“It’s me,” he said. “Three and a half weeks, bud. When the hell is this happening?”
“When I don’t feel nervous anymore.”
“You’re nervous?” he hissed. “I’m shitting my pants every time a tow truck turns its flashers on. I sit in this fucking fishing hole any longer and I’m going to grow gills.”
“That’s funny. But what do you want? You’re too popular, bro.”
“What do I want? I want one of your dipshits to get on a plane and flap their ass out here. Make the exchange and fucking have a nice day. I need to move. And sooner than later I’m going to do exactly that. If I do that before one of your boys comes around, the fairy dust is going down the fucking toilet.”
“That would be very unfortunate.”
“Sure would.”
The voice in the phone was quiet for a long minute, and Allen started to worry the amount of time he’d bought would run out. He fished in his pockets for more change and strained to hear the muffled conversation transpiring on the other end of the line.
“Alright,” the voice said, and Allen stopped patting his pockets.
“Alright what?”
“Kid’ll fly out tomorrow. Same terms. Just stay inside and be there when he gets there.”
“Beautiful,” Allen said, and hung up the phone.
He stifled another fit of hacking and slunk back through the gloom.
Once he’d made the trip to Thunder Bay on the big public ferry, Allen had quickly found the local paper-- a thin pamphlet of mostly-classified ads available for free in little street-corner boxes.
An hour later he’d secured a rented flat on the second-floor above an antique shop named ‘Olde Tyme Wonders’. The owner of both the shop and the building was a plump, overly-cheery woman who didn’t so much as blink at the handful of crisp, large-denomination bills Allen passed to her.
Now, energized with the anticipation that the heroin would get transformed into hard cash come daylight, Allen tromped up the weather-beaten stairs to the second-floor landing. He paused a second to suffer another wracking fit of coughs, then keyed his way into the rooms he’d been hiding in for a month now.
Once he stepped into the threshold and stomped the caked snow off his boots, Malcolm Mohommad emerged, unseen and silent, from the bathroom doorway to Allen’s left.
Malcolm wrapped one large hand over Allen’s mouth and used his free hand to reach around and sink a six-inch kitchen knife into Allen’s stomach. The point went in through his belly button and sank all the way to its handle, wedging itself inside his intestines and settling there when Malcolm released it.
Allen screamed into Malcolm’s muffling palm, and he jerked like a marionette. Malcolm held him easily, keeping him from thrashing away or falling over. He held him like that for several minutes, as blood filled Allen’s abdomen and his flailing grew weaker. Eventually, his breath became shallow, his eyes went vacant and he stopped struggling altogether. Malcolm continued to hold him in his arms for another minute, listening to the man’s miserable groaning and wheezing.
Satisfied that Allen had passed the point where he could hope to struggle his way into alertness, Malcolm eased him to the ground. He left Allen lying on his back, his shoulders and head propped up by the corner where the front wall and the side wall met. His head lolled and his chin touched his chest like a junkie on the nod.
Malcolm disappeared into the unlit depths of the rooms. When he returned, he was carrying the little table-lamp that had been sitting next to Allen’s bed. He plugged it in near Allen and spent a few moments placing it in various spots on the floor near the softly weeping TAC lieutenant.
“Lighting is very essential,” he said, and moved the lamp a few inches to the left. He looked at the way its light poured over Allen, throwing his shadow high on the wall. “A novice artist is likely to ignore it and focus exclusively on line weight and form. But the contrast of light and darkness is far too important to take lightly, much less ignore.”
Malcolm straightened. He dragged a chair in from the little dining nook and positioned it a few feet away from Allen. The big man shed his Carhartt jacket, neatly hanging it on the back of the chair.
“Wh…who…,” Allen wheezed, and his eyes rolled like marbles in his head.
Malcolm disappeared into the bathroom and emerged a moment later with a plastic bag full of the art supplies he had bought at the Marquette Meijer’s.
“Don’t…”
From inside the Carhartt jacket, Malcolm produced a camera. He pushed the button to power it up and crouched down in front of Allen. He began to take photos of the dying man, occasionally tabbing through the camera’s digital menu to double-check the quality of a particular shot. He took dozens of photographs, silent and contemplative. He leaned in close and took a photo of Allen’s grimacing visage.
“No real artistic statement can be achieved in a single image,” Malcolm said, and took another picture from above Allen, looking down at the length of his prone form. “Any great masterwork is the brother of a thousand, unheralded sketches and failed attempts. Photography is a practical tool in preserving the original subject for later artistic interpretation. No matter how accomplished the sketches I produce tonight may be, still they will be far from worthy. That will come over time and labor, with these photographs as an aid.”
A bubble of saliva formed in the corner of Allen’s mouth. The handle of the kitchen knife quivered with each shallow intake of breath like some foreign antennae growing out of him.
“Mon...hey…ah…ah…muuun…ayyyy…”
Satisfied that he had captured every vital angle, Malcolm placed the camera back in his jacket pocket and settled into the chair. He lifted the bag of art supplies into his lap and began to pick through them. Eventually he had a sketchbook open in his hands and an assortment of pens and pencils stuck in a row inside his shirt pocket.
“Pluh…please…”
Outside in the darkness, a truck rattled by, its chained tires grinding over the packed snow. Malcolm stared through the window, placid and still. Eventually the sound of the truck’s engine dwindled away and was gone.
*
Issabella was loading her office computer monitor into the back of Theresa’s unicorn-van when a beaten taxi puttered to a stop a few feet from her and disgorged Darren Fletcher. He shot Issabella a wry smile and bent back into the taxi. When he straightened again, he had a large rectangle bound in flowery gift-wrap held in his left hand. His right arm was bound across his chest in a sling.
