by Baxter Clare
"Is that why Danny wanted to break away from her?"
Frank winced at Lewis's bluntness and the next thing she heard was Lewis asking, "With Echevarria and Hernandez?"
Lewis kept giving Kim answers when she should have been keeping them to work with.
"But I'm not real clear about it all. I didn't really want to know too much about it. You might want to talk to my Aunt Jessie. Danny was pretty tight with her. He'd go hang at her place when Mama got mad at him. But she never stayed mad long. He could always charm his way out of trouble."
Not this time, Frank thought, while Lewis asked about Carrillo.
"I think they were getting the coke from him. He was bringing it up from Mexico or something. I'm not sure."
"Did Danny ever mention flipping script with Carrillo? He ever get in his face?"
"No, not that I know of."
"You said Danny wanted to break away from your aunt. Was he serious or just jawsin'?"
"He was serious. He was tired of holding down corners and getting treated like an errand boy. He kept saying he was his own man, that Aunt Crystal didn't own him. I think he was going to try and undercut her price and lure her regulars into his territory. I told him that didn't sound like a good idea but of course he wouldn't listen."
"Do you think your aunt killed him?"
Frank cringed. Lewis was about as subtle as a runaway train.
"What? Are you crazy? She loved Danny!"
Frank stepped into the living room before Lewis could do any more damage.
"Sorry to interrupt."
Frank touched her pager.
"We gotta go. Sorry to bother you again, Miss Duncan. We're just running down every possible connection to Danny's death. I hope you understand that some of our questions might seem ridiculous but we have to ask them just the same."
Frank headed to the door, then stopped to ask, "One last thing. Danny stayed with your other aunt sometimes. What's her name and address?"
Kim told her, shakier now than when the cops had come in. Frank wrote the information in her notepad.
"I know this is a hard time for you and our questions don't make it any easier. We appreciate your help. I hope we won't have to bother you again."
Lewis waited until the car doors were shut, before asking, "What's the hurry? I wasn't done talking with her yet."
"Yeah, you were." Frank smirked.
"What you mean by that?"
"Drive," Frank ordered. "We're gonna go talk to Mother Love. I'm going to show you how this is done.”
“What you talking about?”
“Watch and learn," was all Frank would say. Lewis smacked the wheel, but she didn't say anything else.
7
"What you doin' up already, Mama?"
Lavinia had slipped into her mother-in-law's room, as she did every morning, prepared to wake her with parted curtains and a breakfast tray. She was surprised to see Mama Love pinning her hair in front of the mirror.
She laughed at Lavinia, "They a law say I can't get up early?"
"No, ma'am. You hardly ever do, is all."
She slid the tray onto a table by the altar, noticing the freshly congealing blood.
"We got company coming," Mama Love said around a pin in her mouth.
"Yeah? Who?"
"You'll see in a while. When they come, let me know."
Lavinia pulled a chair out and Mama Love took it regally. Lavinia sat in the one next to her.
"Did you sleep good?" she asked.
The Mother nodded, watching Lavinia pour her a cup of milky coffee. She held it with both hands, breathing the steam.
"I finally saw it last night, just as I was getting into bed."
"Saw what, Mama?"
"What's been troubling me the past few days."
Lavinia didn't announce her relief. Mama Love was always quarrelsome, but of late her temper had been quicker than a pistol shot. She knew that happened sometimes before she had a big spell, and knew as well to stay out of her way. Marcus though, he never paid it no mind. Just walked like a fool into a hive of wasps. He and Mama'd go at it then Marcus would come and find fault with Lavinia.
"What is it?"
Mama Love ate a bite of cornbread with fried egg and washed it down with a gulp of coffee before answering.
"It's something, darlin'. Something big. I can't quite name it yet. But I think I'm going to find out soon. This morning, I feel. That's why I'm up and dressed. I'm ready for it. Ain't gonna let it catch me hiding under the covers."
"Is it something good?"
Patting her smooth cheek, Mama Love answered, "If I have my way, it will be. If I have my way."
