Catch Me When I'm Falling

by Cheryl A Head

  # # #

  Gil made it to Stimson street, crossed it, and disappeared between two houses, his pursuers right behind him. He jumped three backyard fences and led the chasers back to the street. He saw a dark car veer around the corner and head toward him. Pulling his gun from his waistband, he darted across the street, ducking behind a parked car. He’d done this maneuver before, in desert landscapes, leading his enemies in a circle around blown-out stone buildings and the steel carcasses of Jeeps and cargo trucks. The two gang members arrived at the sidewalk just as the unmarked police car reached the middle of the block, illuminating them in the headlights. The car squealed to a stop, and the men paused, looking across the street to where Gil had disappeared. Hesitation was their downfall. In a single motion, all four doors of the police vehicle popped open.

  “Police. Drop your weapons now,” one of the plainclothes officers shouted.

  Four guns and a spotlight pinpointed the young men, and they staggered back, guns in hand but pointing to the ground. The guy in front must have quickly run the probability of getting off a round, or running away, before being hit by a bullet from at least one of the officer’s guns. His shoulders sagged in resignation, and he released the gun from his grip. The man in the rear quickly followed the example. Gil remained perched behind the parked car as the two patrol cars carrying Don and Charlie arrived. Six officers milled around the two gang members, and a few others huddled together at the corner of the block, but Gil kept looking for the dark blue Ford, alert for any move by the rogue cop or one of his surrogates.

  After a few minutes of watching the arrest and scanning the scene for suspicious cars or activity, Gil lifted from his safe space and stood on the sidewalk. Don and Charlie joined him near his car refuge.

  “I guess we didn’t draw the scumbag out.” Don stated the obvious.

  “You moved in too fast,” Gil yelled. He was still holding his gun, his breathing heavier than usual. He leaned over to return his gun to his ankle holster. Charlie looked at her watch, it was two o’clock.

  “As soon as those two heard my name back at the fire they went into pursuit mode, they clearly had orders to take care of me. Did Scott mention me by name when he called in the shots fired?” Gil was speaking fast, the adrenaline still flowing.

  “Yep,” Don said.

  “I figured if Anderson heard my name over the radio, he’d make a beeline here to see that I was dead. What went wrong?”

  “Scott’s heading our way. Maybe he’ll have the answer,” Charlie noted.

  Detective Scott was hyped by the arrest of the two assailants, and the news he was bringing. He leaned against the parked car.

  “Where’s Anderson?” Don asked.

  “I don’t know. As best I can put together he checked in at about 9 p.m., but we haven’t heard from him since,” Scott said.

  “What do you mean?” Gil asked.

  “We don’t know where he is. I’ve sent a couple of guys looking for him.”

  “So, you mean I got shot at for nothing? Damn.” Gil was angry and walked away, then suddenly stopped and turned back. “I think you moved in too fast.”

  Scott didn’t respond, but stopped leaning on the car and folded his arms. “I’m sorry, Acosta. We thought he’d show up.”

  A patrol officer trotted towards them, and when he got to the group he locked eyes on Scott. “We’ve got Anderson on the phone,” the patrolman said. “He says he wants to make some sort of deal with Acosta.”

  The group ran to the police car. Charlie and Don remained in front of the vehicle as the patrol cop climbed into the driver’s seat and extended the car’s microphone to Gil. Scott waved off the officer, and pulled Gil to the front of the car.

  “Wait. Let’s use this to our advantage. You still mic’d up?”

  “Yes,” Gil said, touching the small device stuck under his breast plate. “I forgot to take it off.”

  “I want to record your conversation with Anderson. We already have a lot of taped evidence, and I’m hoping a judge will agree this conversation will be allowed under our current subpoena.”

  “Can’t you record the call at dispatch?” Don asked, displaying his knowledge of police procedure.

  “Yes. But Anderson didn’t call on an open channel. He called on our closed channel. That means he must still have some help on the inside.”

  Scott spoke briefly to someone on his mobile phone, then signaled Gil to get into the passenger seat. Charlie, Don, and Scott stood at the open passenger door to hear the exchange.

