Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  “Since the first hundred-dollar bill. Every envelope is dated.”

  “And these other documents?”

  “From the police files—file numbers are on the envelopes, easy enough for you to subpoena.” He didn’t tell the agent how he had obtained the Brown files.

  Adams looked down at the gift Steve had given him, and Steve could see he had opened some new doors for the investigation. “You seem to have done your homework well.”

  Steve looked back at him with satisfaction. “I always did my homework well.”

  “This is very useful. We’ll be in touch.” He stood, extending his hand. As he closed the door behind him, Steve felt a wave of relief sweep over him. “Alea iacta est.” It now was the beginning of the end.

  He arranged the meeting with Sutton for the next day. It would take some time for any criminal investigation, but a newspaper story would stop the Fox Point evictions. He had typed up his notes, including some of the information he had obtained from the Brown files as well as the police records. He laid out the lots and the ownership, and traced the ownership to interlocking companies, shell companies, and partnerships. But the names were the key: politicians, police, academic administrators, party bosses, as well as some legitimate landlords who might be willing to talk.

  Toad read the material slowly. He kept looking up at Steve as he went through the thorough file. The university was expanding. A new medical school, more graduate programs, and increased student population. It all needed room, and the east side of Providence was already built out.

  “I don’t know if they will publish this,” Toad said, setting down the third manila file. “I mean, this is the establishment of Providence.”

  “Is your publisher’s name on the list?”

  “No, but a lot of the Hope Club’s membership is.”

  “And . . .” Steve had no illusions anymore. They would look to protect themselves. “There’s enough for a story—maybe a Pulitzer. But it’s yours for the running. You ask the questions; I just did the research.” Steve said, setting down his coffee. The Times was willing to cooperate with Durk, so what about the Providence Journal? He didn’t know because it was such a small town. They couldn’t bury it now; the question was how far would they go?

  “A Pulitzer?” Toad put down the package and looked out the window.

  “Sure, why not you? You’re a good-enough reporter.” Now, Steve had to wait and see where Sutton would go with it—and stay alive.

  CHAPTER 15

  BOTH SIDES NOW

  Four days after the demonstrations, Steve was at roll call. When he entered the room, the normal chatter dropped to a hush. The veteran officers gave him fleeting glances and whispered to each other. Steve could tell the back-channel gossip had already penetrated the room as hushed conversations started as he walked into the room

  “Logan, walking post 32,” the sergeant announced as he read off the assignments. A low whistle rose from the back of the room.

  Steve followed Dylan out the door. “Guess everyone knew,” he said.

  Dylan looked at him. “I don’t know anything specific. Just that it wasn’t gonna be good. Why were you on TV?”

  “Is that what this is about? I was standing there.” Steve paused. He’d been so focused on his activities at the Federal building and the potential fall-out. He had done his best to check he wasn’t followed, leaving by a side doorway. He’d forgotten he and Roxy had been caught by the cameramen when he’d gotten her out of jail after her arrest.

  “Don’t think that’s how they see it. Media said Lynch used too much force, and then you show up with that fucking priest. They’re out to finish you now.”

  “You suppose?”

  “Post 32? It’s in the projects. It’s not a regular post. Be careful.” Dylan nodded to Steve.

  The rows of public housing apartment blocks in South Providence were littered with broken benches and shattered liquor bottles. Steve walked along the sidewalk on the street side. A car was parked by a fire hydrant. Stopping, he wrote out a ticket and left it on the windshield. A group of young black men, a bit in the shadows, were talking and trying to stay out of his view. Steve could see they were watching him, and he felt like an alien in their neighborhood.

  Steve continued to walk through the project, making notes on lights that were out, benches that were broken, and sidewalks that were cracked. On the street, he saw a young man go over to the car, take the ticket from under the windshield wiper, rip it up, and drop it on the ground. Steve monitored the crackle of his radio, Car 23, man down on Weymouth Street. He continued to walk, aware of eyes on him from the shadows as well as from some apartments.

