The Darker Hours

by Sam Lee Jackson

  After a while, people began driving into the complex, parking in their assigned spots. Some dug grocery sacks from the trunks of the cars and carried them into their homes. After enough time had passed, he ate another sandwich. Out of sheer discipline he had a quarter cup of cold coffee left. He finished it. It was the time of year where it didn’t get dark until late. Eight o’clock or after. When Boyce turned her lights on, Jackson ate the last sandwich. He had to eat it dry, and the bread had dried out by now so there was a lot of chewing.

  Finally, his watch said it was eleven o’clock and Boyce’s upstairs bedroom light came on. An instant later the downstairs light went off. Fifteen minutes later the bedroom light went out. Jackson sat in the dark and watched and waited.

  At one o’clock he gave it up. He went to the front door and silently let himself in. He quietly placed his sandwich sack and the empty coffee cup in her garbage. He was thirsty but he didn’t want to run water and wake her, so he took his shoe and prosthetic off and stretched out on the couch. Although he usually could go right to sleep, tonight he had trouble. His conversation with Eddie kept playing in his mind. There had been women in his life, beautiful women like Dahlia, but he’d never had one get to him like Boyce. A cross between a sister and a lover, without the incest.

  He finally drifted off. He began to dream. He had flashes of memories of the long days he and Boyce had spent on the Tiger Lily. He dreamed of sunbathing on the top. Covering the puckered scar of the bullet wound with sunscreen. The bullet wound caused by the bullet that had been meant for him. Then she was swimming in her yellow bikini. Then she was swimming without her yellow bikini. He was in the water, naked, looking up and seeing Dahlia and Elena on the top looking down on him. It woke him up.

  It was dark and he turned his head and stared at the crack of light that had found its way through the front window blinds.

  She was right upstairs. He thought about that for a long time until he finally forced the thought out of his mind and willed himself to sleep.

  He came suddenly awake. There was a creak on the stairway. And then another. He sat up. A dark form was coming down the stairs.

  “I wondered if you would come down, or if I would have to go up,” he said. He leaned over and turned on the lamp.

  Gabe stood in the middle of the stairs holding his shoes. “I guess I’m coming down,” Gabe said. “I have a taxi waiting.”

  “Goddammit Jackson,” Boyce yelled from the top of the stairs.

  Then Jackson remembered the doormat. Oops.

  40

  They were in the Mustang. It was mid-afternoon and not a cloud in the sky. Jackson was driving. Boyce was in the passenger seat. She was at least talking to him again. She had thrown him out after Gabe had left and when she looked out in the morning, Jackson was sleeping in his car, parked next to hers. She came sneaking up on him and banged her hand against the door. He jumped violently. It scared the crap out of him. She was hysterical. It seemed to break the ice.

  She fed him a bagel while she got ready for work. When she was ready, he drove her to the precinct. He hung around until she came out again a few hours later. Now she wanted to drive down by Esteban Park.

  “What’s Esteban Park?”

  “Girl I know may give us a lead on Mookie.”

  “What’s a Mookie?”

  “Torres, that’s his street name.”

  “Hard to be a tough guy named Mookie.”

  “Did you know that Torres was a street guy for Cicero Paz?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. Not muscle but selling. And speaking of Paz, I got a ding to tell me that Joseph P. Cartwright was released early for good behavior.”

  “Little Joe?”

  “One and only.”

  “You got an address? Maybe he knows where to find the Mookster.”

  “Does the bear crap in the Vatican?”

  “So, you want to head there?”

  “Let’s go see Spark first.”

  “Spark?”

  “I told you about her. Real name Annie Marie Morales. I think Torres is extorting small businesses, you know, strong arm stuff. Pay me off or maybe your windows get broke or your place burns down. I think she can finger some of those businesses. If she can’t, some of the other kids in her neighborhood probably can.”

  “Saw you on the news,” Jackson said.

  Boyce turned to look at him. “That was a justified shooting.”

