“Oh yeah,” I said, “wait until they get a load of us.”
We walked into the courtyard in our shirts and ties, the jackets remained in the car. Floyd rolled up his sleeves as we passed by them, maybe his way to show the gangsters we meant business.
“How you girls doing today?” Floyd asked.
“Ah man, that ain’t right, po-lice,” one of the boys said.
Floyd smiled, I glared as we continued past. Each having our own way of letting them know we were unafraid and had no intention of playing games. No gangster had ever intimidated either of us.
We had heard tales of Chicago and Detroit, maybe a few other places scattered across the country, where the cops would refuse to go into certain neighborhoods or housing projects. Maybe it had been exaggerated or completely made up, but Floyd and I had scoffed at the idea of it. There wasn’t a city, neighborhood, street, or alley in the entire country the two of us wouldn’t travel into or through to do our job, as long as we were together, and armed.
I listened to the low-toned banter behind us as we headed up the stairs, paying it no mind but listening for any warning signs. We paused outside 201. I looked back and saw the fellas had followed us to the bottom of the stairs.
“Curious little guys,” I said.
Floyd glanced down at them and back to the door.
A middle-aged female appeared a few moments after Floyd rapped his knuckles against the black iron door.
“Can I help you?”
“Are you Leilana Wright?” Floyd asked.
She frowned a little. “Who wants to know?”
Floyd pulled his badge off his belt, held it up for her to see. “We’re with the sheriff’s department. May we come in?”
“I’m not sure—”
“It’ll just take a minute, Mrs. Wright,” he said.
She opened the door, slowly stepping out of our way as we moved inside. “Does y’all have a warrant or somethin’?”
“Is Charlie here?” Floyd asked.
“Charlie?”as if she had never heard the name.
I walked to the hall and looked in a bedroom, just as a man stepped into that room from an adjacent bathroom. His eyes showed surprise when he looked in my direction.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I said, casually.
“What’s up?” he asked, sizing me up. He did not seem nearly as surprised or alarmed at seeing a white man in his hallway, as I would have been if the roles were reversed.
His eyes paused around my midsection where my badge and gun were openly displayed.
I looked him over too, taking in the bare chest and feet under loose-fitting khakis, his thin frame showing some definition—no doubt the result of incarceration—noting he did not appear to have any weapons on his person.
“What’s your name?”
“Huh?”
They’re always getting ready to lie when they give you the huh.
“What is your name?” I asked slowly this time.
“Keith.”
“Keith what?”
“Um, Jones . . . Keith Jones. What’s this about, man?”
“That’s funny.”
“What?”
“That’s my name, Jones.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, only I don’t think I’ve ever seen you across the dinner table.”
“Huh?”
“You suppose we’re related?”
He chuckled, seeming to loosen up a bit. Maybe it was my grin, perhaps he thought I was funny.
“Us, related? Nah, I don’t think so, man, you’s too light skinded.”
“You’re probably right, Keith. Listen, my partner and I would like to speak with you for a minute, if you’re not too busy. Outside would be best.”
“What about?”
“I’d rather not say, not in front of the lady. I assume she’s your mother?”
“Yeah, dat’s right.”
“Why don’t you grab some shoes, we can talk outside.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, Keith, why not?”
He turned and took a couple steps into the room.
I called out at his back, “Hey, Charlie?”
He turned to answer and instantly realized the mistake he had made.
Charlie paused for a second then ran back into the bathroom, flinging the door closed behind him. I caught it with the bottom of my foot and it sailed open. Floyd’s presence seemed instantaneous, suddenly on my heels. Charlie reached into a clothes hamper next to the tub as Floyd had come alongside and then past me. He collided with Charlie, sending an elbow across the back of his head which instantly dropped him to his knees.
Charlie pushed himself up, using the tub for momentum, and turned toward us ready to fight. Floyd punched him in the face four times, hard and fast, but the blows didn’t seem to faze Charlie Lincoln Wright.
