Cold Medina

by Gary Hardwick

  ''A little,” said Tony.

  “Hope I don't have to come in and clean the shit up for you,” said Nicks.

  “Oh, is that your job for the mayor?” asked Jim. “Cleaning up shit?”

  “Only when muthafuckas like you do the shittin'.” Nicks took a half step.

  “There's no need for any of that,” said Tony. “Let's just go on about our business.”

  Nicks hit the emergency stop button and pulled a .44 magnum from inside his jacket. The elevator car jerked to a halt. It happened too fast for either Tony or Jim to do anything. Jim was caught with his hand halfway to his weapon.

  “You crazy ass-” Jim said.

  “Be cool, Jim,” Tony said. “OK, Nicks. You got something on your mind, say it, otherwise turn the elevator back on and stop wasting my time.”

  Nicks had the gun out in front of his chest. Tony watched Nicks, looking him in the eyes. Jim kept his eyes on the big gun. Nicks opened the gun, reached in his pocket and brought out three bullets.

  “I hate to reload in public, that's all,” Nicks said. He put the bullets in, then put the gun back and turned the elevator back on. The car started to descend.

  The elevator door opened to the lobby. Nicks adjusted his hat and walked out.

  “That bastard is crazy,” said Jim.

  “No he isn't,” said Tony. “He just wants everyone to think he is. He hasn't liked me since I got promoted over him-- three times.”

  “I should have shot his ass.”

  “He's not worth the trouble,” said Tony.

  “He carries two of those .44s. I saw the other one when he hit the elevator button.”

  “It's never good to see Nicks down at 1300, especially when we have a big case. I wonder what he really wants.”

  Tony and Jim walked out of the building in time to see Nicks pulling away in a black Thunderbird.

  14

  Roberts on the Hook

  Vince Roberts reclined in his soft leather chair. It was imported from London and had been a gift to himself. He liked giving himself gifts. Lord knows that none of his friends or his wife would ever give him such a present. His wife. What a joke.

  Paula Roberts, the Eighth Wonder of the World. Her whole life was eating, growing more fat and disgusting, and making his life dogshit. She was every man's nightmare, an obese nag whose idea of sexual gratification was eating a jelly doughnut. She was a cellulite demon, a double-chinned terror from Husband Hell. The very thought of her began to make him ill.

  He shifted his mind to his mistress, Barbara-firm, thin, and pretty. She knew how to satisfy a man. So what if it cost him? It was money well spent. He delighted in his memories of their exploits. He kept their meetings secret and that made it all the more exciting. He had a possible rendezvous tonight, and just thinking about it made him quiver.

  “Officers Hill and Cole here to see you,” said Wanda. Roberts was startled by the intercom buzzer as it went off. He had taken Wanda on for the summer as a favor to the mayor. She was a pest, always asking to observe his work, but she had a great body. If she weren't related to the mayor, he might have given her a try.

  Roberts thought for a second about the detectives. What could they possibly want? He had to be careful after the Shalon Street incident. He was always suspicious of cops anyway. His job was sensitive and cops were crude. He didn't like these two at all, especially Jim Cole. He went out of his way to piss him off. Still, it might be official.

  “Send them in,” he said into the phone's small speaker. He reached into his desk and turned on a small tape recorder that he kept inside. If there was one thing that he learned from being in a political job, it was to always cover your ass.

  Tony and Jim entered the office, Tony looking as he always did, serious and tired. Jim, however, looked angry. His eyes were narrowed and he literally swaggered into the room and he never took his gaze off Roberts.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Roberts.

  “We have some questions for you, Doctor,” said Tony. Jim didn't say a word. He sat down hard in one of the chairs across from Roberts's desk and stared at him hatefully.

  “Is something the matter?” asked Roberts. He was watching Jim.

  “You could say that, Doctor,” said Jim, his voice filled with sarcasm. He grabbed a small lead crystal paperweight from Roberts's desk and tossed it in the air.