  “Armed and dangerous. Look out officer, he’s got a vape pen. Oh my God, he’s blowing smoke. Everybody duck!”

  “Fuck you, Jackson. Goddamn activists are all over this. Besides, I didn’t discharge my weapon.”

  “Discharge? That sounds like something seeping out of a bodily orifice.”

  “Don’t be gross. Guy was a dirt bag anyway. Danny and I saw him shaking down Wade Huang’s parents.”

  “Wade Huang?”

  “Kid that was killed with Livvy. You know what we found there? At Flores’s place. That was the dirtbag, Javier Flores.”

  “No idea,” Jackson said.

  “This isn’t public knowledge so you can’t tell anyone.”

  “That’s me, Mr. Blabbermouth.”

  “Up in the crawlspace in one of the closets was a 7mm Mossberg with a scope. Wrapped all up in a blanket.”

  “The one that blew the head off of that cop you were standing next to?”

  She shook her head, “Mr. Delicate. We don’t know yet, but they are running it through forensics.”

  “It’s not his,” Jackson said.

  “No?”

  “No. Expensive rifle. He’d have a case for it if it was his. Someone dumped it on him.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Mendoza thought.”

  “So, tell me where I’m going,” Jackson said. She did.

  It took longer than normal to get to Spark’s because of heavy traffic. When they pulled up out front Spark was sitting on the front porch smoking. As they walked up to her, she flipped her cigarette into her driveway. It was the only butt in the driveway, so this wasn’t a normal occurrence. She sat there looking at them.

  “Your Mama not home,” Boyce said.

  “Yeah, my Mama’s home.”

  “Honey, your Mama’s home and you sittin’ out here smoking. She’d kick your butt.”

  Spark looked at her then leaned over and spit on the ground. “She’s sleeping.”

  “Go wake her up. I want her permission for you to go with us. We need to identify some of the small business around here that Marcelino Torres is extorting.”

  “Who?”

  “Mookie.”

  “Why would I know that?”

  Boyce just looked at her. “Just go wake her up.”

  “I can’t,” Spark said.

  “Why can’t you?”

  “No, I mean I can’t wake her up. I went in and shook her, and she won’t wake up. She’s passed out.”

  “She drunk?” Jackson said.

  Spark looked at him. “Mama don’t drink.”

  “Drugs?”

  She shrugged. “Not usually. She’ll smoke a joint occasionally with her friends.”

  “Let’s go see her,” Jackson said.

  “Help yourself,” Spark said.

  Boyce walked up on the porch. “Come on. You too.” She opened the screen door. Spark reluctantly got up.

  Boyce led the way to the back of the trailer. The bedroom was dark. It had the pleasant odor of perfumes and lotions. Spark’s mother was in the bed, covered to her ears in blankets. Boyce sat on the side of the bed and gently shook her.

  “Mrs. Pilon,” she said softly. No response. “Mrs. Pilon,” she said more forcefully. She shook her again. There was no response.

  “Let me see,” Jackson said. He reached over and pulled the blinds open. Light flooded the room.

  Boyce moved off the bed and Jackson sat down.

  “Is something wrong with Mama?” Spark said.

  Jackson moved the covers away from he
r face. He took her chin and turned her head. He felt her cheeks and forehead. He leaned close to listen to her breathing. He dug his car fob from his pocket. He handed it to Boyce. “Call 911 and get an ambulance here. In the trunk there’s a small black zipper case. Get it for me.”

  Boyce looked at him, then to her credit didn’t say anything but moved out of the room.

  “Mama,” Spark said and began to cry.

  Jackson pulled the covers down and put his ear to her chest. He put his cheek next to her mouth. He looked at Spark.

  “Her heart’s strong. She’s overdosed on something. Is your Mom on any drugs. Vicodin or Percocet? Anything like that.?

  Spark shook her head.

  “I want you to look in all the trash cans, see if you find anything that might have had drugs in it. Pill box, plastic bag, anything. Okay?”

  Spark nodded and wiped her nose on her arm. She turned and went out.