“Did you get me a present?” she said, and kissed him as he came to a stop in front of her.
“A shared gift, really,” he said. “As much for me as for you. Well, mostly for you. But, still, a little for me. I’m not helping you carry things, you know.”
“Yes. That’s a given.”
“And I don’t think that means I’m not still very chivalrous.”
“I think you’ve earned a pass, yes.”
Theresa appeared from inside the little law office, the big woman carrying a cardboard box stuffed with law books. She added it to the nearly-full van, stood straight, and lit a cigarette.
“How’s the gimpy shoulder?” she said.
“Still gimpy,” Darren admitted. “The therapist says I’m not exercising it enough on my own.”
Theresa nodded and squinted at him around the cigarette smoke.
“That’s because you’re a lazy-ass,” she said.
Darren set the gift-wrapped rectangle down, propping it against the van’s bumper. He reached into his jacket and when his hand emerged it was held in a fist. He extended it toward Theresa, who stared at him skeptically.
“Thank you for taking care of me, Theresa,” he said. “Thank you for the booth and the coffees and for not just throwing me out when I was all messed up.”
He unfolded his fingers. Sitting in his palm was a small crystal unicorn. It was crafted and etched with exquisite care, and its horn was winking sapphire.
Theresa’s breath hitched in her throat. She held the unicorn in one hand, delicately.
“I wouldn’t throw out a friend,” she mumbled. She climbed into the driver’s cab of the van.
“You know, you have these moments when you seem like the most thoughtful guy in the world,” Issabella said.
“When we’re in bed?”
“Fleeting moments, admittedly.”
Darren lifted the rectangle back off the ground and stared at the empty office.
“That’s all of it?” he said.
“Yep. I’m going to make sure the breakers are all off and lock it up. If you want to head out with Theresa, I’ll follow in my car.”
Darren smiled.
“You want a moment alone to say your farewells.”
Issabella nodded. “Yeah, something like that.”
He kissed her cheek and climbed into the van with his rectangle. The engine burped to life and the van drifted off down the road. Issabella stared after it and sighed.
Then she pivoted on her heel and peered up the long, ugly height of the Bingham Tower. The autumn wind kicked dead leaves around the base of the depressing relic and whistled through its shattered windows. She had first made her stand and set out on her own here, in the oppressive shadow of the Bingham, among the ruins of this abandoned stretch of yesterdays. She tried to think of something to say, a meaningful statement that would help cement this memory. Finally she grinned and looked at the vacant building for the last time.
“I win, you ugly old boner,” she said.
Her cell rang.
“Hey, mom.”
“Are you out of that place yet, Bella?”
“Almost.”
“That’s wonderful. I am so happy for you, you know.”
“I do know that. Thanks, mom.”
“And you’ll come by when you’re settled?”
“I will. I’ll even see about bringing Darren down.”
“Do that. I’ll make something nice.”
“Okay. I gotta go, mom.”
They said their goodbyes and Issabella stuffed her phone back into her jacket pocket. She climbed into her Buick sedan and drove away, picking up speed quickly, hitting the on-ramp, smiling out at her clear, untroubled horizon.
*
Darren and Issabella stood on the sidewalk together, his good arm behind her waist, and looked up at the sign on the two-story downtown building.
“BRIGHT and FLETCHER
CRIMINAL DEFENSE”
It was a tasteful and expensive-looking sign hung above the big glass doors that lead into the red-brick building. The letters were elegant and shiny silver. As they admired the sign, Theresa walked from the van with an armload of computer cables. She disappeared into the lobby of the building.
“I still can’t believe it,” Issabella said. “It looks better than I could have imagined.”
“I’m pretty fond of it, too,” he said.
“How much did you have to spend to do all of this?”
He squeezed her tighter to him and kissed the top of her head.
“Uh-uh. We agreed that was not an issue. I have money. I spent money on us because we’re worth it. It’s that simple.”
“Darren?”
“Hmm?”
“Where did you really get all your money?”
Darren shrugged, and was quiet. Around them, the downtown streets were alive with motion and activity.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“I’m a man of mystery, Izzy.”
She opened her mouth, ready to press the topic, but decided against it. They had plenty of time to tell their stories to one another. Inwardly, she rejoiced at the idea, and leaned her head on his good shoulder.
“Do you think we’ll ever have a stranger case than Vernon Pullins?”
“I hope so,” he said. “Personally, I can’t stand going to court. Lawyering is deadly dull business, you know.”
“Oh, good,” she said, and clucked her tongue. “Exactly what you want to hear from your new business partner. Good to know. And here I thought you were reformed.”
“Semi-reformed. I had the contractors build me a mini-bar in my office.”
“You should stop talking.”
Darren hefted the gift-wrapped rectangle up in front of them and put it in Issabella’s hands.
“Let’s do this, counselor” he said.
Issabella tore the wrapping paper away and held the rectangle out in front of them. She laughed and nodded her head in approval. She was holding a framed and matted front page of the Detroit Free Press.
The headline read “POLICE CORRUPTION” in huge type-face and, under it, a smaller headline, “Local Attorneys Expose Police Drug, Murder Conspiracy”.
Darren started to walk toward the entrance of the building, and Issabella followed after him.
“I thought we’d hang it right above the reception area,” he said. “Let the clients know we mean business.”
“An excellent idea,” she agreed.
He held the door for her and they walked inside.
Book Two: Daddy Issues
1 Motor City Shakedown Page 20