Blue Avenue

by Michael Wiley

  ‘What’s this I hear about the killer driving a green Mercedes SUV?’

  ‘Fuck you, BB.’

  The sun shined through the open shades and heated the bed sheets and I lay on the mattress, listening to Daniel’s footsteps descending the stairs. It was the kind of sunlight and dry warmth that could lead to a lifetime of complacency. When the front door closed I picked up the phone and called Charles. He answered on the second ring.

  I said, ‘Someone ground a lighted cigarette into Bobby’s hands.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said as if the news didn’t surprise him. But news never seemed to.

  I asked, ‘Any idea who would do that?’

  ‘I don’t smoke,’ he said. ‘Can’t stand the smell of burning tobacco.’

  ‘It didn’t have to be a cigarette. It could’ve been a heated metal rod.’

  ‘Not my style. Can’t stand the smell of burning flesh either.’

  ‘If you didn’t do it, who did?’ I asked.

  ‘Damned good question,’ he said. ‘You ready to go out?’

  He’d never quite said that he hadn’t burned Bobby but I supposed I’d gotten as much from him as he was going to give. ‘What d’you want to do?’ I asked.

  ‘I got the addresses for the hookers. Ashley Littleton and Tonya Richmond.’

  ‘That’s something,’ I said. ‘Give me an hour, and I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘Do me a favor on your way?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Buy me another pack of cigarettes?’

  ‘Not funny, Charles.’

  I showered and let the smell of Lee Ann eddy into the drain, worrying about Charles’ tendency to go off plan, even if his approach did usually work better than mine. I shaved and got dressed in jeans, a light blue button-down cotton shirt and loafers. Susan had made lemon muffins and left a plate of cold scrambled eggs but her car was no longer in the driveway. I poured a cup of coffee and sat at the counter.

  Thomas came in wearing shorts and a Miami Heat jersey. He got orange juice from the refrigerator, bit into a muffin and stared at me as he chewed.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Did you know that woman who was killed?’

  I nodded. ‘Belinda Mabry. I knew her when I was about your age.’

  His eyes were worried. ‘Why did the police need to talk to you?’

  ‘They didn’t,’ I said. ‘Daniel Turner asked me to identify her.’

  He ate another bite, swallowed hard and asked his real question. ‘Does he think you did it?’

  ‘D’you think he would?’

  He shook his head uncertainly. ‘No.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed, ‘he doesn’t think I did it.’

  He looked relieved.

  ‘Come sit with me,’ I said.

  He hesitated, then came.

  I slid the plate of cold eggs between us and we ate breakfast together in silence, though I guessed his head was as full of troubled voices as mine. When I was done, I said, ‘I try to be a good father to you.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘I find it difficult.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  He shrugged.

  Charles lived in a brown ranch-style house on a tree-covered two-acre lot in the wetlands between town and the beach. He’d put a chain-link fence around the edge of the property and an electric gate across the driveway. He left the gate open most of the time but a closed-circuit security camera pointed through it toward the street. He didn’t mind visitors coming but wanted to know that they’d arrived.

  A little before ten I drove into the driveway and through a yard carpeted with palmettos, ferns and dead and rotting leaves. Spanish moss hung from oak branches. A scrub pine tipped in the sandy soil and rested against a stand of other trees. The yard was a little chaos of neglect but Charles knew if a leaf shifted or a twig snapped.

  As I pulled up he came out the front door, holding a calico cat, set it on to the ground, glanced once toward the canopy of branches and leaves as though he were wondering if we would have rain, and climbed into the car. The calico walked across the driveway lazily, then shot into the brush as if it saw something living that needed to be dead.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ Charles said.

  ‘I had a late night.’

  He fixed his eyes on me. ‘Is that a good thing?’

  ‘Just the way it is. Where to?’

  ‘North into Arlington,’ he said. ‘Tonya Richmond’s mother, father and little sister still live in the house where she grew up.’

  ‘Want to tell me where you found that out?’

  ‘Want to tell me what you were doing last night?’

  I glanced at him. ‘I was getting laid.’

  ‘So was I,’ he said. ‘By a friend who likes to talk.’

