Blackbird, Farewell

by Robert Greer

  As Damion cruised to a stop in front of Aretha's meticulously maintained Queen Anne home and stepped out into the dry air and bright mile-high sunshine, CJ's words kept ringing in his head. He hoped those words would help him get through the grief he was facing, but more importantly, he hoped they'd help him toe the mark when it came to remaining a human being.

  Aretha Bird's bright gray, deep-set eyes had lost their light, and the woman who would normally have greeted Damion with a loving hug barely looked able to stand when she met him at her front door. Glancing back toward the Cadillac Coupe de Ville with Illinois temporary tags that he had parked behind, Damion found himself wondering who else had dropped by to pay their respects. Draping an arm over Aretha's shoulders and hugging her affectionately, he said, “How are you holding up, Mrs. B?”

  “Barely, just barely, baby. But I'm still standin’, so the Lord must have a need for me to remain upright. How ’bout you?” Her voice descended to a delicate wheeze.

  “I just had the two worst days of my life. But I'm standing too.” Clasping Aretha's right hand in his, Damion stepped into the familiar musty-smelling, plant-filled entryway and walked with her down a short hallway that led to the living room.

  Aretha tried to force a smile that wouldn't come. “Can I get you a drink, sweetie? Maybe one of them room-temperature Coca-Colas in the little bottles that you and my baby always liked so much?” Her eyes began to water the instant she mentioned Shandell.

  “Yeah, that would be great,” Damion said, stepping down into a cluttered, overly furnished but warmly hospitable living room.

  “I'll get you one from the kitchen, baby.” Aretha looked over her shoulder as she headed for an archway that led to the kitchen. “It's a good thing you're here. There's somebody I want you to meet.” Before disappearing into the kitchen, she called out toward one of the two small bedrooms in the back of the house, “Leon, come up front. Need you to meet somebody.”

  Damion stood briefly in the center of the living room, biting nervously at his lower lip before walking over to a pedestal table that sat just inside the west-facing bay window. A ten-by-twelve-inch color photograph of Shandell and him, with two basketball nets that had been cut from their hoops after CSU's NCAA Midwest regional finals victory over Kentucky hung around their necks, sat on the table. A beaming Coach Haroldson, kneeling in front of them with his head goose-necked toward the camera, dominated the photograph's foreground. A dust-covered basketball with the game's final score—CSU 88, Kentucky 84—and the letters “B & B” stenciled half-a-dozen times in white along its equator rested like a headstone at the foot of the pedestal.

  “Leon, you comin’?” Aretha Bird called out as she reappeared with an uncapped vintage eight-ounce Coca-Cola bottle in one hand and a bowl of potato chips in the other. “I got you some chips too, Damion. Figured you'd like some, just like always.” Wiping a lingering tear from her cheek, she handed the bottle and chips to Damion.

  Damion swallowed hard, fighting back his own tears. “Thanks.” He took a swig of Coke before placing the untouched bowl of potato chips on the pedestal table.

  Searching for something to say, Aretha muttered, “I talked to your mom twice today. Haven't seen her, though. She was in court all day. Said she'd drop by on her way to the airport before flying out to San Francisco for that trial lawyers’ meeting she mentioned last night. Flora Jean stopped by with Alden, who's still lookin’ every bit the dapper general, to pay her respects early this morning, and so did Mario Satoni.” She shook her head before continuing, “Mario didn't look so good, Damion. Somethin’ the matter with him?”

  Aware that the eighty-four-year-old former don turned antiques dealer had been having recent gallstone problems, Damion said, “He's been a little under the weather with a gall-bladder problem, Mrs. B.”

  Aretha nodded. “Oh.” The room briefly fell silent except for the rhythmic ticking of an antique mantel clock. “And yeah, CJ and Mavis called from Hawaii. I was on the phone with ’em for a good fifteen minutes. Told ’em both there was no need to come back home and spoil their honeymoon with no funeral.” Looking at Damion as if she'd suddenly discovered the answer to a long-pondered question, she said, “I been wonderin’ where you were all day.”

  Unprepared for the question and not wanting to tell the woman who'd been as much a surrogate mother to him as Flora Jean while his own mother had spent three years going to law school at night that he'd spent most of the day laying the groundwork for finding Shan-dell's killer, he said, “I went up to CSU to see Coach Haroldson and Jackie Woodson. Figured it might help for the three of us to prop each other up.”