  “This is Gil Acosta,” Gil said, depressing the microphone button on the vehicle’s two-way radio.

  “Acosta. I’m calling you on your cell phone in two minutes. I have eyes on you. Take off the wire you’re wearing, get out of that police vehicle, and walk down the street alone.”

  Anderson’s voice cut through the static of the radio. He was dispassionate and all business. Scott, Charlie and Don began scanning the area, trying to figure out Anderson’s vantage point.

  “Why would I do that?” Gil challenged.

  “I have something you want.”

  Anderson disconnected the call immediately, and Gil sat for a moment before returning the handset to the cop sitting next to him. He stepped out of the patrol car and huddled with Charlie, Don and Scott at the rear of the car. They were aware they were probably being watched.

  “Oh, hell no,” Don said. “You are not walking out in the open where you’ll be a direct target. He could have a sniper out there.”

  “If there was a sniper, he could have shot Gil anytime in the last fifteen minutes,” Charlie reasoned.

  “I agree,” Scott said.

  “Look. We want to get this guy, don’t we?” Gil asked, looking at Don and Charlie. “That’s why we’re out here in the first place. Let’s see what he wants.”

  “What do you think, Scott?” Charlie asked.

  “Normally I wouldn’t let one of my guys walk away from this car without backup. But, I don’t think Acosta is in danger of getting shot, and we know Anderson can’t snatch him, because the street is blocked on both sides.”

  Charlie watched Don shake his head, then shove his hands into his pockets. He was giving up his argument. At least for now.

  Chapter 15

  It was late afternoon when the prison ambulance arrived at the holding cell of police headquarters. The emergency medical technicians woke Betti and handcuffed one of her wrists to a gurney. The male EMT connected her other arm to an IV containing a light sedative, which, according to him, was standard operating procedure for the medical transport of prisoners. The gurney was secured to hooks on the floor of the ambulance, and the female technician took her place behind the wheel. The second attendant remained in the well of the vehicle, monitoring the slow drip of liquid feeding into Betti’s overused veins. The driver rolled slowly through city traffic until reaching the 1-94 freeway. Betti felt the change of road and traffic, and that’s when she proposed fellatio to the attendant, and convinced him it would be an even more pleasurable experience if he released her from the handcuff. After ejaculating onto the sheet, he reached down to pull up his trousers, and Betti hit him on the base of his head with an oxygen unit kit. She hit him a second time to make sure he was fully unconscious. She undid the IV with no trouble, and opened the bag containing the clothes Ms. Mack had given her. Betti banged twice on the wall of the ambulance with her hand, and then again with the oxygen kit. The driver abruptly swerved off the road, and before the vehicle had completely stopped Betti jumped from the back. A bit groggy from the IV and plastic bag in hand, she stumbled toward the nearby exit ramp and slid down the embankment to a wooded area. The female EMT didn’t follow.

  Betti ran for fifteen minutes through dense trees and finally sat on an old tree stump. She watched a squirrel scamper up a tree as she rustled through the bag of hand-me-downs. She put on the black shoes and sweater. The other items—a jacket, two shirts, and a baseball cap—she returned to the bag. Her pu
rse was missing, which meant she had no cell phone.

  Betti left the woods where it intercepted a two-lane access road. She knew all about hitchhiking, and walked with a raised thumb. Several vehicles passed by, but a Chevrolet truck pulled over in front of her, and she ran to the vehicle. Betti smiled confidently.

  “Where you off to, young lady?” A woman with curly gray hair and kind eyes looked down from the truck cab.

  “My car started smoking on the freeway, so I got off at that exit back there. I need to take my mother some things,” Betti said, holding up the bag. “She’s in a nursing home in the city.”

  “I told my husband that you must have had some car trouble,” the woman said. “You want to borrow our cell phone to call Triple A?”

  “No,” Betti said, slowly shaking her head, unsure what Triple A meant. “I don’t have Triple A. I just need to get to my mother before visiting hours are over. You think you might take me to a gas station, or drop me off at the mall? I can get a bus or cab from there.”

