Good Man Gone Bad

by Gar Anthony Haywood

  She blinked at him dumbly.

  “It’s your Uncle Aaron.”

  “Who?”

  Corinne and Daniel Curry piled into the room, a nurse right on their heels. “She’s not ready for this. I told you!” Corinne scolded.

  “Zina, we need to know what happened. Please. Who shot you?”

  “No. No!” Del’s daughter turned her face away from him.

  “Sir, you need to leave,” the nurse ordered.

  “Who shot your mother, Zina? Who was there when it happened?”

  “Momma did it,” Zina said, turning back around to face him. “Momma did it all.”

  She began to weep. The nurse took Gunner by one arm and Daniel Curry took him by the other. Corinne Curry just stood at a distance, content to observe his removal from the room.

  “Wait!” Gunner said.

  But his escorts steered him out into the hallway, empowered by his reluctance to tear himself from the grasp of a man twenty years his senior and a nurse he outweighed by at least thirty pounds.

  “Sir, I’ll call security if you don’t leave. Right now,” the woman in the starched white uniform said.

  “She’s lying. She has to be. She’s laying the blame all on Noelle and there’s no way Noelle shot all three of them.”

  “She’s confused, that’s all. What do you expect?” Daniel Curry said. “The child’s near death!”

  “And if she does die before she tells us the truth? What then? We’ve got to find out what she knows while she’s still capable of talking to us, Uncle. Otherwise, we might never learn what really happened in that house.”

  “Sir—” the nurse insisted.

  “We’re going to leave the girl be for now,” Corinne Curry said. “All of us.”

  She fixed Gunner with a look that said he’d have to knock her to the floor to reach her granddaughter again.

  Defeated, Gunner stormed off, caring little if his aunt and uncle heard the curses he was uttering under his breath.

  Johnny Rivera wasn’t there when Gunner went looking for him at Empire Auto Parts. Eric Woods said he’d had to leave early that morning, something about a family emergency.

  “Any way I could get a number for him? Or a home address?” Gunner asked. “This is pretty important.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think Johnny would like it,” Woods said. He glanced about for an unattended customer, looking for an excuse to end this conversation where it stood; but the only patron in the place was already being helped by Woods’s lone coworker, over at the parts counter.

  “He wouldn’t have to know it came from you. I could tell him I got it from the boss.”

  “The boss?”

  “The new owner. Sam.”

  Woods mulled it over. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  “What?”

  “You getting Johnny’s number from Sam. Ask him, not me.”

  Gunner could see his mind was made up. “Okay. Will do. Thanks.” He turned to leave. “Oh.” He came back around, as if he’d almost forgotten something. “I saw Harper this morning. He told me a couple things I found rather interesting.”

  Woods just stood there waiting.

  “First, he said Tyrecee’s mother Laticia threw you out of their apartment the night before the murder. Is that right?”

  Woods shrugged. “I guess you could say that.”

  “Would you mind telling me why?”

  “No, I don’t mind. Me and Ty got into a little argument, and her moms didn’t like how I was talkin’ to her little girl. So she asked me to leave. The end.”

  “What kind of argument?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Give me the short version.”

  Woods sighed. “Ty likes me. Maybe more than she likes Harp. Every time homeboy’s got his back turned, she’s comin’ at me. You follow?”

  Gunner did, though he didn’t necessarily believe it. He moved on. “The other interesting thing Harper said was that Johnny once threatened a customer in here with a gun. A gun he got from the office somewhere.”

  “Okay.”

  “You weren’t here at the time?”

  “No. Or if I was, I didn’t hear it.”

  “Well, this guy Harper says he threatened, I think he was here yesterday. He arrived while you and I were talking out in the lot. Drives a trashed green Camaro, looks like a mountain man with a grudge to settle.”

  “Oh. Pete,” Woods said.

  “Pete?”

  “Pete Burdzecki. His real name’s Pyotr, but everyone calls him Pete. He used to work here.”

  “When?”

  “Before Harp hired on. But he quit about a year ago. He and Johnny didn’t get along.”

  “So why’s he still coming around?”

  “He’s a customer. And the rest of us are cool with him. Even Dar liked Pete. Johnny’s the only one got beef with him.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Maybe ’cause Pete’s the only one ever worked here Johnny didn’t scare. And that includes me.”

  Gunner was going to ask him to explain, but the reason to stop talking to Gunner that Woods had been looking for had finally presented itself: two new customers wandering the shop’s aisles who had yet to be pestered by a uniformed employee.

  “Hey, I’ve gotta go. Sorry I couldn’t help you out with Johnny’s number.”

  Gunner didn’t know much about Noelle Curry’s private life, but he knew she spent a great deal of her time at church. She and Del had been Catholic, and the parish name on the losing raffle tickets he bought from her every year by way of her husband was that of St. Patrick’s, the church across the street from the LAPD’s Newton Community station on Central Avenue.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Iris Miller?”

  “This is she. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Aaron Gunner, Ms. Miller. Noelle Curry was married to my cousin Del and I understand you and she were very close friends.”