  Hearing some shouting from around the corner, he walked faster, staying away from the few working streetlights while keeping the noise from his footsteps to a minimum. A group of young men gathered by a basketball court. The metal backboards had bent rims. The group was arguing loudly and waving their arms. There was only one streetlight at the far side of the court.

  Steve took the radio out of its holster on his belt.

  “Post 32. Post 32.” He waited, but there was no response. “Post 32. Dispatcher, can you read?” Still no response. “Post 32, I have a group of men at Potters Avenue behind the buildings at the basketball court. Possible disturbance. Request backup.” Still no response. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said into the radio. “So that’s how it’s going to be.”

  His voice attracted the attention of one of the young men, who had turned his back on the gang and now fixed an even stare on Steve instead. Should he even bother to investigate, knowing he was alone? He hesitated for a moment before he moved out into the pathway, taking his six-inch flashlight and holding it at his side.

  “A lot of noise here. Any problem?” Steve announced in a strong voice.

  One of the youths stared at him as he took a step backward. “Who the fuck? Where the fuck did you come . . .”

  Another youth stepped to the side; the group quieted down and looked Steve over. He stopped and spoke into his radio loud enough for the group to hear him.

  “Yes, Units 23 and 25. Basketball court on Potters Avenue. Seven men. Late teens, early twenties, blue sweatshirt, Celtics t-shirt, red striped shirt . . .”

  Taking his finger off the radio, he looked at the men-boys and tried to interpret the nonverbal signals.

  “I asked: Any problem here?” He looked up at the group and addressed the one who first challenged him, raising his flashlight to see his hands, then his face.

  “I asked: any problem here?”

  He had interrupted a tense stand-off. He shone the light on each individual. He stopped at the boy in the Celtics shirt who looked familiar.

  “Norvell, Marvel?” He could see the boy’s eyes were glassy from drugs—definitely more than pot. The boy had not looked at Steve. Rather, he was focused on a boy with a camouflage Army shirt with the name Smith on it. Norvell startled when his name was called. He looked more intently at Steve.

  “Teach?” Disgust and annoyance filled his voice. He continued to look aggressively at the Army youth and made a gesture that things weren’t finished. He and a few friends turned away and started down a pathway to one of the buildings. The other youth glared and then looked at Steve, who raised the flashlight again to his hands, then his face.

  “Any problems?”

  The youth looked to his friends.

  “Naw. No problems.”

  The boy in the army shirt walked in the opposite direction from Norvell. Steve stood in place for a few minutes, watching the group part. He looked at his unanswered radio.

  “Motherfuckers.”

  The bedroom was dark except for a row of lit votive candles around the room. Sweet incense wafted through the room from a brass Indian burner. Sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, Steve was floating, allowing his mind to focus on the song. Music was playing, Joni Mitchell’s Both Sides Now. On the floor was Carlos Castaneda’s Teachings of Don Juan, A Yaqui Way of
Knowledge. Heather, wearing a loose, flowing, thin print dress leaned down to pass him a joint, exposing her small white breasts.

  “We change our reality many times during our lives. You had a child reality and with it, psychic and physical limitations. And then you get into your adolescent reality with your changed body and mind. Now you need to let go of your cruel world, this new aggressive reality you have entered . . .”

  Steve puffed the joint and passed it back to her. She took a toke, tossed her long blond hair, and sat cross-legged next to him.

  “It does suck out there. I . . . I don’t know how I got myself . . .”

  Heather stroked his arm.

  “I didn’t . . . don’t know much. It . . . it would be . . . it would be a way . . . You know with the war, and I thought I would . . . could, would make a difference. I think I will but I can’t tell anyone . . .”

  “She’s flying into her new sphere. You have to let that reality go. You are in the man-war reality. Fighting, combat . . . Prehistoric stuff before we evolved. The time now is to change . . .”

  Joni Mitchell’s music played.

  “I try. I get up and go out there.” He shook his head. “I want to be . . . what I want to . . .”

  “The warrior mentality. You have to leave it. You should be working to create, not destroy. To build the new order.”

