Catch Me When I'm Falling

by Cheryl A Head

  Betti paused to take a sip of her Coke. Both Gil and Charlie leaned in to hear her story, and she turned up her smile another watt. “At first, he was just sitting there in the chair listening to me. The next thing I knew he jumped out of the chair, grabbed me up in the air, and threw me across the room. He was screaming, and people came running into the room. I was still on the floor, so I crawled over to the door and got my ass out of there.”

  “What are we going to do about this?” Gil asked Charlie. He was visibly angry, with his fists balled on the table.

  Charlie looked at Gil. “We’re not doing anything.”

  “We should do something.”

  “Betti, I’m sorry this happened to you. Do you still feel up to walking around with me tonight?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Is Gil coming?”

  “He can come. Let’s go.”

  The trio walked back to Cass Avenue, sidestepping the puddles. It was raining much harder now, and only a seven-count beat separated the thunder from the lightning. Betti’s yellow slippers slipped on the wet sidewalks, and Gil was practically lifting her over pooling water. Charlie half expected Gil, like Sir Walter Raleigh, to spread his jacket on the pavement for her benefit. Reggie was still under the church awning when they returned, but sitting now on a plastic crate. He’d leaned a large piece of cardboard against the cart, which gave him additional protection from the blowing rain.

  “You were right. Betti found me,” Charlie announced.

  “I knew she would. Are we walking now?” Reggie lifted to his feet.

  “Yep. I want to find Carla. Do you think she’s in the shelter?”

  “I doubt it. She’s not a fan. There’s another place she likes to stay. It’s on MLK. I’ll take you.”

  The group was soaking wet when they reached the three-story brick house two blocks away from the alley where Eddie’s body had been found. Joe, a man on the porch, knew Reggie. They chatted a bit, ending in the man taking a bill from Reggie, and a swig of his gin. He then pushed aside the piano bench blocking the door, allowing entry for the four rain-drenched visitors.

  “He said Carla’s here somewhere,” Reggie whispered to Charlie. “You and I will look for her. Your friend should stay with Betti. Carla can’t stand Betti, and vice versa.”

  “Okay.”

  Charlie pulled Gil aside to explain the search plan, then followed Reggie, walking the perimeter of the front room. People slept in sleeping bags, on blankets and in chairs. When they didn’t find Carla, they moved to one of the back rooms where people sat, engaged in various activities. Some smoked pot. A man read a book by flashlight, and under a pull-down light, a card game proceeded at a rickety card table. Among the card players, Charlie recognized the man who had been talking politics around last night’s campfire. Reggie beckoned to Charlie. He’d spotted Carla in the kitchen, or what used to be a kitchen. There were no appliances, and the cabinets had been pulled from the walls. They found Carla huddled in a window seat near the back door. She had fashioned a little altar on the seat with colored beads, a burning stick of incense, a photograph of a woman with long hair, and a tea candle. She stirred when the two approached her.

  “Stay away. What you want?”

  “It’s me, Carla. Reggie.”

  “What you want? I don’t have nuthin’ to drink.”

  “I have a drink. You want a little?”

  Carla righted herself a bit and closed her arms around her coat. “I might have a little taste. It’s chilly tonight.”

  Carla took a small silver cup from her bag and Reggie poured the equivalent of two shots. Carla drank the white liquid in one swallow, head held back, and for a moment Charlie saw a flash of the young woman Carla had been. Her right eye was terribly disfigured, but her good eye didn’t miss anything.

  “Who that with you? I saw him last night.”

  “Yes, you did. That’s my friend, Charlie. He wants to ask you something. He’ll give you twenty dollars if you talk to him.”

  Charlie kept her head down, her hands shoved in her pockets, looking up at Carla from under her cap. The woman’s single eye traveled over her, and Charlie hoped the baggy clothes and the hood would keep her secret.

  “What he want to know?” Carla’s voice was deep and raspy.

  “He wants to know what that boy looked like? The one who threatened you with the lighter?”

  Carla shuddered. “I don’t wanna talk about that demon.”