  “Please don't play with that,” said Roberts reaching for it. “It's lead crystal and it's expensive.” Jim put it down hard on the desk. Roberts winced. “Look, I don't know what this is all about, but there is no reason to come in here and act like this.” Roberts sat down. Tony followed.

  Jim spat out. “You've got a lot of nerve, after what you did, you--”

  Tony raised a hand and Jim sat down. “Let me talk here, Jim.” Tony tried to sound like he was angry at his partner. “We just need to know a few things here, Doc. Things about Shalon Street.”

  “A few things?” said Roberts. “Yeah,” said Jim. “Like what the fuck you were doing there!” He was nearly yelling.

  “I thought I told you to let me handle this,” Tony said to Jim. They engaged in the very old, very practiced argument. They both watched Roberts out of the corners of their eyes. When Jim asked his question, Roberts had paled and his eyes widened. They took this time to let him stew, maybe try to create a lie that would give them a clue.

  Tony finished chewing Jim out and turned again to Roberts. “Sorry, Doc, but that was our purpose in coming. What were you doing there?” he said.

  “My job,” he said almost defiantly. “Chief Fuller called me at home and ordered me there.”

  Jim grunted a short laugh.

  “Well, you have to admit that it was strange for you to be there. I can't remember you ever coming out on a night call,” said Tony.

  “First time for everything,” Roberts said. He smiled a little.

  “We think there may be something about the killings that you overlooked. Something about Shalon Street and the first death,” Tony said calmly.

  “That's ridiculous,” Roberts said. His eyes darted away from Tony as he spoke. “You have my report. It's all there.”

  “Fuck the report!” Jim rose and almost jumped at Roberts. “We know you're hiding something!”

  Roberts backed up and stood, startled by the explosion.

  Tony watched Roberts. The doctor was frightened. He was going for it, then he began to chuckle.

  “Nice try, gentlemen,” Roberts said. He pulled his chair back. “Nice try. If I were a criminal, I guess this might have worked on me.” He adjusted his tie. “Like I told you, I don't know anything and I have nothing to hide. Read my report. It's all in there.”

  Tony and Jim were silent for a moment.

  “I told you this wouldn't work,” said Jim, sitting back down.

  Tony stood in front of the desk. He looked at Jim and then at Roberts leaning over the desk as he spoke.

  “OK, Doc, game's over. I want to know what the fuck you were doing there that night. Why did you grab Neward and take him away.;>“

  “I already told you, officer, the report. Read the report.”

  “Well maybe Doctor Neward will have a better story to tell,” Tony said.

  “Doctor Neward is on an extended vacation,” said Roberts.

  “How very convenient.” Tony was right in Roberts's face now. “So he just up and decided to go. Could it be that you'll handle all these murders from now on, so that you can keep your secret safe?

  “I don't know what you're-”

  “People are being butchered, goddammit!” Tony yelled. “And you sit here and play fuckin' games with my investigation!”

  “Come on, Tony, it's not worth it,” Jim said on cue.

  “I swear, if I find out that you're obstructing justice, you'll be in the county jail before you can say cover-up. You'll be bent over a sink with some bull faggot ten inches up your ass! You hear me, Doc? You hear me?!” Tony was almost on top of the desk. Roberts had
slid his chair back again. This time he was scared.

  Jim saw his next cue and pulled Tony back. “Come on, let's not waste our time with this loser. We'll go to the Chief, he'll get to the bottom of this shit.”

  “Fuck!” said Tony; turning to leave. “This ain't over.” He pointed at Roberts.

  Roberts pulled his chair back. “We can both talk to Fuller!” His voice shook. “We'll see what he has to say about this harassment!”

  Tony and Jim stormed out of the office, leaving the door open. Roberts got up and slammed it just as they had hoped he would.

  The officers walked quickly to the waiting area just to the left of Roberts's door.

  Wanda sat at her desk in the middle of painting her nails. No one else was in the room.

  “Bad day with the doctor, huh?” she said.

