by Thomas Laird
We flash the ID and he changes his attitude only slightly.
“Tell him to get out here or I’ll make sure the narcos roust every docker in Cabrini by midnight. Tell him he better not fuck with homicides. Go on and tell him.”
He looks at Doc as if my partner were speaking Albanian.
Then he bolts back into the two flat that serves as the headquarters of Riad’s ‘business.’ Riad’s also got some grant from HUD to help police the neighborhood. Which he does. The murders get reported promptly ever since Rashaan and Company took over fifteen years ago.
He’s at the door in an instant.
“Did one of you officers make a threat to my assistant?”
“That would be me,” Doc grins.
Rashaan Abu Riad, also known as Bobby Louis Wells, is a medium sized man who has kept himself in excellent physical condition. He looks at least ten years younger than his half century mark. He claims in the newspapers to eat no meat and he says he is devout, also.
“I don’t take threats lightly. That’s what attorneys are for.”
“I know,” Doc cracks. “I’ve seen them driving around here in their fucking pimp-mobiles.”
I wave at Doc. I can’t help smiling, however.
“Let’s you and me take a walk down the block,” I offer.
I see his gunners, two of them, standing behind him.
“You don’t need a bodyguard. Not on your home ground. And I’ll let my partner,
Detective Gibron, stay here. Like a negotiator. Does that sound fair?”
He eyes me very warily. But he knows if he doesn’t come on out he’ll look like a pussy who’s frightened to light on his own property. It seems to become a challenge to him, and he eventually accepts. He goes back inside for a jacket, but he’s back with me in seconds.
“You gonna be all right here, Doc?”
“Hell yes. I just made two new friends.”
The bodyguards inside shut the front door when Riad bitches at them about “letting the motherfucking heat out the door.”
We walk slowly away from Rashaan’s front porch. When I take him by the cuff of his suede gangbanger jacket, he yanks his arm away. But I hold on in spite of the sweep of his arm. I grip the suede tighter and we continue down the street.
“You listen very carefully,” I tell him. “Don’t forget what I’m about to say.”
I spin him and pat him down before he can protest.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m checking you for a wire, dickhead. And for weapons, too, while I’m at it.”
“I’m not going to tolerate —”
“Shut up.”
He looks at me with an amazed expression. Then I start him walking down the block again. It’s a blustery bitch of a cold spring afternoon.
“You listen to me, Bobby Louis Wells. I got no problem with you in particular. But I do with three of your people. Chaka, Creel, and Antoine. And I know you never heard of any of them, but they killed a little boy in front of Cabrini the other day. You may have read about it in the newspaper. Before you get your wheels clicking in that dumbfuck belfry you call a head, dickhead, I want you to know that I am not taking your money or anyone else’s money and you can call all your people downtown and you can tell them to put the big heat on my ass and I don’t care. See, I’ve got nothing to lose, having lost a wife just a while back, and I’m not here seeking your fucking sympathy, you fucking piece of pus. But I will talk to everyone I know at the two big newspapers downtown and I will tell them everything I know about the real Bobby Louis Wells — You know, the shit that most white columnists are afraid to say about you. If you want a war with me, let’s start it right now. Because I’m telling you, Bobby, that if you don’t deliver those three assholes to me, I’m going to kick your fucking ass all over your own hood. Right here and right now. And if you don’t think I’m sincere you can put just one hand above your waist and you can watch me tear the motherfucker off and beat you to death with it.”
He watches me very intensely.
“You totally crazy.”
“You understand me, then.”
“You out your mind.”
“I’m giving you one chance. You got seven days to dig these scrotums up and deliver them to me for interrogation. You want to see how much trouble one crazy homicide can make for you?”
“I know your rep, Parisi. I know who you are.”
“Then you know I’m telling you true.”
We stop dead in the middle of the crumbled mess of sidewalk.