I had seen Floyd hit bigger men and knock them down—sometimes out cold—with as little as one punch, and the thought occurred to me, we were in trouble with this guy.
Charlie tucked his head low and began to run past us, determined to escape from the two uninvited guests in his bathroom. I grabbed his shoulders as he passed, in an effort to tackle him, and Floyd went lower, wrapping his arms around Charlie’s waist. He drove through us, high-stepping and spinning like Walter Payton going through a defensive line. He shrugged out of my grasp of his bare shoulders and pushed through Floyd’s grip.
Suddenly we were behind him, reaching for him again but now going through the bedroom and into the hallway as he continued to break our grasps and gain more ground.
We chased Charlie into the living room, knocking his mother out of the way and falling over furniture. I grabbed him around the neck as he hit the door and struggled to unlock the deadbolt. Floyd hit him low again, but Charlie didn’t go down. He opened the door and dragged us with him onto the balcony.
Leilana Wright screamed from the doorway, telling us to leave her baby be, let him go . . . screaming for help, but not from the cops.
There was movement at the bottom of the steps, which I assumed to be the gang members who had been curious about our presence, maybe moving in our direction. Charlie gripped the balcony as we pushed and pulled him and pounded on his hands, trying desperately now to release his grip so we could get back inside before he had help. Once inside, I reached up and bolted the door, for our safety.
Charlie broke my grasp and dragged Floyd across the room as he hung on Charlie’s legs. I stepped over a couch and landed on Charlie’s shoulders, hanging on as he spun in a circle. Floyd came up to his feet, ready for more standup fighting. I still rode on Charlie’s back, trying to get a grip around his neck so I could choke him out. Floyd continued throwing punches, striking him multiple times in the face and body, quick combinations that Floyd practiced daily for just this type of opportunity. It had been said that Floyd had always trained for the ultimate confrontation, and the thought that this may have been just that occurred to me as Charlie whirled me around the room.
Charlie stumbled backward, and we tumbled with him over a coffee table, landing on the floor. Floyd grabbed one arm and I reached for the other which Charlie held under his body, the three of us lying on the tile floor, face down. The action now slowed, Charlie doing his best to keep his hands beneath him, and Floyd and I content for a moment just to hold him down.
After a minute, I grabbed a lamp that now lay on the floor, apparently knocked from the coffee table during the ruckus, and lifted it up in the vicinity of Charlie’s head so he would see it hovering above him. I panted while telling Charlie if he didn’t put his hands behind his back, I’d break the lamp over his head.
Charlie paused for a moment, but finally complied, allowing his arm to be placed behind his back. Charlie still saying he didn’t know what all this was about.
Nor did I, at this point.
Floyd said between gasps for air, “You got handcuffs?”
“Me?”
“No, Charlie, you idiot.
Yes, you! You got hooks or not?”
I reached for the small of my back where I kept a pair looped over my belt. They were gone.
“Where’re yours?” I asked.
“In the car,” he said.
I looked up and saw Leilana in the dining area, my handcuffs and hat on the ground at her feet. Leilana stood still, looking at us but not saying a word.
I said to her, “Give me those cuffs.”
She looked down and then away, her lips tightly sealed, her arms now folded across her chest.
“Lady,” I said, while trying to catch my breath, “Junior’s going to jail. Now give me those cuffs or you’ll be going with him.”
She stared away as if we weren’t there.
Floyd pulled his gun and stuck the barrel in the base of Charlie’s skull. “Dead or alive, lady,” he said, “he’s going with us. Now slide my partner those goddamned cuffs.”
6
NICE BLUFF,” I said to Floyd, after having handcuffed our opponent, Charlie Lincoln Wright.
“Wasn’t a bluff. Do you hear that crowd out there? I figured if we didn’t get a handle on this in a hurry, we’d have a riot on our hands.”
“Yeah, the girls downstairs. Why’d you have to antagonize them?”