  “Yeah, he doesn't take bad news well,” Tony said. “Mind if I borrow your phone?” Tony asked her.

  “Oh no, go ahead,” she said. Jim started a conversation with Wanda, distracting her. Tony heard Jim telling her how much older she looked. She giggled.

  Tony picked up the desk phone struggling with its short cord. He turned away from Wanda so that she could not see as he covered the transmitter with his hand. He faked dialing and a conversation with his wife consisting of faint “uh-huh's.”

  Roberts's line lit up, Tony waited a moment, then gently pressed the button.

  “Is the Chief in?” Roberts said. He sounded nervous.

  “No, he's not,” said a woman's voice.

  “Well, could you ask him to call Doctor Roberts when he gets in? He has my number.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Bye-bye”

  Tony heard the line click. He quickly pressed the button again. He knew that Roberts would not be able to hang up with the additional line on. The line's light went out.

  Tony also knew the Chief had a mobile phone. He was sure that Roberts knew it too. He waited [or a couple seconds. The line light went on again. He pressed the button again and he prayed that Roberts was finished dialing. He was. A phone rang again. Tony could hear the whine of a car's engine in the background as it was picked up.

  “Fuller,” said the voice on the other end. Tony smiled.

  “It's Roberts, Chief. I have bad news.”

  “What's the problem?” Fuller sounded concerned.

  “I just had a visit from Hill and Cole. They suspect something on the Handyman case. They accused me of hiding evidence.”

  “What did you tell them?” Fuller asked.

  “Nothing, nothing,” said Roberts. “They tried to trick me, but they didn't find out anything.”

  There was a silence on the phone. Wanda laughed loudly, and for a second Tony thought that it was all over. His hand tightened over the transmitter.

  “I want you to bring everything to me,” Fuller said. Tony sighed softly. “Bring it to me tonight at my house and don't screw it up.”

  “No problem, no problem,” Roberts said.

  “Nine o'clock!” said Fuller.

  Fuller hung up.

  Tony waited for the click then quickly pressed the button and hung up the phone. He was about to put it down, when he saw the line light go on again.

  What now, he said to himself. He waited, then listened in.

  “Hello,” said a female voice.

  “Hey, it's me,” said Roberts.

  “Oh, hi baby,” said the woman in a sexy voice. “You're the big winner. We're on for tonight.”

  “Great!” Roberts sounded almost like a kid. “But I gotta run an errand first. I‘ll be over around ten or so, OK?”

  “OK, but you know how I get when I have to wait.” They both laughed at the very private joke.

  “See you ten. “Bye.”

  “Bye-bye, honey “

  Tony hung up the phone. He watched the line light for a second. Nothing. “Let's go,” he said to Jim.

  Wanda looked surprised as Jim broke off the conversation and left hastily.

  “What's up?” Jim asked as they walked down the long hallway.

  “Everything,” said Tony. “Everything.”

  15

  Magilla

  Everybody knew it was a crackhouse.

  The neighbors knew, the local church and community groups, even the garbage men knew. The traffic in and out was always heavy and shady characters were always around. Occasionally, you could see a transaction on the sidewalk or people lighting up their crack pipes, not able to wait to get home. Yes, everyone knew, but no one did anything. They were all scared.

  No one wanted to put their life on the line to close the house. They all had heard stories of people who had squealed to the cops. They had been killed, shot at, or their families terrorized. A man named Walker had called the cops and two weeks after he did, one of his daughters was raped. Nothing was worth that kind of horror and pain. The police had shut it down often, but it just reopened again a few weeks later.

  The house was built on Detroit's east side in 1946, after the war. It was a two-story, red brick house with a small, one-car garage in back that was now almost falling apart.

  It had first been the home of an Italian immigrant named Angelo Marini. When Marini's fruit stand blossomed into a grocery store, he sold the house to a big, Irish autoworker named Mark Ridley in 1955.