  “We’ll do better than that, Miss,” the woman’s husband said. “We’re going into the city to see our grandson’s high school baseball game. We can drop you off not far from downtown. Will that help?”

  “Yes sir. That’s perfect, and I thank you.”

  Betti climbed up into the backseat of the truck, and smiled. “My name is Bettina, but most people call me Betti. I really appreciate the ride. I was getting so tired. I don’t know how I’m going to get my car fixed, but there’s always something to be fixed when you’re a single working mom.”

  “What kind of work do you do?” the woman asked.

  “I work for a lady private investigator. It’s a very interesting job. Do you want to hear about it?”

  # # #

  The couple dropped Betti off in front of the Detroit Historical Museum.

  “Good luck to you, young lady,” the woman said. “It was fascinating hearing about your work. It’s so exciting, just like on television. I hope you find your mother well.”

  Betti sat on the ledge in the museum’s plaza. It was already dusk, and in a couple of hours street people would be claiming these cement spaces for their beds. She was alone and cold and thinking about getting a hit of something to make her feel better. She pulled the jacket from the plastic bag and put it on over her sweater. That’s when she felt the phone in the inside pocket; it had been there all the time. She immediately called Gil, but he didn’t answer. She suddenly realized she was hungry and got up from the berm and walked east toward Wayne State. In her pants pocket she had the ten-dollar bill the old woman had given her for a cab ride. She stopped at a restaurant on Cass Avenue that was primarily the haunt of university students. She ate at an empty window table where she could see the stream of people around the campus. Across from her a table of six students were doing homework, and she watched with curiosity. They had a half-dozen books open, and each was using a laptop. They were laughing, drinking coffee, and eating containers of noodles. One of the girls, a brunette with long hair and blue eyes, was rubbing her booted foot on the leg of the boy next to her. He looked over at Betti, who smiled broadly and blew him a kiss. The boy whispered something to the girl, and they both glanced quickly at Betti and shared a long laugh.

  Betti shot up from the table and rushed toward the door, pushing her way outside. She walked south to more familiar territory, where people knew her and where she felt smart and important. When she crossed Warren Avenue, the wind lifted the collar of her short jacket and she picked up her pace. The sidewalk was crammed with students, medical center professionals, neighborhood residents, and happy hour patrons who jostled up and down the street. A couple of people bumped into Betti, mumbled “sorry” and kept on going. The few who looked at her and her bag gave her a curious stare. She suddenly felt a shudder of anonymity, wishing she had a drink or a john or a snort of something to help her feel real. She crossed the street to avoid passing the sandwich shop where Monty’s guys hung around. She glanced through the window and saw a few people she knew at the counter. At the Temple Bar she stopped and leaned against the exterior wall adjacent to the parking lot.

  “Wanna party?” she asked a man who exited the bar. He wore the uniform of a city bus driver. He looked at her, signaled “no” with a headshake, and tightened his blue wool scarf around his neck to ward off the wind blowing from the direction Betti had just come. Three businessmen left the bar next, laughing and talking loudly about some woman they all knew. When they passed Betti’s location, all three quickly appraised her. “Wanna party, gentlemen?” Two of the men appeared to be in their fifties, but one guy was a lot younger. Without a word to her, the men continued moving to their cars in the lot. Two cars exited quickly, the drivers turning north toward Detroit’s suburbs without a glance in Betti’s direction. The third car paused at the walkway and the driver’s window opened halfway. Betti sashayed over, jutting her hip in a seductive way as she leaned in.

  “How much?” the man asked.

  Betti took in his car and his countenance. He didn’t look like a cop. His tie was pulled loose, and his gray hair was thinning, but it had been salon cut. She smelled the scotch he’d been drinking. She wore no makeup, her hair was matted against her forehead, and her outfit was the drab borrowed clothes she’d been given to replace her bloody clothing, but she knew she could make this john want her. Betti gave him a serious look, squinted her eyes, and slowly licked her lips.