“Why don’t you use just a little of that HUD cash to fix these goddam streets and sidewalks? You’re a greedy little prick, Bobby. And if you decide to try to intimidate me by fucking with my family or my property or with me, I’ll come down here and shoot you. Like I said. I already lost my wife and I won’t care about the law if anyone messes with my people or my property. Keep that in mind, Bobby. If they don’t kill me you’ll never have a day in court.”
He looks at me quizzically. Wondering if this is all for real or if he’s dreaming that a po-lice has the balls to threaten him in his own world.
“You are crazy, Parisi.”
“It’s Lieutenant Parisi to a piece of feces like you.”
“All right. All right,” he says, putting up a suddenly conciliatory hand.
“So?”
“So I’ll see what I can do... And I’m not doing anything because I’m frightened that some policeman is going to shoot me. I’m doing it because a black child was killed. Yeah, I read the papers too, Lieutenant.”
“One week, Rashaan.”
I turn on my heel and walk away from him. I’m collecting Doc and getting out of this cold wind. And I’m tired of wasting my breath on human flotsam like Bobby Louis Wells, aka Rashaan Abu Riad.
*
“We got a very unpleasant phone call from Rashaan Riad’s lawyer this morning,” the redheaded Captain complains. “Would you like to know what he told me?”
“He said something about me intimidating his mealticket.”
“It ain’t funny, Jimmy.”
Doc guffaws very quietly and the Captain shoots him a stare.
“You can’t play town marshal with this asshole, Jimmy. You know better than that.”
“Did he locate those three dicks we’re looking for?” I ask.
“The attorney said nothing about it. He just lodged his complaint, shall we say.”
“If I don’t hear from him I’m going to do what I told him I’d do.”
“And what are you going to do to Riad?” the Boss demands.
“That’s something between him and me.”
“I’ll suspend you.”
“For doing what?” I demand.
“If you do anything to that motherfucker, I’ll ... I won’t let you do anything to him, Parisi. It’s your job, paisan.”
“I got an uncle who’s in construction.”
“You’ll need him, Jimmy. Honest to God.”
I get up out of this sticky-assed leather chair the Captain uses to smoke cheap cigars when he’s alone in his cubicle.
“He’s got a few more days. Maybe he’ll come through and solve both of our problems.”
“I hope you don’t do anything really stupid, Detective. That’s all I’m gonna say.”
Doc and I walk out of his office over to my cubicle.
“You aren’t really going to work that little fuck over, are you?”
“I want Bobby Louis Wells to think I am. It’s what he thinks that really counts.”
“Never make a threat you don’t keep, guinea.”
“You’re exactly right.”
Doc looks at me in the eye carefully and smiles.
“Holy cow,” he mutters.
The smile vanishes.
*
I’m getting tired of dropping the kids for overnighters at my mother’s. She doesn’t mind because she rather enjoys playing the housemother to my boy and girl, but I feel a natural guilt ab
out leaving my children with her when I’m in a motel with Celia.
“You feeling strange about all this?” the lovely mouth beneath the magical brown eyes pronounces.
“Yeah. I feel a little weird being here. Not because it’s with you, either, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It’s too soon after Erin.”
“No. It’s not too soon. It is quick, I’ll admit, but that’s not why. It’s just that I feel like we ought to be at my house or your house. You know. Familiar territory. This just feels like it’s on the fucking sneak.”
I turn to her and see her calm, imperturbable face. I can’t stay away from her lips. It’s like the strongest magnet in the hemisphere.
I lose my concentration and she smiles at my difficulty.
Celia raises the bedsheet coyly, but she’s got her eyes on me.
“Does it hurt to say your wife’s name, Jimmy?”
I nod.
“It hurts to say Andres’ name. I ache for my little boy.”
There is demand in her gaze, so I take her in my arms. She pulls up to me and I kiss the moisture streaming down her face.
“You are one of God’s small mercies, Jimmy. You’re right here on time. How is that possible?”
