“Roxanne said no noise,” Ramona said.
“I'll keep it down,” said Jesse. “Besides, they'll never hear us with all the racket they're making.” He turned the TV on.
He grabbed a newspaper that Roxanne had been reading. Jesse skimmed the stories on Ramona and himself. A reporter had even interviewed his sister, Bernice, or at least, he tried to. Bernice refused to talk to the reporter. Thank God for small favors, he thought.
Jesse dropped the paper. There was nothing on the TV stations so far. He looked over at Ramona, who was watching too. She was such a pain in the ass, he thought, but he was stuck with her. Ramona was like so many of the criminals he put in jail. She didn't grasp the gravity of her situation.
Jesse went back to the newspaper. In the back was an obituary on Louis Franklin, Chapel, Swiss's dead partner. The article showed a series of pictures. He shook hands with governors, senators, and other important people. But the picture with Harris Yancy was different. They were dressed casually, hugging each other over a pool table. Apparently they were social friends.
“Did you ever see this man when you were with the mayor?” asked Jesse. He showed Ramona the picture.
“He looks familiar,” said Ramona. “Yeah, I've seen him before. At some parties with Yanny-- I mean, the mayor.”
“This is Louis Franklin,” said Jesse. “The mayor called him the night they tried to murder you. And I never got a chance to ask him what they talked about. Look here, it says that Franklin's family was gone on vacation, but he stayed behind and hung himself. He was found in his basement and could have been there since the first of the month. That would put his death at around the same time as Yancy's.”
“So, you think he was killed to shut him up or something?” asked Ramona.
“I don't know,” said Jesse. He took the article, folded it up, and put it in his pocket. He went back to the TV.
“You seem like you don't like it here,” said Ramona.
“What's that supposed to mean?” asked Jesse. “Of course I don't like it. I want to get this over with. “
“You know what I mean,” she said pointedly. “You act like you too good to be here or something.”
She was more astute than he gave her credit for, Jesse thought. He decided there was no reason to hide from her.
“I left these neighborhoods a long time ago,” he said. “That's all.”
“Well, welcome back, homey,” Ramona said sarcastically. “You should know you can never leave, just take a vacation here and there.”
“Well, I don't belong here anymore,” said Jesse flatly. “People do change, you know. This isn't me anymore, these places with loud women, bad English, and people who think O.J. was innocent.”
“O.J. was innocent,” said Ramona.
“I'm not going to get into that with you,” said Jesse. He thought for a moment, then: “How can you say that?”
“Easy,” said Ramona. “Innocent. Not guilty. Didn't do it.”
“Typical,” said Jesse. “Ignore the evidence, and decide with your emotions. This whole country is in trouble when evidence means nothing.”
“Well, if O.J. was guilty, then maybe we are too,” Ramona said sharply.
Jesse was about to comment, then stopped. She really had a way of getting on his nerves. She was just smart enough to be irritating. “Our situation is not the same,” said Jesse. “That jury tried to pay back white people and let a murderer go free.”
“You know what?” said Ramona. “You're just a typical bougie Negro.”
“The word is bourgeois,” said Jesse. “And I'm not.”
“Yes, you are. I saw that the first time you came into my hospital room. I can tell. I know people.”
“For your information, I grew up not too far from here.” “That just makes it worse,” said Ramona. “You used to be from the 'hood, and now you think it's all beneath you.”
“You don't know anything,” said Jesse, waving a hand at her. “Shit, you don't even know where your friend is.”
“I know you're bougie,” said Ramona matter-of-fact. “And you need to quit acting that way. No matter what you do, you still a nigga.”
“Don't use that word in reference to me. I may have grown up poor, but I was never a nigger.”
“You know what I mean,” said Ramona.
“No, I don't know. I don't know why black people use that word to describe themselves. That's why we never get anywhere because that mentality keeps holding us back.”
