Cracker Bling

by Stephen Solomita

  ‘The black man does not ride to the white man’s rescue. The black man does not slay the dragon. Uh-uh. The black man most likely is the dragon. The black man is the one on the wrong end of the lance.’

  Hootie laughs softly. He can hear Eli’s voice, the tone midway between outraged and dismissive, the pitch rising at the end of each sentence. ‘Boy, you must be crazy.’

  Leaving the gun on the bed, Hootie trots off to Amelia’s bedroom with its shag rug and ruffled bedspread. He boots up her computer, only to find it password protected. In the movies, there’s always some kid who can unlock a hard drive with a few keystrokes, but he’s not that kid. He shuts the computer down and begins to rummage through Amelia’s drawers. Hootie’s in search of more information on Sherman Cole, his address at the very least. He doesn’t have far to look. The first drawer he opens, in the nightstand to the right of the bed, contains a photo of a house with an address on the back, as well as a bound Hagstrom 5 Borough Atlas. The atlas is conveniently open to page ten and a block is circled. Hootie leans in close to read the small print: 27th Avenue off 215th Street.

  A weapon, a car and a place to start. Strike one, strike two, strike three.

  Hootie walks into the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator, discovers a container of orange juice and pours himself a glass. But he can’t bring himself to drink. He lays the glass on the counter and heads back to Bubba’s bedroom. Hootie’s thinking he can at least go out there, to Bayside, and look around. But the idea makes him very uneasy. The house in the photo is a sprawling, three-story Tudor with an expanse of manicured lawn in front. That it belongs to a rich white man living in a rich white neighborhood is painfully obvious.

  Hootie turns to catch his reflection in a full-length mirror on the back of a closet door. He tells himself he’s not subject to the law against driving while black. Then he tells himself again. He understands, for the first time, exactly what Bubba meant when he said, ‘You could be anyone.’

  And Hootie understands, as well, that nothing Eli Scannon told him applies to his own life. Hootie’s only the besieged black man in one of Scannon’s many lectures if he chooses to be. Which is not to say Hootie discounts Scannon’s wisdom. Hootie’s been stopped by cops too many times, as have all his friends. White cops, black cops and Latino cops.

  ‘Put ya fuckin’ hands on the wall.’

  If you mess with them, give them any lip, they’ll put you on your face on the sidewalk, drop a knee across the back of your neck, cuff your hands behind your back, pepper spray you, slam a fist into your ribs. There’s no telling in advance how far they’ll go, a fact his mother stated clearly in a talk she gave him on his tenth birthday, a talk that boiled down to a simple maxim: don’t fuck with cops.

  Hootie picks up the holster and straps it to his right ankle, snugging the Velcro straps into place. He stands up and examines himself in the mirror. The legs of the chinos Bubba laid on him are wide enough to fully conceal the .38. He could be anybody. But Hootie’s not anybody. He’s Judson Two-Bears Hootier, a fact of life that becomes only too apparent when a pounding on the door is followed by the voice of Peter Chigorin.

  ‘Answer the door, Hootie. And don’t even think about goin’ rabbit on me. The knucklehead cop I got stationed outside has strict instructions to break your arm if you come down that fire escape.’

  SEVENTEEN

  The Russian hesitates before knocking on the door. He’s been sitting in his car for the past twenty minutes, wondering how to play Hootie Hootier. The kid’s defied him, no question about that. Chigorin specifically ordered Hootie to stay away from the apartment, not once but several times. What’s more, he added a consequence, an ass-kicking which he’d ordinarily deliver without hesitation. Never mind the limp and the headache that won’t go away no matter how many aspirins he takes. A promise is a promise.

  But Chigorin’s curious by nature, like most detectives. There’s something’s going down here and he wants to know what it is. Hootie didn’t make an appearance this morning because he discounted Chigorin’s threats. Hootie’s too smart for that. So, if he came back anyway, he has to have a good reason.

  The Russian’s hoping it’s money, a big fat wad of untraceable cash. That would solve a lot of problems. Already this morning he’s fielded two calls from Yolanda. Was he gonna come up with the money for Sonia’s camp or was he gonna crap out, just like he crapped out on their marriage?

  But even if there’s not a penny in the whole apartment, there’s still the missing weapon. It’s entirely possible that disposing of the gun is Hootie’s sole aim, that he lied when he told Chigorin that Bubba threw it into the river. Recovering the murder weapon would solve almost as many problems as finding the money.