  Aretha nodded understandingly. “Funeral's set for the day after tomorrow. Figured there was no need to string out the hurt.”

  With his eyes locked sympathetically on Aretha's, Damion was about to respond when a booming male voice erupted from the archway that led to the kitchen.

  “And we woulda shot for tomorrow if it hadn'ta been for the cops pesterin’ us all day and the damn coroner holdin’ back my boy's release on account of some autopsy.” The man speaking was Damion's height, perhaps a half-inch taller. The hint of a goatee trickled from his chin as his darting green eyes pinballed their way around the room. Although obviously black, he was a shade or two lighter than Aretha, and even from across the room Damion could see that his coffee-colored skin was badly pockmarked. Diamond stud earrings penetrated both of his earlobes, and he sported sideburns that were 1950s-vintage muttonchops. As the man stepped across the room with one arm outstretched, Damion had the sense that he was about to shake hands with someone who represented more pain than comfort for Aretha Bird.

  Before the man, who was wearing a designer Nike sweatsuit and a pair of Shandell's prototype Nike sneakers, had a chance to utter another word, Aretha said, “Damion, I'd like you to meet Shandell's father, Leon.”

  Looking startled, Damion said, “Pleasure.” As he moved to shake the hand of a man Shandell had always told him he hated, a man who'd deserted Shandell and Aretha, refusing for sixteen years to acknowledge their existence, Damion's stomach began churning. He'd heard during his senior year at CSU that Leon Bird, the man Shan-dell derogatorily referred to as “Leech-on,” had been hovering at the periphery of Shandell's and Aretha's lives. But he'd never met him.

  When Leon was rumored to have shown up at the NCAA Sweet Sixteen finals in Kansas City the previous March, Shandell had lost his game focus. Shooting a miserable 2 for 11 from the field during the first half of their semifinal game against Louisville, he'd been charged with three quick fouls near the end of the half and had been forced to spend most of the third quarter on the bench.

  He'd reentered the game a minute into the fourth quarter to lead CSU to a come-from-behind victory only after Damion, who'd suspected what might be eating at his best friend, had whispered to him during a time-out, “No need for us all to come down with pneumonia because you've caught a cold, Shandell. You need to focus if we're gonna stay afloat in this damn thing.”

  Shandell's 24-point performance in what remained of the fourth quarter quickly became NCAA highlight-reel legend, and although he didn't speak to Damion about it for the rest of that night, or the next day, for that matter, from that point forward, whenever there was any hint that his father might be lingering in the wings, Shan-dell solved the problem on his own before it could taint the rest of his world.

  As Leon continued to pump his arm, Damion found himself wondering whether the man who'd deserted his wife and son sixteen years earlier had had anything to do with Shandell's death.

  “You're taller than you look from the stands, Blood, and more solid-lookin’ too,” Leon said, finally releasing his grip. “If I was you I woulda gone on to the pros.”

  Damion forced a smile and nodded, taking in the expression on Leon Bird's face. Leon clearly wasn't puffy-eyed from crying. In fact, he looked almost excited and casually dapper with his hair slicked back with pomade, 1950s heart-of-the-hood style.

 
; Realizing that Damion was reading his expression, Leon said, “This here's a sad, sad situation for us all.” He glanced sympathetically toward Aretha. “For me and Aretha. You know, Blackbird and me were close to a full reconciliation.” His words had a noticeable air of insincerity.

  Damion took a long sip of Coke before looking at Aretha, who remained stoically silent.

  “You got any idea what mighta pushed somebody to wanta kill my boy?” Leon asked, watching Damion clutch the nearly empty Coke bottle tightly.

  “I don't know.” Damion's response was aimed at Aretha rather than Leon.

  “Well, you knew him best, so I figured I'd ask,” Leon said, his tone pointedly defensive. “Could be he was havin’ girl problems, or problems with his agent, or maybe he was battlin’ with folks who were jealous of his fame.”

  “Leon, please!” Aretha said, fighting back tears.

  “I wanta know who killed my boy, Aretha,” Leon said forcefully.

