Citycide

by Gary Hardwick

  “Okay,” he said sounding defeated.

  “I will be the good wife for you,” said Taisha, “but I will not be a goddamned fool. You have reduced us down to numbers, D’Andre, down to matters of survival. I will be by your side, but know this, the family is going to make it, even if you don’t.”

  Patterson just nodded slightly. It was the right thing. He loved his kids and they had to be looked out for. He got a flash of Rashindah and the Weeks woman. He saw their beautiful faces and voluptuous bodies and suddenly, he hated all women and their alluring poison.

  “I’m only going to ask this once and we’ll be done with it,” she said. “Who did you get to do it?”

  Patterson said nothing. He just stared at her.

  “Spouses can’t testify against each other,” said Taisha. “So you don’t have to lie. I didn’t like the little skank anyway.”

  Patterson turned away from her, walking back toward the far wall. “I didn’t do it,” he said.

  “Then why can’t you look at me when you say it?” asked Taisha.

  Patterson turned around and looked at her. “I’m not going to be interrogated by you. I have enough people who probably want to do that.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” said Taisha.

  “I had nothing to do with it, okay?” said Patterson.

  “Fair enough,” said Taisha unconvincingly.

  She went to him and they hugged. She felt good in his arms and for a second, there was no trouble in his life, they were still twenty, still learning about each other in and out of bed and looking to a future of greatness.

  Taisha broke the connection. They stood face to face and Patterson was about to pull her to him, kiss her and reseal their pact of support.

  “One last thing,” she started, “just so you understand what you’ve done. Because men never think beyond an erection, you need to know the gravity, the horrible reality of this, D’Andre. It’s bad enough that everyone in the city, my friends, my parents and my enemies read about you and some ho. But what’s worse is, they know the exact nature of what you did with her thanks to your little text messages. Words that our kids will see one day on the Internet.”

  “Taisha,” said Patterson. “You know I feel like shit over all that.”

  “You did filthy things with that bitch!” Taisha yelled. “Unnatural shit and then you come home to me and your children, dripping with your sin.”

  She stopped, taking a short breath, a curse forming on her lips. She forced it back.

  “You spread your weakness all over the people you’re supposed to love and you don’t even think about the consequences.”

  “I can’t… I said I was sorry about it all,” said Patterson, and even he felt the feebleness of his words.

  “The depth of this can’t be measured,” she almost hissed at him. “Not in money, love or even my considerable anger, but it will be measured, D’Andre.” Patterson saw the faintest of smiles on her lips.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asked, suddenly upset with her.

  “Your mother and father don’t know the half of it about this Danny Cavanaugh.“

  “What about him?” said Patterson. “He’s just some dumbass cop.”

  “He’s shot at least four men,” Taisha said with menace. “He beat some thug damned near to death after that man shot his girlfriend. He did it with his bare hands. That’s a man, D’Andre. That’s a man who protects his people, a man of conviction. He is the opposite of you. He won’t give up this case and he won’t compromise. Cavanaugh is the measure of your sin. If you survive him, then you will have paid your debt. If not, then the kids and I will visit you every other week in prison.“

  Patterson was about to say something but he thought better of it. Her words were so harsh that he could barely look at her. And worst of all, there was truth in what she said.

  “Like I said before,” said Patterson with something bordering confidence. “He’s handled.”

  “For your sake, I sincerely hope so.”

  Taisha moved around him and left. Patterson watched her and fought his urge to go after her. In the end, he just stood there, thinking about all he had to do to get through this mess. The door shut behind Taisha and it felt like someone had closed a tomb.

  17

  THE FARMER

  Danny watched the man as he pushed the gas-powered plow through rough earth. The machine burrowed deep lines into the dark soil. It was strange seeing this kind of activity against the stark cityscape.

  The sunrise spilled orange-gold light into the still dark sky. Nocturnal creatures ran for their beds and the birds were rustling.

  Damn, it was early, Danny thought.

  The man they called the Farmer had a hard, weathered face that bore tiny, healed scars, which were light brown against his dark skin. He looked to be fifty or so but he was hard and in great shape. He wore jeans and a black shirt with faded, white Old English “D” on it.

  He wasn’t as big as Danny had thought. In the News story, he looked enormous against the morning sky. urban farmer out to save community the headline had read.

  On one hip, the Farmer had a sheath that held a machete. He used it to whack weeds he had said in the newspaper article. It had also been used to slice a drug dealer who had tried to attack him.

  On the other hip, there was a makeshift holster made of leather. It was tied to his thigh near the knee just like a cowboy. In it, was a .44 Magnum.

  Danny remembered Rashindah Watson was shot with the same kind of gun. Nothing could be that easy, he thought. The Famer was many things but a murderer? Danny didn’t think it likely.

  Ezekiel Carver Washington had been a combat soldier. A tough city kid with a chip on his shoulder and a taste for action, he’d enlisted out of high school and served twenty years in the armed forces. He’d been around the globe twice and had risen to the rank of Captain.

  The Gulf War ended his career after he contracted a strange ailment that clouded his judgment and racked his body with pain. The government denied the afflicted soldiers medical care and many, including the Farmer, were discharged honorably but unceremoniously.