Lavinia smiled, reassured it was something good because her mother-in-law always had her way. Shyly, she asked, "Remember what we talked about?"
Mama Love frowned, "What's that?"
"The bath? Today's the day."
"Well, of course, child." She hugged Lavinia, asking, "You've been wearing your hand?"
Lavinia nodded, producing a small cloth doll from her waistband. Inside it were stuffed seven pinches each of jasmine, basil and myrrh, and seven black-eyed peas, pomegranate and poppy seeds. For seven days she and Marcus had abstained, and for seven days she had let a mixture of sea water and molasses, sit with seven pennies and seven sea shells in a watermelon surrounded by seven blue candles. Today she was ready to bathe in the mixture.
"You got the yellow sheets?"
Lavinia nodded.
"I hung mistletoe, parsley, and yarrow over the bed just like you told me to. Tied up with a yellow string."
"Good girl."
"And seven yellow candles like you said."
"And Marcus is ready?"
"He always ready," Lavinia giggled. Her mother-in-law looked stern and Lavinia quickly added, "He's been wearing his hand. He's ready."
"Best be. Else he'll have to be waiting again until the next new moon. And you know what to do with the candle wax?"
"I'ma make it quick into the shape of a baby and bring it to you."
"That's right. We'll be waiting next door."
Lavinia's heart galloped. She was pretty sure Marcus would kill both of them if he found out, but she had to ensure her place in the family. She had to make a baby. She'd seen that even before she married Marcus, but still couldn't get pregnant. At her mother-in-law's insistence, she'd collected her husband's seed one morning in the guise of making a pregnancy potion. She'd given the semen to Mama Love who had a doctor waiting for it. It was no good, he'd said. Marcus's sperm were lazy. Lavinia didn't know Lucian had been tested at the same time.
When Mama Love came to her with the plan, Lavinia hadn't wasted time thinking. Mama Love was desperate for heirs and Lavinia knew she would get them at any cost. She knew if she didn't agree to the plan she could be easily replaced. But she'd tasted the sweet life now and wasn't willing to forfeit it.
Lavinia squeezed her mother-in-law's hand. She was scared, but excited too, eager to receive the seed from her husband's twin brother.
8
The detectives stood in an alley facing a vast brick building. In its hundred years the building had been through many incarnations, starting as a granary in the late 1800's, then becoming a sprawling dance hall during Prohibition. It fed a nation during the First and Second World Wars, serving as a slaughterhouse until the railroad industry declined. The structure withstood a fire in the early-50's only to fall into disuse. Winos and derelicts took it over until an aspiring South Central entrepreneur bought the gutted building and rebuilt it, renting the myriad rooms for warehouse and office space.
Eyeing the iron-grated windows and barred steel doors, Frank realized Richard Love was the man who'd restored the building. Looking where Frank did, Lewis asked, "Shouldn't we have backup?"
Frank shook her head.
"Just want to talk to her about her poor nephew."
"I don't know," Lewis muttered. "This doesn't seem well advised."
"You sound like
the Mother. You into fortune-telling now, too?"
A metal grate slid open in the massive door and Frank lifted her ID to it.
"I want to talk to Crystal Love-Jones about her nephew, Daniel Duncan."
The grate slammed shut. Frank knew the Mother was inside. She called less than five minutes ago, pretending to be one of the Mother's clients, and hanging up when she came on the line.
Eyeballing the rust and burn marks, Frank said, "Bet that's the original door from the Twenties. This used to be a speakeasy. Had all sorts of people playing here. Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Charlie Parker ... all those guys would jam here."
"How you know that?" the younger cop asked, suspicious that Frank knew the 'hood better than she did.
"It's history." Frank shrugged. "You should know it too."
"Hmph," Lewis snorted.
"What?"
Lewis shifted irritably, snapping, "I’ma be history if this crazy bitch don't open up soon."
Frank had seen Lewis's testy side—she was already notorious at Figueroa for her knee-jerk response to any perceived racial slight— but this nervousness was curious. Frank had thought her made of sterner stuff.
"The old lady got you spooked?"