“Your presence antagonized them, Dickie. Are they still out there?”
“Sounds like it,” I said, “I heard a couple pops a few seconds ago, sounded like something breaking downstairs.”
“Probably busted out my windows, the little bastards.”
“Maybe you should have tried being friendly, rather than getting them all riled up.”
“They didn’t seem to be the friendly type, Dickie. I try to avoid people who aren’t friendly. What are they doing out there?”
“Sit tight, I’ll have a look.”
I rolled off Charlie and pushed up onto a knee with a groan. I lifted my head just high enough to see over the ledge. “Shit!”
“What?”
“Your car’s on fire.”
“What the—”
“They torched your car. It’s fully engulfed.”
Charlie laughed.
Floyd shot a knee into his rib cage, then rose to look outside while resting his foot on Charlie’s back. “Think we should call the cops?”
“Don’t you call the fire department when shit’s on fire?”
“I don’t care about the fire,” Floyd said, “I’m thinking about getting you and me and our friend Charlie here a ride out. Preferably without getting shot. Besides, you know I hate firemen.”
“What’s happened to your sense of adventure?”
Floyd lowered himself to a seat on Charlie’s back. “I just happen to be more civilized than you, Dickie. That’s your problem, you’re uncivilized, always have been.”
“I think that shrink’s making a sissy out of you.”
Charlie chuckled and Floyd slapped the back of his head.
“Ouch!”
“I’m just opposed to violence, is all,” Floyd said. “Besides, Doc loves me. You know, most sessions, all we talk about is you. I’m not going to lie, we’re both a little worried.”
“Great.”
“Make the call, Dickie.”
“Okay, you stay here with Charlie.”
“We’ll be right here waiting for you, Dickie. Isn’t that right, Chuck?” Floyd said, and slapped Charlie’s head again.
“Asshole,” Charlie said, which was followed by the sound of another slap.
I went into the kitchen and asked for the phone. Mrs. Wright sneered at me, her short wiry hair framing a pockmarked face. She puffed a cigarette and flipped a finger toward the counter, indifferent now.
I picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” said a male voice suitable for radio broadcast.
“My name is Richard Jones and I’m a detective with the sheriff’s department.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“You have an address on your screen?”
“I have 10119 South Inglewood Avenue, Apartment 201 in Inglewood.”
“There’s a Ford Taurus on fire out front, an unmarked sheriff’s vehicle. The natives here are a little restless over an arrest we’ve made, and it appears they’ve been playing with matches.”
“I’ll send the fire department right away.”
“Sir, you need to send us a couple patrol units. We’re going to have trouble getting out of here alive with our prisoner.”
“Yeah, cause you started a riot,” Floyd said in the background.
“What was that, sir?” the dispatcher asked.
“Just my smart-assed partner, sorry.”
“We’ll have someone there right away.”
“We’ll be the white guys in suits, barricaded in 201.”
“How do you figure I started a riot?” I asked Floyd as we sat in a briefing room at the Inglewood Police Department Headquarters, waiting for a ride from our lieutenant. We had lost the car, Floyd’s Taurus burned to a crisp in an overt act of civil disobedience. But we had made it out alive, with our prisoner, and not too much worse for wear.
“You started it, the whole thing,” Floyd said. “First, you antagonized the young men out front, got them all pissed off by giving ‘em that Dickie stink-eye thing you do. You might have noticed I smiled at them, gave them a warm greeting, real neighborly like. Then, you start a fight with Charlie, then—”
“Wait a second here, asshole. First of all, you called them girls. That probably pissed them off to start with. Second, how’d I start a fight with Charlie? You’re the one who started punching him in the face for no apparent reason.”
“Your lieutenant’s here at the counter, guys,” an Inglewood police dispatcher said, poking his head full of red hair around a corner. “You want to follow me up there?”
“Sure,” I said, “we can’t wait to see him.”