  ‘C’mon, Hootie, I know you’re in there.’

  A door opens behind Chigorin, a neighbor. He flashes his shield without turning around. A moment later, the door in front of him swings open to reveal Hootie. Hootie’s standing with his feet apart, shoulders spread, but the Russian shoves him out of the way and walks into the apartment.

  Though Chigorin’s not crazy about modern furniture, he has to admit that he’s impressed. The furniture, the drapes, the lamps and tables and the rug, they come off as elements of a single, ultra-clean design. Color and shape, everything fits, including the abstract paintings on the walls. The place has the feel of an expensive hotel room.

  ‘Close the door,’ he calls over his shoulder.

  Hootie looks down the hallway. It’s maybe twenty feet to the staircase and the cop’s sporting a limp. No way could Hootie be caught, not unless there really is another cop waiting outside, which he doesn’t believe. But he doesn’t run, either. He closes the door and locks it.

  When Hootie turns, the cop’s already in the living room, sitting in one of two small armchairs facing the couch. He gestures to the other chair and says, ‘What am I gonna do with you? Because I gotta say, your act is wearin’ thin.’

  Chigorin leans back in his chair and lets his eyes criss-cross Hootie’s body, searching for a gun. But Hootie’s polo shirt is tucked into his cotton slacks and there’s no telltale bulge in his pockets. In fact, he looks more like a college freshman than a Rikers Island graduate. If he told you he was pre-med at Columbia, you’d buy the con without thinking twice. Nevertheless, he lacks experience and it’s obvious. The tension’s apparent in his eyes and in his hands, which are curled almost into fists, and in the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The kid wants Chigorin gone, but he’s not helping himself by advertising the fact.

  The Russian’s out of uniform, no brown suit today. He’s wearing a linen sports jacket over a pair of jeans and a sea-blue shirt. A leather briefcase hangs from a strap on his right shoulder. There’s only one item in the briefcase, a pint of vodka. Chigorin retrieves the bottle and takes a quick swig.

  ‘You like stories, Hootie?’ he asks.

  Hootie forces himself not to recoil. He’s thinking that getting hassled by cops is a birthright – nothing personal, ha-ha. But what did he do to deserve this psycho drunk? What god did he offend? Still, Hootie has a point to make and he refuses to be deflected.

  ‘Lemme lay this out for you, Detective …’

  ‘Chigorin.’

  ‘Detective Chigorin, you got no cause to hound me. I wrote out a statement last night and put my name to it. Plus, I’m ready to testify whenever you want. To me, that sounds like cooperation, but here you are, all up in my face when I’m just goin’ about my business.’

  ‘See, right there, Hootie, that’s not right. I told you not to come back to this apartment.’ The Russian’s tone is almost pleading. As though he wants to be understood. ‘And I thought I made myself very clear. Or at least I tried to.’

  ‘But that’s the whole point. This apartment’s not a crime scene and I didn’t break in. I have the keys. So, what right do you have to tell me where I can’t go?’

  With some difficulty, the Russian stands up. His ankle is hurting him worse than
ever and there’s pus in the wound. He saw it this morning when he put on his socks.

  ‘Actually,’ he admits, with a quick grin, ‘your bein here is a lucky break for me. I had no way to get inside without ya. Now I’m gonna toss the apartment and I want you to stay close while I’m doin’ it. Comprende?’

  The Russian’s search is thorough, but he finds neither gun nor money, only an ounce or so of marijuana which he leaves in a drawer. Still, the effort bears fruit. There’s a female currently in residence, a girl by the look of the clothing in her closet. Another piece of the puzzle.

  The search takes over an hour, with Hootie becoming more and more impatient as the minutes pass. By the time Chigorin limps back to his chair and sits down again, Hootie’s fingers are trembling.

  ‘You satisfied now?’ he asks.

  Chigorin points to the chair next to his. ‘So, what I asked you before. Do ya like stories? I mean, when they’re told well?’

  ‘Man, I don’t have time for this bullshit.’

  ‘There’s where you’re wrong, Hootie. You’re here until I let you go. And make no mistake about it. I could have you held as a material witness right this minute. See, that’s where you made your mistake, when you wrote out that statement. Because I’m tellin’ ya, there’s not a judge in this city who won’t lock your ass up if I claim you’re a flight risk. But that’s not where I’m goin’, Hootie. I’m not here to play macho cop.’