“You trippin',” said Ramona, looking at him in disbelief. “You just another black man who got a job and forgot who he is.”
“And what about you?” asked Jesse. “You got out of the ghetto and how did you do it? By becoming a prostitute.”
“I ain't no damn ho,” Ramona said a little too loudly.
“I don't know what you'd call it then,” said Jesse. “And the word is whore.”
“The word is shut the fuck up correcting me,” Ramona said. “I know how to talk.”
“I know how to talk,” said Jesse, mocking her. He laughed. “Just listen to yourself.”
“To hell with you,” said Ramona. She was furious. He'd gotten to her. “As soon as we do this business, I'm done with your ass.”
Jesse scoffed. “I don't know why you'd be thinking anything else.”
Jesse heard a noise from the alley behind the little shop. “What was that?” he asked. “Did you hear that?”
Ramona didn't answer. She ignored him.
Cautiously Jesse got up and went to the back door. He looked into the alley. There was nothing back there. He sat back down next to Ramona just as Florence appeared on the TV.
“Florence,” said Jesse.
“Who?”
“My investigator.” Jesse turned up the TV a little. A group of reporters was harassing Florence in front of the police station.
“Do the police have any leads?”
“Is he in love with the girl who killed Yancy?”
“What? Why are people saying that?” said Ramona.
“Quiet!” Jesse said.
“Just go away before I shoot you,” Florence said on the little TV. “Do you think he's guilty?” asked a reporter. “Like I said, I don't know nothing,” she said.
The camera was shaky as Florence looked under the hood of a car. “I'm just a cop. I got blue in my heart just like the next guy. Now move, before I put a blue foot in your ass.”
“What did the police ask you?” another reporter asked Florence.
“You want this blue foot in your ass too?”
Jesse's face broke into a broad smile. “That's my girl!” he said. He turned down the TV as the segment on Florence ended. He took out a pen and looked around the stacks of covered boxes until he found a piece of paper. He began to write on a paper bag.
“I suppose she's black too,” said Ramona.
Jesse didn't respond. He was immersed in his writing.
“What are you writing?” asked Ramona.
“I just got a message,” said Jesse. “Florence knows I'm innocent, and she wants to meet me.”
“Wha-- when did she say that?” asked Ramona.
“Just now, on TV. I guess you don't speak this language,” Jesse said. “When we worked together and we needed to talk in private, we used to go to this old bar downriver called Packer's.”
“So? She didn't say nothing about no Packer's,” said Ramona.
“The first time we went there, I had just started at the prosecutor's office. Packer's is a working-class bar, and I came dressed in a blue suit. I had on blue shoes. The guys there ragged on me all night about my blue feet. After that it was our code for the place. And no one knows that except us.”
“Downriver. That's all the way on the west side,” said Ramona. “A lot of shit can happen between here and there. It's too dangerous. “
She had a point, Jesse thought. They were on the east side of Detroit. Packer's was a good forty miles away. They could be stopped for traffic, have
car trouble. Hell, in the city there was always the chance they'd get jacked by some punk.
“I know it's far away, but we have to chance it,” said Jesse. “Your friend ain't coming here today.”
“You don't know that,” said Ramona. “And the word is isn't.”
“Listen, we have to--” Jesse stopped short. He was facing the dirty plastic curtain that separated the two rooms. A tall woman in jeans walked into the shop and sat down. “Holy shit,” he said in a whisper.
“What?” said Ramona.
“We got trouble.” He went back to the back door and looked through the window. Nothing. He opened the door and carefully peeked down the side of the building. Just as he thought, there was a nondescript car parked across the way. Two men in plainclothes were inside.
Jesse closed the door and began to pace back and forth, cursing to himself.
“What's going on?” asked Ramona in alarm.
“A woman just walked in. Her name is--” Jesse searched for the name. “Nell, Nell Parker. She's a cop, an undercover officer. She did her first trial testimony as a cop with me. I think she's on the job here right now.”