“You really believe in mercy?”
I let her back down to the pillow and bed.
“Sure I do. Look at you.”
“I never thought of myself as an angel, Celia. I have to be honest, now. Angels don’t have hairy fucking backs.”
“I’ll shave you for the part,” she smiles.
Her smile is extraordinary. It’s the best part of a number of extraordinary parts. I can watch her illuminate everything around me when I watch that visage of hers. She mesmerizes me, like some kind of Harry Houdini — but she’s a lot better looking.
There’s nothing sleazy about us. There’s nothing much that has to do with Celia’s being black. Although her color is part of her the way white is part of me. But I don’t want her or love her because she’s an African-American. I’m convinced her race is not part of the deal, like with forbidden fruit.
“The only thing weird about our situation is going to be everything about our life, Jimmy. From here on out ‘til the end.”
She doesn’t answer the question on my face. Celia rises almost by levitation and I feel her warm, strong body greet me the way a sea wife would join with her husband again.
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s insane. There’s no doubt on that score. My wife is in the ground only four months and I’m in love with someone else. I feel like a polygamist since I’m still in love with Erin, and it further deepens my sense of guilt. I ask my wife to forgive me all the time, every time I finish making love to Celia.
But the guilt isn’t strong enough to keep me away from her. I’m insatiable when it comes to her. I need her more and more, and the intensity of that need continues to grow. I know I’m out of control, but I’ve already left the cliff and I’m free-falling and the lightness of the air and my own buoyancy make me not care that I’m going to hit the ground at any moment. Down I go, and there’s no parachute to save me.
I’m in love with a black woman named Celia Dacy. She’s too damned young for me. We’re fifteen years apart and we come from different planets. That hasn’t stopped anything, so far. I wind up with her more often than I should dare be around her. My mother has to be thinking something strange is happening, and I’ll wind up having to explain to my partner why I’m suddenly more alive than I have been for four months. Because Doc notices everything. Every hitch in my swing. He’s what you’d call an astute student of human nature, and I’m around him too often for him to miss the changes I have to be displaying.
But he hasn’t said anything about it yet. Maybe he’s being diplomatic. Maybe it’s not as obvious as I thought it would be — that look of guilt all over my face, I mean. Gibron is surely no fool. If there’s a track on my face, he’s found it already.
I love her. I love Celia Dacy. But she scares the hell out of me because I’m afraid to let anyone know that we’re together. What frightens me even more is that I’m scared I’ll still feel this way after Andres’ case is cleaned up, when I won’t have an excuse any longer.
Forgive me for loving you both, Erin. I should’ve been attached to only you. It was what I promised twenty-three years ago. I meant it then. I still miss you terribly. I thought I didn’t have space inside me for anyone else, but I was wrong. She’s in there with you. Right alongside after only this short time.
*
“You look like someone’s been whistling Dixie up your crotch.”
I don’t answer Doc. We’re en route to Cabrini once again. Tactical has located one of the shooters — Antoine Omarr. He’s supposed to be holed up in his crib on the tenth floor of the Green.
Doc insists he’s going through the door first, but we have four uniforms coming along with us in two patrol cars. Two of the uniforms’ll be using the metal battering ram we use to come into places, announced, against the wishes of the occupants. We never get invited in on these calls.
We stop at the front desk to check in with Wendell, who’s on duty with a younger partner this evening.
“Don’t let anybody go on up until we’re back out of there,” Doc explains.
Wendell nods. He’s an ex-cop and he understands the drill.
We walk over to the elevators, the six of us. There are two white patrolmen and two blacks, and I catch myself noticing their skin shades again.
The lift rises in lurches. It’s icy inside this elevator because we’re never really sure the damn things won’t conk out midway up. They’re always down. People here have to walk the flights up all the time.
We arrive at the tenth level after what seems to be a few minutes, instead of the mere seconds that it probably took to get this high up.