  Eaton Avenue ran north–south through a neighborhood of flat-roofed prefab houses, aluminum carports and yards that got more care than they probably deserved. It was a hanging-on neighborhood with well-tended flower gardens, newly washed cars on the lawns and a park with a single tennis court. The Richmonds lived in the biggest house on the block, a blue prefab on to which they’d added a screened porch. They’d built the house sideways to the street and planted cabbage palms and holly bushes that mostly blocked it from view.

  The heat of the day was rising and the air was bright with too much sun and heavy with humidity. The neighborhood was quiet except for the hum of window air conditioners and the distant buzz of an electric saw. A cracked concrete walk led to the front door.

  Charles rang the bell and we stepped back the way that magazine salesmen do to show they’re no threat.

  A young woman with a narrow face and blemished black skin answered the door. She wore green shorts and a pink T-shirt that said Lollipop in gold sequins. She carried a baby boy on her hip. She looked suspiciously at Charles and me. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Miss Richmond?’ Charles said.

  She nodded.

  ‘Are you Tonya Richmond’s sister?’

  She tried to shut the door but Charles seemed to float across the front steps and kicked it open.

  The woman stepped back, stunned. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘We’d like to talk,’ I said. ‘I’ve lost someone too.’

  ‘Nothing to talk about,’ she said. ‘Tonya was a crack whore. Crack whores die like crack whores live.’

  ‘Please,’ I said.

  A female voice asked from behind the woman, ‘Who’s there, Deni?’

  The woman kept her eyes on Charles and me. ‘No one, Mama.’

  A heavy, graying woman stepped into the door, wearing a loose faded-blue dress. ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  ‘My name’s William Byrd,’ I said. ‘I’d like to talk with you about Tonya.’

  She fixed her eyes on Charles. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m with him,’ he said.

  ‘You’re spooky looking,’ she said. ‘Come on in – why not?’ Her daughter glared at her, but the older woman frowned at her daughter’s worry. ‘What’re these boys going to do to me that hasn’t already been done?’

  We followed her into her living room. A brown foldout sofa and two matching easy chairs stood on green wall-to-wall carpet. A window unit blew a cold stream of air but the room was hot anyway. A coffee table had been pushed against a wall with a memorial to Tonya Richmond arranged on top of it. A framed five-by-seven stood in the middle – the same picture that the television had shown during the sheriff’s press conference. Tonya wore a blue gown that revealed some breast but not so much that you ever would’ve guessed what would become of her. A votive candle stood on either side of the picture, burning though the room was bright with sun, and a drying white carnation, riddled with brown streaks of decay, lay on top of a pile of hand-written notes.

  ‘Have a seat,’ the older woman said to us. Her daughter sat across from Charles, bouncing her baby on a leg. ‘Now,’ the older woman asked, ‘what do you boys want?’ />
  ‘The man who killed your daughter also killed a close friend of mine,’ I said.

  ‘A close friend?’ said the girl with the baby, making the words sound dirty. ‘Another crack whore?’

  ‘A woman I loved,’ I said to the older woman.

  ‘The police’ve been here,’ she said. ‘We talked to them, told them everything. What else is there to do?’

  Charles smiled. The baby caught the smile and laughed.

  ‘The police’ll do their job,’ I said. ‘They might even catch the man who did it.’

  ‘Then why would you want to come into my home and bother me while I’m grieving?’ Her voice held no anger, only pain.

  I shrugged. ‘I can’t help myself.’

  The woman seemed to consider that, nodded to herself. ‘What d’you want to know?’

  The baby grinned at Charles. He offered his finger and the baby clutched it. It seemed useless to warn the baby of the danger.

  ‘Did you know much about what Tonya was doing?’ Charles asked.

  The woman tipped her head toward her daughter. ‘Deni knew. I knew only a little.’

  ‘Knew she was a crack whore,’ said Deni.

  ‘Do you know who her pimp was or who was selling her the crack?’ he asked.

  ‘Same man. Beat her up if she didn’t stand on the corner for him. Beat her up if she bought drugs from someone else.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Charles asked.