  Suddenly, Hootie feels the weight of the revolver strapped to his ankle. Three and a half years minimum, mandatory. He watches Chigorin take another hit on the vodka. ‘There’s no cop downstairs,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, that’s true. I lied about that.’ Chigorin puts the bottle away. He folds his hands in his lap and raises his head to meet Hootie’s gaze. ‘There’s a guy I know, Eugene Blau, had a life like you wouldn’t believe. He does three tours in ’Nam, from Sixty-Nine right to the end, Special Forces all the way. After that, he emigrates to Israel where he goes to work for the Mossad – he’s already in Beirut, stirring up trouble between the Christians and the Arabs when Israel invades Lebanon in Eighty-Two. A year later he’s kidnapped by Syrian secret police. They hold him in Southern Lebanon for ten months – under brutal conditions, of course – until he’s finally rescued. Hootie, Eugene’s Arabic is perfect and you can bet the Mossad does everything it can to make him stay on. But Eugene finds religion in prison. He’s a changed man. In Nineteen Eighty-Six, he returns to the USA and joins a Hasidic sect, the Lubavitchers in Crown Heights. For the next ten years, he studies the Torah and the Talmud, along with all the commentaries, syllable by syllable. But he doesn’t find God. No, what happens is that he becomes a total drunk, which is how we finally met.’

  Hootie drops into the chair. The cop has worn him down. ‘You’re fuckin’ crazy,’ he says, as much to himself as to Chigorin. ‘There’s no point to what you’re sayin’.’

  ‘Stories, Hootie, that’s the point. Eugene told stories like nobody else. Amazing stories. When he was broke, I used to buy him drinks just to hear him.’ Chigorin crosses his legs and begins to probe his ankle. ‘Turn out your pockets,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Turn out your pockets.’

  ‘Man, I’m not—’

  ‘Turn out your pockets or I’ll cuff your hands and turn ’em out myself.’

  Hootie’s so mad he can barely speak, but he complies, nevertheless. He places the items he retrieves, including the roll of fifties, on the table between them. Chigorin picks up the roll and counts it. He’s thinking that Hootie will cave within the next fifteen minutes, thirty at most. Whatever’s eating him, it’s stuck in his throat. If he doesn’t cough it up, he’ll choke.

  ‘So, tell me about the girl who lives here.’ Chigorin waves off the request before Hootie can reply. ‘Oh, wait, there’s somethin’ I wanna tell ya first. Before I forget, which I have a habit of doing these days. It’s about your pal, Bubba. See, shooting Flaco, this I can understand, money being money. But the rat doesn’t make any sense. Hear what I’m sayin’? If it wasn’t for the rat, I wouldn’t have shit in the way of physical evidence. So, why’d he do that?’

  Hootie shrugs, the gesture mechanical. Amelia’s fate is resting on his shoulders, heavy as lead, and the seconds are ticking by, each one a nail in her coffin. Despite the cop’s drunken bullshit, one thing’s perfectly clear. Whoever snatched Amelia can’t let her go.

  ‘Anyway,’ Chigorin continues, ‘I made a call to the Department of Corrections while I waited for you to show up. Seems like your pal, Bubba Yablonsky, was an asshole of the first magnitude. Now there’s a lot of gambling in prison, which I’m sure you already know, and Bubba was right in the middle of it. He was smuggling dope, too. We’re talkin’ about a guy who was transferred eleven times in ten years, but who got in trouble everywhere he went. He was in a dozen fights and he’s suspected of beating a prison guard half to death.’

  ‘What does that mean? Suspected?’

  ‘Good question, Hootie – one that occurred to me, too. So I called the Menands Correctional Facility and spoke to a deputy warden named Granger. According to the victim of the assault, he was hit from behind and lost consciousness immediately. He never saw his attacker. Meantime, every snitch in the institution pointed a finger at Bubba Yablonsky.’

  Hootie starts to say something, then stops as a question jumps into his mind. What would happen if he laid the whole story on Detective Chigorin? If he admitted to every element, including the blackmail? If he laid the burden on someone else’s shoulders?