  “Depends on what you want,” she purred. She had opened her jacket and unbuttoned the cardigan sweater she wore. She noted his stare at her exposed skin. “For a good-looking man like you, I’ll give you head for twenty dollars. If you want more, it’s another twenty dollars. We can just park around the corner; we’ll have privacy there,” she said, reading the question in his lust-filled eyes. She licked her lips again, and saw his tongue involuntarily dart through his open mouth.

  “Okay. Get in,” he said, pressing the button to unlock the passenger door. Suddenly his eyes widened and he recoiled.

  Betti was so engrossed in the transaction she hadn’t seen or heard the car idling on the corner behind her, or the short man get out and walk up behind her. When he grabbed her by the hair and flung her to the sidewalk, the john slammed on the accelerator so fast his car jerked forward. He braked only enough to execute a sharp turn, and sped away. Betti flailed her arms and legs and bucked like a bronco to resist. A second man, the driver, got out of the car, slapped her hard, and grabbed her legs. Carrying her between them, they walked to the orange Camaro where the short guy opened the trunk. They slung her in and slammed it shut. By this time a few onlookers on both sides of Cass Avenue were watching the abduction. A few people shouted “stop” and “hey, what are you doing?” but no one dared to interfere, and nobody called 911. The Camaro’s driver, unperturbed by the attention, made a slow U-turn and drove east on Temple Street.

  # # #

  The driver parked the Camaro in the rear of the building. Betti fell when the two men yanked her from the trunk, still kicking and punching, and lifted her to her feet. She scratched the driver on the face, and he brought the butt of his pistol down on her head, knocking her unconscious.

  “You better hope she ain’t dead, Carlos, or your ass will be in trouble,” the short man growled.

  “That bitch scratched my face. Come on, Peña, grab her ankles. I called the man and told him we had her. He’s waiting.”

  They carried Betti through a back door and down a short hallway to a space that was used as the L2D’s family room. A young Latino wearing a long-sleeved Adidas jersey and nylon sweatpants was shooting pool in the far corner of the room; a large TV mounted on the wall showed a soccer game. The driver and his passenger dropped Betti on one of the couches.

  “Is he in there?” Carlos pointed to the adjoining door.

  “He’s been waiting ever since you called,” the young man said. “MJ is with him.”

  MJ sat in a plush black leather chair with his leg dangling fr
om the arm. He shifted in the chair to look over his shoulder when the door opened. Carlos approached the six-foot-long table Bill Anderson used as a desk and waited. MJ stood to join him.

  Anderson looked more Caribbean—maybe Puerto Rican or Dominican—than African-American. But his parents were black, and he’d been born and raised in southeastern Michigan. He dressed like a corporate executive in tailored suits and expensive monogrammed shirts. He was clean-shaven, with a pencil-thin mustache. His nails were manicured, his hair salon cut, and his teeth whitened by a dentist. He was a six-foot-five, 240-pound cold-blooded killer. He finally closed the cover of his laptop and held the men in an icy glare.

  “You got her?”

  “Yeah. She’s outside,” Carlos said.

  “Good. ’Cause that punk who stole my stuff is coming for her. Bring that bitch in here.”

  Carlos and Peña retrieved Betti, her legs dragging behind her, and dumped her in the leather chair. Her head was slumped to her chest.

  “Wake her up!”

  Carlos shook her by the shoulders, and slapped her a couple of times, but she remained unconscious. Anderson pushed back so violently from the table that he tipped over the chair. He moved to the water dispenser, and filled a cup. He lifted Betti’s head by her hair and flung the water in her face. She began to sputter and moan, and her eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings. She kicked out at Anderson, but he caught her leg while she struggled—and got a good look at Betti’s bulging genitalia.

  “Damn. She’s a dude. Didn’t y’all know that?”

  “What?” Carlos asked.

  “This is a dude. Get another cup of water,” Anderson ordered.

  Carlos went for the water, while Peña and MJ stood nearby. Anderson righted his chair and sat down with a thud. The second cup of water brought Betti to full consciousness, and when she took in her surroundings she bounced up from the chair. MJ caught her and threw her violently into the seat. Her eyes showed fear as he stood over her. Then he stepped aside so Anderson could question her.