  You mean your newfound meal ticket? Damion thought. But rather than voice his concern, he said, “We're working on that.”

  “What?” Aretha said, looking puzzled.

  “Flora Jean and me, we're running down a few angles—trying to figure out exactly what happened.”

  “Shouldn't you leave that to the police, Damion?”

  “Probably. But I'm not.”

  “You can't get involved in this, Damion. I've already lost Shandell.”

  “No worry, Mrs. B. I'm only doing the light work. Flora Jean's doing the heavy lifting.”

  “Who's Flora Jean, and what's she got to do with my boy dyin’?” Leon interjected.

  “She's a bail bondsman, or bondsperson if you're into political correctness,” said Damion.

  “A woman?” Leon asked, frowning.

  “She's also an ex-marine, a onetime marine intelligence op. Did a tour in Desert Storm.”

  “She's still a woman,” Leon countered.

  On the verge of saying, And she's the kind who just might kick your ass if you push her to it, Damion bit his tongue and proceeded to polish off the last of his Coke. Setting the empty bottle aside, he turned to Aretha. “Do you have a set of keys to Shandell's condo, Mrs. B? Flora Jean wants to get in and have a look around.”

  Aretha shook her head. “Sure don't, baby. You know how protective Shandell was about his privacy. Matter of fact, that cop who corralled us last evenin’ came by here earlier today and asked me the very same thing. Don't know why; I'm sure the cops have Shandell's keys. I think he was just testin’ me, tryin’ to see if I'd tell him the truth about havin’ access to Shandell's place.”

  “Could be,” said Damion. “But Flora Jean'll figure out how to get in.”

  “You two need me to help?” Leon asked.

  “Nope.” Damion's response was as quick as it was blunt.

  “Damion, please don't do nothin’ to bring no more hurt on me than I got right now,” Aretha pleaded.

  “I won't, Mrs. B. I just need to ask you one last thing before I go,” he said, preparing to ask a question he knew he should've asked both Rodney Sands and Jackie Woodson. “That reporter who was killed—had you ever seen him before?”

  “I never met him before, but I recognized his name once that detective Townsend started askin’ me questions again today. I think he's a reporter who mighta interviewed Shandell about signin’ with the Nuggets somewhere along the way.”

  “There's a whole nine yards about him in today's paper,” Leon blurted out. “Almost as much about him as there was about Shandell.”

  Damion nodded, locking eyes with Leon. “How about you? Did you know the guy?”

  “’Course not. But the paper says he was one of them investigative types. The kind that dig up dirt on people.”

  “Wonder what he was investigating?” asked Damion, eyeing Leon as if expecting an answer.

  “Beats me,” Leon said with a shrug.

  “Guess we'll have to find out,” Damion said, moving to leave. “Call me if you need me, Mrs. B.” He planted a kiss on Aretha's forehead before walking across the room. “Oh, and when my mom shows up, tell her I said have a safe trip to the coast and that I'm headed to CJ's office to talk to Flora Jean, then over to Mae's to grab a bite to eat.”

  “Okay,” said Aretha. “Just be sure that's all you're gonna do.”

  “Sure will,” said Damion, casting a final pensive look in Leon Bird's direction. “Nice meeting you,” he said with a nod before stepping up from the living room to the entry alcove and heading for the door.

  “My pleasure,” Leon said loudly.

  Damion was nearly back to his Jeep when Leon turned to Aretha, who was once again crying, and said, “Strange kid.”

  When Aretha choked out, “He's gonna be a doctor,” Leon Bird, who'd spent two years behind the walls of the state prison in Michigan City, Indiana, said knowingly, “Funny. Sorta struck me more like a cop.”

  Chapter 9

  The man standing at arm's length from Flora Jean, leaning back against his desk and eyeing her as if he wanted to strip off every stitch of her clothing so he could have a good, hard look at the treasures beneath, was anything but the suave lady-killer and dogged journalist he'd once been.

  Fifty-seven, overweight, balding, and with teeth yellowed from years of chain-smoking, Arnett Triplett was on the downside of his writing and womanizing career.

  Owner and publisher of Denver's only black-owned newspaper, the Denver Metro Weekly, Triplett had once played for the Atlanta Falcons. His status as a former professional football player, his gift for gab, and a nest egg left over from his playing days had enabled him to buy the struggling Denver Metro Weekly from its founder eight years earlier.