  She stood, reached across her shoulders, and let her dress drop to the floor.

  “You are a good man. There is too much good in you, and you have to allow it to come out.”

  Steve rose, and she stripped off his t-shirt and unbuckled his shorts, letting them drop to the floor.

  “I can try. Roxy said that I could . . .”

  Heather put her finger to his mouth and then kissed him intensely as they fell onto the bed. He resisted for a moment before returning her kiss, releasing his pent-up passion.

  The plaintive music about changing and acting strange continued as they floated through the night. Her strong hands massaged his neck as he nibbled her breasts, making his way to her stomach. She was an earth mother, warm and welcoming. She pushed him to his back, stretching his arms over his head as she explored his body with little kisses. She mounted him, her long blond hair falling over her breasts as she built to a climaxing rhythm. He turned her over, stroking the long blond hair on her legs. She had captured him so that he was with her totally, allowing him to escape all his other fears. And they spent the night making love.

  Steve was up and dressed in the morning. Heather, still naked, walked slowly over to him. Putting her hands around his face, she stared deeply into his eyes.

  “There is good, and you should be doing good.”

  He nodded. “I’m trying.”

  She kissed him, and he returned it, trying to pull himself away. He turned to leave. And turned back.

  “And when you make love to a woman,” she paused, “you shouldn’t talk about your ex-girlfriend. It’s not polite.”

  She smiled, and Steve sheepishly smiled back.

  “Thank you.” He quickly kissed her again.

  As he skipped down the stairs, he felt liberated for the moment. But as he reached the front door, he stopped, quickly looking both ways. It wasn’t done yet. He needed to be careful. He moved quickly, taking a short cut through campus to make certain he wasn’t being followed.

  In the projects that night, Steve stayed in shadows by the corner of the buildings, smelling the spring night air. After one in the morning, a quiet settled over the broken carcass of urban living. There were few sounds except the occasional car passing. He watched a car with its headlights off come into the parking lot at the far side of the open space. He couldn’t see the driver or his passenger, but, as the car started to slow, Steve moved to a better vantage point. Two young black men came out from a cellar door in one of the buildings and approached the car. A man rolled down his window and spoke with the two youths. The boys exchanged something with the men in the car and then returned to the buildings. Steve figured it was a drug deal.

  The two men got out of the car with guns in their hands and began moving toward the building. Steve inched along the wall, keeping them in sight as he quietly unsnapped the safety strap and took his gun out of his holster. He could feel perspiration on his forehead. He inhaled a long, deep breath and compressed it into his stomach to steady his nerves. He couldn’t call for backup since no one was answering his radio. He was on his own. The two men stopped near the door the boys had disappeared through and appeared to be discussing their next step. Steve decided it was time to act.

  “Halt! Police!”

  “Fucking shit.” The gunmen pointed their guns at Steve, who crouched into a shooter’s position.

  Shoot. The instinct was in his head. Shoot before he does. One gunman flipped open his jacket, showing a gold badge on a lanyard hanging from his neck. With greasy hair to his ears and the shaggy black beard of a street man, Steve had to look twice to recognize Detective Rizzo. He should end it here, kill the motherfucker. Justifiable homicide. He pointed his gun at me. No badge was visible; the situation was dark. He would be taking one bad guy out. He could feel the blood pumping at his temple—do it, do it. For the locker room, for setting him up, for the good of the community. His eyes met Rizzo’s.

  Pull the trigger, so simple. He could feel the drips of water rolling down from his armpits. There would be an inquiry but . . . but . . . He looked at the man and hated what he saw as he slowly lowered his gun.

  “What the hell are you going here, asshole?” Rizzo hissed.

  Steve could feel the adrenaline subsiding while his anger simmered just below the surface. “Doing my job.” Steve’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “We might be able to use him,” Bouley said.

  Steve looked at them—use him. Like hell.

  “We just made a buy: heroin from a kid in the building. We don’t know how many there are, so we can go in as a team.” Bouley motioned Steve to follow them into the building. They walked quietly down the hall, listening carefully, until they came to an apartment where music could be heard through the door.