  “Why do you call him that?” Charlie, using a gruff whisper, moved closer. “Yesterday you said he was Satan.”

  “That boy is the demon. I saw his eyes. Deep black like hell itself.” Carla lifted her silver cup again and shook the last drops of gin into her open mouth. “I see him again. Driving that blue car with shiny wheels. He play that bump-bump Spanish music. He had the sign of the devil, right on his cheek.” Carla touched her hand to her face with the memory.

  Charlie nudged Reggie to follow up.

  “What kind of sign was that, Carla?”

  Carla didn’t answer. She pulled her coat tight around her small body and let out a low whine. She rocked, picked up a string of the beads, and began moving them through her fingers.

  “Carla?” Charlie leaned closer to the woman, hoping the tea candle was too dim to betray her. “What kind of mark did he have on his face? Was it a tattoo?”

  Carla stopped moaning, and put down the beads. She was suddenly sober and focused. She stuck her thumb in the ash of the incense and smudged it onto the wall next to her. “Look just like that,” she said, pointing. “Diablo,” she spit out the word, and resumed moaning and rocking.

  Charlie squatted next to the wall, straining to see the mark. It was an upside-down cross.

  Chapter 7

  Gil and Betti sat on the stairwell that led to the top floor of the flophouse, engaged in a hushed conversation about both having younger sisters. When Charlie returned to the front room, careful not to disturb those sleeping, she and Gil exchanged a look saying everything was all right. The laundry cart was at the foot of the steps, and Charlie sat on a piece of cardboard next to it, Reggie beside her.

  “We shouldn’t talk here. We should keep moving,” Charlie said.

  “It’s pouring and still lightning. This is the best place for now. When the rain stops, we’ll go out. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

  Charlie didn’t sleep, too aware of the people in proximity. She watched the mounds of slumbering people, listening for any signs of trouble. Gil and Betti continued their whispered conversation, their occasional laughter drifting down the steps. Charlie watched Carla leave at 12:30 a.m. clutching her canvas bag of belongings. It was still raining, but the thunderstorm had passed. The backroom card game broke up about 1 a.m., and a few others left the house. Reggie stirred next to her.

  “Ready to go?” he asked.

  “I am,” Charlie answered.

  She looked toward Gil and saw Betti asleep on his shoulder. She signaled they were leaving, and Gil slipped his arm from under Betti and bundled her poncho to place under her head. Reggie nodded a goodbye to the door sentry, who stood smoking a cigarette. The rain was now just a light sprinkle, but the ground was saturated.

  “Let’s see if we can find a couple of dry benches,” Reggie said, walking toward Cass Avenue.

  They found seats near TJ’s restaurant, at the corner of West Canfield and Second, and there was just enough of an overhang to block the drizzle. Charlie pulled a roll of paper towels from her cart and dried the seats of two benches that the three of them occupied. The streetlight on Second reflected in the shine of wet on the pavement, and the air picked up a clean scent that would grow fresher as the night moved into dawn. Reggie reached into his backpack and pulled out a bottle, offering it to Charlie, who refused, but Gil wiped the mouth of the bottle and lifted it to his lips.

  “What did Carla say?” asked Gil.

  “She got a good look at the boy, and she drew the mark he had on his cheek; probably a tat
too. An upside-down cross.”

  “Where are we going to find him?”

  “Maybe Betti can find him for us.”

  “Aww, Charlie, I don’t know if we should put her in harm’s way again. She was lucky that Monty guy didn’t kill her.”

  “You like her, huh?”

  “I know she’s got issues, but she’s not a bad person. She’s just had a rough time growing up. She’s smart, and wants to do something with her life.”

  “Uh huh.” Charlie paused to remember appropriate lyrics from her beloved Broadway shows. “There’s gotta be some life cleaner than this. There’s gotta be some good reason to live.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. Lyrics from Sweet Charity about a sex worker with a heart of gold. Only thing is, I haven’t seen any indication that Betti is softhearted.”

  “But she is,” Gil argued. “That’s why she offered to help you find the people burning the homeless.”