"I ain't spooked" Lewis spit out. "I just don't like havin' my ass hangin' out in a dead end alley, standing like some two-bit hustla in front a crack house that's probably frontin' more firepower than we got back at the station. And this damn witch's wind don't help any," Lewis added, plucking her damp blouse away from her chest.
Frank smiled. Lewis was right. Logistically they were vulnerable, but Mother Love's posse had nothing to gain by fucking with two homicide cops. Frank had seen Mother Love over the years and had heard the talk on the street about the Mother's prowess with hexes and charms. Like most of her colleagues, Frank had thought Mother Love harmless enough. That was until she had established herself as the largest crack dealer in town and protected her interests with a loyal swarm of well-armed followers and highly-paid lawyers. The Mother didn't have to bother with characters like Frank and Lewis.
"Don't you get scared?" Lewis hissed. "I mean, you know, being white an all? I mean just in general."
"Nope. I'm too mean and too ugly. Ain't nobody wanna mess with me."
"Damn," Lewis said, wagging her head. "You got game, Lieutenant."
As Frank said, "Pound on that door again," they heard a series of locks and bolts being turned. The heavy metal door screeched open, revealing two huge, ear-ringed, bald men. They stood impassively, twin black Genies-in-a-Bottle. A third man operated an arm that worked the door.
In a voice like gathering thunder, the genie on the right said, "Mother Love will receive you."
He tilted his head and the other twin led the way across the cavernous, barely lit room. Frank's loafers echoed loudly. Hulks of car bodies materialized against the murk. The place smelled like warm bricks, gasoline, and musty blood. The room's chill was in keen contrast to the outside temperature. Frank shivered, aware of the Beretta's bulk against her ribs. She picked her way around oil spots, very aware of Lewis and the twin behind her.
The genie ahead of her stepped through a door, ducking a little. He emerged into a narrow brick hallway lit with bare bulbs, and stopped behind a closed door. He waited until his twin entered the hall, sandwiching the cops between them, then continued to lead Frank and Lewis through a maze of hallways and flights of stairs. Finally he stopped. His bowling ball fist knocked lightly on a door.
Frank was caring less and less for her position in the cramped corridor and was relieved when she heard a woman's voice announce, "Come."
The genie pushed the door, tipping his head at the opening. Frank stepped inside, surprised to be in a jungle. Palms and ferns reached over rubber plants and dumb canes. Flowering vines crawled over all of them, aspiring to a row of skylights. Behind her, the genie closed the door. Frank felt trapped. She peered through the shadowy foliage, trying to see Mother Love, or whoever it was that had said "Come."
Her eyes lingered on an altar. The white cloth covering it was as streaked and dotted as a Jackson Pollock canvas.
Gotta tell Picasso that, she noted automatically. Picasso was Bobby Taylor, who held a fine arts degree, and appreciated artistic description. The thought passed as she studied a dozen candles burning on the altar. Their flames were sure and straight, yet feathers stuck in the cloth around them fluttered softly. Frank glanced for a fan or air vent but didn't see any. In fact the room was warm and swampy. The swaying feathers and motionless candle flames nagged at her while she searched for the person that had said "Come."
As if reading her mind, a smoky voice intoned, "Over here, child."
A flame seared the gloom and Lewis flinched. Frank stepped toward a table hidden by the greenery. Behind it, the Mother cast a quick look from the shadows. Frank watched as she lit an assembly of black tapers.
Well into her fifties, the Mother was an imposing woman, slim and elegant. Flares of white at her temples set off beautiful, high cheekbones. They jutted like mountain peaks over a strong chin and full, wide, burgundy lips. The slight hook to the nose, and deeply set amber eyes reminded Frank of birds of prey. The Mother watched Frank as if she were indeed prey.
Frank could hear her heart beating. The air felt supercharged and crackly, as if lightning were about to ground. A light draft slid across the back of her neck and Frank's hair stiffened. Her mind didn't know what it was yet, but her body sensed trouble.