  Rizzo motioned Steve to the front of the door as he and Bouley stood on either side. Bouley motioned with his fingers—one, two, three—and they kicked the door open.

  Steve waited for gunfire to greet him—he was the target out in front of the detectives, who slid to their knees as they entered the apartment. It would be over in a second. His eyes darted, looking for the danger.

  “Freeze! Police!” the three cops shouted almost in unison. The room had a half a dozen youths of various ages sitting or sprawled on ash-stained furniture. Steve saw two faces peek from an adjacent room.

  “They have a gun,” Rizzo shouted, firing two shots as the bedroom door slammed and they heard the sound of a window opening.

  The youths sat in stunned silence before a huge kid moved to get up.

  “Be cool, Marvin,” Steve said, recognizing the boy from school. “Nothing good is going to come of going outside.” The boy nodded and sat back down.

  “They’re getting away,” Rizzo said as he turned out the door. Steve followed. One youth was hiding behind some dumpsters. Steve worked his way in the opposite direction of the detective. The boy began to run. Steve started moving parallel to the running boy. Breaking into a sprint, diagonal to the boy, accelerating, he hit the boy with a solid open-field tackle, throwing the suspect to the ground.

  Steve was quickly on top of him, pinning his arms as he put cuffs on. Rizzo followed the sounds and was breathing heavily. Steve lifted the boy to his feet and turned to Rizzo.

  “Have a good run, Detective?” he smiled at Rizzo, who was still trying to get his breath. Rizzo slammed his fist into the boy’s midsection, sending the boy in cuffs to the ground.

  Bouley barked, “Where’d the second one go? Is he the one with the gun? Which way did he run?”

  “This shit tried to kill a cop.” Rizzo kicked the boy. Steve pushed him back. He moved aggressiv
ely at Steve, who stood his ground between them.

  “Where’s his gun?”

  “He must have dropped it.” Rizzo said.

  “Fuck you. And if you drop one, I’ll report it,” Steve said.

  Rizzo was nose to nose with Steve. “You’re a dead man. You know it. We’re gonna get you.”

  “I’m fucking scared,” Steve hissed, smelling the stale tobacco on Rizzo’s breath.

  In the sliver of light coming from the exit sign by the door, there was sudden noise from the dumpster to their right. Steve could see a figure sneak through an opening in the low fence.

  “Police! Don’t move!” Rizzo yelled and ran toward the figure, who was running toward the parking lot. Rizzo and Steve gave chase. Suddenly the boy stopped, turned, and raised his gun. Rizzo, panting, was exposed in the streetlight, “Police! Drop the gun!” Steve yelled. The recognition was instantaneous, but Steve still had trouble processing it. “Norvell, no. It doesn’t have to happen,” Steve shouted as he crouched in a shooting stance. “Norvell, put down the gun.”

  The boy looked toward Steve and cocked his head as if he recognized Steve’s voice. Steve hoped to see him lower his hand.

  The explosions of the guns caused every pore to erupt with sweat. Rizzo screamed “Shit!” as he fell to the ground. The next explosion was from Steve’s hand; the kick of the pistol was minimized by his stance. Steve could feel the blood pumping in his temples as he took deep breaths to try and calm himself.

  The boy on the ground in front of him was screaming.

  “Norvell,” Steve yelled, realizing he had returned a round when the boy returned Rizzo’s shot.

  Bouley ran toward Rizzo, who was sitting.

  “How bad?” Steve shouted to Bouley.

  “Grazed him. He’ll live,” Bouley said as he applied compression to Rizzo’s arm. Steve radioed as he ran to the boy, “Policeman down, Potters Avenue. Need ambulances now. Answer the goddamn radio. Policeman down.”

  “Roger that.”

  When Steve got to the boy, he saw the look of fear in his clouded eyes. “Why? why, Norvell?” The boy could only cry in pain. Steve frantically ripped the boy’s shirt into pieces and tried to stop the abdominal bleeding.