  Boyce came back into the room. “On the way,” she said. She handed him the small black case. Jackson unzipped it and pulled out a syringe and a vial of liquid. He readied the syringe.

  “Naloxone?” Boyce said. Jackson nodded. “Why the hell do you carry Naloxone in your car?”

  Jackson administered the shot. “You remember Reggie?”

  Boyce nodded. “Yeah, I remember Reggie.”

  “If I had some with me then, she’d still be alive.”

  “Probably not for long,” Boyce said.

  “Yeah,” Jackson said. Spark came back into the room. She was carrying a white paper sack with the Walgreens’ logo. Stapled to it was a cash register receipt. She stopped when she saw what Jackson was doing. Boyce took the sack from her hand.

  Boyce read the receipt then looked at Jackson. “Primlev?,” she said.

  “Percocet.” Jackson said. He looked at Spark. “Your Mom in pain?”

  Spark was staring at her Mom. “On her feet all night. Her back was killing her.”

  In the deep distance they could hear the siren.

  41

  Joanie Pilon was stabilized and resting by midnight. Without asking, the nurse had social services come to see Annie Marie Morales. Boyce used her badge and her official tone to get them to allow her to take Spark. Jackson was asleep in the waiting room when they came and got him. They headed for a drive through taco joint then on to Boyce’s place.

  Jackson sat on the couch eating his tacos as Boyce and Spark headed to the upstairs bedrooms. He heard Spark say, “Doesn’t he sleep with you?”

  “Not in this lifetime,” Boyce responded.

  “Hey, I’m sitting right here. I can hear you,” Jackson called up the stairs.

  Jackson awoke before the girls. He made coffee and sat on the porch watching the normal world get ready to go to work. After a while Boyce joined him. She had showered and had her make-up on.

  “Tell me again how you know these two?” Jackson said.

  She sipped her coffee, then blew across its surface. She thought a minute. “Calle de Rojo,” she said. “At both drive-bys someone was yelling Calle de Rojo out the window during the shooting. I traced it back to a gang of street kids call themselves the Trey Aces. They use that as a slogan.”

  “Streets of red,” Jackson said.

  “Yeah.”

  “They do the shooting?”

  “Nope. They’re just kids. Too young to drive. Graffiti is their biggest crime against society. But I went out to Esteban Park, where they hang out, to see what I could find. That’s where I met Spark. Then she showed up at the station a couple of days later, with a bunch of kids rousted for shoplifting a Circle K.”

  “Shoplifting?”

  “Yeah, but she was clean. She wasn’t even in the Circle K at the time. But she got swept up with the rest of them.” Boyce laughed, “She told the desk she was my sister, so they got me. I gave her a tour of the jail just for a lesson, then I took her back to get her bike. While we were sitting in the parking lot, she saw a guy coming out of the store carrying a six-pack. Said his name was Mookie. Said a friend of hers believed Mookie was an undercover cop. It wasn’t until later I found out Mookie was Marcelino Torres.”

  Jackson cocked his head, “Mookie. Undercover cop?”

  She smiled, “Yeah, I haven’t figured that out yet. I need to talk to her friend George.”

  “George? How about Spark? How’d she get that nickname?”

  “When I was talking to them at the park, the first time. Kid sitting next to her called her that. He’s the one thought Torres was undercover. I asked why they called her that. He said that’s what they call her because that’s all it takes to set her off.”

  “Christ, she could be your sister.”

  Boyce didn’t respond.

  He stood up. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “Clean towels in the hall closet,” she said.

  An hour later they took Spark to the hospital to see her mother. Jackson stayed in the lobby while Boyce went up with the girl. When Boyce came back down, she was alone.

  They walked to the parking garage. “She’ll be okay. She’ll be discharged this afternoon. She’s got a ride home,” Boyce said. They got into the Mustang.

  “Where to?” Jackson said.

  “Spark gave me a list of small businesses in the vicinity of that Circle K I told you about. Says she has seen Torres in that area a lot.”