  Silence. “Who told you that?”

  “Monsignor Villanueva at St. Patrick’s. I told him how important it was that I contact you, and he was kind enough to give me your number.”

  Frank Villanueva, whom Gunner had been lucky enough to find at the rectory when he called right after leaving Eric Woods at Empire Auto, hadn’t had much to say about Del or Noelle, and Gunner hadn’t really expected him to. Anything Noelle, in particular, might have told him in confidence was going to stay that way. But Gunner had pressed him hard nonetheless, and in the end, the priest had seen fit to give up Miller’s name and phone number, willing to leave the decision to talk to Gunner or not to Miller herself.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Gunner. Noelle was a wonderful person and I’m sure your cousin was too, in his way. But what do you want with me?”

  In his way. The words made Gunner cringe. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not answer that over the phone. Would it be possible for us to meet over coffee or something in an hour or so? It’s a matter of some importance, as I said.”

  More silence.

  “For Noelle’s sake. Please.”

  Iris Miller held out a moment longer. Her conscience successfully turned against her, then let out a little sigh and asked him where he’d like her to be and when.

  “I’m not comfortable doing this. Just so you know.”

  “I understand,” Gunner said.

  They sat in a big-brand coffee shop on the corner of a strip mall at Crenshaw and Redondo Beach Boulevard, Gunner patronizing a ubiquitous chain he ordinarily avoided as a plague upon the face of the earth. St. Patrick’s Monsignor Villanueva hadn’t described her, but Noelle’s friend Iris Miller had been easy to spot, so incongruous was her quiet piety in this setting. She was tall and slim, sitting when he found her at a table near the window as taut as a violin string, and the only thing revealing about the blue dress she wore were the mid-length sleeves on both arms.

  “Noelle was my friend. She talked to me because she truste
d me. If I tell all her business to some stranger now—”

  “I’m not some stranger. I was family,” Gunner said testily. “I’m asking for your help because I need it.”

  “Why? Noelle’s dead and so is her husband. And poor Zina…. What good can we do any of them now?”

  “We can make sure the right people are held accountable for what happened to them. All of them.”

  “But we already know that.”

  “Do we? The police think Del shot everyone, and maybe he did. But if someone else shot Noelle and Zina, they’re out on the loose somewhere while my cousin takes the heat.”

  “But who else could have shot Noelle?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping you can help me figure out. Noelle had been afraid recently. Afraid enough that she thought she needed a gun to protect herself. When she couldn’t get one on the street, her only other option would’ve been to ask a friend. Someone she could trust not to tell her husband or anyone else.”

  Miller just stared at him.

  “Where did you get the gun, Ms. Miller?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Where?”

  “From my brother. I told him it was for me.” She began to choke up. “If I’d known what he was going to do with it—”

  “That wasn’t the gun that killed her.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Pardon?”

  “The gun you gave Noelle was in a kitchen drawer at her home. I found it there yesterday afternoon.”

  “Oh, thank God.” She put a hand to her heart.

  “Yes. I’m sure that comes as a great relief to you. But you just said ‘he.’ If you’d known what ‘he’ was going to do with it. I take it you meant Del?”

  “Yes. Who else?”

  “You’re saying he was the reason Noelle thought she needed a gun?”

  “No. I just thought when I heard how they’d all been shot, and that he was the one who did it—well, I just assumed that that was the gun he must have used.”

  “All right. So if Del wasn’t the reason she wanted a gun, who was?”

  Iris Miller hesitated, still unsure that she was doing the right thing by Noelle in telling this man all her secrets.

  “I don’t know his name. She never gave me his name.”

  “Who?”

  “She made a mistake. That’s all it was. Noelle loved her husband.”

  “You’re telling me Noelle had an affair?”

  “No! It wasn’t an affair. She only had relations with the man once, and only then because he took advantage of her.” She saw the look come over Gunner’s face, rushed to correct the impression she’d left him with. “I don’t mean she was raped, exactly. I just mean…. He knew that she was just looking for attention. That she was vulnerable. He could’ve stopped her from getting so close at any time. But he didn’t. He let her come ahead.”

  “Who?”

  “I swear I don’t know. She was too ashamed to tell me who. I asked and asked, but she wouldn’t tell me.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Miller, but I don’t believe you.”

  “I have a name, that’s all. Buddy. And the only reason I have that is that she let it slip once. Buddy. As God is my witness, that’s all I know about the man.”

  “She must have told you something else about him. Where they met, and how.”

  “I only know what she said after it happened. She never mentioned him before that.”

  “So?”

  “She said he was a friend of a friend. That he liked to flirt and she’d flirted back. One thing led to another and she had sex with him, once. Once. She regretted it immediately and had no intention of doing it again. But he kept coming back for more. He frightened her.”

  “And that’s why she needed the gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t she go to the police?”

  “Because she couldn’t do that without her husband finding out. And she dreaded that. She loved Del, Mr. Gunner. She only did what she did because she thought she’d lost him, that he didn’t love her anymore.”