  The auto business was good and when Ridley became a foreman, he had the basement finished for entertaining guests. In the sixties, the neighborhood became integrated. Ridley was not crazy about the idea, but he did not move out. He held on to the house until the riots in 1967, when he moved to Southfield and rented the home to a succession of black families. One named Glover stayed there for three years, until the home was broken into for the fifth time in the mid-seventies. Ridley couldn't watch the house effectively from the suburbs. The insurance was outrageous and he couldn't afford to hire a manager. The neighborhood had become so bad that it was difficult to rent. When the property taxes became too much to pay, he let the city take the house. For years, it lay abandoned, boards over the windows and grass rising high to the porch.

  When crack hit the city, the home was appropriated by dealers. It was raided several times, until the Union became dominant. After that, the police came around a little less.

  Now, the house distributed its product freely. The cops still raided now and then but the occupants knew in advance and when the raid hit, the most the cops got was a few rocks and suspects too young to keep in jail.

  Magilla West surveyed the basement of the old house with interest. The crack was made and sold upstairs and he had turned the basement into a smoking gallery. The crackheads would come, buy their stuff, and retire to the basement to smoke it. Magilla figured this was a good deal because when they ran out (and they always did), all they had to do was go upstairs to buy more.

  Magilla was a huge man who had always been fat. He was light brown in complexion and had terrible acne. His nickname came from elementary school when the “Magilla Gorilla” cartoon was popular.

  Magilla was twenty-seven years old and had never finished high school. When he was young, he used and sold dope and tried to chase girls, but because of his weight and appearance he was never very successful. While his friends boasted and told stories of sexual conquests, Magilla lied and masturbated in shame.

  It seemed he was always horny and craved sex constantly, but could not find a girl who would submit to him. Only God would curse him with great sexual desire and unattractiveness, he thought.

  When he was eighteen, he paid a prostitute for sex and that became his method for relief from the need that plagued him. He soon rationalized that all men paid for sex in some way, so he had no reason to feel ashamed. But he grew to hate women. They were so smug and confident of themselves. They had the one thing that all men needed and they denied it to them unless they got paid for it. Slowly, predictably, he became rough with his women. It was not long before he was requesting kinky sex and paying extra for it.

  When
he began to run a crack house for the Union, he never guessed that it would provide him the means he needed to finally sexually dominate women. Once he got on the job, he found addicted women coming to him and wanting to trade sex for crack. At first he thought it was bad business. The Union didn't like bullshit going on in their houses. But soon, he saw that this exchange was almost a staple of the marketplace. Money and sex were both legal tender in the business.

  Now Magilla did it regularly. In fact, he had not paid a prostitute in several years. He had his pick of the neighborhood's young girls and as long as they were not too ugly from drug use, he would have sex with them in exchange for a high. Crack stole a woman's beauty faster than anything in the world and the way he saw it, a man in his position didn't need to deal with scaggy-looking women. He was important now. He was lord of this house and he was entitled to the comforts of a king.

  The basement was large and had been bordered with what was at one time expensive wood paneling. It was now a filthy, squalid ghost of itself. 'The bar had been torn down and old furniture was carelessly scattered around the room. The pipes leaked and the furnace and water heater bellowed their age. There was a bathroom in one corner which still worked and filled the area with the sour smell of urine and feces. It had no door but its users didn't mind. It was not uncommon for conversations to be held while sitting on the throne.

  Magilla watched from the stairs. Crack pipes sent fumes into the air. The users smoked and talked furiously; their brains working rapidly from the drug. There were about twenty people in the room and he knew that soon more would come to recreate. Business was good. Not even the Handyman had stopped the crowds from coming in.

  “Hey, Magilla, what's the deal on raising the price of the rock?” asked a crackhead named Ron. “Seven dollars for a nickel hit. Man, that's bullshit.”

  “You heard of inflation, nigga,” said Magilla and walked by him.

  Everyone was complaining about the new prices, but there was a shortage, and the so-called Handyman wasn't helping things either. People were getting scared to do business.