  He returned to his native Detroit and was in and out of treatment centers for years. He self-medicated with illegal drugs but they only made him worse.

  The urban legend said the Farmer had gone cold turkey out in the woods alone for three months, living on nothing but the land and his wits. He finally got well and said it was an act of God.

  The Farmer returned to Detroit and started claiming the vacant lots that had begun to proliferate in the city. He planted crops on them that he harvested and gave away to the poor. Soon, he had followers and a legend was born.

  It was common knowledge that you could not approach the Famer directly if you were a stranger. Danny was the law but he respected this man and the community work he was doing. Besides, he thought, the Famer would just clam up on him and say nothing if he felt he wasn’t being respected.

  The farmer stopped the plow. He bent down and ran some dirt through his fingers. He frowned a little, then stood back up and looked over at Danny and then he started the plow back up.

  Soon, others came to help him, an old lady, a young couple, a kid and his dog. They all talked and laughed and worked like old friends.

  Every so often, the Farmer glanced over to see if Danny was still there. Danny just waited, knowing that if he pushed or left, he would have come here for nothing.

  After an hour, the Farmer walked across the street to Danny. As he approached, Danny felt his senses heightened. This was a dangerous man. You could see it in his walk and the focus he had on you. He was sizing Danny up and his hands dangled next to both weapons.

  Danny wondered lazily if his black and white guns represented his inner duality, what it meant to carry a gun and a big knife.

  “Morning,” said Danny.

  The Farmer said nothing. He just looked at Danny with something like suspicion. He shifted on one
leg then back.

  “I’m a police officer,” said Danny. “I’m working on a case. I wanted to see if you or your people could help me.”

  Again nothing from the Farmer who now seemed upset about something. Danny wondered if this man was playing with a full deck. He’d read that he was eccentric, which everyone knew was just a nice word for crazy.

  “Time’s runnin’ out on us, here,” said the Farmer. “We got a world now that’s full of devils. The boys are heartless and cruel and the girls are scheming harlots. We’ve broken so many of God’s covenants, that He’s turned His back on us. This city, our city, is where His Wrath has landed. The Devil and his whole damned family lives in Detroit.”

  The Farmer just stared at Danny as if expecting a response. Danny didn’t know what to say to him. The article on the Farmer said he was a religious radical, prone to speeches like this one. He was a believer in the old way, a man who could sit and have a beer with God of the Old Testament.

  “I’d be hard pressed to disagree,” Danny began, “but I have more faith in people than that. Sometimes, we’re at our best when the worst comes.”

  The Farmer studied him as if evaluating this response. He didn’t look displeased by it.

  “My people grew up in the old Paradise Valley,” said the Farmer. “They survived both riots, ‘43 and ’67. Had an uncle and a cousin that killed a white man in the 1943 riot. Beat him with baseball bats. I watched hate destroy this city. It’s a human thing, you know. Black folk got a little power and then turned away from forgiveness. That’s what they call ironic. And your people? Shit, your people invented evil. And here we are, harvesting in Hades.”

  The Farmer turned and looked at the crowd working the land. They were clearing the other side of the vacant lot. A young man was now on the plow. They were singing a song, a song Danny knew but couldn’t remember the name of. The Farmer seemed to be pleased by this and then he turned back to Danny.

  “I feel you,” said Danny. “We’ve made a mess of this. All of us.” He didn’t know what this conversation was all about but if he was to get any information out of this man, he knew he had to engage him. “But cities only die when people give up.”

  “We still got a lot of trash here,” said the Farmer. “You know that. We still got people who just don’t give a shit about their brother, folk who would rather destroy than build. What would you do with them, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

  Danny was just a little surprised. So the Farmer knew him and this conversation did have some kind of purpose. In light of that, he felt that he had to be honest with him.

  “I’d say to hell with it; kill ‘em all.”

  There was a brief moment of silence and then the Farmer laughed. His laugh was higher than his voice, almost musical.

  The workers on the lot turned in amazement to see their leader laughing. Apparently, it didn’t happen often.

  “Yes, that would do it, huh?” said the Farmer. “You might be all right, Irish.”

  “How do you know me?” asked Danny.

  “The voice,” said the Farmer. “Heard there was some kind of white cop that sounded black. How many could there be? You got quite a rep out there. The drug boys talk about you all the time.”

  “Nothing to be proud of,” said Danny.

  “I guess. They talk about me, too.”

  “What are you planting on this lot?” asked Danny. He was really curious about all of this.

  “Green beans, squash maybe,” said the Farmer. “Gotta look at the rotation to be sure.”

  “Need to talk if you don’t mind,” said Danny. “I’m interested in that hooker who was killed, the one who’s linked to the Mayor.”

  “Don’t know the woman. But I suspect what you really want to know Irish, is if Rakeif Simms killed her since you caught him with her friend.”

  “I don’t think Simms did it,” said Danny. He liked the way the Farmer called him Irish. It sounded respectful.

  “Rakeif would have killed them both,” said the Farmer “Boy was cold blooded.”

  This was why Danny had come to see the Farmer. He was in good with many of the locals and this was Rakeif Simms’s turf.