The two coppers with the battering ram position themselves outside what’s supposed to be Antoine Oman’s door, they take a few practice swings in front of the wooden rectangle that is Oman’s entryway, and then they crash the door into the apartment just as Doc yells out a belated “POLICE!.”
We crouch as soon as Doc leads the way inside. Our pieces have been out ever since we got on the elevator. I didn’t hear the two black officers griping about the palmed pistols on the way up, either.
It’s damn near midnight inside Oman’s living room. There are blackout shades over his window and no light seeps into his apartment from the outside. It is murky gray-cobalt in here. Frighteningly dim. I try the overhead switch by the doorway, but nothing happens when I flip it on.
“Antoine Oman! If you’re in that bedroom or in that head, get your fucking ass out here with your hands over your head! And you better have empty palms, motherfucker!”
We’ve got our weapons aimed at the john and bedroom doors. But we hear nothing stirring from inside those two rooms.
“If you make me come haul your ass out, it’s likely I’ll have to shoot your dick off, Antoine. Your pride and joy. Your fucking johnson. Come on out, asshole!”
No response. No retort. No hint of movement from inside the two remaining cubicles.
“Let’s do the bedroom,” Doc whispers to the police with the door rammer.
They rise as we cover them. They reach the bedroom entry, take two warmup back swings, and then the bedroom door is splintered apart.
We rush inside, and again we’re crouched in darkness. I feel for the switch on the wall nearest me, and I click it on. This time a low wattage globe illuminates our area.
We all stand up to look at it. Our guns go down to our sides. One of the black coppers is a six weeks rookie, and he runs out of the room gagging. I hear him coughing outside, now.
*
“Oh wow,” is all Doc can manage.
“This is a lot worse than that other fuck. Ronnie What-the-fuck. The guy who was Chaka’s first target.”
“Much worse. This is what they call extreme prejudice. Someone was very angry
indeed with Mr. Antoine Omarr. The recently deceased Mr. Omarr, I mean.”
He is duct-taped to the bed. Hands and legs thrown all akimbo. Each limb attached to a comer of the bed with that gray, all-purpose tape.
One of the white cops, a ten year veteran of this shit, starts to choke up a bit.
“You guys call for the M.E. Call the coroner and the usual pack of folks. You better go downstairs and get Wendell to get on the horn for us,” I tell them.
The uniforms relievedly depart. I can almost hear them letting their collective breaths out.
“This is a very bad scene, Jimmy P. Lots of damage. Look at the arterial spray on the wall and on the bedsheets. Look at all the crisscrossing on the neck. This was one pissed off perpetrator. Not like the clean cut in Ronnie’s demise.”
There are too many cuts to count. Probably some of the slicing was on top of previous wounds. The neck is so badly mangled that I’m worried Antoine’s head’ll come off when the medics try to remove the body.
“This guy has a major league bruise right on his forehead,” Doc observes. “See the big welt there on the left side? Somebody popped him and then tied him down and then went to work on him.”
“Same MO. Sneak in after you pop that cheap assed lock, do harm while the dearly departed is still sucking air and snoring, and then relieve him of his existence. Except this time whoever it was takes his time hacking the hell out of a guy who was likely dead after slice two or three across that mined jugular.
“This cutter damn near cut all his blood pipes. There can’t be much blood left inside him. It’s all over this goddam room. Watch where the hell you step, Doc.”
“I’m watching... Shit, whoever did Antoine’s got to have gore all over him.”
I look at my partner and I say it before he has time to beat me to it.
“Why the hell would Chaka kill one of his own people? I know that’s what you’re thinking, Doc.”
“Yeah. I can follow doing Ronnie. That was in the contract. But a cold motherfucker like this Chaka doesn’t do freelance. Unless —”
“Unless Rashaan Abu Riad ordered this to clean up the first mess.”
“Yeah, Jimmy. That means that this pimp Creel is next, if logic is served in this deal.”