“Yeah,” Floyd said, “he loves us.”
I looked over my shoulder at Floyd as we walked out of the room. “You’re such an asshole.”
He laughed and said, “You still started it, the whole damn thing.”
Lt. Jordan took the news better than expected, once I explained how Charlie Wright may turn out to be a prime suspect in our drag queen murder. Floyd corrected me, saying technically, Susie wasn’t a drag queen, having had gender reassignment surgery. Nonetheless, I told the lieutenant, as he gave us a ride to Lennox Station, if Charlie was good for one, he was good for two murders, ours and the one in the motel room, the one Detective Sandy Landers and the new guy were handling.
At Lennox Station, we completed a pile of forms to report the damaged county vehicle and the arrest. Once finished, the three of us walked out to the parking lot.
“What are you boys going to do about your prisoner, this Charlie guy?” Lt. Jordan asked as we approached our vehicles, passing a row of black and white patrol cars and several detective cars along the way.
“We’ll let him catch the bus to county jail,” I said, “give him a few days to cool off and then go talk to him. Hopefully we’ll know more by then, maybe have something to go at him with.”
“What are you holding him on?” he asked.
“For now, just assault on a peace officer, him beating up Floyd. That’ll give us a couple days.”
“I could have taken him out if your fat ass wasn’t in my way, Dickie.” Then Floyd to Lt. Jordan: “Like a monkey humping a football, this asshole rolling around on top of the poor guy, huffing and puffing trying to catch his breath.”
Jordan looked at Floyd and frowned, then turned back to me. “This guy have a record?”
I responded: “Who, Floyd?”
The lieutenant grinned. “The suspect.”
“From what we’ve heard, yes,” I said, “but we haven’t looked it up yet. Floyd definitely.”
The lieutenant looked at Floyd who was staring off through the parking lot now.
“I think he’s ignoring us,” Lt. Jordan
said, smiling at the usual banter between two old partners.
Floyd looked at him. “Who, me?”
“You seem distracted. Everything okay, big boy?”
“Just doing a mental inventory of my car,” he said, “thinking of all the shit I lost from them assholes torching it.”
“Damn!” I said, “our suits—”
“—And wallets,” Floyd interjected. “I’m way ahead of you, Dickie. All my equipment in the trunk—”
“Most of it stolen,” I said.
The straight-laced lieutenant snapped his head around to Floyd.
Floyd stared back through dark shades. “What?”
I pulled out of the parking lot with my hand in front of an air vent, waiting for it to cool. “I need to get the air fixed in this piece of shit.”
“You really think Charlie whacked his own kid?” Floyd asked.
“He could’ve. Why’s he running from the cops?”
“Look at us, Dickie. We came into my place, I’d run too.”
I shrugged a concession. “The important thing is, Jordan doesn’t need to know that. You see the way he eased up about us mugging Charlie, once he thought we might’ve solved the case?”
“You’re the one that mugged Charlie,” Floyd said. “You knew the minute Susie-Q’s mom told you about that beating you’d be picking a fight with him one way or the other. You’re not shittin’ me, dickhead.”
“Yeah, well, maybe. It’s not like the asshole didn’t have an ass whoopin’ comin’. And it ain’t like you didn’t have the same thing in mind.”
“That was hardly an ass whoopin’, Dickie.”
I turned right on Century Boulevard and headed east, done with the talk about Charlie. Thinking now about Susie Q and his mama and his childhood friend who played dolls and dress-up with the troubled young man.
I glanced at Floyd: “Let’s go find Donna Edwards.”
“What do ya want with Donna?” the burly man in his blue coveralls asked, holding the screen door open as he spoke. He looked from me to Floyd and back, and before we could reply, he said, “Y’all the po-lice?”
“Sheriff’s Homicide, sir,” Floyd told him, offering his hand. “I’m Detective Tyler, this here’s Dickie Jones.”
A Good Bunch of Men Page 6