  “Any idea why he kidnapped Quinten Forrester, the witness to the murder?’ asked Danny.

  “Nope,” said the Farmer. “But it was probably drug business. Rakeif dealt a little but mostly he was a hitter for a new man in town, kids call him iDT.”

  “I’ve heard those rumors,” said Danny. “But I also hear there is no iDT.”

  “You police are so stupid,” said the Farmer. “Of course there is. He’s just smart is all. You ask a dealer and he’ll deny it but that’s only because you’re a cop. I’ve never seen him but I know the street. If enough people believe, then it’s probably real.”

  Danny remembered there was a small taskforce of cops and prosecutors sent to discover if there was a shadow man in the neighborhoods, operating the street from a distance. All they got were stories, meaningless text messages and anonymous accounts that were sometimes traced back to local dealers but no mastermind. In the end, the police figured it was another urban legend or an attempt by the dealers to throw them off their own scent.

  But it was possible. The inner city, like any place, eventually grew brilliant men and women. If you didn’t get them educated and mainstreamed, their talents eventually turned to crime.

  “Then if I can find this iDT, maybe I can get some answers.”

  “Good luck,” said the Farmer. “Like I said, the man’s smart.”

  “Anyone can be found,” said Danny. “You just have to know where to look.”

  “There were three hitters that worked for this iDT,” said the Farmer. “Rakeif, a big ugly girl named LaMaris and the soldier, Robert, they call him Bob. Watch out for him. He’s got training.”

  Danny thought about having them picked up and sweating them downtown. Maybe one of them shot the girl and sent Rakeif to finish the job.

  “I know what you thinking Irish,” said the Farmer. “But you’re gonna find it just as hard to find them other two as it is their boss. They’re street born, when they find out you’re looking for them, they’ll disappear.”

  “Then I have to make sure they don’t know I’m coming,” said Danny.

  “You think the Mayor killed that girl?” asked the Farmer.

  “I think he might be involved,” said Danny. “How much is the question.”

  “What a hot mess he’s in, huh?” said the Farmer smiling. “Fool ass boy can’t control his dick and brings the whole damned kingdom down. You know, his granddaddy was one of the only black gangsters back in the bootleg days. Rumor is, he took a picture with Capone once. I’d pay to see that.”

  The Farmer’s people had the field cleared and the plow was working the other side now. The Farmer glanced over then looked up at the sun.

  “We’re ahead of time,” said the Farmer. “Gonna be a good day. You know, we patrol at night around here. The dealers and the whores, try to sneak back when we’re not looking, screw up our crops. We could use some help.”

  “I know the commander in this area. I’ll see what I can do,” said Danny.

  “Appreciate it,” said the Farmer. “Just make sure the cops know not to shoot us. Black folk got a tendency to catch bullets in this town. I gotta get back. Can’t let them have all the fun.”

  “Thanks for you help,” said Danny.

  “Be careful, Irish.”

  The Farmer walked back to the lot where someone had rolled over a bag of seeds.

  Danny looked at the bizarre picture. Farming in Detroit. Was the Farmer right? Was the city now hell and did they have to purge the demons with extreme prejudice?

  This was a question better left for another day. Right now, he had to see if he could somehow run down this Bob and LaMaris on the street where “no snitching” was almost a sacred law.

  He had to learn everything about iDT. If he was real, Danny thought; he would find him.

  18

&
nbsp; BOB’S PLAN

  Bob and LaMaris sat quietly in the back of the courtroom as the lawyers droned on. The defendant in the criminal case was a kid that worked for them occasionally.

  The kid had been popped by the Royal Oak police. He was stealing credit and gift cards, using them to buy goods then selling the goods for cash.

  Bob always told the young ones never to do anything outside of Detroit. White folks did not play around and in Detroit, you stood a better chance of getting off.

  “Don’t look good for his ass,” whispered Bob. “That old bitch in the front of the jury looks like the damned KKK.”

  LaMaris said nothing. She just watched the proceedings with a detached look.

  “Yo man came by today, huh?” asked Bob.

  “None of your bid’ness” said LaMaris trying not to blush.

  “You always get quiet after you get laid, woman. I know you.”

  “Whatever, nigga,” said LaMaris. “But you right. Kenjie’s ass is going to jail this time.”

  “I got a feeling thing’s are gonna get better,” said Bob.

  “You crazy,” said LaMaris. “With his record? He’s gonna do a nickel at least and young and tender as his ass is, well you know how it go.”

  “Shhh,” said an old woman next to them.

  LaMaris was about to curse the lady, when Bob touched her arm. LaMaris settled.

  “Sorry,” he said to the old lady.

  The last thing you wanted was to start trouble at a courthouse filled with cops and sheriffs. Bob got up and went out into the hallway. LaMaris followed but not before cutting the old woman a nasty look.

  In the hallway, Bob felt a draft and the stale, sterile smell of the courthouse. The hallway was clear but the cameras were mounted on the walls around them.

  Bob moved close to LaMaris. Even though the cameras had no sound, he wanted to be careful.

  “Lot of good men went down in these places,” said Bob softly. “Lotta good men.”