  ‘Ashawn,’ she replied. ‘Lives in a room at the Gator Lodge on Philips Highway though he’s probably cleared out now that the police are asking questions.’

  ‘Does Ashawn have a last name?’ Charles asked.

  ‘Just Ashawn.’ She pulled her baby’s hand from Charles’ finger.

  ‘What did Tonya tell you about her customers?’ he asked. ‘Did anyone scare her?’

  She laughed. ‘Anyone that wants sex with a crack whore is scary. No one knows that better than a crack whore herself. Yeah, everyone that ever paid Tonya to get in his car scared her.’

  Mrs Richmond listened to this with a strange calm that suggested she’d heard worse.

  A tinge of rot – from the carnation, I guessed – caught in my nostrils.

  Charles asked Deni, ‘Did Tonya tell you about any men in particular?’

  ‘Yeah, every time we talked. But no one stood out as scarier than the others.’

  ‘What about Ashawn?’ he said. ‘Did he ever arrange anything special for Tonya? With guys who wanted something unusual?’

  Deni shook her head. ‘Ashawn’s a little guy. Got no imagination for that kind of thing.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Mrs Richmond. ‘He sent Tonya to the Bahamas for a party. She thought she’d hit the big time.’

  ‘It was Jamaica, Mama. And that wasn’t Ashawn. It was Ashawn’s friend, Darrin. Yeah, she went to Jamaica three, four months ago. For a big party. Came back hurt.’

  ‘Hurt how?’ I asked.

  She looked disgusted. ‘How d’you think? They tore her.’

  I glanced at Mrs Richmond.

  She said, ‘Tonya was my daughter. If you can hear it, I can.’

  I asked Deni, ‘Do you know if they tied her up?’

  She laughed bitterly. ‘They did everything. And you want to know the sad thing? They paid her good money, so she would’ve gone back for more. That’s what a crack whore does. A man tears her and she asks for more.’

  The baby reached for Charles’ finger again.

  ‘Where can we find Ashawn’s friend?’ he asked.

  ‘Darrin? He manages a club called Little Vegas off Cassat Avenue on the Westside.’ She glanced at me. ‘He’s tall like you. But better looking. If you go to Little Vegas you won’t miss him.’

  Mrs Richmond said, ‘Don’t say Deni sent you.’

  ‘I don’t care what you tell him,’ Deni said. ‘Darrin’s a punk, just like Ashawn.’

  Mrs Richmond looked at the baby on Deni’s lap and smiled pleasantly. ‘Darrin and Deni used to be together.’

  Deni looked at the baby too and seemed surprised to see him holding Charles’ finger again. ‘Just a punk,’ she said and pulled the baby away.

  I asked, ‘Do you know if Tonya was friends with Ashley Littleton?’

  ‘She the one you knew?’

  ‘No. I knew Belinda Mabry.’

  ‘Tonya knew Ashley a little from Little Vegas, but she just met the Mabry woman.’

  ‘Did she? How did that happen?’

  ‘They met in Jamaica,’ she said.

  The heat of the room closed on me. My throat felt dry and the carnation rot caught in it. ‘At the party?’

  ‘No, at church.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, at the party. Where the hell else?’

  Charles asked, ‘Was she working the party too?’

  She shrugged. ‘I believe she was a guest. Tonya said some of the men brought dates. Tonya said she seemed out of place, like she hadn’t done this kind of thing before. Said she got into it eventually though.’

  ‘What did getting into it involve?’ I asked, though I knew that I didn’t want her to tell me.

  Deni’s smile showed no interest or pity. ‘She didn’t say exactly. But the lady apparently enjoyed herself.’

  Charles asked, ‘Did Tonya say who Belinda’s date was?’

  Deni shook her head. ‘Just another boy with money. They all had money. They were drinking expensive liquor and had more coke than Santa Claus. Nice cars. Big house by the beach. Swimming pool.’

  I tried to place Belinda at such a party but couldn’t see it.

  ‘What else?’ Deni asked.

  ‘Why would anyone want to kill your sister?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know why anyone would want to have sex with her, much less kill her.’

  I glanced at Charles to see if he had more questions.