  He'd known Flora Jean for just over half of those years, and for most of that time, whenever they'd run into one another, he'd tried his best to persuade her to share his bed, a motel-room bed, the back seat of his car, a picnic blanket, or anything remotely similar, hoping to add another notch to the butt of his sexual-conquests gun.

  Winking and licking his lips, Triplett widened his stance and grinned. “I'm telling you, Flora Jean, your boyfriend the general wouldn't have to know a thing. We'd do our thing—real, as you marines like to say, uh, covertly—and then ease on down the road.”

  “Sorry, sugar. But Alden would kill you, and neither one of us would want that,” said Flora Jean, who'd come to Triplett's York Street office in midtown Denver to seek information about Paul Grimes. She was well aware that whether her visit lasted ten minutes or ten hours, she'd have to contend with Triplett's sexual propositions.

  Triplett looked unfazed, even though he understood that if pressed, the decorated, no-nonsense former general very likely could have him killed. He had it on good account, although Alden Grace claimed to be retired, that the general still occasionally worked the U.S. intelligence beat from his home base sixty miles south of Denver under the protective umbrella of the North American Aerospace Defense Command in Colorado Springs.

  Looking disappointed, Triplett shook his head knowingly. “Never will be able to figure out why you hooked up with a white boy, fine as you are, girl—especially with all us appreciative and dutiful brothers out here. Must be love.”

  “Must be,” Flora Jean agreed, determined not to travel a road she and Triplett had traveled many times before. “Now, sugar, if you're done with your antics for the day, can we get back to why I'm here?”

  “Yeah, yeah. The Bird and Grimes murders. I heard you when you walked in.”

  “So why don't you tell me what you know about those killin's, and I'll be outta your hair so you can quit your fantasizin’?”

  Triplett looked hurt. “Like what?”

  “For starters, how well did they know one another? Blackbird and Grimes, I mean? There was a Rocky Mountain News story this morning claimin’ they did.”

  “Haven't read the story; been too busy here. Who wrote it?”

  Flora Jean fished into the pocket of her form-fitting jeans and slipped
out the neatly folded Rocky Mountain News story that had been penned by a man named Wordell Epps. Surprised that Triplett hadn't read the story, she unfolded it and handed it to him. “You really should keep up with the news, sugar, bein’ a newspaperman and all.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Triplett, scanning the story. “Why don't you have a seat, beautiful.” He walked around his desk and pulled up his chair. His left knee popped loudly enough to be heard across the room as he sat down. “Too many years on the gridiron,” he said, shaking his head.

  Nope, too many years chasin’ tail, you crooked-toothed cockhound, Flora Jean thought. “Know the writer?”

  “Sure do. I'm in the newspaper business, remember?” He flattened the clipping on the desktop. “Wordell Epps. Squirrelly little white boy, straight outta the ’60s. Been around Denver most of his life.”

  “Hm. Did Epps have any ties to Grimes?”

  “Sure did. Twenty years or so back, they won a Pulitzer together. Sort of the Woodward and Bernstein of the Rockies, and both of ’em as weird as Waco whiskey. But unlike black folks, white folks can weird out on you all day long and still take home the bacon.”

  “Weird how?”

  “Both of ’em were left over from the Age of Aquarius,” Triplett said, smiling. “You ever talk to Epps, you'll see what I mean.”

  “Oh, I'll talk to him. Count on it.”

  “Then I hope you catch him on one of his coherent days. And when you do, here's a heads-up for you. That Pulitzer he and Grimes won was for an eight-part Rocky Mountain News piece they did on Denver's old-time crime families. Sorta laid out in detail the role those families played in helping to set up Vegas. Some folks in the news business, including me, think the whole thing was a piece of fluff served up to a Pulitzer committee that was being paid off to provide a bunch of mobsters with a coat of touchy-feely civic-minded gloss. No question about it, both Grimes and Epps had friends who were mobbed up. But why am I telling you all this when you and CJ Floyd have your own top-tier connections to organized crime? How's Mario Satoni doing, anyway?” Triplett flashed Flora Jean his best “gotcha” grin. He and CJ had never gotten along.