What is it? she worried, casually flashing her ID. Frank's senses prowled the room as she introduced herself and Lewis. The Mother dismissed Lewis with a quick glance and Frank's prior confidence in Lewis evaporated—Mother Love would eat that girl alive then pick her teeth with the rookie's bones.
In a thick, low voice, the Mother started their conversation.
"I know you," she claimed.
The two older women stared hard at each other. Frank realized the advantage she'd given the Mother by confronting her on her own ground. The Mother studied Frank behind hooded lids. She tilted her head, stating more than asking, "You're quite the warrior, aren't you? You took on your own institution. Turned on one of your brothers."
The Mother clucked her tongue, smiled teasingly, "That was shameful."
Frank didn't know if she meant Ike's behavior or her ratting.
"I know you too," Frank said, seizing the moment. "There's not a cop in South Central who doesn't. But frankly, that's narcotic's business. I'd like to talk about your nephew, Danny Duncan."
Nodding, suddenly doe-eyed, the Mother agreed, "A tragedy."
She flattened her hands on the white tablecloth, flexing long, red nails like bloodied talons.
"Do you know who killed him?" the Mother asked.
"No. We were hoping you might be able to help with that."
"I wish I could," the Mother answered. Frank had seen her shift effortlessly from an initial wariness, to disdain, then sadness, and now weariness. She was good. Very good.
"His sister tells us you were close to him, that he spent a lot of time here."
"Danny was a good boy," she offered. "He ran errands for me, helped with the church. It's a tragedy that he should have been taken so early."
"Yes it is. When was the last time you saw him?"
"I'm not sure," the Mother considered, smoothing the tablecloth. "Maybe last weekend. I couldn't say for sure."
"Oh. Your niece said he was here last night. Around ... ?" Frank knew very well what time, but prodded Lewis, "What time did she say?"
"Around eight o'clock."
"That's right. Eight o'clock."
Frank let that hang there. The Mother shrugged innocently.
"I don't know what happened. I never saw him."
"You must have missed him somehow," Frank offered. "Where were you around that time?"
"The church," she said easily. "He must have come by while the boys and I were preparing for Saturday's service. I don't suppose you've ever been to our church,
have you, child? Saint Barbara's Spiritual Church of the Seven Powers? Hmm?"
"I don't believe I have. You, Lewis?"
"No, ma'am."
Frank continued, "We'll have to drop by sometime. Now, who are these boys you were with, last night?"
As the words came out of her mouth, a powerful deja vu swept over Frank.
She was watching the Mother over the table, the plants and the gloom thick upon her. She'd just asked the Mother a question. The Mother laughed, candlelight glinting off gleaming white teeth. She looked like an animal about to devour something warm and still moving. Frank watched, curiously repelled and fascinated.
The certainty of the scene, the sense that Frank had already lived this moment, was strong enough to make her dizzy. She forced herself to concentrate on the Mother's words, refusing to validate the odd sensation. The same went for the thin tentacle of dread reaching towards her heart.
"Those boys are my sons. Lucian and Marcus. They showed you in. They're very devoted to their religion." With the merest hint of menace, she added, "They're very devoted to me."
Nodding, Frank redirected the conversation.
"I guess that's how you missed your nephew. Do you have any idea what he might have been stopping by for? I mean, I'm surprised he didn't track you down at the church, seeing as he helped out there so much. What was it you think he might have been coming by for?"
"I'm sure I don't know, child."
Frank bobbed her head like it was an apple in a barrel. She stepped closer to the Mother, picking up a sweet, flowery scent. It was like the smell that came out of the bodega next to the station mixed with incense and herbs . . . and something else. Something indefinable, but old. Timeless. Again the hairs tingled along her flesh, and the tentacle of dread near her heart thickened.
"I hate to bring this up, but it's something you might be able to help us with. Your niece, Kim, she mentioned that Danny was getting involved with some Nicaraguans ..."
The candlelight was bright enough for Frank to see what she'd been looking for. She continued easily, "Boys' names were . . . ?"
Without taking her eyes off the Mother, Frank cocked her head to Lewis.
"Tito Carrillo, Alejandro Echevarria, and Porfiero Hernandez."