“Maybe she's getting her nails done,” said Ramona. “A cop can have class, you know.”
“I don't think so. Besides, there are two cops sitting in a car in the back, waiting. This place is being set up.”
“But... how did they find us?”
“They didn't. At least I don't think so. If they thought we were in here, they would have made their move by now. No, they're after someone here.”
“Probably Roxanne,” said Ramona. “She sells stuff out of here.”
“Stuff?” asked Jesse, his eyes widening.
“You know, stolen stuff.”
Jesse sighed heavily. He pulled back the sheet that covered the boxes in the little room. TVs, stereos, VCRs, radios.
“Why didn't you tell me that before?”
“What difference does-”
“Fuck-- forget it,” said Jesse, determined to keep his cool. He paused for a moment, thinking about their options. “We've got to get out. And I've got to sneak past Nell. The car's down the street. If they're still doing this the same way, a big-ass cop will bust through this back door, and some other cops will come in the front door. Nell's their plant inside, so all they need now is their other undercover man. He's probably been working the place for a while.”
“What do we do?” asked Ramona. She suddenly looked scared.
“Okay,” Jesse said. “We have to move. Somebody's gonna be coming through that front door any minute now to buy something from your friend Roxanne. Then--”
“We have to warn Roxanne,” said Ramona. She started for the curtain.
Jesse grabbed her arm. It was soft and warm, and he held it a little longer than he should have. Ramona gave him a look, and he let her go.
“We can't do that,” he said.
“Look, where I come from, we don't leave our people hangin',” she said. “Another rule you forgot when you was black.”
Jesse was unmoved. “You tell her and we're dead. When a bust like this breaks down, the cops will raid the place just for the hell of it, trying to get anything they can. In this case that's us.”
Ramona didn't move. She just looked at Jesse, and he could tell she was trying to see if he was lying to her. “Okay,” she said. “We'll do it your way this time.”
“All right,” said Jesse. He went to the door and looked around the plastic curtain into the shop area. “If we go out the back, the backup cops will get suspicious and hold us. So we'll have to walk right out of the front door.”
“You gotta be kiddin'.”
“I'm afraid not. And we have to get past Nell. She'll never recognize me in this hat and glasses, but let's not take any chances. Nell is on the left side of the room. You walk on my left so she can't see me. We get to the door and keep going.”
“Maybe we can get Roxanne to distract her.”
“No time,” said Jesse, his voice suddenly growing intense. “I think the undercover man just arrived.”
In the store a man had come in and hugged Roxanne. Jesse could tell he was a cop. He was laughing, joking, and trying to put everyone at ease. Nell read a magazine and pretended not to notice him.
“Okay,” said Jesse. “Let's go now.” Jesse had started out when Ramona hooked her arm in his.
“Let's hit it,” she said.
As the two walked out of the back room, Jesse drained all expression from his face. The door was ten feet or so away but looked like a million miles.
They surprised Roxanne, who put her arm around the cop and led him toward the back room. Jesse had passed them when the cop's hand shot out and grabbed his arm.
“Got a light?” the cop asked. He held a cigarette in his other hand. “Naw,” Jesse said. He tried not to look directly at the man. He jerked his arm away and moved on. Nell stood up. She put down her magazine. She looked at Ramona, then reached for another magazine.
As they reached the door, Jesse could see another nondescript cop car across the street. It was going to get hot in a few seconds, he thought.
Just get out, Jesse told himself. He put his hand on the doorknob. His palm was sweaty, and it slipped. Then he tried to pull the door, and it wouldn't move. A wave of panic came over him. Somehow the door had been locked. Then he noticed the sign that said PUSH. Cursing, Jesse pushed the door, and they walked outside onto the street.
“Okay, we're doing good,” said Jesse, letting out a breath. “Let's get to the car.”
“Damn, that was tight,” said Ramona.