  He shook his head, stood and said to the older woman, ‘Thank you, Mrs Richmond.’ He smiled at Deni. ‘Beautiful baby. Don’t ever let him go.’

  When we stepped outside, the heat was dizzying. Somewhere in a nearby tree a locust wound up like a high-pitched electric motor. In the car, I turned on the air conditioner and hot air shot into our faces.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked and pulled from the curb.

  ‘I think you went in there like a little boy lost in the woods.’

  I considered that and considered the oppressive heat of the Richmonds’ living room as Tonya’s sister told us stories about Belinda. ‘I don’t know if I’ve got the stomach for this.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Drop me off at my house.’

  I drove to the corner. On the stop sign someone had spray painted a black number three under the word Stop.

  Stop

  3

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ I said.

  Charles rolled down his window, spit and rolled it up. ‘What’s anything mean?’

  I accelerated through the intersection. ‘Where did Ashley Littleton live?’

  ‘You sure about this?’

  I’ve been sure about very few things in my life. ‘Where does she live?’

  Ashley Littleton shared a rental with a roommate in the Spring Park neighborhood, a lower-middle-class triangle between the Interstate, the beach road and a cemetery. It was a single-story yellow-sided house with brown shingles, awnings over the windows and pulled shades. A car with a canvas cover on it was parked in the driveway. Beyond the car was a chest-high white metal fence. A brown dog that looked part boxer lay inside the fence against the gate. The dog pulled to its feet as Charles and I walked to the front door.

  No one answered the bell.

  ‘Who’s the roommate?’ I asked.

  ‘Girl named Brianna Sumner. She’s half Thai. Works as a bartender. Sometimes hooks.’ He stepped off the front porch and peered through a window where the blind met the sill. ‘Come on,’ he said and headed toward the driveway.

  The dog stood on its hind legs against the metal gate and growled as Charles and I a
pproached. Charles stooped so he was face-to-face with it, and it bared its teeth, its gums black, its eyes wide, shining and mean. Charles reached his hand through the bars. The dog lunged at it, canines flashing, but with a flick of the wrist Charles hit its muzzle so hard it made a crack and the dog tumbled on to its back. It scrambled to its feet, ran three or four yards from the gate and stood warily watching Charles.

  Charles unhooked the gate and swung it open.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  He stepped into the backyard, leaving the gate open for me.

  There were no trees, no shade. Empty water and food bowls stood on the concrete by the stairs to the back door. Against the back wall, tomato plants grew in plastic containers next to a potted hibiscus with three big red flowers. Charles climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. When no one came he took a single step back and kicked the door. The bottom panel broke inward. He shook his head as though the door had failed to do its job, reached through the gap and popped the lock.

  ‘We could’ve come back when she was here,’ I said.

  ‘Would she let us search the house?’

  ‘Guess not.’

  The back door led into a kitchen that needed painting and smelled of spoiled food. Dirty dishes from a long-ago breakfast were stacked in the sink, and a cockroach scuttled across the counter and behind the faucet. Charles glanced around the room and went to a pile of mail and newspapers on the kitchen table. He leafed through it as though he were sorting for bills and handed me a stack of three advertising postcards, the kind that businesses hire kids to slip under your windshield wiper at the movie theater or mall. The postcards promoted a two-for-one-drinks ladies night at Little Vegas.

  Charles wandered into the living room and I took the hall to the bedrooms. The first was Ashley Littleton’s and showed signs of having been searched by the police. The dresser drawers were open a crack, the closet door wide. A framed picture stood on the dresser, showing Ashley Littleton and two girls who might’ve been her nieces or much younger sisters. If she’d kept other pictures on the dresser or boxes of belongings on the closet shelves, the police had impounded them. I slipped the solitary picture from the frame.

  The second bedroom door was shut and as I pushed it open I smelled something animal-like and dirty. Flies were buzzing. It was the same buzzing I’d heard when Daniel Turner showed me Belinda’s body, and my stomach turned and the picture of Ashley Littleton slipped from my fingers even before I saw Brianna Sumner naked and bloody, her feet bound over her head with clothesline, dead on a bare mattress.