  Gunner fell silent, trying to take in all that he was hearing. Noelle had been unfaithful to Del, given cause to believe he no longer loved her. It seemed there was nothing he once took for granted about the pair that could be trusted as the truth anymore.

  “Did Del ever find out?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. If he did, she never told me. But…like I said, when I heard about what happened, I assumed he must’ve found out. What else could make him do such a thing?”

  Gunner lacked the will to suggest his cousin’s innocence again. He changed the subject instead. “Tell me about Zina.”

  “Zina?”

  “Noelle’s father-in-law says she and Zina had been fighting quite a bit lately. Over Zina’s choice in boyfriends, for the most part.”

  “It’s true. The girl was driving poor Noelle crazy.”

  “Well, ‘the girl’ regained consciousness this morning and claims it was her mother who shot her and her father, not Del.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not possible, at least not in regards to Del, and the police understand that. But I’m curious to know why she would say such a thing about her mother.”

  “You just said it. She didn’t like Noelle interfering in her business. She resented it.”

  “And her boyfriends? Del’s father says Noelle was in the habit of getting in some of their grilles.”

  “When they moved her to, yes.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Well, I can think of one. He used to work for Del. I think his name was—”

  “Glenn Hopp?”

  “Yes. You know him?”

  “No.” Gunner’s head began to swim. Zina and Hopp?

  “He and Zina were fooling around,” Miller said, “so Del fired him. But even after that, he wouldn’t stay away. Noelle caught them together at least twice afterwards and raised holy hell.”

  “And Del?”

  “I don’t think she ever told Del. She was afraid of what he might do if she did.”

  Gunner thought it all through, struggling to see where and how the pieces could possibly come together. “Could Noelle have wanted the gun to use against Hopp?”

  “I wondered about that. But I don’t think so, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he didn’t scare her like this man Buddy did. Noelle said the whole thing was just a joke to Glenn, that all he ever did when she got in his face was laugh.”

  “Maybe she thought he’d take her more seriously with a gun in her hand.”

  “Maybe. But I still don’t think so. She didn’t want the gun just for show, Mr. Gunner. She wanted it to protect herself from somebody. Somebody who had her scared half to death.”

  He questioned her for a few minutes more, but he’d heard all she had to relate that could be qualified as useful. He thanked her for her time and gave her a business card.

  “I feel horrible about what happened,” Miller said. “But I didn’t know what to do. She was in trouble and I was her friend. If I’d refused to help her and that man had killed her….” She looked to Gunner for approval. “You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Sure. I understand. The gun you gave her?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where’d it come from? Just curious.”

  She went back on the defensive. “You won’t—?”

  “Just between you and me. Promise.”

  She blushed, on the verge of opening herself up to this man more than she’d ever intended. “It was mine. My brother gave it to me a long time ago, when I was being stalked by an old boyfriend who liked to put his hands on me.”

  “He wouldn’t be a cop, by any chance? Your brother, I mean.”

  “In Long Beach. County Sheriff’s Department before that. How did you know?”

  Gunner smiled. “Lucky guess.”

  Fucking Little Pete.

  15

  “YOU AGAIN?”

  “Ye
s, but this time I’m not here to see your daughter. I’m here to see you.”

  Tyrecee Abbott’s mother Laticia, striking the same inhospitable pose at the threshold of her Panorama City apartment she had the day before, looked genuinely surprised. And flattered. “Is that a fact?”

  “May I come in?”

  Her unit was a revelation, a staggering departure from the prison riot leitmotif of the complex’s exterior. The furniture was simple and spotless, arranged with taste and common sense, and everything from the carpet to the light fixtures was equally devoid of ostentation. It all appeared lived in but shown great respect, like something borrowed she would soon have to return to its rightful owner.

  Laticia Abbott herself was almost equally surprising, in that the strong resemblance to an idle sloth she had struck the day before was no longer evident. Today, her hair was brushed back neatly and her mode of dress would have met most any occasion without drawing a sideways glance. She was still as big as a grizzly and nearly as imposing, but to find the gruff beneath the surface now, you had to look deep.

  They ended up in the dining room, on opposite sides of a glass-topped table with a loaded fruit bowl as its centerpiece. Off an open door to one side, a kitchen smelled more of lemon-scented dish soap than bacon grease.

  “Is Tyrecee here?” Gunner asked.

  “No. I thought you were here to see me.”

  “I am.”

  “So? I was on my way out when you showed up, Mr…?”

  “Gunner.”

  “Mr. Gunner. I’ve got some errands to run and I’m kind of in a hurry. I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

  “This should only take a minute. Two at the most.”

  “Okay.” She clasped her hands on the table in front of her and waited. A bank officer primed to reject a loan applicant at the first wrong word.

  “You remember why I’m here?”

  “You work for Harper’s lawyer, you said.”

  “That’s right. We don’t believe he killed Darlene Evans and, among other things, we’ve been trying to prove he was elsewhere when her murder was committed. But his memory’s a mess in general, as I’m sure you know, and it’s even worse in regards to the morning of the murder and most of the evening before. That’s where you and Tyrecee come in. We hope.”