Jesse looked at her. Cool as ice. He'd fucked up at the door, and she never made a sound. Despite her funky attitude, he was beginning to admire her.
They walked down the street to their car. It wasn't far away. There were people around, and he didn't know who was a cop and who was just a street person. They got to the old Ford, and Jesse realized that Ramona had never let go of his arm. She released him, and he felt the coolness where her arm had been.
They were getting in the car when the street was flooded with police cars. The police ran into the nail shop and secured the front door. Jesse hurriedly started the car and drove off. He rolled down the street and stopped at a traffic light. Police sirens wailed. A cruiser flew right past them and screeched to a halt.
Jesse waited for the light, then pulled away from the bust. Turning a corner, he began to put distance between them and the police.
“Okay,” said Ramona. “There's another place that LoLo hang-”
“Forget that,” said Jesse. “Not after this close call. We're going to Packer's.”
7
The Princess of White Castle
Florence finally shook the tail that the cops had put on her. It wasn't hard. She could have lost them right after she'd first seen them, but that wouldn't do. She had to play it cool and lose them without letting them know she'd done it on purpose. That way they wouldn't get any more suspicious and lay some heavy surveillance on her.
She hoped Jesse had gotten her message. But before she tried to meet Jesse, she had to keep her date here with her snitch in the mayor's office.
Florence entered the White Castle restaurant on Nine Mile Road and Telegraph. She would have picked a location in the city, but she was afraid that someone might see them. The dining area of the building was relatively empty. White Castle sold tiny, inexpensive hamburgers heavy on the onions.
Florence ordered four burgers and a coffee and sat at a booth in the back of the restaurant.
Yancy's murder had smelled bad from the very beginning. She figured that Jesse had just gotten too close to the truth and paid for it. Poor bastard. Doing the right thing was never a healthy occupation in the city.
Florence waited for a half hour before her man showed up. Randall Wallace walked into the restaurant with a sour look, but once he spotted Florence, the grimace faded. He went to her. She stood and smiled. Randall hugged Florence and leaned in to kiss
her lips. Florence turned her head to the side, offering her cheek.
“Good to see you again,” Randall said. His voice was deep and husky from many years of smoking.
“Likewise,” said Florence.
“So, why did you want to meet here?” he asked. He took her hand and stroked it gently with one finger. “I don't like the food here.”
Randall was a very handsome black man of fifty with graying hair and a thin beard. His eyes were light brown and jumped out at you in contrast with his darker skin. He wore an expensive coat, designer glasses, and a big gold Rolex.
“You know I like this place, Randall,” said Florence. She gently freed her hand, and they sat down.
“Yeah, I remember,” said Randall. “I could never keep you out of here, princess.”
“You still can't,” she said. She tried to hide her reaction to the name he called her. He smiled brilliantly at Florence, and for a second she betrayed her resolve and smiled back.
Randall was a tireless flirt, a man whose sexiness was manifested in looks, subtle physical moves, and vocal intonation. His every mannerism bespoke his need to be with you. That's how he had gotten her so many years ago. Randall cast a spell on women. But she was older and much wiser. Randall's magic had no effect on her now.
Florence and Randall had been lovers. She was a uniformed cop back then, brash and pretty. He was an assistant to a councilman and recently married. Their transgression had been long and passionate. It was filled with last-minute trysts, sex in other cities, and too many hotel rooms to remember.
Randall always called her princess because of her background. Florence had been born in a trailer park downriver. She and her friends were rough, ill mannered, took drugs, and drank too much. She often referred to herself as a trailer park princess. Randall thought it was cute, and he used the word as a term of affection.
Randall's wife found out about the affair after three years and went ballistic. Sleeping with another woman was bad enough, but his wife seemed to be bothered most by the fact that Florence was white. In the end Randall went back to his family, just as Florence always knew he would.
A long time ago, she thought, thirty pounds and a truckload of scotch ago. She could hardly think of herself as a young woman anymore.
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