  “Probably not there now. The whole department is looking for him.”

  “Maybe one of the owners will give us something useful. You got a better idea?”

  “You’re the detective.”

  Jackson drove down into the Esteban neighborhood and Boyce directed him to one of the businesses Spark had fingered. It was a family-owned dry cleaning service. Only the couple running it spoke English. The workers in the back chatted away in Spanish. Nobody knew anything. Next one was a smoothie shop. Same thing. A barber shop, same thing. They kept going door to door. After two hours they pulled into the Circle K parking lot and went in to get a fountain drink. They came back out and sat quietly in the Mustang sucking on the straws.

  “Well, that was fun,” Jackson said. “Now what?”

  “Head back I guess.”

  A Chrysler 300 pulled off the street and moved in to park next to them. Boyce glanced over and saw Detectives Bennett and Barbeiri. Boyce hit the down button to her window. Bennett was in the driver’s seat. Barbieri lowered his window.

  “You guys following me?” Boyce said, leaning forward and talking across Jackson.

  “Nope,” Bennett said. “Just pulled in for a coffee. This your Mustang?”

  Boyce hooked a thumb at Jackson. “His,” she said. “What are you guys doing down here?”

  “Same as you. Looking for Torres.”

  “Hope you have better luck than we have,” Boyce said. She started to raise her window, then lowered it again. “Why would you be down here looking for him?”

  Barbieri looked at her, “He used to shill pills for Cicero Paz. This was his territory. Figured he’d stay around where he knew.”

  “Good idea,” Boyce said. “Well, good luck.” She rolled the window up. She had been riding with her purse at her feet. She pulled it up and started fumbling around inside it. “Don’t leave yet,” she said to Jackson without looking at him. She kept fumbling until Bennett and Barbieri had got out of their vehicle and went inside the store.

  She opened her door, “Be right back,” she said.

  She hesitated a moment, then went into the store. As she walked in she saw Barbieri at the back by the coffee machine. Bennett was at the counter talking to the clerk. When he saw Boyce, he stopped and turned toward her.

  “Forget something?” he said.

  “Out of tissue,” Boyce said. “Damned allergies are driving me nuts.”

  “Yeah,” Bennett said. “That time of year.” He stood to the side and watched her as she went to find the tissue. At the back of the store Barbieri was looking at her, on his phone. She found the tissue and paid for it.


  As she turned to leave, she said, “See you around.”

  Bennett waved at her. The store clerk was watching them both.

  Boyce went back to the Mustang and climbed in.

  “What was that about?” Jackson said.

  “Needed to buy some tissue.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Jackson said. “You have a pack in your purse.”

  She turned and looked at him, “You looking through my purse?”

  “Wouldn’t you? So, what were you doing?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t know. Guess I’ve been a cop too long. Let’s take the long way back. Let’s head down Broadway, go to Central.”

  Jackson started the Mustang and pulled out.

  “Take your time,” Boyce said.

  Jackson didn’t say anything. He pulled into the right-hand lane and stayed with traffic. They had gone a mile when Jackson noticed a white Ford pick-up pull out of the parking lot of a big warehouse flooring store as they passed it. It pulled in a couple of cars behind. Jackson didn’t think much about it until a white-bearded man in a ball cap in an old red Chevy truck pulled in front of the white truck. The white pick-up had to brake as the old man crowded in. The old man was in no hurry. As Jackson put some distance between them and the red truck, the white pick-up ripped around the old man then, despite the left lane being empty for over a block ahead, it slid back into Jackson’s lane. Two cars back.

  Jackson drove another mile to see if the pick-up would turn right. It didn’t. It stayed with them. Jackson passed Central and kept heading west. Boyce looked at him but didn’t say anything. When he got close to 35th Avenue he timed the light. As it turned yellow, he slowed like he was going to stop, then as it turned red, he gunned around the corner heading north. He watched as the pick-up didn’t hesitate at the red light but came ripping around the corner after them.