  “You know, Don could never understand a transgender person,” Charlie said.

  “Probably not, and Betti knows that. But for sure she admires you, Charlie. She said you remind her of her sister who lives in Los Angeles.”

  “How’d she become . . . How did she get into the occupation she’s in?”

  “She didn’t get into details. The hospital gave her something for pain, and she was fighting to stay awake. But before the meds kicked in, she said something that made me really want to be on her side.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She said, sometimes people just have living problems.”

  Just then there was a brief flurry of pedestrian movement from the bars closing, and a half-dozen men emptied out of Traffic Jam. Reggie went into action. He trailed after one of the bar patrons all the way across the street, until the man turned and shoved a handful of change into his hand. Gil and Charlie watched Reggie from their bench as he convinced several more people to give him money.

  By two-thirty the rain stopped completely, and Charlie suggested they retrace the path Eddie had used to travel at night. Reggie led the way, taking them over to Woodward Avenue, then south. The tent city locations were still too wet for outdoor sleepers, so most benches had residents, and shadowy people huddled in almost every doorway. Their trek was slow, and at one point Gil touched Charlie’s arm to whisper that he would follow from a distance. At Temple Street, Reggie pointed to the building in front of them.

  “Eddie and I often stopped here at the Vietnam Veteran’s Chapter 9 building to talk awhile. This is where we found each other again after the war.”

  Reggie pulled a large rag from his pocket and blew his nose. Charlie waited for him to reach for his bottle and was surprised when he continued across Woodward, heading to John R Street.

  “Would Eddie walk all night?”

  “If he saw someone he knew who wasn’t sleeping, he might stop and sit with them, but mostly he kept moving. Sometimes he circled his tried-and-true path two or three times. He wouldn’t allow himself the temptation of falling asleep. He was too afraid of the nightmares.”

  Charlie and Reggie walked a half-dozen blocks in a mostly residential area before turning onto Mack Avenue. This street had always been a childhood fascination for Charlie, and at nine years old she’d asked her mother if her father owned Mack Avenue. Her mother said no, and at dinner when she’d shared Charlie’s question with her father, they both laughed as if Charlie had made a great joke. Years later, Charlie would learn, except for Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, Rosa Parks Boulevard, and a few other roads, Detroit’s streets and freeways were mostly named for dead white men.

  Back on Cass Avenue, Charlie had just begun an internal debate about whether this walking strategy was a waste of time when she heard music. She watched a new Dodge Challenger with shiny chrome wheels roll by. The car braked, idling in the middle of the street, and the darkened passenger window slid halfway down. Charlie and Reggie returned the glare of a pair of eyes illuminated only by a streetlight. In twenty seconds, the tinted window glided back up and the Challenger moved slowly north.

  “They always seem to be around, don’t they,” Charlie said more than asked.

  “Six months ago, those guys weren’t even a part of the Corridor scene,” Reggie said.

  “And six months ago, homeless people weren’t being killed,” Charlie stated.

  “You really think they’re involved?”

  “Could be.” Charlie heard a low whistle, and touched Reggie’s back to slow him down. “Hey, wait a minute.” From the direction the car had driven, Gil and Betti came out of the shadows. Betti held onto Gil’s jacket and bopped from one foot to the other. Even in the dim lights, Charlie could see Gil’s furrowed brow.

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “I found her roaming around, looking for you. We’ve got to get back to West Canfield.”

  “What’s wrong?” Charlie asked.

  “Betti said they found another burned body a few blocks from TJ’s.”

  # # #

  A small gathering of homeless people stood in an open field behind an abandoned building not far from the Lodge freeway. Charlie’s nostrils registered the acrid mix of burning clothes, hair . . . and incense. Charlie walked through sodden grass up to the smoldering mound, and within seconds gestured for Reggie to join her. Betti was about to follow, but Gil held her back.

  “Let them look first. We don’t want to all be seen together.”

  When Charlie and Reggie came back, they walked right past Gil and Betti, moving purposefully up the street. At the next corner, Charlie waited for Gil and Betti to catch up, then ordered Gil, “Call 911. Report a murder.”