  ‘Granger knew Bubba well, Hootie,’ the Russian continues. ‘Bubba worked in his office for a time. He says that Bubba has a great rap. You’re with him for ten minutes, he’s your new best pal. But there’s a dark side, too, a wildness that Bubba can’t tame. There was a murder in the prison, right before the guard was attacked. Bubba couldn’t have committed the murder because he was playing basketball in front of two hundred or so fans, including the warden. But his hands were all over it.’

  Chigorin pauses for breath. He’s got the kid’s full attention now. ‘So, tell me about the girl who lives here. What’s her name?’

  ‘It’s not your business.’

  ‘Wrong, Hootie. Bubba’s a murderer. His business, including anyone he’s living with, is my business. I’m surprised you can’t see that.’

  ‘Well, nothin’ says I have to help you.’

  ‘See, there you go again. Gettin’ all defiant when I’m the one holding the club. But I don’t wanna go there, like I already said. No, what I wanna do is hear the story. The whole story, from beginning to end. And I’m prepared to wait until hell freezes over.’

  Chigorin underlines his point by taking another drink. He offers the bottle to Hootie, but Hootie merely shakes his head. Finally, he stuffs it into his briefcase and relaxes. Outside, a jackhammer begins to pound, the din a counterpoint to the seconds passing by. Hootie manages to control himself for several minutes, merely crossing and uncrossing his legs. But the tension is finally too much for him. He stands up, walks to the window and stares down at the street through the branches of raggedy ginkgo. On the corner, a single Con Edison worker leans forward to place his full weight on the jackhammer. The man wears a blue hard hat with an American flag decal over the brim. A few feet away, six co-workers observe his progress.

  ‘Why do cops have to be scumbags?’ Hootie asks.

  ‘Gimme a break. If you had to spend your working life around rapists and murderers, you’d be a scumbag, too. I mean, it’s not like you’re cooperating.’

  ‘What if I can’t cooperate? What then?’

  Chigorin suppresses a grin. ‘Like, if telling me the truth implicates you in a crime?’

  ‘Yeah, like that.’

  ‘Is it a worse crime than murder?’

  Suddenly, Hootie begins to laugh. The way Bubba told it, the most beautiful part of the scam was that Cole, being a pedophile, couldn’t go to the cops. Now Hootie’s in exactly the sam
e position. The joke’s on him. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to focus, but his adrenals are still pumping away, his thoughts zipping through his brain like fragments from a soft-nosed .22.

  ‘No,’ he finally says.

  ‘How ’bout rape?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is it a violent crime of any type?’

  That stops Hootie long enough to latch on to a thought. Violent? Maybe he should ask Amelia before he answers the question. He turns away from the window and his eyes sweep across the room, the furniture and the artwork, that good-old cracker bling. All part of the seduction, of course, Bubba’s seduction, with Hootie playing the unspoiled virgin.

  ‘You once asked me what I was,’ Hootie says. ‘Well, my mother is black and my father was a Crow Indian. What do ya think that makes me?’

  Chigorin hesitates for a moment, then observes, ‘If your mother was white, you’d be a half-breed. I don’t know what happens if your mother’s black. But I’ll tell ya this, Hootie, the way you look, you can be anyone you wanna be.’

  ‘That’s what Bubba said.’ Hootie lets it go for a few beats, but the cop doesn’t respond. Finally, he says, ‘Amelia. The girl who lives here, her name is Amelia.’

  ‘And where is she now?’

  ‘That’s a long story.’

  ‘Hootie, I’m all ears.’

  EIGHTEEN

  It’s a good story. No, a great story. Kallmann syndrome, pedophiles in the park, surveillance cameras built into clocks and air purifiers, online seduction, extortion, kidnapping. And what about those defective Cookinarts, a sample of which Hootie produces?

  ‘The guy dreams big,’ Chigorin finally admits, his tone admiring. ‘I’m talkin’ about Bubba. He thinks long-term.’

  ‘Bubba and Amelia, both. Amelia’s nineteen going on a hundred.’

  ‘And you? What was your take on the scam?’

  ‘The way they laid it out, I figured we couldn’t fail.’

  The Russian gets to his feet. He’s thinking that he’ll have to see a doctor before long. His ankle is noticeably swollen and hot to the touch. But there’s no backing off now that he knows what happened. And there’s no time for a standard investigation, either. There’s just him and the kid and the need to move fast.