when all this fuss happens you have to go. But you can have another cigarette and your drink.” She carried cigarettes for the street, mostly. The urge to cough rose when the smoke reached the bottom of her throat. Billy inhaled, then lowered his head. Still careful, Salt sat down on the step about three feet from the big man. They sat there smoking, the other cops and Sarge watching and beginning to relax, edging out of the circle toward any available shade. The rookie got back with the drink and Salt went over, got the can, and came back to Billy. “I’ll walk you to the wagon.” He stood up, jerking one side of his face forward, giving the other cops the evil eye, his movements and matching eye threats parodying a bad guy. Just because he was crazy didn’t mean he’d lost his sense of humor. She walked with him to the paddy wagon, opened the rear doors, and when he was seated inside waited until he gulped his orange drink. “I’ll see you in a few days, Billy. I’ll come by.” She gently shut the cage door.

  The rest of the cops and the small crowd, drawn to the drama, mostly folks from the 1400 building where Billy had been cornered, began to drift away. Salt sat in the air-conditioned car catching up on paperwork. She looked up from the report forms and saw Man-Man standing not five feet away. He began to applaud as she lowered the window. “You good, you good, Salt,” he said, smiling and walking toward her car. He wore his usual always new long white T-shirt, spotless baggy jean shorts: gang garb, but simple, never any flash. Hairline precise, his hair was cut so close it was hard to tell the color. He was average height and build, five feet nine and muscular without showiness. But he also had something that the girls loved and in the projects he was considered the epitome of sexy. He had just slightly bowed legs, which gave him a natural swagger as he walked.

  “Hey, Man,” Salt said.

  He stepped back, making room for her to open the car door.

  Smiling, she got out of her cruiser, eager to grab this opportunity to find out what Man knew about Shannell. Anyway, she was always happy to see him when they met like this, on neutral ground. He was charming with his beautiful wide smile and tight light skin. He and his brother, Johnny C, were the top dogs of The Homes. They controlled the crack market. And lately there were rumors about guns. She’d just heard the word gun here and there, just pieces. Man and his brother were successful because of two things. They were loved and they were feared.

  Salt liked them both on a personal level. Man especially was always friendly during their noncombat interactions. The two of them had an ongoing discussion about life in the projects. He had been born twenty-five years ago in The Homes. He had a sharp sense of cause and effect and knew bullshit when he heard it. Man had only finished seventh grade, being truant most of the eighth and ninth until he completely stopped going to school by tenth grade. By then he was organizing the crack sales. Salt understood that if it came down to it, Man would kill to keep what he had built in The Homes. He was the leader of the gang. But these realities didn’t keep either of them from enjoying their occasional conversations.

  “Why do you care ’bout Billy Wallace? Don’t nobody in the rest of this city care ’bout him,” Man said, lazy like, his way of leading into a discussion.

  “Do you care about Billy?” Salt said agreeably.

  “Billy choose to use.”

  “If it wasn’t here he’d have a hard time using.”

  Man came back with, “He’d just use somethin’ else to smooth out his head.”

  “You may be right about that, or maybe he’d be so desperate he would get real help.”

  “Yeah,” Man said. “And where that help comin’ from?”

  Salt didn’t have an answer and instead turned the conversation toward Shannell. “You talked to the Homicide detective yet?”

  Just then, about a half block up, Stone, his distinctive shoulders hunched, walked across the street in front of them. He turned his head in their direction. Man lifted his chin, acknowledging his lieutenant. Stone kept his face toward them even as he continued to wherever he was going. He didn’t return Man’s gesture.

  “What’s up with him?” she asked.

  Man answered, “You know Stone be Stone.” He shrugged, watching until Stone was out of sight. Man looked back to her, at her scalp, eyes narrowing. “I see you got a new hairdo.” He tapped his own close-cut scalp in the same place as her scar.

  “You changed the subject, dude. How’s Lil D doing?” she asked.

  “Lil D all right. He calm down.”

  “You normally keep things cool around here. But you got a lot going on. Lil D’s not happy. Stone a wild card.” She was fishing. “Shannell’s murder. You know murders tend to bring heat.”

  Man’s pleasant face changed. His eyes narrowed and he gave her a hard look as he said, “You ain’t no detective. What do you care ’bout no ho?”

  She flashed on Shannell’s dead bowed head. “She was more than a whore. She was one of your boys’ mother. Lil D isn’t going to forget.” Salt stopped, realizing her voice was sounding strained.

  Man’s face got harder. “Shannell wasn’t much of a mama,” he said.

  “Yeah, but she was his mama. And this is my beat, Man. The way I see it, doesn’t much happen around here that you don’t have some way to find out about. I just thought you might be willing to help me on this,” she said, trying to lighten her tone while wondering suddenly if she hadn’t just given Man too much. Now he might figure out that Shannell meant something to her.

  “You got your job and I got mine,” he said.

  S
alt came back to the issue they almost always ended their encounters discussing. “Man, you could do anything you want to, yet you choose to run the gang. You’re smart, you look good, and you know how to get along. Why not try something else? Go back to school.”

  “Why you a cop? It’s what you know. I know the street. Rich people do what they know. They get their share. I’m just getting my share.”

  “Yeah, your share comes off people like Billy and Shannell.” She ground the heel of her boot in the hot dust.

  Man pushed off her car, turned, and started walking off. She called after him, “I guess that means you either don’t know, don’t want to know, or won’t help me about Shannell.” He threw back an end of discussion wave as he turned the corner of the 1400 building.

  Like any effective CEO, Man knew about all significant events in and around The Homes. Marcy Street was only a few blocks out of the actual projects. Every addict in the area was hooked in to Man and his gang. And although his gang was small, his network, considering the number of people who used his product, was huge. The actual gang members included his brother, their cousin Bootie Green, Q-Ball, and Half-Dead, all of whom had grown up with them in The Homes, and of course Lil D and Stone. The structure of the gang was simple. Man and Johnny C made the deals for the product in bulk or “weight.” They arranged for it to be cut, packaged, and sold. Bootie, Q, Half-Dead, and Lil D were the street-level dealers. Though most people in the projects were cautious around any of the gang members, they knew you could talk to Man and his brother. Stone was the one they avoided, he was unpredictable, volatile, and seemed to get off on hurting people. So Man and Johnny C used the threat of him to keep other dope heavies out of The Homes, and used him to make sure debts were paid. He was feared by everyone but Man. Salt wondered as she sat in her car what that told her about Man and how good a hold he had on Stone.

  Her head was starting to throb. Light grew around the edges of her vision. In her mind’s eye, Shannell’s face, shiny with sweat, the shadows of the patrol car screen crisscrossing her dark skin, came into sharp focus. Man would have to be pushed. Salt had friends, Narcotics, Vice, and the Gang Unit.