  Gil pulled out his phone, dialed, then spoke to the dispatcher. “Someone has been killed near Calumet and Third,” they heard him say. “I think it’s a man.”

  Charlie gripped his arm, shaking her head. “No. It’s a woman. She’s lying in an open field.”

  Charlie dipped her head and turned away. Gil repeated the information into his phone. Reggie moved to the curb, sank to the ground, and reached into his backpack for his bottle.

  “No, I don’t have the identification of the woman.” Gil said, staring at Charlie’s back. “No. That’s all I know. I’m not sure how she was killed, but someone set her on fire.”

  Gil put the phone back into his pocket, and Charlie pulled Betti closer to her.

  “How did you hear about the body?”

  “I heard a commotion on the porch at the flophouse. It woke me up. Then Joe came into the house yelling that somebody else had been burned up. A bunch of people ran out of the house, and I started looking for you. Gil found me,” Betti said, looking at him adoringly.

  “It was Carla,” Charlie said to Betti and Gil. “She had her beads in her hand, and the fire ignited her bag of incense. Her good eye was wide open.”

  “Is she dead?” Betti asked, bouncing.

  “Yes. And right after you told Monty that Carla was talking about one of his runners. That’s not a coincidence.”

  Charlie moved to the curb and sat next to Reggie, neither speaking for a few minutes. His shoulders drooped and his head hung in despair. Charlie touched his arm and he jumped, his hand shaking as he lifted the bottle to his lips.

  “Reggie, we’re going to find out who’s doing this. I promise.”

  Charlie lifted Reggie from the curb and they joined Gil and Betti. “We’re done for tonight. But tomorrow, I want Betti to take us to Monty’s.”

  Betti backed away, shaking her head no.

  “Charlie, I think that’s dangerous,” Gil said. “We can’t put her in harm’s way again.”

  “I just want her to show us where he lives, where his guys operate. Then we can watch who comes in and out. Maybe we can get a count on his runners.”

  “Why don’t you and I do that? We can drive by the address now, and I’ll come back tomorrow and keep an eye on the place.”

  Charlie nodded agreement. While they spoke, a fire engine swerved ar
ound the corner and up toward the freeway. A moment later two police cars, with lights and sirens signaling the alarm, streaked by them.

  Charlie led the way to Gil’s car, and Reggie mumbled inaudible words as they walked away from the soggy area where another friend’s life had been viciously taken.

  “Where does Monty live?” Gil asked Betti, who was slumped in the backseat next to Reggie.

  “Go over to MLK, then past the freeway.”

  “What’s the street?”

  “I don’t know the name, but Monty and all his guys stay there. Monty stays on the top floor.”

  Gil followed Betti’s directions, dousing the lights a half block away before pulling the car to the curb, where they had a good view of the surrounding area. It was still an hour before daybreak. Monty’s headquarters was a four-family brick flat on Wabash Street. A gravel lot adjacent to the building had been converted to a parking area for a half-dozen new cars ranging from a Ford Mustang to a white Cadillac. The porch light glowed dimly, and one of the top floor windows flashed with the illumination of a television.

  “I don’t see anyone around,” Gil said.

  “There’s probably somebody sitting on the porch,” Betti said. “They always have somebody watching.”

  # # #

  When Don arrived at the darkened office suite, Reggie was snoring at Judy’s desk, and Charlie and Gil looked up at him from their desks where they too had been sleeping. It was raining again, and Don hung his trench coat on the clothes tree in the anteroom and walked to his desk to deposit his gun in the drawer. Without a word to his partners, he went into the conference room to make coffee. Charlie, still wearing her undercover garb, had slept for a couple of hours with her face flat on the desk blotter. She leaned back in her chair and stretched stiff legs. Gil was already asleep again, breathing heavily. Charlie got up, walked into the conference room, and accepted the empty coffee mug Don offered. They sat at the table, watching the coffeemaker steam and gurgle.

  “I see we’re now a shelter,” Don said sarcastically.